“Well done, thou good and faithful servant. What is in it this time?” Henry asked quietly.
“The soul of a great distiller,” replied Frijole gravely. “M’ life’s work is done. If the world knew what I know—”
“We would all be half-witted,” added Judge soberly.
The jug looked innocent enough. Henry touched it with his finger. Frijole said, “Slim, you tell ’em what happened to Bill Shakespeare.”
“Have done!” exclaimed Judge. “Not that, Frijole. I can swallow your prune whiskey, but not the fantastic tales of that damnable rooster. I do not believe a word of it—even from Slim.”
“I cain’t tell it,” whispered Slim. “You go ahead, Frijole.”
“The two biggest liars in Arizona,” sighed Judge.
“I believe,” stated Henry soberly. “Go ahead, Frijole.”
“Well, this ain’t no lie,” declared Frijole. “I seen it with m’ own eyes. Yuh see, Henry, I’ve been ’sperimentin’ on a new mash. I fermented some maguey, like they make tequila, mixed it with some spuds, and a batch of Indian corn.”
“Don’t leave out the horse liniment,” suggested Judge.