He plumped the heavy glass down upon the grimy counter in the
dusty far corner of the little store and stared sourly at Pete
Hamilton, who was apathetically opening hatboxes for the
inspection of an Indian in a red blanket and frowsy braids.

"How much?" The braided one fingered indecisively the broad brim
of a gray sombrero.

"Nine dollars." Pete leaned heavily against the shelves behind
him and sighed with the weariness of mere living.

"Huh! All same buy one good hoss." The braided one dropped the
hat, hitched his blanket over his shoulder in stoical disregard
of the heat, and turned away.

Pete replaced the cover, seemed about to place the box upon the
shelf behind him, and then evidently decided that it was not
worth the effort. He sighed again.

"It is almighty hot," he mumbled languidly. "Want another drink,
Good Injun?"

"I do not. Hot toddy never did appeal to me, my friend. If you
weren't too lazy to give orders, Pete, you'd have cold beer for a
day like this. You'd give Saunders something to do beside lie in
the shade and tell what kind of a man he used to be before his
lungs went to the bad. Put him to work. Make him pack this
stuff down cellar where it isn't two hundred in the shade. Why
don't you?"