Texas Tempest [antikvár]

Cormac Leahy was drunk!Not a hazy, affable, staggering drunk, but a swearing, raging, killing drunk. Rotgut made from fermented cactus and corn burned a hole in his stomach. Purchased off the back of a wagon behind the trading post on the high ground between the North and Middle Concho Rivers, the jar had ridden home wedged between his hammy thighs and the saddle horn.Riding into the teeth of an icy wet norther, he swigged the poison until by the time he reached the dugout where his wife and child waited he was blind drunk. Depression seized him. The weather was hell. The small-time rancher's life of loneliness and poverty was hell. Instead of his wife producing a passel of boys to do the chores around the place, she had given him only one scrawny little girl. Damn! He couldn't do much about the weather, but he could sure do something about that wife.When the stumpy-legged mustang halted at last in front of the soddy, Cormac's sense of grievance had reached epic proportions. Sliding to the ground, he dragged the reins over the drooping head and staggered forward. One hand clutched the jar; the other reached for the buttons of his overalls.