Back at the Bonnie Lass, the Buchanan Boys carried on with their raucous party late into the afternoon. Highlights included:
- Homer Buchanan taking shots at customers’ feet, demanding that they dance.
- Zeke Buchanan relieving himself wherever he pleased.
- Stephen Buchanan exhibiting a firm belief that pants were optional.
- And last but not least, Augustus Buchanan singing “Camptown Races” over and over again.
Miss Bonnie and Waldo stood behind the bar, taking it all in.
“Do they just live here now?” Waldo asked.
“I guess,” Miss Bonnie said. “I don’t know.”
“Can’t you do something?” the barkeep inquired.
“I keep trying to talk to Mr. Blythe,” Miss Bonnie said. “But he’s so damn convincing.”
Blake pushed his way through the swinging doors and found a seat next to Townsend.
“Well, you won’t believe the horse shit I just heard,” Blake said as he plunked a few coins on the bar. Waldo poured him his usual scotch and handed it over.
“Bathing’s become socially acceptable?” Miss Bonnie asked.
Townsend saw Miss Bonnie’s dig and raised her a “You’re a bigger drunk than U.S. Grant?”
Everyone looked at Waldo. He had nothing. “Um…you’re stupid?”
“Ha, ha ha,” Blake said. He downed the shot and pounded the glass on the bar. “No, no and you’re one to talk, Waldo. Get this. I’m down at the store…”
“…buying your pecker rash cream…” Miss Bonnie interjected.
“Can I tell a story here?” Blake asked.
Waldo set the barfly up with another shot. “Thank you,” Blake said. “And I hear old Mrs. Anderson talking about fixing up a dress for the Widow Farquhar. Turns out she and that lousy excuse for a marshal are tying the knot.”
Miss Bonnie felt her sense of humor leave her in an instant.
“Slade and the Widow Farquhar?” Townsend said. “Get out!”
“I will not, thank you very much,” Blake said.
“Eh, who cares?” Townsend asked. “Good for him.”
“‘Good for him?’” Blake repeated. “Shit, the Widow Farquhar’s got all that money and land. Slade’s making out like a bandit.”
“She’s a real looker that Widow Farquhar,” Waldo said.
“I wouldn’t mind being in Slade’s shoes,” Townsend added. “Waking up every morning next to the Widow Farquhar.”
“What has that son of a bitch ever done to deserve a woman like the Widow Farquhar?” Blake asked.
Miss Bonnie had heard enough. “Maybe he does more than just sit on his ass and pour booze down his gullet all day, ya’ degenerate!”
The proprietor stormed off upstairs. When she reached the top, she turned around and yelled, “And stop calling her ‘the Widow Farquhar!'”
“What’s eating her?” Townsend asked.
Waldo shrugged his shoulders.
“Hike up your boots, boys,” Townsend said. “There’s a red flood a-comin!”