“Thank you,” rejoins the young fellow, lowering the newspaper to his knee, and raising the rim of his hat, as little as possible; “I’ve just had a drain. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
“Damned if we do! Not this time, stranger. The rule o’ this tavern is, that all in its bar takes a smile thegither—leastwise on first meeting. So, say what’s the name o’ yer tipple.”
“Oh! in that case I’m agreeable,” assents the newspaper reader, laying aside his reluctance, and along with it the paper—at the same time rising to his feet. Then, stepping up to the bar, he adds, in a tone of apparent frankness: “Phil Quantrell ain’t the man to back out where there’s glasses going. But, gentlemen, as I’m the stranger in this crowd, I hope you’ll let me pay for the drinks.”
The men thus addressed as “gentlemen” are seven or eight in number; not one of whom, from outward seeming, could lay claim to the epithet. So far as this goes, they are all of a sort with the brutal-looking bully in the blanket-coat who commenced the conversation. Did Phil Quantrell address them as “blackguards,” he would be much nearer the mark. Villainous scoundrels they appear, every one of them, though of different degrees, judging by their countenances, and with like variety in their costumes.
“No—no!” respond several, determined to show themselves gentlemen in generosity. “No stranger can stand treat here. You must drink with us, Mr Quantrell.”
“This score’s mine!” proclaims the first spokesman, in an authoritative voice. “After that anybody as likes may stand treat. Come, Johnny! trot out the stuff. Brandy smash for me.”
The bar-keeper thus appealed to—as repulsive-looking as any of the party upon whom he is called to wait—with that dexterity peculiar to his craft, soon furnishes the counter with bottles and decanters containing several sorts of liquors. After which he arranges a row of tumblers alongside, corresponding to the number of those designing to drink.
And soon they are all drinking; each the mixture most agreeable to his palate.
It is a scene of every-day occurrence, every hour, almost every minute, in a hotel bar-room of the Southern United States; the only peculiarity in this case being, that the Natchitoches tavern in which it takes place is very different from the ordinary village inn, or roadside hotel. It stands upon the outskirts of the town, in a suburb known as the “Indian quarter;” sometimes also called “Spanish town”—both name having reference to the fact, that some queer little shanties around are inhabited by pure-blooded Indians and half-breeds, with poor whites of Spanish extraction—these last the degenerate descendants of heroic soldiers who originally established the settlement.
The tavern itself, bearing an old weather-washed swing-sign, on which is depicted an Indian in full war-paint, is known as the “Choctaw Chief,” and is kept by a man supposed to be a Mexican, but who may be anything else; having for his bar-keeper the afore-mentioned “Johnny,” a personage supposed to be an Irishman, though of like dubious nationality as his employer.