The Mother Lode by Gary Franklin Page A

pocket.
    â€œThree is fine, Mr. Moss.” The bartender turned to a man in a white shirt and tie. “Charley, would you please help Mr. Moss up to Room Fourteen?”
    â€œSure thing.” Charley was big and beefy. He grabbed Joe by the arm and started to steer him away, but Joe didn’t like anyone grabbing him so he threw off Charley’s grip. “Just point the way,” he growled.
    â€œThere are the stairs,” Charley said. “Think you can make it up them?”
    â€œWatch me,” Joe said, placing one new boot in front of the next, only to discover that he was listing badly.
    Everyone that had been drinking Joe’s expensive John Bull laughed, and that made him mad so he whirled around and grabbed a card table for support, fumbling for his tomahawk. When he finally got the damned thing out of his belt, the men stopped laughing and grew silent.
    â€œYou people . . . hiccup . . . drink a man’s whiskey and then you make fun of him? Is that how it’s done in these parts?”
    Nobody said a word and nobody was smiling anymore as Joe waved his tomahawk around, and then let out a wild Indian whoop and began to dance a bit on the barroom floor. Suddenly, he was remembering a time up along the Green River when he was this drunk and about to get into a fight with a mountain man named Crazy John. They’d both had tomahawks and Joe thought they were just funnin’ around and having a good time. But then Crazy John had taken a swing and struck Joe on the forearm, cracking the bone. It hadn’t hurt too badly then, but it had made Joe mad and he’d whacked Crazy John in the shoulder, opening up a gusher of blood and shocking even the riotous rendezvous crowd. For a moment, it could have gone in either direction, one man killing the other. But he and Crazy John had started laughing and then shaken hands. They’d been good friends right up until the day that the Blackfoot had captured and scalped Crazy John.
    The Lucky Lady Saloon suddenly began to roll under his feet, causing him to fall on the floor. He tossed his beef stew and liquor into the sawdust, and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve, soiling his new shirt.
    â€œMister, why don’t you put that tomahawk back in your belt and let Charley help you upstairs?” the bartender asked.
    â€œMaybe I will,” Joe said, grabbing a chair and climbing to his feet. “And maybe I’ll have me another bath tonight.”
    â€œMight be a good idea before you meet that woman.”
    Joe puked a little more and smoothed his fouled shirt. “Enjoyed the company,” he said, lurching for the stairs. With Charley’s reluctant assistance, he finally made it to his room and collapsed on the bed.
    â€œYou puke all over this room and it’ll cost you another dollar,” Charley warned. “If you’re gonna puke some more, then I’ll help you down to the end of the hall or have a Chinaman bring up a slop bucket.”
    â€œI’m done now,” Joe said, sitting up and closing one eye so that Charley wasn’t a pair of Charlies.
    â€œYou sure can drink and tell windies,” Charley said just before leaving. “I’d guess that you were a real heller in your younger days.”
    â€œI’m still a heller,” Joe slurred.
    â€œI’ll bet your guts are shot,” Charley told him. “A man that can drink like you has been doin’ it for a while and has to have rotten guts.”
    Joe grabbed his tomahawk and was ready to see if he could nail Charley between the eyes, but the man ducked out of the room and ran down the hall.
    After that, Joe lay on the bed and fell asleep. Soon, he dreamed of his mountain man days and those unbelievable rendezvous when all of his trapper and Indian friends would get together and trade, drink, and fornicate like wild weasels. They’d run footraces, wrestled, fought, and gambled for stakes that had taken the best part