The Mother Lode by Gary Franklin

pour the whole damn bottle down my gullet, if I had a mind to. And I might just have a mind to,” Joe said, feeling the heat spreading down until his toes tingled and tapped on the sawdust floor.
    â€œWell, I know you have the money and I’ve got as much whiskey as you want to drink,” the bartender said. “So . . . if you’re of a mind to get drunk . . . don’t hold back.”
    â€œI am of a mind,” Joe decided. “I haven’t had a good drunk in the longest time, and I believe a man needs to go on a toot once in a while in order to keep his innards clean and workin’ right.”
    â€œI couldn’t agree more,” the bartender said with a wide grin. “Drink up!”
    Joe did drink up. He drank that entire bottle, and then he paid another four dollars and bought a second. By then, his head was spinning lazy circles like the flies around the tin ceiling and his world had a rosy hue. Joe and the bartender were laughing, and so were the fellas all around him that he was buying drinks for. It was a hell of a good time and before Joe knew it, the daylight was gone and he was having a little difficulty standing at the bar.
    â€œYou need a room?” the bartender, whose name turned out to be Willard, asked. “We rent upstairs rooms.”
    â€œI probably could use a little food,” Joe said.
    â€œI’ll send a boy for a plate. Beef stew and corn bread all right?”
    â€œSounds top-notch,” Joe said, burping and taking another drink.
    The beef stew didn’t arrive until Joe and his new friends were finished with the second bottle and working hard on a third. But what the hell, it was only twelve dollars, and it had been the longest time since he’d been on a drunk and having so much fun.
    Joe told his new friends all about his mountain man days, and then about leading that ill-fated wagon train west, and when he came to Fiona, he found that there were tears in his eyes and leaking down his cheeks into his beard. So he corked the bottle and squared his shoulders like a man. No blubbering woman was he, by damned!
    â€œBut I’m going to find her tomorrow,” he announced to his drinking friends. “I got a fine set of new . . . hiccup . . . clothes paid for and . . . hiccup . . . waitin’ so I’ll look good when I find her. I want Fiona to remember me as the man she was meant to marry.”
    â€œLet’s drink to Joe and his future bride!” the bartender shouted to the room as more men came to crowd around him. “Mr. Moss, how about one more round for the boys!”
    They were all looking so eager and happy that Joe didn’t have the heart to refuse them, so he bought a fourth bottle and it was gone quicker than he could count off another four dollars.
    â€œI guess I’d better take that . . . hiccup . . . room,” he said, gripping the edge of the bar. “You got any jerky or tobacco?”
    â€œI sell good cigars and bad cigars. The good ones are from Cuba and the bad ones smell and look like burnt dog shit.”
    â€œI’ll take a Cuban,” Joe said, trying to remember to remember to buy a corncob pipe, which he preferred to smoke.
    â€œWise choice.”
    â€œAnd that room and some help gettin’ up those stairs to it.”
    â€œSure thing, Mr. Moss. Room is ten dollars.”
    Joe was grinning, but now his face turned hard and ugly and his hand fell to the tomahawk. “Mister, you must think that I’m either stupid or out of my . . . hiccup . . . mind drunk to pay ten dollars!”
    â€œThe room I had in mind comes with something special,” the bartender said, backing up fast.
    â€œAin’t nothin’ so special in a room worth ten damn dollars!”
    â€œWhatever you say, Mr. Moss. Five dollars?”
    â€œThree is more’n fair after all the drinks I just bought.” Joe peeled off three dollars and shoved his bankroll back deep down in his