The fun was waxing furious by now, and there were several fights, which, however, usually ended in the combatants halting between the rounds and going off for a freshener.
Then Trooper Dan got to work. One man he captured by simply stepping out of the darkness round the police station, grabbing his man by the arm, and gently shunting him into the open door of the station. His wife quietly shut the door, and, after that, Dan’s experience, knack, and sobriety combined made short work of the prisoner.
“That’s wan,” he said to his wife after the cell door clanged to. He went into the street again, and when the revellers went past—they were keeping strictly to their drinking hotel about—he took Whip Thompson aside. “Will ye come an’ have a drink wi’ me, Whip? Ye’re the only wan sober enough for me to be safe offerin’ it, so say nothin’ t’ the rist.”
Whip accepted the invitation and disappeared into the station—and thereafter into a cell.
Trooper Dan made haste to the Stockman’s Arms, and found Cookie Blazes in a raging storm of anger.
“He called me drunk,” he vociferated. “Ye’re drunk yershelf, Bardy the Dool. Me drunk—me that’s been roastin’ the skin off me face an’ the flesh off m’ bones cooking chops for you an’ th’ likes. Look at them chops—where’s the shops—gimme the shops—I’ll cook ’em. Drunk am I?” he grabbed his hat and flung it on the floor. “I’ll fight anyone shays I’m drunk.”
“Shut up, Blazes,” said Steve. “You are drunk.”
“Hear that,” yelled Blazes, waving his arms. “Says I’m drunk—I ’peal to ev’ryone—am I drunk?”
“Yes—you’re drunk,” shouted the men, laughing.
“’Course he’s drunk,” said Trooper Dan, quietly. “Don’t ye think ye’d better help him along to my place an’ let him sober off a bit? I’ll help ye if ye need help.”