The drummer’s red face paled a little and one hand stole cautiously under his coat—and froze there. Sammy hardly had moved, but the Colt was now horizontal and glowered at the gaudy waistcoat. He was between it and the girl and she did not see the movement. His smile was placid and fixed and he spoke so that she should get no inkling of what was going on. "Never drink on an empty stomach," he advised. "After you eat that meal, then you can fuss with yore flask all you wants." He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl and nodded. "Still there! Oh, I most forgot, stranger. You take off yore hat an’ ’pologize, so she can go. Jus’ say yo ’re a dawg an never did have no manners. _Say_ it!" he ordered, softly. The drummer gulped and muttered something, but the Colt, still hidden from the girl by its owner’s body, moved forward a little and Sammy’s throaty growl put an end to the muttering. "Say it plain," he ordered, the color fading from his face and leaving pink spots against the white. "That’s better—now, Li’l Miss, you get me that pie—please!" he begged. When they were alone Sammy let the gun swing at his knee again. "I don’t know how they treats wimmin where you came from, stranger; but out here we ’re plumb polite. ’Course you did n’t know that, an’ that’s why you did n’t get all mussed up. Yo ’re jus’ plain ignorant an’ can’t help yore bringin’ up. Now, you eat that steak, _pronto_!" "It’s too cold, now," grumbled the drummer, fidgeting in the chair. The puncher’s left hand moved to the table again and when it returned to his side there was a generous layer of red pepper on the meat. "Easy to fix things when you know how," he grinned. "If it gets any colder I ’ll fix it some more." His tones became sharper and the words lost their drawled softness. "You goin’ to start ag’in that by yoreself, or am I goin’ to help you?" he demanded, lifting his leg off the chair and standing erect. All the humor had left his face and there was a grimness about the tight lips and a menace in the squinting eyes that sent a chill rippling down the drummer’s spine. He tasted a forkful of the meat and gulped hastily, tears welling into his eyes. The puncher moved a little nearer and watched the frantic gulps with critical attention. "’Course, you can eat any way you wants—yo’re payin’ for it; but boltin’ like a coyote ain’t good for th’ stummick. Howsomever, it’s yore grub," he admitted.