Silent Slade lowered his head and looked at himself in the back-bar mirror. He tilted his hat down over his eyes, lifted his head as he sang:
“When I’m dead don’t bury me a-ta-a-a-a-all,
Pickle m’ bones in alcoho-o-o-ol.
Put a bottle of boo-o-o-oze at m’ head and feet
And then I kno-o-ow I’ll surely kee-e-ep.”
He turned and looked at Sam Leach, who was leaning on the bar, looking solemnly at a glass of liquor. The poker game had just broken up, leaving Silent Slade winner. And Silent was just intoxicated enough to crow over his poker-playing ability.
“Aw, you were just kinda lucky,” observed Leach.
“Tha’sso?” Silent laughed. “Lucky, eh? Any time you whip-poor-wills from Silverton mingle cards with a Marlinite—look out. They tell me that yo’re backin’ Hank Stagg for sheriff.”
“Well,
