IT WAS a hot afternoon in Wyoming; the mountains were a long way away and you could see snow on their tops, but they made no shadow, and in the valley the grain-fields were yellow, the road was dusty with cars passing, and all the small wooden houses at the edge of town were baking in the sun. There was a tree made shade over Fontan’s back porch and I sat there at a table and Madame Fontan brought up cold beer from the cellar. A motor-car turned off the main road and came up the side road, and stopped beside the house. Two men got out and came in through the gate. I put the bottles under the table. Madame Fontan stood up.
“Where’s Sam?” one of the men asked at the screen door.
“He ain’t here. He’s at the mines.”
“You got some beer?”
“No. Ain’t got any beer. That’s a last bottle. All gone.”
“What’s he drinking?”
“That’s a last bottle. All gone.”
“Go on, give us some beer. You know me.”
“Ain’t got any beer. That’s a last bottle. All gone.”
“Come on, let’s go some place where we can get some real beer,” one of them said, and they went out to the car. One of them walked unsteadily. The motor-car jerked in starting, whirled on the road, and went on and away.
“Put the beer on the table,” Madame Fontan said. “What’s the matter, yes, all right. What’s the matter? Don’t drink off the floor.”
“I didn’t know who they were,” I said.
“They’re drunk,” she said. “That’s what makes the trouble. Then they go somewhere else and say they got it here. Maybe
