By: Travis Naughton
When the captain of the flatboat handed Blackjack a stoneware jug and ordered his passenger to join him in a drink, Blackjack politely refused, telling the skipper that he didn’t drink alcohol. It soon became clear, however, that the captain was not a man who took “no thank you” for an answer.
“Are you a swimmer, Mr. Blackjack?” the captain asked as he glanced at the inky black water that was the Arkansas River at night.
“I’m afraid I swim like a stone, Captain,” Blackjack confessed.
“Then I suggest you take a drink.”
Blackjack hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in two weeks, not since he’d sworn to stay sober long enough to avenge the murders of his wife and daughter.
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