CHAPTER XIX.
Mace Bowman, Sheriff.
"And so you think the trouble lies with the man and not with the whiskey?" I said.
The Old Cattleman and I were discussing "temperance."
"Right you be. This yere whiskey-drinkin'," continued the old gentleman as he toyed with his empty glass, "is a mighty cur'ous play. I knows gents as can tamper with their little old forty drops frequent an' reg'lar. As far as hurtin' of 'em is concerned, it don't come to throwin' water on a drowned rat. Then, ag'in, I've cut gents's trails as drinkin' whiskey is like playin' a harp with a hammer. Which we-alls ain't all upholstered alike; that's whatever. We don't all show the same brands an' y'earmarks nohow: What's med'cine for one is p'isen for t'other; an' thar you be.
"Bein' a reg'lar, reliable drunkard that a-way comes mighty near bein' a disease. It ain't no question of nerve, neither. Some dead-game gents I knows—an' who's that obstinate they wouldn't move camp for a prairie-fire—couldn't pester a little bit with whiskey.
