"Then gimme a big drink. I need it." The bottle spun expertly across the bar, and the glasses tinkled after. "Funny about him, all right," nodded Flanders, "but then it's happened the same way with others I could tell about. As long as he was winnin' Sandy was the king of any roost. The minute he lost a fight he wasn't worth so many pounds of salt pork. Take a hoss; a fine hoss is often jest the same. Long as it wins nothin' can touch some of them blooded boys. But let 'em go under the wire second, maybe jest because they's packing twenty pounds too much weight, and they're never any good any more. Any second-rater can lick 'em. I lost five hundred iron boys on a hoss that laid down like that." "All of which means," suggested Nash, "that Sandy has been licked?" "Licked? No, he ain't been licked, but he's been plumb annihilated, washed off the map, cleaned out, faded, rubbed into the dirt; if there was some stronger way of puttin' it, I would. Only last night, at that, but now look at him. A girl that never seen a man before could tell that he wasn't any more dangerous now than if he was made of putty; but if the fool keeps packin' them guns he's sure to get into trouble." He raised his glass. "So here's to the man that Sandy was and ain't no more." They drank solemnly. "Maybe you took the fall out of him yourself, Flanders?" "Nope. I ain't no fighter, Steve. You know that. The feller that downed Sandy was--a tenderfoot. Yep, a greenhorn." "Ah-h-h," drawled Nash softly, "I thought so." "You did?" "Anyway, let's hear the story. Another drink--on me, Flanders." "It was like this. Along about evening of yesterday Sandy was in here with a couple of other boys. He was pretty well lighted--the glow was circulatin' promiscuous, in fact--when in comes a feller about your height, Steve, but lighter. Goodlookin', thin face, big dark eyes like a girl. He carried the signs of a long ride on him. Well, sir, he walks up to the bar and says: 'Can you make me a very sour lemonade, Mr. Bartender?' "I grabbed the edge of the bar and hung tight. "'A which?' says I. "'Lemonade, if you please.' "I rolled an eye at Sandy, who was standin' there with his jaw falling, and then I got busy with lemons and the squeezer, but pretty soon Ferguson walks up to the stranger. "'Are you English?' he asks. "I knew by his tone what was comin', so I slid the gun I keep behind the bar closer and got prepared for a lot of damaged crockery. "'I?' says the tenderfoot. 'Why, no. What makes you ask?' "'Your damned funny way of talkin',' says Sandy. "'Oh,' says the greenhorn, nodding as if he was thinkin' this over and discovering a little truth in it. 'I suppose the way I talk is a little unusual.' "'A little rotten,' says Sandy. 'Did I hear you askin' for a lemonade?' "'You did.' "'Would I seem to be askin' too many questions,' says Sandy, terrible polite, 'if I inquires if bar whisky ain't good enough for you?'