"It's only whiskey," he observed, mournfully. "That won't help much."

"You don't know this stuff," I encouraged.

He took off the half tumbler without a blink, shook his head, and poured
himself another. In spite of his scepticism I thought his nervousness
became less marked.

"Now," said I, "if you don't mind, why do you descend on a peaceful
community and stir it all up because of the derelictions of an absent
coon? And why do you set such store by your travelling bag? And why do
you weep in the face of high heaven and outraged manhood? And why do you
want to find Hooper's ranch? And why are you and your vaudeville make
up?"

But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and uncommunicative,
darting his glance here and there about him, twisting his hands, never
by any chance meeting my eye. I leaned back and surveyed him in
considerable disgust.

"Look here, brother," I pointed out to him. "You don't seem to realize.
A man like you can't get away with himself in this country except behind
footlights--and there ain't any footlights. All I got to do is to throw
open yonder door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will be
set upon by a pack of ravening wolves with their own ideas of humour,
among whom I especially mention one Windy Bill. I'm about the only thing
that looks like a friend you've got."

He caught at the last sentence only.