“Yuh might say we are,” agreed Chuckwalla, yanking hard on one side of his mustache. “What’r yuh absorbin’, Butch?”
“Cawn juice,” drawled Butch. “Say, Rance, I heard yuh was lookin’ for Billy DuMond.”
Old Rance shot him a sidelong glance.
“Didja?”
“Yeah.”
They drank thirstily and clattered their glasses on the bar.
“Holy hell!” snorted Chuckwalla. “Either I’m gettin’ awful neck-tender, or they’re puttin’ dynamite in the hooch. I jist laid m’self a blister from gullet to gut. Whooee-e-e!”
“That stuff is twenty year old,” declared the bartender.
“Yeah, it’s shore got all its teeth.”
“You’re gettin’ old,” declared Butch, laughing.