to hear your yarn, Mr. Sheridan. I reckon you came where you belonged when you come out to a Man's Country, the West."
The second tribute was amplified by the Mister, a title scrupulously avoided by the hands of the Circle S. thus far.
"Hollister got quite friendly after that," said Sheridan. "He sold me my first bunch of cattle. And he's been trying to steal them back ever since," he added drily.
"Prohibition don't mean much to him," said Jackson. "I've seen him with a souse on in Metzal a dozen times. It warn't mescale, either. Rotgut whisky from Vasquez' blind pig over on the east fork, I reckon. Me, I aim to be a law-abiding citizen, but I ain't passin' up a slug of good juice if it comes my way. But I draw the line at Vasquez' licker. It 'ud turn a Sunday School Superintendent into the Apache Kid at one session, and they say it's gettin' worse. I like a bite to a drink but I like a clean bite. That stuff 'ud pizen a rattlesnake blind. Eat holes in a Dutch oven. It 'll git him some day. Yeh-ah, but I'm sleepy!"
Five minutes later he turned in his chrysalis roll of blanket to say, sleepily:
"I'll bet you a month's pay, jest the same, Sheridan, that was a gel on top of Ghost Mountain."
But Sheridan was asleep beneath the stars that swam in a purple void above them, his mended lungs inhaling and exhaling the rare, crisp air.
