‘A lot of ’em that Peter Morgan wrote?’ asked Fairweather.
‘Nossir.’
‘Drunk as a boiled owl,’ grunted Red Eller. ‘He don’t know what it’s all about. Let’s have another drink.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ declared Napoleon. ‘I know a will when I shee one. Gimme shome of yore tannin’ fluid.’
‘What’s the idea of the clothes?’ queried Spike.
‘Duded up f’r a trip to Cañonville.’
‘Napoleon,’ grinned Spike, ‘have you got a girl?’
‘Nossir, I ain’t got no girl; I’m goin’ on ’ficial business to the county sheat. These are m’ ’ficial clothes. Here’s m’ regards, gents.’
Napoleon drank a full glass of liquor, groped his way to a chair, where he flopped down heavily. His derby rolled off across the floor, and Red Eller kicked it the length of the room. But Napoleon was not too drunk to witness this bit of horseplay, and his hand groped drunkenly for the butt of his six-shooter. But after several ineffectual efforts to draw the gun, he made a gesture of despair, slumped down in the chair and began snoring.
‘If he’d been sober, he’d have killed you, Red,’ declared Spike.