WHISKY TALKS
It is doubtful whether any of his friends would have recognized Napoleon
Bonaparte Briggs, as he stood against the Oasis bar that night. On his
narrow, slightly grizzled head was an ancient brown derby hat, several
sizes too small. Around his skinny neck was a high, batwing collar,
plenty large enough for Napoleon to sink into up to his generous ears,
and his bosom was resplendent in a once white starched bosom
shirt—strange garb for Peter Morgan’s old ranch cook.
He wore no vest, no necktie, and his old brown coat showed evidences of
its long vacation inside a warbag. His overalls were glaringly new,
tucked inside a pair of high heel boots, which emitted an unmistakable
odor of stove polish. Inside the waistband of his overalls, the butt of
it reposing against the lower edge of his shirt bosom, was a heavy Colt
revolver.
And Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs was drunk. It was seldom that Briggs ever
came to Mesa City on a drunk, and no one had ever seen him dressed in
this manner.
“I’m goin’ awa-a-ay, fer, fer awa-a-a-ay,” he sang mournfully. “Where
the swee-e-e-et swy-ring-ga bloo-o-ooms.”
“You thinkin’ of takin’ a long trip?” asked the bartender.
Nap cuffed his derby over one eye and considered the bartender solemnly.
“Feller, when Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs dudes up thisaway, he’s halfway
there.”
“Ocean voyage, Nap?”
“Not unless there’s a cloudburst between here and Cañonville. I aims to
ride a fo’ legged hoss. Gimme another scoop of that liquor, which
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and charge it to the house.”
“Can’t do that, Nap. Jack says to make everythin’ cash, until he finds
out what’s to become of this place.”
“Become of it?”
“Yeah, you know, since Peter Morgan died.”
“Oh, yeah,” sadly.
“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 mebbe 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, and 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
if not wishing to associate with the common herd in his present
habiliments.
“My Lord!” blurted Spike Cahill, spying Napoleon. “There’s the ghost of
Old Man Briggs, lookin’ over his own tombstone!”
“Oh, to the devil with him!” snorted Dave Morgan, invigorated by the
potent liquor. “Let’s decide what’s to be done.”
“And not a gun in the crowd,” said Napoleon, noting the empty holsters.
“O-o-o-oh, I’m go-in’ fer, fer awa-a-ay, where the swee-e-e-et
swy-rin-ga bloo-o-o-oms.”
“What’s the idea of the boiled clothes, Nap?” asked Spike.
“Celebratin’ m’ releash from bondage, Spike. I’m through cookin’.”
“No-o-o-o!”
“Yes, sir. Been rasslin’ pots for the 6X6 for over twenty years, and
it’s time I retired.”
* * * * *
Jack Fairweather, manager of the Oasis, came in beside Dave Morgan,
nodding to each of the boys. Fairweather was a small man, about fifty
years of age, who had been long in the employ of Peter Morgan.
“I’ve been tryin’ to get some dope on this situation,” he told Dave.
“Nobody seems to know just what is to be done. As far as I can find out,
Peter left no will. He never had any use for a lawyer, and they tell me
at the bank that there is no will, as far as they know. What’s to be
done?”
“I dunno,” growled Dave. “What’s usually done in a case of this kind?”
“Well, I suppose the property belongs to his nearest relative. You ought
to know who that would be, Dave.”
“He didn’t have no real close relatives, Jack. His mother and father are
both dead, and he was the only kid they had. There was just two boys in
the family, my father and Pete’s father. They’re both dead.”
“Well, it looks as though you owned somethin’, Dave.”
“I suppose so. As long as there’s no will—”
“Who the hell says there ain’t?” demanded Napoleon.
And thus Napoleon became the center of attraction. He had been so long
with the 6X6 that it might be possible he _did_ know something of
interest. Dave Morgan glared at him, but Napoleon was too drunk to mind
a glare.
“What are you talkin’ about?” demanded Dave.
“What do you know about it?” countered Napoleon.
He almost lost his derby, giving his head a quick jerk.
“What about a will, Nap?” asked Fairweather.
“Oh, thasall right,” muttered Napoleon foolishly.
“Did you ever see a will?” asked Spike.
“I’ve seen a lot of ’em.”
“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 your 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.
“If he’d been sober, I wouldn’t have kicked the hat.”
“Hell!” snorted Ed Jones. “If he had been sober, he wouldn’t have worn
such a lookin’ hat.”
“Who cares what he would have done?” growled Dave. “What I want to know
is, what are we goin’ to do?”
“Search me,” said Spike. “I know I’m not goin’ back there agin’
tonight.”
“Goin’ to crawfish on this job?”
“Not crawfish, Dave. Old Man Lane won’t be there; so what could we gain
by goin’ back?”
“I reckon that’s true.”
Dave explained to Fairweather what had taken place at the Lane ranch,
but the gambler had no suggestions to offer.
“I’ll ride down in the mornin’ and collect the guns,” offered Spike.
“I’m not scared. They said we could have ’em in daylight.”
Red Eller and Ed Jones decided that they wanted to play a little poker,
and Dave Morgan wanted to go home; so Dave went away alone. Others
drifted in and the games filled up, while Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs
slept off his jag, and awoke, with a stiff neck and the disposition of a
grizzly.
He found the brim of his derby hat, which Red Eller had kicked loose
from its crown, and it pained him greatly. He accepted a drink, went out
to his horse, where he mounted and headed for Cañonville.
“If that horse ever bucks, that collar will slice old Briggs’ ears off,”
declared Spike Cahill. “Funny old coot. Him and Pete Morgan was pretty
close friends, even if they did cuss each other out at least once a
day.”
“What do you suppose he meant—about that will?” asked Jack Fairweather.
“Liquor talkin’. Old Briggs would rather argue than eat. The minute
somebody says, ‘There is,’ old Briggs is sure to say, ‘There ain’t.’ But
I sure don’t _sabe_ that boiled shirt and collar and the hard hat.”