The smile had vanished from Jim’s eyes. For a moment he wondered stupidly, and during that moment, as Peter’s hand was outstretched for the bottle, he passed it across to him.
The other took it, and looked at the label. It was a well-known brand of rye whiskey. And as he looked he seemed to gather warmth and enthusiasm. It was as though the sight of the whiskey were irresistible to him.
“Rye,” he cried. “The juice for oiling the devil’s joints.” And his lips seemed to smack over the words.
Jim was watching. He didn’t understand. Peter’s offer to go with him to hell was staggering, and––– But the other went on in his own mildly enthusiastic way.
“We’ll start right here. I’ll get two glasses. We’ll drink this up, and then we’ll get some more at the saloon, and––we’ll paint the town red.” He rose and fetched two glasses from a cupboard and set them on the table. Then he took his sheath knife from his belt, and, with a skilful tap, knocked the neck off the bottle.
“No water,” he said. “The stuff’ll act quicker. We want it to get right up into our heads quick. We want the mad whirl of the devil’s dance; we–––”
“But why should you–––!”
“Tut, man! Your gait’s good enough for me. There’s room for more fools than one in hell. Here! Here’s your medicine.”
He rose and passed a glass across to Jim, while the other he held aloft.