“Good morning to you, gentlemen,” he called out in his great voice; “won’t you join me–let’s all have a drink!”
The crowd fell in behind him, another crowd opened up in front, and he stood against the bar, a board strewn thick with glasses and tottering bottles of whiskey. An old man stood behind it, wagging his beard as he chewed tobacco, and as he set out the glasses he glanced up at Wunpost with a curious, embittered smile. He was white-faced and white-bearded, stooped and gnarled like a wind-tortured tree, and the crook to his nose made one think instinctively of pictures of the Wandering Jew. Or 47perhaps it was the black skull-cap, set far back on his bent head, which gave him the Jewish cast; but his manner was that of the rough-and-ready barkeeper and he slapped one wet hand on the bar.
“Here’s to her!” cried Wunpost, ignoring the hint to pay as he raised his glass to the crowd. “Here’s to the Willie Meena–some mine!”
He tossed off the drink, but when he looked for the chaser the barkeeper shook his head.
“No chasers,” he said, “water is too blasted scarce–that’ll be three dollars and twenty-five cents.”
“Charge it to ground-rent!” grinned Wunpost. “I’m the man that owns this claim. See you later–where’s Dusty Rhodes?”
“No–cash!” demanded the barkeeper, looking him coldly in the eye. “I’m in on this claim myself.”
“Since when?” inquired Wunpost. “Maybe you don’t know who I am? I am John C. Calhoun, the man that discovered Wunpost; and unless I’m greatly mistaken you’re not in on anything–who gave you any title to this ground?”
“Dusty Rhodes,” croaked the saloon-keeper, and a curse slipped past Wunpost’s lips, though he knew that a lady was near.
“Well, damn Dusty Rhodes!” he cried in a passion. “Where is the crazy fool?”