‘Have one on me.’
Napoleon considered the bartender thoughtfully as the glasses were placed on the bar, and he saw the bartender take money from his own pocket and put it in the till.
‘Well, here’s luck, Nap,’ said the bartender. They drank their liquor straight, and Nap cuffed his hat to the back of his head.
‘I reckon I’ll keep you,’ he said seriously.
‘Keep me?’ queried the bartender.
‘Uh-huh. You’re kinda human. I thought at first that I’d do m’ own bartendin’, but mebby I won’t. Now, let’s have one on me. I’ve got money.’
Came the staccato thudding of hoofs, the rattle of spurs on the wooden sidewalk, and in came Dave Morgan, leading the boys who had been with him at the Lane ranch. They were all thirsty and mad, it required two rounds of drinks before they were able to discuss the events of the evening.
Napoleon moved to the end of the bar, standing in solitary grandeur, as though not wishing to associate with the common herd in his present habiliments.
‘My Gawd!’ blurted Spike Cahill, spying Napoleon. ‘There’s the ghost of old man Briggs lookin’ over his own tombstone!’
‘Oh, to hell with him!’ snorted Dave Morgan, invigorated by the potent liquor. ‘Let’s decide what’s to be done.’