The Blacksmith

by Bryan A. Salisbury

  “You’re sitting at my table,” said the leader.

  “Sorry, sir, but this where the lady told us to sit,” he replied not sure of what the problem was.

  “Well, corset seller, this is my favorite table and I want you and your friends to leave.” He sneered. The two behind him were doing their best to look menacing.

  “See here, now,” said the drummer impatiently. “We haven’t finished our dinner.”

  The leader grabbed him by the back of his coat and stood him up growling in his ear. “You finished now?” The café got deadly quiet.

  “Unhand me, sir,” squeaked the drummer. Just then the lady came out of the kitchen holding a large coffee pot. She set the pot down hard on the counter and marched over to table. “Tom MacIntyre, what are you doing?” she yelled. “You will not come in here and treat my customers this way!”

  “Aw, Chrissy, they were just leaving,” the leader said with a big cocky grin, dropping the rumpled drummer back in his chair. “Weren’t you, boys?”

  A little shaken the salesman said, “I, I, suppose we were.”

  Chrissy never took her eyes off Tom and stated flatly, “Nonsense, sir, you haven’t had dessert, and today, because of this misunderstanding, it will be on the house.” Tom MacIntyre stared right back at Chrissy, his jaw set hard. “Wasn’t that hungry anyway,” he stated with a menacing tone. “But my father wouldn’t like me to starve.”

  “Then perhaps he should teach you some manners, and that would be less of a problem,” Chrissy said in a hard tone.

  “Let’s go over to the saloon, boys. The ladies are a lot more hospitable over there.” Smiling, he tipped his hat toward Chrissy and strolled back out the door.

  Slowly the people began to talk among themselves and started eating again. Blake settled back down in his chair. He was starting to get up when the trouble began, but stopped when Chrissy seemed to take charge. He wanted to see how things played out.

  “Was you figurin’ on takin’ a hand in that?” Avery asked a little nervous.

  “Never know,” Blake said quietly. “Just don’t like it when people are getting pushed around.”

  Chrissy went over and got the coffee pot and started to top off the customers’ cups. She called toward the kitchen, “Bonnie, three more cups please.” A young girl appeared in the doorway with the cups and Chrissy pointed at Blake’s table. “Over there.” She was about sixteen years old, slim and with long brown hair that hung down hiding most of her face. She moved quickly and quietly to their table, set the cups down, and returned to the kitchen without saying a word to anybody. She was obviously uncomfortable and did not want to attract any attention to herself. As Chrissy made her way to the table Blake said to her, “Those fellas give you much trouble?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” she said sharply. “Best you mind your own business.”

  “I mostly do,” Blake said calmly. “Sometimes it is easier than others.” Chrissy cocked one eyebrow up and looked like she was going to say something more but turned and went back to the kitchen. A minute later she returned with three plates heaped with food, one in each hand and the other balanced expertly on one arm. When she placed the food in front of them they wasted no time and started to dig in. The food was wonderful. The chicken practically fell off the bone and the dumplings were light and airy.

  Blake watched Hap and Avery eat. It reminded him of wolves attacking a buffalo carcass. He liked to watch men eat when they were hungry, but liked it better when they were starved. “Been awhile?” asked Blake.

  “I reckon so,” Hap answered around a mouthful of dumpling.

  They both finished their meals before Blake was halfway through his. Avery dropped his fork on his plate and belched loudly. “Manners, boys,” Blake said firmly. “You’re not out on the trail.”

  “Them was some right fine vittles, for sure,” Avery said not the slightest bit embarrassed. When Blake finished his, Chrissy came over and started cleaning plates off the table. “Would you like some pie? We have apple today.” Hap And Avery both nodded eagerly looking like two kids at Christmas and Blake said, “Yes ma’am, if you have enough to spare we will take a whole one. These boys seem like they could finish it off.”

  She went to the kitchen and returned with a whole pie, three plates and wedge of cheese. Blake cut a generous portion for himself, and then he slid it across the table. Hap cut the remainder in half and slid on to his plate while Avery just ate right out of the pan. When they were finished with that, Blake divided up the cheese and they devoured that, too.

  As Hap and Avery sat back rubbing their stomachs with contented smiles on their faces, Chrissy saw they were done and was clearing the plates and asked, “Was everything all right?”

  “The only thing sweeter than that pie would be a little kiss from you,” said Avery with a silly grin on his face. Chrissy’s eyes flashed and she drew in air to unleash her wrath. Hap slapped Avery on the back of his head.

  “Ow! What was that fer?” he said loudly. “I didn’ mean nuttin.’” Hap shot him a very firm look and then looked at Chrissy and then back to him. Avery looked down at table and said quietly, “Sorry, ma’am, I won’t do that again.” Blake leaned back and smiled. Chrissy, not knowing what do, said, “Well…I, I…guess,” though still beside herself she continued. “That will be two dollars.

  Blake stood and took four silver dollars out his pocket and handed them to her. “Two for the lunch, two for my companion’s rudeness.” He placed his Stetson on his head and gave Hap and Avery theirs. Touching the brim of his hat he said, “Ma’am,” and started walking for the door. Hap and Avery both touched the brims of their hats and followed close behind. Chrissy stood there watching Blake until he was gone. She cocked her eyebrow once more, dropped the money in her apron and went about her business.

  ******

  They stepped onto the boardwalk and felt the air. It was cooler now and the shadows were getting longer. Blake checked his pocket watch. It was about four o’clock. He wondered if the barber would still be open so he could get cleaned up himself. Avery said, “A little snort sure would be tasten’ good about now.”

  “I will give you fifty cents each, to go over to the saloon. You can’t get into too much trouble with that. You boys are set up to sleep in the loft of the livery tonight. Mr. Bergman said he would lend you some blankets and such. I’m going to go and get cleaned up and turn in myself. Meet me here at dawn for some breakfast because you’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”

  “Livery!” Avery griped. “Where you fixin’ to bed down?”

  “In the hotel,” Blake said.

  “Why can’t we stay there?” Avery whined.

  “Because you have no money, and I don’t imagine you even have a blanket to sleep under. If that doesn’t meet your needs, I hear the jail cots are real comfortable.” Blake had a cold look on his face that said the conversation was over.

  “A beer and soft hay to sleep on sounds right good to me. Thank you, Mr. Thorton,” Hap spoke up. He looked like he was going to cuff Avery again. Blake looked at Avery and said, “Well?”

  “Bettern’ jail, I figure,” Avery grumbled.

  Blake handed Hap a dollar. “See you in the morning then.” Blake turned down the street and headed for the barbershop. He could hear Avery trying to get the dollar from Hap and Hap not relenting. They bickered until they were out of earshot. “Hope this works,” Blake said to himself. He figured he had about a fifty/fifty chance. Blake entered the barbershop just as Brady was finishing with a customer. “Got time for one more?” he asked. The barber smiled. “Yes sir, Mr. Thorton. The wife doesn’t serve dinner till six o’clock.”

  “Bath, too?”

  “No problem, I still have some water on the stove. You head in and I will be right with you.”

  Blake wished he had gotten some clean clothes from his saddlebags but he could change when he got to the hotel. The bath felt great, Blake always enjoyed b
eing clean. It was something his mother had insisted on in his younger days. When he was done he got dressed and went out and sat in the chair. Bill went to work trimming his hair. “Those two you brought in here earlier,” Bill asked. “What was that all about?”

  “Had a little trouble with them on the road into town today. I guess I figured they were lost souls who needed a hand up. I think a man acts more respectable if he looks more respectable.”

  Bill leaned the chair back and placed a warm towel on Blake’s face to soften his beard while he started working up the lather in his shaving mug. He removed the towel and lathered up Blake’s chin. As he started to shave him he said, “I hear what you’re saying about looking respectable, but I know a few neat, clean men who haven’t got a respectable bone in their body.”

  “As do I, Mr. Brady. Just thought I’d give it a shot.”

  “That’s very Christian of you. I wish you luck.” Bill was finished and removed the sheet from Blake. Blake stood up and Bill brushed off the remaining clippings.

  “What do I owe you?” Blake asked reaching in his pocket.

  Bill held his hand up and said, “For what you paid me this morning, and what you’re doing for those two fellas, we’re square.”

  “Appreciate it.” Blake shook his hand and left the shop. He walked over to the livery and picked his saddlebags and rifle. After he checked on Bull, he made his way to the hotel. It wasn’t real fancy but it was clean. Strolling up to the desk he saw the clerk, a small skinny man with a face that reminded Blake of a weasel. The man seemed irritated that Blake had interrupted the life-and-death task that he was working on. “Yes, sir,” the weasel said in a huffy voice.

  Blake could abide some rudeness in people but this man jangled his nerves. He threw his dirty saddlebags on the counter creating a dust cloud, causing the little man to cough. “Got any rooms?” Blake said shortly.

  “A hotel full of them,” the man replied, obviously bothered.

  “I will be needing one for the night, facing the street. How much?” Blake leaned in close to the little man.

  “Five dollars a night, sir,” he answered not giving Blake an inch.

  “A little steep, isn’t it? Is it clean?” Blake was toying with him now.

  “I assure you, sir, all our rooms are extremely clean,” then looking at Blake and his saddlebags. They should exceed your expectations.”

  “I hope so, I have very high standards.”

  “Room 208 then. Please sign the register.” He spun the book around for Blake to sign. Blake signed with an illegible scrawl and set twenty dollars on the counter.

  “I’ll get your change, sir,” the clerk replied.

  “Keep it,” Blake said with a slight growl in his voice. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation so much I may stay a bit longer.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The clerk replied in a snippy tone and handed Blake the key. Blake took the key firmly and grabbed his saddlebags off the counter. He picked up his rifle and headed for the staircase.

  “If you wish to dine in our dining room,” the weasel called, “we insist on clean attire.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” Blake said flatly without turning around. He found the room with no trouble and went in. “Damn,” Blake thought, “it is nice.” It was spacious and neat. It had a large bed with a comfortable quilt and a dresser with a porcelain wash basin. Two clean white towels sat next to the basin and several framed pictures hung on the walls. Blake opened the windows to allow fresh air in and took off his dirty clothes. Lying down on the bed he took a nap. It had been a long day. A couple hours later, he woke. It was dark now and lights from the street filled his room with a warm glow. Blake lit the small lamp next to the bed and dug his pocket watch out of his vest. Nine o’clock. He felt a little restless, like a shot of whiskey or maybe brandy might be just the thing to settle him down. Finding his clean clothes in his saddlebags, he put them on, strapped on his gun belt and headed downstairs. The weasel was still behind the counter and said in a snotty tone, “Is your room satisfactory?”

  “Tolerable,” Blake said flatly and kept walking out the front door.

  ******

  Blake strolled down the boardwalk toward The Trail’s End saloon. He stopped at the batwing door and took a look around. Some places this far west could be pretty rough, a place for thugs and cutthroats, while others could be quite posh. Blake tried to avoid dives because he rarely was hunting trouble and the really nice places he just couldn’t settle into. As luck would have it, this was a nicer place with a mahogany bar and a shiny brass foot rail. A large mirror hung in back of the bar. It had a clean looking bartender wiping down some beer mugs. About a half dozen men were leaning against the bar talking and laughing, some were occupied with a few of the girls in bright dresses showing as much of their fair skinned bodies as they could. There was a small man playing the piano on the far wall. He wasn’t very good. An enormous man sat at the end of the bar in a high chair. He was very tough looking with a permanent scowl on his face. He wore a heavy beard with long hair, Blake guessed he was about six foot eight or nine and weighed about three hundred fifty pounds. He was definitely a bruiser.

  The place had six tables and half of them were occupied; most all of them had a card game going. Blake was a fair hand at cards, but shied away if the game took a serious turn. Low stakes and just for fun, that’s what he liked. He made his way in and settled at the end of the bar. As he looked around at the tables, he noticed Tom MacIntyre and the two men from the café earlier. Tom had his hat pushed back and was studying his cards. One of the other men took notice of Blake and tapped Tom’s sleeve, nodding in Blake’s direction. Tom glanced up quickly and looked back at the other man shrugging his shoulders.

  “What’ll it be, mister?” the bartender asked in a friendly voice.

  “Shot of your best whiskey and beer,” Blake replied.

  “The good stuff is a dollar a shot, if that’s alright, sir.”

  “That’s fine,” Blake said, and threw a five on the bar. The bartender smiled and reached under the bar and pulled an ornate bottle and poured the shot. Blake took a sip and marveled at the smooth taste and character of the whiskey. He had had the rotgut that most cowmen drink and decided if he couldn’t afford the good stuff then he would have none at all. Savoring the warmth of the whiskey, his eyes scanned the bar until they met the eyes of a very well dressed man looking back at him. The man smiled, picked up his drink and sauntered over to Blake. He wore immaculate clothes, black pants and coat with a starched white shirt and a string tie. His boots were highly polished and a flat crowned Stetson sat on his head at a slight angle. He was a handsome man, the type women swoon over. Blake did not see a gun but would bet he had one hidden somewhere.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said in a smooth voice. “New in town?”

  “Just got in today,” Blake said politely.

  “I noticed you ordered the better whiskey. You are a man with tastes for the finer things. My name is Daniel LaClare, Dan to my friends,” he held out his hand for Blake to shake it.

  Blake shook it and smiled, the man had hands as smooth as his demeanor, friendly tone and a disarming smile. A gambler Blake guessed. “Pleased to meet you. Blake Thorton.”

  “Perhaps you would care to indulge in a friendly game of cards?” Dan asked, smiling. He had the look of the cat about ready to pounce on a mouse.

  “Maybe later. I think I will just enjoy my drink and relax for a while.”

  “Alas, I don’t think I will tarry much longer, it seems difficult to get a table together and I grow weary,” Dan said in a disappointed voice. Then he took a cheroot from his breast pocket and lit it.

  “Yup, but the night is young and if you let me have one of your cigars, we can enjoy a drink together.”

  Dan smiled and reached in his pocket and gave Blake a cigar. Blake lit and inhaled deeply. He really enjoyed a good smoke with whiskey. “Two more, please,” he called to the ba
rtender

  “Right away, sir,” the bartender called back. After the bartender left the drinks, Dan picked his up and took a sip. “Nectar of the Gods, thank you. Now what would you like to talk about?”

  “How long you been in town, Dan?” Blake asked casually.

  “Oh, about a month, but I am considering moving on. There is not much excitement in this town, with little hope of replenishing my purse.”

  “What do you know about Tom MacIntyre?” Blake asked in a low voice.

  “He would be the reason to move on. Bad sort, Blake, bad sort. He likes to play cards but does not care to lose. If he has a failing night at cards he will take a nasty turn and accuse everyone at the table of cheating. Mind you, sir, I do not cheat. My profession is gambling. I do not have to cheat.” Dan told him in an equally low voice. “A few nights ago, Lady Luck was smiling upon me. I was forced to leave the table with just a few dollars because Mr. MacIntyre accused me of impropriety. I have not been able to get a decent table together since.”

  “That’s too bad,” Blake said. “Sometimes you win and sometimes you don’t. What does the sheriff think about what he did?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub, my friend, Tom’s father owns the biggest ranch in the territory and has amassed a great amount of wealth. In a small town such as this it would be unwise to … piss him off.” Dan smiled. Blake got his full meaning.

  “Living on Daddy’s coat tails and is a spoiled piss-ant,” Blake said flatly.

  “I believe you have the gist of it, sir, but make no mistake, he’s a dangerous piss-ant,” Dan warned.