CHAPTER 20 “Old Beelzebub himself.”
Bowie poured a jar of Matagorda moonshine down his throat. His eyes bulged, his nostrils flared, and he felt steam spouting from his ears.
A coonskinned trapper named Ianitello clapped him heartily on the back. “Good stuff, eh? Made it myself, I did.”
Bowie forced his lips into a smile. The concoction smelled like horse droppings, tasted like composted squash, and carried more kick than a blunderbuss.
“Sweet as milk and honey,” he proclaimed. “A fine beverage for the ladies, but what do you gentlemen drink in these parts?”
Ianitello’s eyes popped. Bowie returned the clap on the back, laughing, and all around the fire joined in.
The group numbered close to thirty men. Some squatted on rough logs circling the firepit, while others stretched full on t
