“The finest thing about a terrible fight, friend Cafferty, is that if it is a worth-while battle, the spoils of victory are exceedingly sweet. You are how about to enjoy one fourth of the said spoils—a large jolt of aguardiente! You must have it to steady your nerves. Go to the nearest cantina and buy one drink; then come back with the change. By that time I shall have breakfasted and you and I will then go shopping. At noon you shall have another drink; at four o'clock another; and just before retiring you shall have the fourth and last for this day. Remember, Cafferty: one jolt—no more—and then back here with the exact change.”
As Don Juan scurried for salvation, Webster turned to Dolores. “He'll fail me now, but that will not be his fault but mine. I've set him too great a task in his present weakened condition. In the process of exchanging American gold for the local shin-plasters, he'll skin me to death and emerge from the transaction with a full quart bottle in excess of his drink. Nevertheless, to use a colloquial expression, I have the Cafferty goat—and I'm going to keep it.”
Webster went immediately to his room, called for pen and paper, and proceeded at once to do that which he had never done before—to wit, prepare his last will and testament. For the first time in his career death threatened while he had money in his possession, and while he had before him for performance a task requiring the expenditure of money, his manifest duty, therefore, was to guarantee the performance of that task, win, lose, or draw in the game of life; so in a few brief paragraphs John Stuart Webster made a holographic will and split his bankroll equally between the two human beings he cared for most—Billy Geary and Dolores Huey. “Bill's a gambler like me,” he ruminated; “so I'll play safe. The girl is a conservative, and after Bill's wad is gone, he'd be boiled in oil before he'd prejudice hers.”
Having made his will, Webster made a copy of it. The original he placed in an envelope, sealed, and marked: “Last Will and Testament of John S. Webster, of Denver, Colorado, U. S. A. To be delivered to William H. Geary upon the death of the testator.” The copy he also placed in an envelope marked: “From Jack. Not to be opened until after my death.” This envelope he then enclosed in a larger one and mailed to Billy at Calle de Concordia No. 19.
Having made his few simple preparations for death, Mr. Webster next burrowed in his trunk, brought forth his big army-type automatic pistol and secured it in a holster under his arm, for he deemed it unwise and provocative of curiosity to appear in immaculate ducks that bulged at the right hip. Next he filled two spare clips with cartridges and slipped them into his pocket, thus completing his few simple preparations for life.
He glanced out the window at the sun. There would still be an hour of daylight; so he descended to the lobby, called a carriage and drove to the residence of the American consulate.
Lemuel Tolliver, formerly proprietor of a small retail wood and coal yard in Hastings, Nebraska, was the consul. He talked through his nose, employed double negatives, chewed tobacco, wore celluloid cuffs and collar, and received Mr. Webster in his shirt sleeves. He was the type of small-town peanut politician who never forgets for an instant that to be an American is greater than to be a king, and who strives assiduously to exhibit his horrible idea of American democracy to all and sundry, to his own profound satisfaction and the shame of his visiting countrymen.
He glanced at the card which Webster had sent in by his clerk. “Well, sir!” he began briskly. “Delighted to know you, Mr. Webster. Ain't there nothin' I can do for you?”
“Thank you. There is. This is my will. Please put it in your safe until I or my executor shall call for it.”
“What!” boomed the Honourable Tolliver. “You ain't thinkin' o' dyin', are yuh?” he laughed.