Free The Wanton Troopers by Alden Nowlan

their attention, they would pretend not to notice him. When he intruded into the affairs of men, his father called him “Mister Big Breeches.” And he did not want to be sent away.
    Judd’s cheeks reddened, his eyes became feverish.
    â€œDamn good beer,” Todd Anthony said.
    â€œA real life-saver,” Eben agreed.
    â€œAllus said that Judd O’Brien was a Good Samaritan,” Angus laughed.
    The others guffawed. They were relaxing now, shaking off their sobriety and their formal manners.
    Their voices became louder. The words poured out of them in torrents. Each man fought for a chance to say his piece. They laughed boisterously, slapping their denim-clad thighs, jostling and interrupting one another. But Kevin detected the underlying malice in their fellowship. They told spiteful little jokes at one another’s expense, and when one man was held up to ridicule he sat in glum silence while the others hooted. In every joke there was a suggestion of cruelty.
    After the fourth round of drinks, Judd burst into song:
    Here’s a cuckoo! There’s a cuckoo!
    Here’s a cuckaroo!
    Here’s a cuckoo! There’s a cuckoo!
    There’s a cuckaroo!
    He always sang this song in the earliest, happiest phase of his drunkenness. His neck beet red, his breath coming in great gasps, he roared out the song, while his visitors tapped their toes against the floor and laughed.
    Here’s a cuckoo! There’s a cuckoo!
    Here’s a cuckaroo!
    Here’s a cuckoo! There’s a cuckoo!
    There’s a cuckaroo!
    Kevin had heard this song often. So far as he knew, no one but his father ever sang it, and these were the only words that it had.
    â€œYa-ha-ha-ha-whooo!” Eben Stingle yelled. “Gimme another shot of that cripeless stuff and I’ll step dance, by cripes!”
    They drank again, spilling the thick, muck-brown liquid down their necks. Eben catapulted into the centre of the floor and danced like a war-painted Indian. The others clapped their hands and roared encouragement.
    â€œYa-ha-ha-ha-whoooo!”
    The ox teamster kicked up hay seeds and shreds of straw. The floor boards on which Kevin sat bounced in rhythm to Eben’s gum-rubbered feet.
    â€œYa-ha-ha-ha-whooo!”
    Eben’s eyes were shut, his mouth open, his nostrils flaring like a stallion’s. The frenzy of his dance rather frightened Kevin. It did not seem to be a dance at all. Kevin had endured nightmares in which he ran desperately without gaining an inch of ground. Eben’s dance reminded him of such unpleasant dreams.
    â€œYa-ha-ha-ha-whoooo!”
    Exhausted, Eben sank down on a block of straw. The mug was passed from hand to hand again.
    â€œWho’s man enough to wrist-wrestle with me?” Todd Anthony shouted.
    â€œI guess I’m yer man,” Angus Northrup said, rising.
    The pair knelt on either side of a block of straw, elbows pressed, right hands clasped, their arms forming an inverted V.
    Ignoring the contest, Judd broke into song again:
    As I was leaving old Ireland
    All in that month of June,
    The birds were singing merrily.
    All nature seemed in tune —
    â€œToo damn mournful!” Eben roared. “Sing somethin’ cheerful, Juddie! Fer cripes’ sake, sing somethin’ cheerful!”
    Judd quaffed beer, gasped and blinked.
    Rhythmically, he clapped his hands.
    Oh, saddle up my fastest horse,
    My grey is not so speedy —
    And I’ ll ride all night,
    And I’ ll ride all day —
    Till I overtake my lady,
    Till I overtake my ladeee!
    A stranger would not have believed that this ruddy, roaring singer was the taciturn, tight-lipped Judd O’Brien who worked at Hod Rankine’s saw mill. But Kevin had seen the transformation so many times that it no longer surprised him.
    Meanwhile, Todd Anthony was forcing down Angus Northrup’s arm. Sure of victory, the red-eyed man leered into the sawyer’s wet, contorted face. Angus grunted