The bartender backed away to lean against her cash register. “Since whichever bunch of you wins that jackpot is going to pay full price for shot glasses of beer, you can keep on all night for all I care.”
Highpockets checked with Herman, who replied that as far as he was concerned, any fool who wanted to could pour the beer. Establishing himself at the taps, Deacon made a big deal of drawing the six small glasses of beer, as I hung over the bar watching to make sure he assigned the right slip of paper to each one. Then he arranged the setup on the bar, five glasses in a row in front of Herman with one held back, the hole card, so to speak, so Herman could not figure out the final sample by process of elimination. “We’ll let him off with five out of six, if I have the option of switching this one in”—Deacon peeked secretively at the slip under it—“so he don’t pull some memorization trick on us. Fair enough?”
Skeeter and Highpockets mulled over the proposition but could see nothing wrong with it, while Herman pitty-patted the bar impatiently to start the tasting. It was agreed that as Herman named off the brand of beer, I would read out its slip of paper to verify he had it right, or heaven and earth forbid, he didn’t. With a flourish, Deacon mixed around the shot glasses, along with their accompanying slips, to his contentment and the great drink contest got underway.
Reciting “Ready on right, ready on left, ready on firing line!” in soldierly fashion, Herman reached for the first slug of beer, swilled it briefly before swallowing, and declared, “Bee-yoot!” which I verified as the Butte brew. “Attaway, One Eye!” and “Show ’em what the Diamond Buckle stands for!” came the shouts of encouragement from our crew, while the Tumbling T outfit groaned in disbelief.
So it went, down the line, each beer identified correctly at the first sip, until there stood the last two shot glasses, the one Deacon was holding back and the other resting in front of Herman.
Grinning tipsily but still in command of himself, he threw the challenge to Deacon. “Which one is to tickle my tonsils?”
“You’re lucky so far,” Deacon said sourly, “but let’s see if that luck ain’t due to run out about now.” So saying, he switched the hole-card shot glass in for the other one.
This beer I couldn’t even guess at. A darker, foamy brew than the others, it had to be either Yellowstone Brew or Avalanche Ale, but with everything riding on Herman’s final feat of swilling a mouthful and identifying it, fifty-fifty odds all of a sudden didn’t seem anything like a cinch. But quite nonchalantly, he raised the shot glass, said, “Bottoms upside,” and in one motion swigged the mystery beer.
To my alarm, he chugged it too much, more of it going down him than the other beers had. Not for long, because what was left in his mouth he spewed onto the bar, his face contorted. Gagging and trying to speak, he was making a k-k-k sound like a car trying to start on a cold morning, as our crew watched in horror, me most of all. Whatever was wrong with him was calamity enough, but I could also see a major portion of our wages about to vanish in front of our eyes.
“Told you,” Deacon crowed as he moved along the bar toward the pot. “Wore out his gullet after so many beers. Let’s have that money and we’ll even buy you a consolation round, Pockets.” He couldn’t hide his smirk.
“Herman, what is it?” I quavered as he kept trying to work his throat. “What’s wrong?” Not knowing what else to do, I slammed him across the top of his back with my open hand as hard as I could.
The blow must have loosened up something somehow. “C-c-c-cough drop,” he spluttered, pointing shakily at the offending shot glass.
“Deacon, you cheating bastard.” Highpockets caught on to the dodge ahead of the rest of us, but not by much. “Grab him.” Harv already had accomplished that, locking the protesting Deacon to his chest from behind as casually as gathering an armful of hay. “Frisk him good,” Highpockets ordered, with Midnight Frankie and Shakespeare quick on the job.
Into sight came an orange box bearing the words OLD RECIPE MENTHOL COUGH DROPS LEMON FLAVOR.
“I’d say you just forfeited, Deacon,” Highpockets pronounced, while I did my best to attend to Herman as he stayed bent over the bar, wheezing and still trying to clear his voice box.
“Can’t you take a joke?” Deacon squawked in Harv’s steely grip. “Let’s call it a draw and just scrap the bet.”
“Draw, my rosy-red butt.” That brought Peerless into it in full mode. “You can’t pull a fast one like that and crawl out of it like a snake on ice.”