show up one day in a Tin Lizzie accompanied by the lawyer and the banker with a copy of Emmaâs legal trust document in hand.
He had no doubt Emma wouldnât want him to know she was dying until the dying had been done. And he knew her well enough to know she was fixing to die. He could see the strain of staying alive etched on her face. It gave him a shiver, and a great thirst for a whiskey or two came over him. Hell, maybe he needed a whole bottle.
***
I n his hotel room, Patrick changed out of the new duds heâd bought for the funeral service and went out for a meal. He found a Mexican cantina in a small adobe house off Main Street, walked quickly past the long bar, lined with customers, sat in the back dining room, and ordered a meal of enchiladas, beans, and tortillas. He stopped short of asking for a whiskey.
Although Prohibition had recently become the law of the land, it hadnât changed the behavior of hard-drinking New Mexicans much. They still frequented the saloons and cantinas, where bartenders now splashed liquor into coffee cups instead of glasses and kept the booze bottles out of sight so as not to rile any Anti-Saloon League members who might appear and cause a ruckus.
With truckloads of high-quality liquor smuggled day and night across the nearby Mexican border and nary an Internal Revenue agent in sight, customers and connoisseurs with a taste for good whiskey didnât have to settle for hundred-proof moonshine or rotgut. Many establishments were quickly transformed into private clubs, and most customers practiced good behavior in order to keep from drawing attention to their God-given right to engage in the illicit consumption of alcohol. It got so civilized in bars that drinking became mostly a genteel pastime. In appreciation of improved community tranquility and fewer drunken brawls, local sheriffs and town marshals tended to look the other way.
Pleased with his self-restraint, Patrick finished his meal, returned to his room, stretched out on the bed, and tried to not think about how pleasant it would be to wet his whistle with an after-dinner whiskey. The thought of it made him too restless to stay still, so he worked with pencil and paper, figuring exactly how much barbwire he needed to fence the two sections. To save money, heâd cut juniper in the high country for the fence posts.
He tallied the cost and realized he had more than enough reserve cash on hand to pay for the wire. All he needed was the time to cut the posts, haul them down from the high country, set them, and string wire. But with spring and fall works, routine ranch chores, caring for the cattle, and training the ponies, putting up the fence on his own could take several years.
More than once, the urge for a drink forced his mind to wander. Twice he almost stepped out to buy a bottle, reining in the impulse just short of putting on his coat. He shook off the desire by going over his calculations again, estimating how many fence posts heâd need to cut and how many wagon trips it would take to haul them down. He drew a map of the two sections from memory and sketched in areas where the fencing spanning a gully or running up the side of a hill would be more difficult to do.
Weary eyed and tired, he thought heâd licked the yen for a drink and was about to turn in for the night, when the craving came on stronger than ever. He tried to fight it off. Drinking a bottle of whiskey alone was a bad idea. Knowing that didnât keep his need for a whiskey at bay. He stopped and looked in the mirror above the washstand. Heâd been sober for two years. Nursing one whiskey at the Mexican cantina bar wouldnât turn him into a drunk again. Reaching such a logical conclusion felt reasonable. He grabbed his coat and hat, jingled his spurs down the hotel stairs, and headed straight for the cantina.
***
P atrick finished his third whiskey at the bar and called for another just as a short, stocky man
He had no doubt Emma wouldnât want him to know she was dying until the dying had been done. And he knew her well enough to know she was fixing to die. He could see the strain of staying alive etched on her face. It gave him a shiver, and a great thirst for a whiskey or two came over him. Hell, maybe he needed a whole bottle.
***
I n his hotel room, Patrick changed out of the new duds heâd bought for the funeral service and went out for a meal. He found a Mexican cantina in a small adobe house off Main Street, walked quickly past the long bar, lined with customers, sat in the back dining room, and ordered a meal of enchiladas, beans, and tortillas. He stopped short of asking for a whiskey.
Although Prohibition had recently become the law of the land, it hadnât changed the behavior of hard-drinking New Mexicans much. They still frequented the saloons and cantinas, where bartenders now splashed liquor into coffee cups instead of glasses and kept the booze bottles out of sight so as not to rile any Anti-Saloon League members who might appear and cause a ruckus.
With truckloads of high-quality liquor smuggled day and night across the nearby Mexican border and nary an Internal Revenue agent in sight, customers and connoisseurs with a taste for good whiskey didnât have to settle for hundred-proof moonshine or rotgut. Many establishments were quickly transformed into private clubs, and most customers practiced good behavior in order to keep from drawing attention to their God-given right to engage in the illicit consumption of alcohol. It got so civilized in bars that drinking became mostly a genteel pastime. In appreciation of improved community tranquility and fewer drunken brawls, local sheriffs and town marshals tended to look the other way.
Pleased with his self-restraint, Patrick finished his meal, returned to his room, stretched out on the bed, and tried to not think about how pleasant it would be to wet his whistle with an after-dinner whiskey. The thought of it made him too restless to stay still, so he worked with pencil and paper, figuring exactly how much barbwire he needed to fence the two sections. To save money, heâd cut juniper in the high country for the fence posts.
He tallied the cost and realized he had more than enough reserve cash on hand to pay for the wire. All he needed was the time to cut the posts, haul them down from the high country, set them, and string wire. But with spring and fall works, routine ranch chores, caring for the cattle, and training the ponies, putting up the fence on his own could take several years.
More than once, the urge for a drink forced his mind to wander. Twice he almost stepped out to buy a bottle, reining in the impulse just short of putting on his coat. He shook off the desire by going over his calculations again, estimating how many fence posts heâd need to cut and how many wagon trips it would take to haul them down. He drew a map of the two sections from memory and sketched in areas where the fencing spanning a gully or running up the side of a hill would be more difficult to do.
Weary eyed and tired, he thought heâd licked the yen for a drink and was about to turn in for the night, when the craving came on stronger than ever. He tried to fight it off. Drinking a bottle of whiskey alone was a bad idea. Knowing that didnât keep his need for a whiskey at bay. He stopped and looked in the mirror above the washstand. Heâd been sober for two years. Nursing one whiskey at the Mexican cantina bar wouldnât turn him into a drunk again. Reaching such a logical conclusion felt reasonable. He grabbed his coat and hat, jingled his spurs down the hotel stairs, and headed straight for the cantina.
***
P atrick finished his third whiskey at the bar and called for another just as a short, stocky man
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