The white-coated bartenders, the sleek croupiers who moved ever so slightly as they drew in the losers' money, the gay dresses of the house girls, the picturesque quality of many of the visitors, provided a constantly shifting picture of gayety, fragile gayety that does not last.
On a stool at the bar sat the tall, slim figure of a vaquero; broad hat, leather jacket, high boots. He had been talking to a little old man, whose dark sack suit and contrasting white hair framed a thin-lipped, ascetic face.
"I heard you were here, son," the old man said. "Johnny Butler came over to Selma from Sweetwater and told me he was sure you was you."
"I am me, dad," Kenneth said.
"But this place is a low dance hall, and in Mexico." Ken finished his old-fashioned cocktail, chewed on the cherry and faced his father.
"I'm glad you came, dad. Must have cost you a lot of money. Here …" He dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of silver dollars. "This'll help pay your expenses."
"Thanks, son," said George Gracey. "You do look lots older—and different."
"I am lots older."
"What worries me is—these women. They must be diseased. You don't associate with them, do you?"
"Never."
"And you have no girl?"
"None."
"I'm glad. When you were a lad, I tried to teach you the right thing. I warned you about women because of your mother, God rest her soul."
"I know," said Ken.
