FullReads

Bill slowed down.

“Have a drink,” I observed, hospitably.

“Arizona’s a dry state,” Bill reminded me; but nevertheless stopped and uncoiled. That unbelievable phenomenon had escaped my memory. In the old days I used to shut my eyes and project my soul into what I imagined was the future. I saw Arizona, embottled, dying in the last-wet ditch, while all the rest of the world, even including Milwaukee, bore down on her carrying the banners of Prohibition. So much for prophecy. I voiced a thought.

“There must be an awful lot of old timers died this spring. You can’t cut them off short and hope to save them.”

Bill grunted.

We entered the store. It smelled good, as such stores always do–soap, leather, ground coffee, bacon, cheese–all sorts of things. On the right ran a counter and shelves of dry goods and clothing; on the left groceries, cigars, and provisions generally. Down the middle saddles, ropes, spurs, pack outfits, harness, hardware. In the rear a glass cubby-hole with a desk inside. All that was customary, right and proper. But I noticed also a glass case with spark plugs and accessories; a rack full of tires; and a barrel of lubricating oil. I did not notice any body polish. By the front door stood a paper-basket whose purport I understood not at all.

Bill led me at once past two or three lounging cow persons to the cubbyhole, where arose a typical old timer.

“Mr. White, meet Mr. Billings,” he said.

The old timer grasped me firmly by the right hand and held tight while he demanded, as usual, “What name?” We informed him together. He allowed he was pleased. I allowed the same.

“I want to buy a yard of calico,” said Bill.

The old timer reached beneath the counter and produced a strip of cloth. It was already cut, and looked to be about a yard long. Also it showed the marks of loving but brutal and soiled hands.

“Wrap it up?” inquired Mr. Billings.

“Nope,” said Bill, and handed out three silver dollars. Evidently calico was high in these parts. We turned away.

“By the way, Bill,” Mr. Billings called after us, “I got a little present here for you. Some friends sent her in to me the other day. Let me know what you think of it.”

We turned. Mr. Billings held in his hand a sealed quart bottle with a familiar and famous label.

“Why, that’s kind of you,” said Bill, gravely. He took the proffered bottle, turned it upside down, glanced at the bottom, and handed it back. “But I don’t believe I’d wish for none of that particular breed. It never did agree with my stummick.”

Without a flicker of the eye the storekeeper produced a second sealed bottle, identical in appearance and label with the first.

“Try it,” he urged. “Here’s one from a different case. Some of these yere vintages is better than others.”

“So I’ve noticed,” replied Bill, dryly. He glanced at the bottom and slipped it into his pocket.

We went out. As we passed the door Bill, unobserved, dropped into the heretofore unexplained waste-basket the yard of calico he had just purchased.

“Don’t believe I like the pattern for my boudoir,” he told me, gravely.

We clambered aboard and shot our derisive exhaust at the diminishing town.

“Thought Arizona was a dry state,” I suggested.

“She is. You cain’t sell a drop. But you can keep stuff for personal use. There ain’t nothing more personal than givin’ it away to your friends.”

“The price of calico is high down here.”

“And goin’ up,” agreed Bill, gloomily. He drove ten miles in silence while I, knowing my type, waited.

“That old Billings ought to be drug out and buried,” he remarked at last. “We rode together on the Chiracahua range. He ought to know better than to try to put it onto me.”

“???” said I.

“You saw that first bottle? Just plain forty-rod dog poison–and me payin’ three good round dollars!”

“For calico,” I reminded.

“Shore. That’s why he done it. He had me–if I hadn’t called him.”