“Ol’ man Williams there was along with ya, too, wasn’t he?” sez Dixon.
“Sure he was,” sez I. “We got a heap better paid, for that trip ’n we usually get.”
“Yes,” sez he, slow an’ drawly, “but a feller can never tell when he’s all paid out for such a trip as that.”
“A feller has to take chances in everything,” sez I. “I still got a little money left to amuse myself with.”
“It don’t seem to make ya reckless,” sez he. Dixon had been drinkin’ purty freely, and I rather liked the effect liquor had on him.
“Maxwell,” I called, “this is a dry summer. Set up the drinks for the house.” Some saloon-keepers fawn on ya as if they’d melt the money out o’ your clothes while some of ’em are cold and haughty, as though it was an insult to offer ’em money. Maxwell was one o’ this kind. He glared his red eyes at me as if I’d been rude; but he set out the drinks all right.
Tank had been shut away from drink for so long that I had plumb forgot how he had happened to win his title; but as soon as I had give the order, I sensed that he was in the mood to sluice himself out thorough. The very minute we had cooled off from the drinks—Maxwell kept a brand o’ poison which would eat holes in an iron kettle, if you let it set five minutes—Well, the very instant the steam had stopped comin’ out of our mouths, Tank ordered a round; and before that had got on good terms with the first drink, Spider Kelley had arrived.
Mexican Slim had guessed where we were headin’ for, and Tank had owned up to it, and Slim had told Spider, and, o’ course, Spider hadn’t been able to stay behind; so when he stuck his nose in the door, Tank sez ’at the drinks was always on the last-comer, and Spider ordered a round.
I can journey about with a fair amount o’ booze, without lettin’ it splash over into my conversation; but I was there on business, so I drank as short drinks as would seem sociable. Tank, on the other hand, had formerly been as immune to liquor as a glass bottle; but he was out o’ practice without realizin’ it; and he splashed into Maxwell’s forty-rod as though he was a trout hurryin’ back to his native element. Spider was a wise old rat, and he played safe, the same as me. O’ course, the Cross-branders couldn’t stand by and see us purchase Maxwell’s entire stock, without makin’ a few bids themselves; so for a while, we peered at the ceiling purty tol’able frequent.
The young feller with the boy’s eyes was chin-ful to begin with, the other three Cross-branders were purty well calloused to a liberal supply o’ turpentine; while Dixon would load up his dumb-waiter and send it down as unconcerned as though his throat was a lead pipe, connectin’ with an irrigation ditch. He had reached the stage where he was reckless but not thoughtless, and the’ didn’t seem any way to wash him down grade any farther.