town"--both name having
reference to the fact, that some queer little shanties around are
inhabited by pure-blooded Indians and half-breeds, with poor whites of
Spanish extraction--these last the degenerate descendants of heroic
soldiers who originally established the settlement.

The tavern itself, bearing an old weather-washed swing-sign, on which is
depicted an Indian in full war-paint, is known as the "Choctaw Chief,"
and is kept by a man supposed to be a Mexican, but who may be anything
else; having for his bar-keeper the afore-mentioned "Johnny," a
personage supposed to be an Irishman, though of like dubious nationality
as his employer.

The Choctaw Chief takes in travellers; giving them bed, board, and
lodging, without asking them any questions, beyond a demand of payment
before they have either eaten or slept under its roof. It usually has a
goodly number, and of a peculiar kind--strange both in aspect and
manners--no one knowing whence they come, or whither bent when taking
their departure.

As the house stands out of the ordinary path of town promenaders, in an
outskirt scarce ever visited by respectable people, no one cares to
inquire into the character of its guests, or aught else relating to it.
To those who chance to stray in its direction, it is known as a sort of
cheap hostelry, that gives shelter to all sorts of odd customers--
hunters, trappers, small Indian traders, returned from an expedition on
the prairies; along with these, such travellers as are without the means
to stop at the more pretentious inns of the village; or, having the
means, prefer, for reasons of their own, to put up at the Choctaw Chief.

Such is the reputation of the hostelry, before whose drinking bar stands
Phil Quantrell--so calling himself--with the men to whose boon
companionship he has been so unceremoniously introduced; as declared by
his introducer, according to the custom of the establishment.

The first drinks swallowed, Quantrell calls for another round; and then
a third is ordered, by some one else, who pays, or promises to pay for
it.

A fourth "smile" is insisted upon by another some one who announces
himself ready to stand treat; all the liquor, up to this time consumed,
being either cheap brandy or "rot-gut" whisky.

Quantrell, now pleasantly convivial, and acting under the generous
impulse the drink has produced, sings out "Champagne!" a wine which the
poorest tavern in the Southern States, even the Chocta