by Mark Anthony
Whenever Manypenny, in his booming voice, introduced his new bartender to one of these regulars, the customer always bought Travis a drink. In fact, as far as Travis could tell, making the bartender drink seemed to be a popular pastime in the Old West, and almost any occasion called for it.
When a man wandered into the saloon, fresh from the East, full of dreams of striking it rich and still flush with cash, he always insisted on buying Travis a drink. Travis hated to accept the gesture, knowing that a few weeks later, when his claim went bust, the same man would come in again, clothes dirty and torn, and pockets empty. At that point it would be Travis’s turn to buy the other a drink while the fellow tried to figure out a way to earn enough for a train ticket home.
Then there was the occasional prospector who managed to find a small pocket of high-grade ore, and who—after paying a visit to the assay office—would swagger in and buy whiskey for the entire saloon. Of course, after a few days of drinking and gambling, his newfound fortune would be gone. Head aching, the miner would return to his claim to start all over.
Even a fair number of the miners—laborers who made three dollars a day—would buy Travis a shot of whiskey along with one for themselves. One look at their haunted and lonely faces, and Travis couldn’t turn them down. For all this town’s bustle and crowded streets, he had a feeling sharing a drink with a bartender whose name they didn’t even know was the closest some of these men came to having a friend. Sometimes Travis would ask the man his name—but only his first, not his last.
“Never ask for anything more than a man’s front name,” Manypenny admonished him. “As far as I’m concerned, a man who enters here leaves his past at the door.”
Travis clenched his right hand into a fist. If only that were true. However, while he could never forget the past, he also knew that it lay behind him—a shadow that followed in his wake, and nothing more. That was what he had learned in the Etherion, when he faced the demon; that was what the ghost of Alice, his little sister, had shown him. So he would raise his glass to the fellow who had bought him the drink, and they’d down their whiskey in silence.
Of course, if Travis were actually to consume all of the drinks that were bought for him, he’d have been lying under the bar by sundown most days. Instead, after filling the customer’s glass with the good stuff, he’d pour a shot into his own glass from a bottle he kept behind the bar, which was more water than whiskey— a survival trick practiced by bartenders in any century.
Once the sun slipped behind the mountains, the character of the saloon changed. The somber drinkers who inhabited the bar by day were replaced by a noisier, harder-drinking, and decidedly rowdier crowd. Cigar smoke and laughter filled the air, along with tinny music once the piano player arrived to plink out “My Darling Clementine” and “Sweet Betsy from Pike” on an upright piano so battered it looked like it had been dragged across the Great Plains behind a covered wagon.
It was also after dark that the gambling tables came alive. Each of the tables was rented to a gambler who ran his own game, and who paid Manypenny a share of the table’s take. There were plenty of choices for losing one’s money, including poker, paigow, and three-card monte. However, by far the most popular game was one called faro.
As far as Travis could tell, there wasn’t much to faro. The thirteen card ranks—from ace to king—were painted on the surface of the table. Players placed bets on the various ranks to win or to lose. Then the dealer turned up two cards. The first card was the loser, and the second card was the winner. So if a player bet sevens to lose, and a seven was the first card drawn, the bet paid off. Or, if he bet jacks to win, and a jack was the first card, the dealer took his bet.
After watching a few games, even Travis was smart enough to realize that the odds of winning in faro were pretty much dead even. That was clearly why it was a popular game. The only thing that gave the house a slight edge was the fact that the dealer discarded the first and last cards in the deck—they were neither winners nor losers. That meant, over time, the dealer kept just a thin fraction of all the bets placed. Then again, given the vast amount of money that moved across the faro table, even a few percentage points wasn’t a shabby sum, and no doubt accounted for the dealer’s silk vest and diamond stud cuff links.
While the atmosphere in the Mine Shaft at night was a bit on the wild side, it was usually good-natured. Men drank, laughed, gambled, and made conversation with the rare woman who entered the saloon—ladies who, while not hurdy-gurdy girls, were certainly not a big step above on Castle City’s social ladder. And while many of the town’s prominent men could be found at the saloon, their wives were nowhere in sight.
Most men could hold their liquor, and they took their losses at the gambling tables with no more than a sheepish grin. But there were the exceptions. One of the first things Manypenny made a point of showing Travis was the shotgun that hung from a pair of hooks beneath the bar. And, almost every night, at some point the big saloonkeeper brought out the shotgun and cocked it, aiming it square at whatever rowdy had had too much to drink, or had lost too much at poker, or had been jilted by his best girl, and who was determined to fight someone— anyone—over it.
Usually the other was not so drunk or angry he didn’t think twice at having a shotgun barrel pointed at his chest, and upon quickly sobering up he hurried out the door. However, one night a young man in grimy clothes shouted that Manypenny was watering down the liquor—an accusation clearly disproved by the man’s evident inebriation. The other seemed not to feel the barrel of the shotgun jammed into his stomach as he swung his arms wildly, reaching for Manypenny, who clenched his jaw and slowly squeezed the trigger. Then a pair of men who seemed to be the angry one’s friends pulled him off and dragged him out into the street.
Laughter and the sound of music quickly rose on the air again, and Travis suspected he was the only one who saw Manypenny slump against the bar, still holding the shotgun in pudgy hands. The big man’s face was red, and sweat stained his shirt in dark patches.
“You wouldn’t have pulled the trigger, would you, Mr. Manypenny?” Travis said quietly. “No matter what he did, you wouldn’t have shot him.”
The saloonkeeper drew in a rasping breath. “Put this away for me, Mr. Wilder.” He handed Travis the shotgun. “In the name of God, please put it away.”
Travis took the shotgun and placed it on its hooks under the bar, and all the while he wondered—if this was one of the more respectable establishments in town, as Maudie had said—what were the other saloons in Castle City like?
Fortunately, incidents of violence in the Mine Shaft were rarer than Travis might have feared. In fact, for all their drinking, for all their gambling and boisterousness, there was something oddly subdued about the men and women in the saloon. Travis couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Sometimes he’d see a man stop short in his laughter and look suddenly over his shoulder, or perhaps he’d quickly hush another man who was talking in a loud, slurred voice about something Travis couldn’t quite understand.
They lead hard lives, Travis. They’re probably tired all the time, that’s all.
Except he didn’t quite believe that was it.
All the same, in the constant hurry of his work at the saloon, it was easy to forget those peculiar moments. Just like it was easy to forget about Jack Graystone, and how they had to find a way back to Eldh and their own time. In fact, he might have forgotten about everything in his daily labors at the Mine Shaft.
Only then, as he hauled in a fresh cask of whiskey from the back, or swept up the sawdust from the floor, he’d look up and see the yellowed Wanted poster plastered to the wall, staring back at him with his own eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. TYLER CAINE, THE MAN-KILLER.
And Travis knew he would never forget who he was.
16.
It was about a week after Travis started working at the saloon that he looked up and saw two familiar figures step through the sw
inging doors and approach the bar.
“Lirith, Durge,” he said, surprised. He set down the deck of cards he had been fidgeting with in a slow moment, laying them on the bar. “What are you two doing here? Is something wrong? Is it—?”
“No, Travis, both Sareth and Maudie are fine,” Lirith said, her smoky red lips curving in a smile. “If that’s what you were going to ask.”
It was, as the witch no doubt knew perfectly well.
“I do not believe this was a wise idea, my lady,” Durge rumbled under his mustache.
The knight glanced from side to side, and Travis understood his concern. It was afternoon, and the saloon was less than half full. However, the low murmur of conversation had stilled for a moment as the knight and witch stepped through the door, and while the noise had returned, it was impossible not to notice the eyes that kept flickering in their direction.
“I think Durge may be right,” Travis said quietly as he polished the bar with a cloth. He remembered what had happened the last time all of them were out in public together—they were accused of being thieves and of nearly burning down the town. “If it isn’t an emergency, couldn’t it have waited until I got back to the Bluebell?”
Lirith sighed. “Lady Maudie is a dear, Travis. But I’m starting to feel a bit trapped at the Bluebell. And Durge is as well, though he won’t say it.”
Travis glanced at the stalwart knight. The Embarran only gazed at the floor, and Travis noted that he didn’t disagree with the witch’s words.
“We can’t stay hidden forever,” Lirith went on. “But that’s not the reason I wanted to come out today. It’s good you’ve been earning money here at this tavern, but your wage only covers what we must pay Lady Maudie for our keep. Yet, if we are to stay here for weeks to come, there are other things we’ll require. We each need a change of clothes and new shoes. And there are medicines I would purchase for Sareth to ease his breathing.” Lirith placed her hands on the bar, her dark eyes earnest. “Durge and I have decided we both must find—”
“Her kind ain’t welcome in here,” said a coarse voice.
The three looked up to see a man saunter toward the bar. His face was as battered and dusty as his clothes, and his eyes were dangerous slits. Travis remembered him; he and a companion had come in that morning, had bought a full bottle of whiskey, and had hunkered down at a table in a corner. Now Travis glanced at the corner. The man’s friend stood next to his chair. On the table nearby was an empty bottle.
The man stopped a few feet from Lirith and Durge, hands on his hips. He spat on the floor, and a dark line of tobacco juice dribbled down his chin. “Didn’t yeh hear me? I said, her kind ain’t welcome here.”
“On the contrary,” came a booming voice, “all kinds are welcome at the Mine Shaft Saloon.”
Manypenny stepped through the storeroom door and stood next to Travis, an affable expression on his red face. However, Travis saw the hard gleam in his eyes.
The man spat again. “I didn’t know this was no colored saloon. Next thing, you’ll be letting in Chinamen. But it ain’t no matter, if yeh do. She still don’t belong here. Women don’t know nothing about likker or cards.”
“Is that so?” Lirith said.
Before the others could react, Lirith reached out and swept up the deck of cards from the bar. She shuffled them crisply in midair, fanned them out, tamped them back together, then cut the deck using a single hand, deftly separating it into four parts, each one nestled between two of her dark fingers. Again with one hand she reconstituted the deck and fanned it a second time. She held the cards toward the man.
“Pick one,” she said. “And I’ll wager a gold coin I can tell you what card it is without looking at it.”
This elicited a hoot of laughter from Manypenny. However, Travis knew it had been a mistake. He had worked long enough in the Mine Shaft in two centuries to know the different types of drunks. Some people couldn’t stop laughing, others grew maudlin, and some just fell asleep. But for some men, alcohol—like Dr. Jekyll’s potion—was a key that opened the door to all their darkest, most dangerous impulses.
“Yeh don’t know yer place, miss,” the man said through tobacco-stained teeth. “Yeh shouldn’t be here. Yeh should be at the hurdy-gurdy, charging a feller two bits for a dance. And two dollars for anything else he wants to do with yeh.”
These were the first words the man spoke that really seemed to rattle Lirith. Her face went ashen, and the cards slipped from her hand, scattering across the floor. Grinning, the man reached out to touch the black curls of her hair.
There was a loud smack, and his hand flew back. Travis had hardly seen Durge move.
The man shook his hand, and his grin vanished. “You ought not have done that, mister.”
“And you ought to know,” Durge said, brown eyes stern, “how to properly address a noble lady and your better.”
By the time Travis realized what was going to happen, it was too late to do anything but watch. The man reached beneath his coat and drew out a silver six-shooter. He aimed it square at Durge’s chest.
Before the man could squeeze the trigger, Durge stepped past the man, braced a leg behind the other’s knee, and grabbed the wrist of his gun hand, bringing it up and over his head. The man’s knees buckled, and as Durge spun him around, his right arm struck the hard edge of the bar. There was a crack as the man’s arm broke. The gun flew behind the bar, right into Manypenny’s hands. The man sank to the floor, curling around his shattered arm and whimpering. Durge turned around.
There was a click as a gun was cocked.
The wounded man’s drinking partner stood an arm’s length away from Durge. He pressed the barrel of his revolver against the knight’s forehead.
“You just made a big mistake, mister,” the man said, baring a scant collection of teeth.
“Then perhaps two wrongs do make a right,” Durge said.
The knight didn’t smile, but there was a light in his brown eyes Travis could only describe as eager. He batted the man’s gun hand aside with a flick of his right hand, then lashed out with his left fist. The man’s head flew back, and his eyes rolled up. Without a sound, he toppled backward onto the floor, holding the gun in a limp hand.
Interested gazes lingered on the fallen men and Durge for a few moments, then the saloon’s remaining patrons returned their attention to their drinks. However, in response to a nod from Manypenny, one man dashed out the door.
“Are you well, my lady?” Durge said to Lirith.
She smiled and laid a hand on the knight’s arm. “Very well, my lord. Thank you. It’s not often a lady gets heads cracked in her honor. I’ll consider it a rare treat.”
Manypenny stepped from behind the bar and retrieved the second man’s gun. “That was excellent, sir,” he said to Durge with a broad grin. “An incomparable display of skill and prowess. I won many a wrestling match in my day, but even in my prime, I could not have neutralized two men with such Herculean ease. You dealt your blows as deftly as the lovely lady here deals cards.”
Manypenny kept the silver six-shooter he had caught aimed at the two men, but neither of them seemed intent on going anywhere, although the second one did wake up. A few minutes later, Sheriff Tanner stepped through the saloon’s swinging doors.
“Greeting, Bartholomew,” Manypenny said, as Tanner approached the bar.
“Hello, Arthur,” Tanner said. He tipped his hat. “And hello again, Miss Lily, Mr. Dirk, and Mr. Wilder. It does seem interesting things happen when you’re around.”
He must have talked to Maudie. That was the only way he could have known their names.
Travis attempted a grin. “I guess we’re just lucky.”
“With luck like that, I suggest you avoid the poker tables, Mr. Wilder.” The sheriff glanced at Manypenny. “Now tell me what happened here, Arthur.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tanner’s deputy—a slightly chubby young man by the name of Wilson—led the two men out the door of the saloon. Both seeme
d considerably less bold than they had before Durge had done his work with them.
“Each of them will need to see a healer,” Lirith said.
Tanner nodded. “You’re a good woman, Miss Lily, to think kindly of men who didn’t act so kindly toward you. But don’t worry—I’ll have the doctor look after them at the jail.”
The sheriff tipped his hat to them all again and started for the door. However, halfway there he stopped and turned.
“Mr. Dirk,” he said. “If you could see fit to come visit my office sometime, I’d appreciate it.”
Travis and Lirith both shot the knight concerned looks. Durge gave a stiff nod. “No doubt I broke the laws of this place with my actions. If you wish it, I will surrender myself to you immediately, Sir Tanner.”
Tanner grinned behind his sandy mustache. “I’m not going to arrest you, Mr. Dirk. On the contrary, while Deputy Wilson is a good kid, I could use a man like you. It doesn’t pay much for the trouble it’s worth, but if you come over and get deputized, I’ll give you a badge and a gun along with three dollars and fifty cents a day.”
There was a flash of sunlight, then Tanner was gone.
Travis could only gaze at Durge in astonishment. Tanner wanted to deputize him? However, as it turned out, the knight was not the only one who received a job offer that day.
“I have need of a new faro dealer,” Manypenny said to Lirith as Durge started to lead her to the door. “My last remaining faro dealer has vanished without warning. An old debt caught up with him, I presume. Do you know the game?”
Lirith gave Travis a questioning glance, and he returned what he hoped was a subtle nod. He had figured out the rules of the game quickly enough, and he had no doubt Lirith was smarter than him by a good measure.
“I do,” Lirith said.
“Good,” Manypenny proclaimed. “It’s most felicitous you came in to see Mr. Wilder today. You can rent the table in the corner there. The house keeps half the profits. Be here at sundown if you want the job. And Miss Lily, do find yourself a dress that flatters you a bit more.”
