“From one ass to another, here’s to next the time we meet.” Custer held up his beer glass to see if Ratliff would do the same. Ratliff did.

“I suppose next year about now you’ll be in Montana or some other God-forsaken place,” Ratliff said. “It may be a while before we have another nice drink together. You’re the best damn guide I’ve had since I began hunting around here.”

“Yea, well, the ass-incident will always be a reminder that I’m not perfect.” Custer placed his beer glass near the edge of the table hoping the bar owner would see he was dry. He ran his long fingers up and down the red scarf adorning his neck, caressing it like a piece of valuable silk. “I’ve been on hundreds of trips like this and I’ve never seen an ass behave that way. I guess any old pack-mule can have a bad day, but damn that was ugly.”

Ratliff nodded his head in agreement. As a Englishman visiting the Oklahoma indian territory for the first time, he knew of Custer’s hunting skills. But pack-mules have a mind of their own.