Chauncey said and grinned. âThere couldnât be anybody in these parts running a still. Itâs probably something those Canucks brewed.â
Boyce emptied his shot glass and took a long swallow of beer. Chauncey felt his face starting to tingle. It wasnât an unpleasant sensation, more like drizzle on a hot summer day. An amber glow now limned the room. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, let his eyes settle on the sergeantâs stripes. Estep and the other man had been privates, both sent home after six months, but Chauncey had been in the army ten months already and was still in. His eyes drifted from his own face to Estepâs. At a district meeting, Captain Arnold had said there were men so afraid before battle that their nipples gave milk. So cowardly they were trying to turn themselves into women, Captain Arnold claimed. For all Chauncey knew, Estep could have been chicken enough to do that. It wouldnât surprise him a bit.
Boyce finished the beer and stepped from the bar.
âYou tell Paul weâll do something special for him when he gets back home,â Chauncey said.
Boyce gave the slightest nod and walked out.
âWe will,â Chauncey said, and one of the old men grunted in assent.
He could leave now too, but Chauncey didnât feel like leaving anymore, at least not yet. Five months heâd avoided Estep, sometimes crossing the street so as not to pass him. People had noticed. He knew theyâd rather believe Chauncey did it out of fear than out of contempt for a man who had to be conscripted to fight, the same as theyâd rather believe he had gotten to be a recruiter because his father and Senator Zeller knew each other. Captain Arnold himself had told Chauncey the day of his commission that if Chauncey Feith wasnât the right man for the job he wouldnât have appointed him even if his father was Woodrow Wilson.
Chauncey studied the mirrored face heâd avoided too long, looking at every inch, the ridged scars and even the sunk flesh where Estepâs eye had been. Meachum polished the bar near the old men, rubbing the same spot over and over like it was a magic lamp he hoped to summon a genie from. Probably wishing Iâd leave, Chauncey thought, and tapped the glass, not so much for a drink as to make Meachum quit pretending he wasnât in the room. Meachum brought over the bottle.
âYou sure?â the bartender asked, saying it soft, but not soft enough that the others couldnât hear.
The old men gandered his way. Estep looked up as well.
âI wouldnât ask for it if I didnât want it,â Chauncey said. âPour my damn drink.â
He lifted the glass and drained it and looked around. The liquor didnât settle as easy this time.
âThatâs some fierce drinking youâre doing there,â one of the old men said, and raised his empty shot glass. âIâd toast you if I had me some more nectar to sup.â
âGive him another, Meachum,â Chauncey said, and Meachum poured the man a drink.
âTo you, sir,â the man said, raising the glass, âand all men like you what have worn the uniform.â
A scoff came from the back of the room. Donât give him the pleasure of acknowledging it, Chauncey told himself. The old men hadnât seemed to notice, Meachum either, who was back polishing the bar. But it didnât matter if they had heard because Chauncey Feith didnât give a damn what Estep or any of the rest of them thought, and that included Hank Shelton and his smart-ass remark when all Chauncey had done was remind Shelton and the rest of them who the real enemy was. He thought about Estep, who could laze all day in a saloon and no one said a word about it, but if Chauncey left his office fifteen minutes early the same folks went into conniptions.
The liquor began to sour in his stomach. Rotgut, thatâs what some called it, and with good reason. As
Boyce emptied his shot glass and took a long swallow of beer. Chauncey felt his face starting to tingle. It wasnât an unpleasant sensation, more like drizzle on a hot summer day. An amber glow now limned the room. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, let his eyes settle on the sergeantâs stripes. Estep and the other man had been privates, both sent home after six months, but Chauncey had been in the army ten months already and was still in. His eyes drifted from his own face to Estepâs. At a district meeting, Captain Arnold had said there were men so afraid before battle that their nipples gave milk. So cowardly they were trying to turn themselves into women, Captain Arnold claimed. For all Chauncey knew, Estep could have been chicken enough to do that. It wouldnât surprise him a bit.
Boyce finished the beer and stepped from the bar.
âYou tell Paul weâll do something special for him when he gets back home,â Chauncey said.
Boyce gave the slightest nod and walked out.
âWe will,â Chauncey said, and one of the old men grunted in assent.
He could leave now too, but Chauncey didnât feel like leaving anymore, at least not yet. Five months heâd avoided Estep, sometimes crossing the street so as not to pass him. People had noticed. He knew theyâd rather believe Chauncey did it out of fear than out of contempt for a man who had to be conscripted to fight, the same as theyâd rather believe he had gotten to be a recruiter because his father and Senator Zeller knew each other. Captain Arnold himself had told Chauncey the day of his commission that if Chauncey Feith wasnât the right man for the job he wouldnât have appointed him even if his father was Woodrow Wilson.
Chauncey studied the mirrored face heâd avoided too long, looking at every inch, the ridged scars and even the sunk flesh where Estepâs eye had been. Meachum polished the bar near the old men, rubbing the same spot over and over like it was a magic lamp he hoped to summon a genie from. Probably wishing Iâd leave, Chauncey thought, and tapped the glass, not so much for a drink as to make Meachum quit pretending he wasnât in the room. Meachum brought over the bottle.
âYou sure?â the bartender asked, saying it soft, but not soft enough that the others couldnât hear.
The old men gandered his way. Estep looked up as well.
âI wouldnât ask for it if I didnât want it,â Chauncey said. âPour my damn drink.â
He lifted the glass and drained it and looked around. The liquor didnât settle as easy this time.
âThatâs some fierce drinking youâre doing there,â one of the old men said, and raised his empty shot glass. âIâd toast you if I had me some more nectar to sup.â
âGive him another, Meachum,â Chauncey said, and Meachum poured the man a drink.
âTo you, sir,â the man said, raising the glass, âand all men like you what have worn the uniform.â
A scoff came from the back of the room. Donât give him the pleasure of acknowledging it, Chauncey told himself. The old men hadnât seemed to notice, Meachum either, who was back polishing the bar. But it didnât matter if they had heard because Chauncey Feith didnât give a damn what Estep or any of the rest of them thought, and that included Hank Shelton and his smart-ass remark when all Chauncey had done was remind Shelton and the rest of them who the real enemy was. He thought about Estep, who could laze all day in a saloon and no one said a word about it, but if Chauncey left his office fifteen minutes early the same folks went into conniptions.
The liquor began to sour in his stomach. Rotgut, thatâs what some called it, and with good reason. As
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