Drinks were not to be purchased.

Every saloon ran open, with extra relays of exhausted bartenders, and the drinks were given away.

A man who refused this hospitality, and persisted in paying, found a dozen fights on his hands.

The veriest chechaquos rose up to defend the name of Daylight from such insult.

And through it all, on moccasined feet, moved Daylight, hell-roaring Burning Daylight, over-spilling with good nature and camaraderie, howling his he-wolf howl and claiming the night as his, bending men's arms down on the bars, performing feats of strength, his bronzed face flushed with drink, his black eyes flashing, clad in overalls and blanket coat, his ear-flaps dangling and his gauntleted mittens swinging from the cord across the shoulders.