"And some information too," he added.
Over a well cooked slab of venison and a plate of corn bread, washed down by a muddy brown brew that Horgan served hot and sweetened, they talked. Corn likker the frontiersman called the steaming tasteless fluid when Orth mistakenly named it coffee.
And when they had finished his host produced squares of a fine brown paper which he deftly filled, one-handed, with shredded greenish tobacco, and presented the fat cigar-sized bundles to Orth. He shrugged at the Earthman's refusal, eyeing with amusement the slender whiteness of Orth's own cigarettes.
"Shipped from France maybe," he suggested, "or China?"
Orth handed over the pack. Horgan studied the markings that showed they were manufactured in Kentucky. He shook his head.
"Don't reckon you'll be getting no more," he said. "General Lee ain't been licked yet, and until Washington and Pershing break through to the South...." He lifted his big arms in a half-shrug of doubt.
"What's all this about Lee and Pershing? Some sort of Civil War over again? Or is this continent being invaded?"
Horgan eyed the Earthman curiously. "Maybe I'll have to tell you what year it is," he said dryly, "and who's Boss of the States now. You're powerful ignorant, Orth."
"Go ahead," invited Orth. "My memory's fuzzy."