“Yeah?” Tater responded. “Well, that was last week.” He pulled a wad of money out of his vest pocket and slammed it on the bar. “Now get me a drink of that rye whiskey, before I throw a fit.” His antics drew a round of laughter from his partners, prompting a couple of them to slam some money down on the bar as well.

Grover was properly astonished by their behavior. “Looks like you boys musta held up a bank or somethin’ since you was last in here.”

His comment had caused Booth to realize the picture they were creating with their frivolous display of money. “It might look that way, at that,” he said. “We’re just celebratin’ ’cause I just got back from Wyomin’ with some money we had buried down there.” From the skeptical expression on Grover’s face, he was afraid he leaned more toward the bank robbery explanation. I wish I had warned them to keep their mouths shut, he thought.

“Well, in that case, I’d best go tell Beulah to rustle up some food,” Grover said, and reached under the bar and brought out an unopened bottle of rye whiskey.

* * *

The celebration had extended past suppertime and on into the night, keeping Grover busy supplying the whiskey and Beulah frying ham and baking biscuits. Finally, a point was reached when the party began to settle into an alcoholic stupor for the most part, punctuated by the sawmill-like snoring of Tater Thompson, as it reverberated off the hard tabletop. The only sober man in the saloon, Grover Dean, was content to enjoy the financial windfall that had come his way, unaware of a confrontation that was to follow. Sitting at the table with the sleeping Tater, Blue Davis sat in a stupor that morphed into a drunken fantasy as he eyed Beulah while the weary Indian woman picked up the dirty dishes from the tables. When she bent over to pull a dirty plate from under Tater’s arm, Blue pointed to her behind. “Now, I’m buyin’ me some of that,” he stated confidently.

His statement drew an instant response from Grover. “That ain’t for sale.”

“It is tonight,” Blue said, and started to reach for the startled woman.

“She ain’t for sale,” Grover repeated, but this time he backed up his words with the double-barreled shotgun he kept under the counter. Just as he had on the hilltop by the Missouri, Trip Dawson had been the quickest to react. He drew his .44 and pumped two rounds into Grover’s chest. Horrified, the Blackfoot woman screamed, then launched an attack upon Trip, only to receive his third shot in her stomach.

As Beulah collapsed to the floor, everyone seemed stunned except Trip and Tater, who continued to snore. After a moment when no one could think what to say, Booth finally demanded, “What the hell is wrong with you?”