the enjoyment of vino and talk. The bar was narrow, made of some kind of
soft wood, and painted blue. The top of it was almost paintless in
patches.

Back of the bar a narrow shelf, also painted blue, offered a lean choice
of liquors. Several Mexicans lounged at the side tables along the wall.
The young American rancher stood at the bar, drinking. The proprietor, a
fat, one-eyed Mexican whose face was deeply pitted from smallpox, served
Bartley and Cheyenne grudgingly. The mescal was fiery stuff. Bartley
coughed as he swallowed it.

"Why not just whiskey, and have it over with?" he queried, grinning at
Cheyenne.

"Whiskey ain't whiskey, here," Cheyenne replied. "But mescal is just
what she says she is. I like to know the kind of poison I'm drinkin'."

Bartley began to experience an inner glow that was not unpleasant. Once
down, this native Mexican drink was not so bad. He laid a coin on the
bar and the glasses were filled again.

Cheyenne nodded and drank Bartley's health. Bartley suggested that they
sit at one of the side tables and study the effects of mescal on the
natives present.

"Let joy be unconfined," said Cheyenne.

"Where in the world did you get that?"

"Oh, I can read," declared Cheyenne. "Before I took to ramblin', I used