A Different Trade

by J. R. Roberts

  “Are all these questions necessary just for me to see that bottle? If so, I think I’ll finish my beer in peace and allow my curiosity to fade on its own.”

  “No, I’m just curious as well,” Leo said as he placed the bottle on the bar. “A man in my line of work sometimes runs afoul of characters like Westin. I just thought it might help if I could learn whatever might—”

  Since Leo seemed serious about wanting to know and didn’t seem ready to stop talking anytime soon, Clint said, “Intimidation.”

  “You don’t think a pistol would have been enough?”

  “Obviously your man Westin wasn’t the sort to be swayed by threats or just another gun being waved at him. Damn near any man tends to think twice when he’s on the wrong end of a scattergun. At the very least, it makes him stop what he’s doing for a spell.”

  “And what if there had just been a club or something like that under here?”

  Clint answered that by patting the gun on his hip.

  “I see,” Leo said.

  “So,” Clint said, “does all of that grant me the answer to my original question or do I have to wait some more?”

  Leo flinched as if he’d forgotten completely about the bottle in front of him. “Oh, yes! This bottle contains one of my finest ideas in regard to my business to date.”

  “You own this place outright?”

  “The Dog? Naturally.”

  “And you expect a new brand of liquor to bring people in by the cartload?”

  “Not just a new brand,” Leo declared proudly. “It’s a rare delicacy imported from across the ocean!” Uncorking the bottle, he poured half a splash into a small glass and handed it to Clint. “When it becomes known that I’m serving this, I might as well print my own supply of money.”

  Clint took the glass, sniffed it, and wondered if Leo was crazy or if it would be even more insane to drink something that nearly singed the hairs in his nose after just one sniff.

  NINE

  Clint wasn’t the sort of man who drank himself into a stupor at every opportunity, but he was no stranger to the contents of most of the bottles he could see behind Leo’s bar. Since he’d already come this far, he decided to confirm his suspicion by accepting the drink he’d been given. Clint tossed it back, set the glass down, and waited for the fire to work itself all the way down to his belly.

  All the while, Leo watched as if he were witnessing a miracle. “Well?” he asked before he busted at the seams. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s vodka.”

  “That may be one word for it, but I assure you this is something altogether—”

  “No,” Clint cut in through a hacking cough. “It’s potent, I’ll grant you that much. But it’s vodka.”

  “And how would you know?”

  “Because I’ve had it before.”

  Leo picked up the bottle and scrutinized the label, which was written in another language beneath a black drawing of a wolf’s head. “This is just wonderful. Then again, the way things have been going, why should I have expected anything different?”

  “Did Gregor tell you he made this stuff?” Clint asked.

  “No.”

  “Did he say it could only be found in some far corner of the globe?”

  “No,” Leo sighed. “Just that it’s supposed to be rare.”

  “He wasn’t altogether wrong about that,” Clint said.

  “But you just said you’ve had it before.”

  “I have. That doesn’t mean I’ve been able to find it in every saloon I’ve ever visited.” He actually hadn’t looked for it at any other saloons, but Clint decided to keep that bit of information to himself.

  Judging by the glimmer in Leo’s eye, that was the right decision. “So it is rare?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Gregor also told me that it’s from one of the finest distilleries in Europe.”

  “Could be.” Clint lifted the glass to his nose and took a cautious sniff. “Mind if I have another sample?”

  Leo practically beamed with a smile as he poured the drink. Not only did he seem happy about doing so, but he gave Clint almost twice the amount he’d had before. He then watched as Clint brought the glass to his lips and took a slower taste. While Clint sampled the liquor, Leo drummed his fingers like an expectant father waiting to find out if he was going to have a new son or daughter. When he couldn’t stand any more, he asked, “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think it’s very good,” Clint replied in a voice that he strained to push out. Even before he’d finished that sentence, he could feel the effect the liquor was having on him. “What . . .” He had to stop to cough a few times into his hand. “What makes you think this will be such a moneymaker?”

  “Because it’s different!” Leaning with his elbow on the bar, Leo said, “Running a saloon is a difficult trade. The ones that survive are the ones that have something good to offer. Something folks can’t get anywhere else.”

  “Like vodka?”

  “For a start.”

  “Then won’t you need more than three bottles?”

  “Eventually. What’s important at the start is for me to have something that no other saloon in this town has. Fact is, no other saloon in any town throughout this county serves this fine vintage.”

  “I thought vintages were just for wine,” Clint said.

  Leo dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ve been working on an advertisement that will let everyone know how rare and exotic this fine drink is and they’ll have to come here to get it. Even if someplace like the Tiger’s Paw or Mackie’s gets their hands on a few bottles, they won’t be able to get anything of this quality!”

  “Before you put something in print, are you certain this is as rare as you think?”

  “Of course. I visited dozens of saloons throughout New Mexico and only found one place that served anything like this. Well . . . maybe two. Anyway, what they served was absolute swill compared to this.”

  Clint looked at the glass and then the bottle without figuring out how either that liquor or the man serving it could accomplish such feats. Since that wasn’t his concern, he shrugged his shoulders and turned to get a look at the stage. “Tell me about Madeline,” he said.

  “Ah, yes. She’s another one of my exclusive attractions.”

  “I can imagine.”

  When Leo laughed, it was a grating combination of a grunt and a cough. To make it even worse, he added a nudge from his elbow. “Not that sort of attraction, although I imagine she is quite extraordinary in that regard.” He could only maintain his leering grin for a few seconds before adding, “She’s just here to sing. She truly is a delightful girl.”

  One thing that did separate Leo’s place from so many others was the bit of genuine affection its owner showed to a pretty girl who worked there. That kind of change did Clint some good to see.

  “She used to sing in some of the largest halls in New York City, you know,” Leo said.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. That’s what she told me.”

  “And how’d you get her out here?” Clint asked.

  “I paid her way and matched the pay she was getting back East.” Leo dropped his voice to a whisper and nudged Clint some more. “I actually did some dealing to lower her price.”

  “Was she worth it?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Once again, when Clint was expecting something slimy from the barkeep, he was pleasantly surprised. Instead of being offered to spend any private time with her, he was directed to the stage, where Madeline was about to sing. After pointing in that direction, Leo settled in by leaning against the bar like he was just another customer getting ready to enjoy the show.

  “You seem like a nice enough fellow, Leo,” Clint said.r />
  “I appreciate that.”

  “A little misguided, but your heart’s in the right place.”

  Leo smiled in preparation to graciously receive that before Clint’s words truly sank in. “Wait a second. Misguided?”

  “Seems that way, yeah. And I’m doing you the favor of telling you straight out.”

  “Umm . . . thanks.”

  “You’re looking to improve your saloon? It’ll take more than a few bottles of expensive liquor.”

  “I know,” Leo replied. “I’ve got other plans, too, you know.”

  “Do any of those plans include a new name for the place?”

  “No. Why? You don’t like the Dog?”

  “The Dog would be an improvement,” Clint said. “What the hell is the Dig Dog supposed to be?”

  “It used to be the Digging Dog, but the fellow who painted the sign on the front window got sick and never came back.”

  Clint looked at him without blinking for a few seconds. Onstage, Madeline launched into a bouncy tune that got about four of the customers to look up from what they were doing. Suddenly, he wondered why he’d even started the conversation in the first place.

  “The name’s fine,” Clint said. “Whatever trips your trigger.”

  “What should I change it to?”

  “Come to think of it, you’ve got bigger problems than that.”

  When he heard that, Leo seemed even more upset than when he’d been pulled off his feet and dragged over the bar by the front of his shirt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What was that Westin fella after?”

  Although he was still upset, Leo closed up tighter than a frozen clam. “Never you mind about that.”

  “Come on now,” Clint prodded. “After I put my neck on the line, I don’t even get to know what it was all about?”

  “No.”

  “Come on.”

  “What do you care?” Leo snapped.

  Clint leaned back against the bar with his beer and listened to Madeline sing. He couldn’t decide whether staying in Larga Noche would be a colossal waste of time or one hell of a business opportunity. After thinking back to the talk he’d just had with Leo, his decision was that much easier to make. Come morning, he would toss a saddle onto Eclipse’s back and get the hell out of there. For now, he had a beer to finish.

  TEN

  By the time Clint managed to stagger out of the Dig Dog Saloon and navigate the nonsensical streets of Larga Noche, he wanted to get out of town even more. Unfortunately, he’d gotten involved in a card game that had lasted well into the night. That, combined with the other drinks he’d had along the way, made it a bad idea to do any riding just yet. Taking the small bit of money he’d won at poker, Clint found a small hotel at the southern end of Linden Street.

  “What time is it?” he asked the desk clerk while signing the hotel’s register.

  “Ten thirty.”

  “Is that all? Are you sure?”

  The clerk was a tall fellow with a thick head of gray hair. He nodded and chewed on the stub of a cigar that hung from one corner of his mouth like a root. “I am, Mr. Abrams. Got me a new watch and everything.”

  “Adams. The name’s Adams.”

  “Looks like Abrams on the register there.”

  “It isn’t.”

  The clerk examined Clint’s signature and gave up the meaningless argument with a shrug. He reached out with the key in his hand, but rather than waiting for Clint to take it, he dropped it onto the desk.

  Standing there with his hand outstretched, Clint grumbled, “I hate this damn town.”

  “What was that?” the clerk mumbled.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh. Good night, then.”

  Clint’s room was at the top of a small flight of stairs. He unlocked the door, tossed his saddlebags into a corner, and sat down on the bed. Leo’s expensive liquor was still causing parts of Clint’s brain to throb, and when he closed his eyes, the sensation turned into a pleasant, gentle spinning. Naturally, as soon as he started to truly relax, someone knocked on the door.

  For a few seconds, Clint lay on top of his blankets, still wearing his boots, and tried to convince himself he hadn’t heard a thing.

  The knock came again.

  “Didn’t hear it,” Clint sighed.

  When it came again, Clint jumped out of bed and marched all three steps required to get to the door. He pulled it open, ready to demand an explanation from whoever was on the other side, when he was cut off by a sharp punch to the mouth.

  “That’s for you stickin’ yer nose where it didn’t belong back at that saloon,” Westin said while shoving Clint backward.

  Every one of Clint’s senses was overpowered by the surprise blow to his face. He wasn’t completely overwhelmed, but the effect lasted just long enough for Westin and two other men to step into his room and shut the door behind them.

  Although neither of the other two men was as large as Westin, they came awfully close. The closest one to him in height had a thick stump of a neck connected to a fleshy bald head. The other had a long, narrow face with sunken features partially obscured by stubble. He wore his pistol in a cross-draw holster located on the same side of his body as the pinned-up sleeve where his right arm should have been.

  Clint eased his hand down to his side just to make sure the Colt was there. It wasn’t. Only when he felt the jolt of his blood pumping a little faster through him did he remember unbuckling the gun belt and dropping it on top of his saddlebags before stretching out on the bed. While that meant the Colt was out of the intruders’ sight, it also meant it was out of his reach for the moment.

  This had to be the first time in quite a while that he’d answered the door of his hotel room without a gun in his hand. He vowed that would never happen again. Forgetting who he was—that he was the Gunsmith—could well end up getting him killed one day.

  “Who the hell are you?” Clint asked. “And what the hell do you want?”

  “I’m Westin Voss. We already met. That there is Kurt,” he said while pointing to the bald man, “and that’s Samuel,” he said as he nodded at the one-armed man. “No need for you to introduce yourself. I already know you’re Clint Adams.”

  “So you can read a hotel register,” Clint said. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Then again, by the looks of you three, I suppose I am impressed that even one of you can read.”

  Kurt stepped forward with a surprising amount of speed for a man of his size. His right fist caught Clint in the stomach with a low uppercut. Even though Clint reflexively tensed to absorb the blow, he could still feel the impact roll through his body. Kurt’s cruel smile made it clear that he knew the effects of the blow well enough.

  Focusing all of the rage that boiled up from his aching torso, Clint glared first at Kurt and then at Westin. “You were awfully quick to answer the first question. What about the second?”

  Westin’s eyes narrowed as he took a moment to study Clint’s face. When he was through, he stalked forward and grabbed Clint’s collar. Clint’s response was to take a swing at him, but the effort was stopped by a chopping punch to his ribs just beneath his arm. Kurt’s fist landed in a spot that put a haze behind Clint’s eyes and robbed him of the strength to finish the punch he’d started.

  All this time, Westin stood still without the first hint of fear that he might get hit somewhere along the way. “You’re a friend of that barkeep,” he said. “You know goddamn well why I was there.”

  “I only just met Leo,” Clint said.

  “Then how do you know his name?” Kurt asked.

  “Do you know Abraham Lincoln’s name?”

  Kurt recoiled, scowled, and then replied, “Yeah. Who doesn’t?”

  “Then he must be a friend of yours, right?” Even though he figured a snide grin would buy him anoth
er punch from the bald man, Clint simply couldn’t resist. He was correct in that assumption, but at least Kurt’s next blow landed just a bit lower than the first.

  Clint went limp and hacked up a rough breath. He could take that punch and plenty more, but his best bet was to let the other men think they were knocking him around harder than they were so they’d relax their guard a bit.

  “Talk some sense into that barkeep friend of yours,” Westin said. “If he ain’t a friend, then try to talk some sense into him anyway.”

  “It might help if I knew what you were talking about.”

  “The whore he’s got working for him.”

  “Leo has whores working at the Dog?”

  “It’s a saloon, ain’t it?” Westin spat. “Every saloon’s got whores working in ’em.”

  “What’s this one’s name?”

  Perhaps on his own accord or perhaps due to an unseen signal from Westin, Kurt slammed his fist into Clint’s stomach. Since he hadn’t seen that one coming, Clint wasn’t able to tense. He let out a grunt that brought up some of his last meal along with it. When Westin and Kurt started to laugh while looking down at the mess on the floor, Clint pulled away from them with all the strength he could dredge up.

  Clint’s shirt tore away, leaving Westin with a tattered portion of collar in his hand. Knowing how quickly Kurt could move, Clint made him his next priority by delivering a powerful right cross to the bald man’s chin. That sent Kurt staggering backward and gave Clint a small window of opportunity to move around his bed and pick up the Colt. The gun belt was in his sight less than an inch away from his extended fingers when Clint heard the distinctive sounds of a pistol clearing leather and a hammer being thumbed back.

  Glancing toward the door, Clint saw that Samuel was the one who’d gotten to his pistol and was aiming it directly at him. He may have had only one arm, but it was a mighty capable one.

  “I see you still got some fight in ya,” Westin said as he walked over and shoved Clint aside. “That won’t last much longer.”

  ELEVEN