And
I'm not trying to poison a witness for the other fellows, either.
Help yourself."
Cahill stretched out his left hand. His right remained hidden in the
side pocket of his coat. "What's the matter with your right hand?"
Ranson asked. "Are you holding a gun on me? Really, Mr. Cahill,
you're not taking any chances, are you?" Ranson gazed about the room
as though seeking an appreciative audience. "He's such an important
witness," he cried, delightedly, "that first he's afraid I'll poison
him and he won't drink with me, and now he covers me with a gun."
Reluctantly, Cahill drew out his hand. "I was putting the bridle on
my pony last night," he said. "He bit me."
Ranson exclaimed sympathetically, "Oh, that's too bad," he said.
"Well, you know you want to be careful. A horse's teeth really are
poisonous." He examined his own hands complacently. "Now, if I had a
bandage like that on my right hand they would hang me sure, no matter
whether it was a bite, or a burn, or a bullet."
Cahill raised the glass to his lips and sipped the whiskey
critically. "Why?" he asked.
"Why? Why, didn't you know that the paymaster boasted last night to
the surgeons that he hit this fellow in the hand? He says--"
Cahill snorted scornfully.
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