“Well, a drink will fix you up.  Then we’ll mosey over to the room.  Our stuff’ll be there all right.”

“‘T ain’t the money I’m thinkin’ about.  It’s you and me.”

“Forget it!” Brevoort slapped Pete on the shoulder.  “Come on in here and have something.”

“I’ll go you one more—­and then I quit,” said Pete.  For Pete began to realize that Brevoort’s manner was slowly changing.  Outwardly he was the same slow-speaking Texan, but his voice had taken on a curious inflection of recklessness which Pete attributed to the few but generous drinks of whiskey the Texan had taken.  And Pete knew what whiskey could do to a man.  He had learned enough about that when with the horse-trader.  Moreover, Pete considered it a sort of weakness—­to indulge in liquor when either in danger or about to face it.  He had no moral scruples whatever.  He simply viewed it from a utilitarian angle.  A man with the fine edge of his wits benumbed by whiskey was apt to blunder.  And Pete knew only to well that they would have need for all of their wits and caution to get safely out of El Paso.  And to blunder now meant perhaps a fight with the police—­for Pete knew that Brevoort would never suffer arrest without making a fight—­imprisonment, and perhaps hanging.  He knew little of Brevoort’s past record, but he knew that his own would bulk big against him.  Brevoort had taken another drink after they had tacitly agreed to quit.  Brevoort was the older man, and Pete had rather relied on his judgment.  Now he felt that Brevoort’s companionship would eventually become a menace to their safety.

“Let’s get back to the room, Ed,” he suggested as they came out of the saloon.

“Hell, we ain’t seen one end of the town yet.”

“I’m goin’ back,” declared Pete.

“Got another hunch?”—­and Brevoort laughed.

“Nope.  I’m jest figurin’ this cold.  A good gambler don’t drink when be’s playin’.  And we’re sure gamblin’—­big.”

“Reckon you’re right, pardner.  Well, we ain’t far from our blankets.  Come on.”

The proprietor of the rooming-house was surprised to see them return so soon and so unauspiciously.  He counted out Brevoort’s money and gave it back to him.

“Which calls for a round before we hit the hay,” said Brevoort.

The room upstairs was hot and stuffy.  Brevoort raised the window, rolled a cigarette and smoked, gazing down on the street, which had become noisier toward midnight.  Pete emptied the pitcher and stowed the wet sacks of gold in his saddle-pockets.

“Told you everything was all right,” said Brevoort, turning to watch Pete as he placed the saddlebags at the head of the bed.

“All right, so far,” concurred Pete.

“Say, pardner, you losin’ your nerve?  You act so dam’ serious.  Hell, we ain’t dead yet!”

“No, I ain’t losin’ my nerve.  But I’m tellin’ you I been plumb scared ever since I seen that picture.  I don’t feel right, Ed.”