"Neither do I," Zearsdale said. "I'll get rid of it for us."
He excused himself and left the room. He returned without the gun, wheeling a small portable bar in front of him.
"I think we all need a drink," he declared roundly. "Or maybe two, who knows? What would you like, Miss, uh, Red?"
"Nothing," said Red, looking very stern. "Not until you say you're sorry."
"Of course. I'm sorry."
"With sugar on it," Red insisted. "That's what you have to say when you're really and truly sorry."
Zearsdale squirmed, glanced appealingly at Mitch. Mitch told him he might as well give in and say it. Red would persist until he did. So the oil man said very rapidly that he was sorry with sugar on it.
"Well, all right, then," Red said, and she gave him one of her very best smiles, a smile that reached right inside of him and patted him on the heart. "I guess you're really not so bad when a person gets to know you."
"Who is?" said Mitch.
"Hear, hear," said Zearsdale.
And then they all had a drink together.
Or maybe two, who knows…?