“The soul of a great distiller,” replied Frijole gravely. “M’ life’s work is done. If the world knew what I know--” “We would all be half-witted,” added Judge soberly. The jug looked innocent enough. Henry touched it with his finger. Frijole said, “Slim, you tell ’em what happened to Bill Shakespeare.” “Have done!” exclaimed Judge. “Not that, Frijole. I can swallow your prune whiskey, but not the fantastic tales of that damnable rooster. I do not believe a word of it--even from Slim.” “I cain’t tell it,” whispered Slim. “You go ahead, Frijole.” “The two biggest liars in Arizona,” sighed Judge. “I believe,” stated Henry soberly. “Go ahead, Frijole.” “Well, this ain’t no lie,” declared Frijole. “I seen it with m’ own eyes. Yuh see, Henry, I’ve been ’sperimentin’ on a new mash. I fermented some maguey, like they make tequila, mixed it with some spuds, and a batch of Indian corn.” “Don’t leave out the horse liniment,” suggested Judge. “No, I didn’t, Judge. When that batch of mash got to the whistlin’ point, I put in the liniment and then I--” “No one is interested in a recipe,” interrupted Judge. “Get down to the distorted facts.” Frijole grinned slowly. “Well, yeah--I shouldn’t expose my formula. I won’t tell yuh how me and Slim had that mash in a keg, with a anvil on top of it, and it blowed the anvil plumb through the kitchen roof, and when it hit--” Frijole whispered huskily, “that anvil was shrunk to the size of a tack-hammer. I won’t tell that part of it, ’cause it’s hard to believe. Anyway, you know how fond Bill Shakespeare, the rooster, is of mash. I was so scared of him a-gettin’ this mash and killin’ himself that I put it in a sack and hung it in a tree, aimin’ to dry it out and burn it. But do you know what happened? It leaked--and there was Bill, settin’ on his hind-end under the tree, bill open, drinkin’ in the drippin’s. “By the time I seen him, Bill was swelled up like a balloon. His crop was plumb filled with mash-drippin’s, and he was as loaded as a lumber-jack on pay-day. He staggered away from the sack, with joy in his soul and rubber in his legs. The hens all kept away from Bill--them a-settin’ on the corral fence in executive session, while Bill goes lookin’ for what he may devour. “Well, sir, there’s a old diamond-back, which lives in the day-wash, and I suspect he’s livin’ partly off baby chickens. He’s a old sockdolager, with about twenty rattles. Bill finds him out in the weeds behind the little chicken house, and the first thing I know, here’s that big rattler, all cocked and primed, buzzin’ his tail, a-warnin’ Bill Shakespeare to stay back.