Old Rance wiped his face with a towel, threw the compress into the wash-basin, and leaned back wearily in his chair. The three officers sat down around the table and rolled smokes, while Chuckwalla prepared breakfast.
“Quite a night, wasn’t it?” boomed Chuck Ring. “The last I seen of Chuckwalla he was imitatin’ a goat with blind-staggers.”
“I shore got wobbly,” grinned Chuckwalla.
“You didn’t drink much, didja, Rance?” queried Caldwell.
Rance shook his head. “I never do, Slim.”
“I never did see yuh drunk.”
“A man is a fool to git drunk, Slim.”
“Aw, yuh don’t need to preach,” said Chuckwalla quickly, jerking back from the explosive splatter of an egg in hot grease.
“I’m not preachin’,” said Rance. “Some folks can’t carry their liquor.”
“That’s me,” laughed Chuckwalla. “How do yuh like yore aigs, Slim?”