“Isn’t it ra-a-a-ther late for you to be open?” asked the tenderfoot arrival from the East, as he descended from the El Paso stage about four o’clock one morning, and dragged himself to the bar to get something to wash the dust out of his throat.
“Wa-a-al, it is kinder late fur th’ night afore last,” genially replied the bartender; “but’s jest ’n th’ shank o’ th’ evenin’ fur t’-night.”
It was often a matter of astonishment to me that there were so few troubles and rows in the gambling establishments of Tucson. They did occur from time to time, just as they might happen anywhere else, but not with sufficient frequency to make a feature of the life of the place.
Once what threatened to open up as a most serious affair had a very ridiculous termination. A wild-eyed youth, thoroughly saturated with “sheep-herder’s delight” and other choice vintages of the country, made his appearance in the bar of “Congress Hall,” and announcing himself as “Slap-Jack Billy, the Pride of the Pan-handle,” went on to inform a doubting world that he could whip his weight in “b’ar-meat”—
“Fur ber-lud’s mee color,
I kerries mee corfin on mee back,
’N’ th’ hummin’ o’ pistol-balls, bee jingo,
Is me-e-e-u-u-sic in mee ears.” (Blank, blank, blank.)
Thump! sounded the brawny fist of “Shorty” Henderson, and down went Ajax struck by the offended lightning. When he came to, the “Pride of the Pan-handle” had something of a job in rubbing down the lump about as big as a goose-egg which had suddenly and spontaneously grown under his left jaw; but he bore no malice and so expressed himself.
“Podners (blank, blank, blank), this ’ere’s the most sociablest crowd I ever struck; let’s all hev a drink.”