MURDER INCORPORATED - IN A KEG

From: Murder Incorporated - In a Keg

by Harold J. Treherne

ne quite warm Summer afternoon in July 1924 we were doing a little spot of road grading. Will was road boss and Bob, his long time hired hand, was second in command and I, the last of the trio, naturally came third. No privileges were attached to this high office. This was the first year on the farm and it was lucky I qualified for third place. These were the pre-tractor days, Bob handled the six horses. Will manipulated the grader and I just walked behind picking up the bits or rather I picked up the stones which the grader unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the road. These were thrown off to the side where they belonged. They were picked up later, of course. It developed into quite a chummy affair throwing those baseball size stones to the side till the grader suddenly wised up and started handing me man-size boulders. I didn't think much of it and it certainly wasn't very sporty. I was young though and took them in my stride.

This afternoon around 5:30 we were as dry as lime burners' clogs, the water was all gone and not one of us could fling a spit. We were half way down the half mile stretch towards home when I saw a team and wagon pull up by the side of the road at the far end.

On closer acquaintance I could make out a small barrel wrapped in sacking and sitting unabashed square in the middle. It held the spotlight, I'll say it did. Reverting to my drawing-room English I greeted it appropriately with, bravo, top hole and all that. Some kind neighbor, I bet, had brought us water and lots of it, fresh, sparkling and frosty from the well's depths. Just imagine but don't get excited, this "kind" farmer just happened to be passing and water wasn't his stock-in-trade. I very much doubt if he had tasted any since he developed a mind of his own. They do say bread is the staff of life but beer is life itself, so where does water come in?

Will was enthusiastic, hailed it, sight unseen, untasted and unsampled as an oasis in the desert and waved a greeting.

"How's about a swig, Jim?" to the teamster.

The teamster handed him a gallon-size bottle similarly camouflaged like its big brother almost threw it at him, I thought. Maybe he wanted to be rid of it.

"Help yourself, Bill" - they evidently knew each other - "you're entirely welcome."

My suspicions were growing.

Will helped himself all right, must have taken more than a sample for he exploded in a mighty burp followed by a little brother. He just stood there leaning heavily against the wagon wheel in misty and stony silence and gazed at Jim in mystified unbelief. He recovered in time and in a hoarse whisper said, "Oh, boy" and after a slight pause a further drawn out "Oh, boy" escaped him. Will half raised the bottle again, eyed it intently, shook his head and motioned for Bob to take it.

I wasn't quite sure what Bob was going to do (after sizing Bill up) but evidently his will power played second fiddle to his thirst because he tipped the bottle and more than downed his quota. I have a strong suspicion his thirst got the better of him too. Mighty lucky he was sitting down at the time. As it was he was completely incoherent for all of sixty seconds. When he had recovered sufficiently to stand up unaided he motioned in dumb language that I should relieve him of this bottle of liquid brimstone.

I was now stalling for time so I asked Bob, "Sure you wouldn't like another draw?"

He moved his head from side to side and half raised his hands in supplication. I'm sure he meant "NO." Then, miraculously recovering his speech he said, in a rather thin and quiet voice, "Upend 'er, Blighty, and sure tek a good un." That "sure" told me he wasn't so far gone.

As for me, I wasn't used to "upending bottles," being strictly sobersides, and the only bottles I ever upended and never even remembered were nipple ended ones. Still I had to be one of the boys, so, elbowing the old blues chaser I guzzled a mighty good mouthful and then some. It allayed the thirst all right, in fact I realized right away thạt the Central Butte burial ground was in truth only carrying distance away.

You remember that fizzy stuff we used to buy in those days? You felt like your nose was red hot and your eyes were bulging because the tears couldn't get away fast enough. There was one thing about this home-brew, it had all the kicks of the fizz plus a few more. You weren't sure whether you were going to stay vertical or not. Apart from losing your voice you were afraid you might lose your innards - if you took enough of it. Ah, well, such potent memories!

Will waved Jim, that rugged tough old home-brew peddler on his way, and I think we were sort of relieved to see him go. There was another thing I noticed, he had forgotten to wire the corks down because as soon as the team started up both corks shot heavenward and an aura of luminance hung around each container.

"Au revoir," I said, "No, not au revoir, so long, and not that either. If I ever see you again that will be soon enough and may the R.C.M.P. never get wind of your wares or ever cross your shadow."

Then to myself I mumbled in awe, "There go the two fizzes - Big Fizz and Little Fizz!"