He had left the foot of the farm road half a mile in the rear when he heard the sound of a horse coming up behind him. The darkness hid Tex until the other was nearly abreast, when he hailed. "He did turn off to see Rose," reflected Tex, as he returned the greeting and Dave rode up.
"That you, Comin’?" said Dave. "I been wantin’ to see you. Goin’ anywhere particular?"
"No," drawled Tex. "I was just considerin’ which of them shanties in Twin ’d have th’ most loose money."
"Bah!" scornfully exclaimed Dave, drawing alongside him. "There ain’t no money in Twin River. You an’ me could make a good haul over in Wayback but I got somethin’ better ’n that. Let’s go into Ike’s. Ike never hears nothin’ an’ all th’ rest is deaf, too. I want to talk to you."
Ike’s was primitive to a degree but once removed from a tent. The log walls of the low, single room were weather-proofed in several ingenious ways, ranging from mud to bits of broken boxes. The bar was a rough, home-made table, the front and both ends shut in by canvas on which was painted: "Don’t shoot here." Ike was careful either of his legs or his kegs. A big stove stood in a shallow trough of dirt midway between the bar and the door, accepting salival tributes in winter which developed into miraculous patches of rust in summer. Several smaller tables, likewise home-made, a number of boxes, and a few very shaky chairs completed the furnishings. It was the reverse of inviting, even in the bitter cold of winter, but Ike never lacked for customers of a sort and probably made more money than any one in Twin River. Ike himself was a grizzled veteran of more than fifty years, sober, taciturn, not given to cards but always ready to "shake-’em-up." Dice was his one weakness at any time of the day or night. To be sure, he always won. He had them trained.
The regular _habitués_ were a canny lot, tight-lipped, cautious, slow in speech and in movement, except at a crisis. The opening door was a target for every eye and not a straight glance in the crowd; each seemed trying, like the Irishman when he bent his gun-barrel, to make his eyes shoot around a corner. And they all took their liquor alike, squeezing the glass as if it were a poker hand and they were afraid to show the quality or quantity of the contents. It was usually easy to pick out an occasional caller or a stranger: he was drunk or on the way to it; Ike’s regulars were never drunk.