A Different Trade

by J. R. Roberts

It was early afternoon the following day when Clint stepped through the Dig Dog’s batwing doors again. He was already starting to recognize the faces of some of the saloon’s regular customers scattered among spots at the card tables and bar. The few of them that looked back at him did so with startled expressions on their faces. Considering the state he was in, Clint couldn’t exactly blame them.

  There was someone else behind the bar this time. She was a short woman with a stout build. As he approached, Clint looked her up and down. She showed him a nervous smile while tending to a few stray strands of her light brown hair.

  “Anything I can do for you, mister?” she asked.

  “Where’s Leo?” Clint replied.

  “Mr. Parker? He’s not here. Tell me what you need and I can try to help you.”

  The woman was more than a full head shorter than him, yet she carried herself like someone who could look directly into anyone’s eyes. Judging by the modest dress she wore and the simple manner in which she kept her hair, Clint doubted she was the woman Westin was after. “I need to have a word with Leo.”

  Settling in as if to let him know she wasn’t about to budge, the woman said, “I’m the one who can help you with that, so why don’t you do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me why you’re looking me over like a slab of meat in a butcher’s window. I know I’m a breathtaking sight, but it’s been some years since I’ve captured a man’s eye like this.”

  Clint couldn’t help but smile. The expression sent jabs of pain through his jaw all the way up to his eye sockets. “Sorry. I had a hell of a night.”

  “I can tell. You look like a man who was either in a fight or slammed his face in a door.”

  “It’d be nice if it was just my face.”

  She laughed and turned around toward the shelves of liquor behind the bar. “Let me get something to help ease the pain a bit.”

  “Don’t bother pouring me any of that expensive firewater I dragged all the way out here.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” the woman said in a tone that was soothing despite being more than a little rough around the edges. “I’ve got some coffee with a little bit of a surprise for you.”

  “What kind of surprise?” Clint asked.

  “Probably best you didn’t know,” she told him while pouring a few splashes from several smaller bottles into a mug.

  Since it hurt for him to keep his eyes all the way open for too long, Clint didn’t bother trying to see what she was concocting for him.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” she said. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” As long as Clint maintained a certain somewhat crooked posture, his ribs didn’t ache as badly. His back cramped from the fitful night of sleep he’d had and his face . . . well, there wasn’t much that could be done for his face.

  When the woman approached the table he’d chosen, she seemed even smaller in stature than he’d originally guessed. She approached him and set the mug down in front of him. “There you go,” she said. “Sip, don’t gulp.”

  Clint held the mug in his hands so the warmth could soak into his skin. Although the mug’s contents smelled vaguely of coffee, there was a strange mix of other scents in there as well. Something in there was spicy enough to reach all the way down to his throat through his nose. “I’ll give it my best,” he said while tentatively bringing the mug to his lips.

  The coffee portion of the drink was strong. Whatever the rest of it was, it created a warmth in his mouth that had nothing to do with the actual heat of the liquid. A peppery flavor stuck to his tongue without scalding it, and as the mixture went down, it soothed his innards like a warm bath would have soothed his muscles. A second sip made his head feel better than it had all day, and when he lifted the mug for a third sip, he felt a strong hand on his arm holding it in place.

  “Remember,” the woman warned. “Sip.”

  Oddly enough, Clint had been fully prepared to down the rest of that coffee in one last gulp. He nodded and took a restrained sip instead. After swallowing it, he told her, “Thanks.”

  “Anytime,” she said. “You look like you need more than this, though. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Don’t need a doctor.”

  “Let me bring you a mirror. One look into that and you might feel differently.”

  “I already know what to expect on that account. This isn’t exactly the first time I’d have seen that particular sight.”

  “Such a shame. You seem like a nice gentleman.”

  “And you,” Clint said while holding up the mug of modified coffee, “are a godsend.”

  “Just Henrietta,” she told him. “Or if you insist,” she added with a wink, “Saint Henrietta. I’ll be over at the bar if you need me. But don’t ask for another cup of that special coffee. Only one serving every twelve hours unless you want to go blind.”

  Clint laughed at that, but quickly realized he was the only one. Henrietta either had a very good poker face or she hadn’t been kidding about him going blind from drinking too much of her mixture. Whichever it was, Clint continued sipping from the mug and rubbing his temples.

  After a few minutes of silently cursing the saloon’s guitar player for continuing to play, Clint was joined by the owner of the Dig Dog.

  Leo sat down across from him and took a sip from the cup he’d brought along. After a second or two, he said, “You look like hell.”

  “Really?” Clint grunted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “What happened?”

  Clint looked up at him and replied, “Someone paid me a visit. I’ll give you one guess who it was.”

  “Westin,” Leo sighed.

  “You got it.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Well, a word of warning might have been helpful,” Clint said before taking another sip of Henrietta’s miracle brew.

  “I swear I didn’t think something like this would happen. I mean, there was always the chance of him coming back here, but that seemed fairly obvious.”

  “I want you to tell me what this is about,” Clint said. “I asked before and allowed you to dance around the subject because it is, after all, your business. But since I’ve been dragged into this, I’m making it my business as well.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Leo said quietly. “I owe you that much. But first, tell me one thing. That man over at the table behind you. The one facing the bar. Do you recognize him?”

  Clint turned, looked, and almost didn’t recognize Samuel sitting there with his head bowed and his face mostly covered by the wide brim of his hat. As soon as he knew for certain that it was him, Clint gripped the sides of his table and started to stand up. He wanted to put that one-armed bastard down, even if he had to burn the Dig Dog to cinders to do it.

  TWELVE

  Leo’s hand snapped out to grab Clint’s shoulder and push him down. If Clint hadn’t been in such rough shape from the night before, the barkeep never would have been able to do it.

  “If you don’t let go of me,” Clint snarled, “you’ll lose that hand of yours.”

  “You’ve obviously met that one, Clint. He’s been watching this place and you’ve got to know he can gun you down before you make it halfway to his table.”

  “Not if I shoot him from here.”

  “I’ll not have you turn my place into a slaughterhouse. Now if you want them answers, you’ll follow me to where we can speak in private.”

  Leo then let go of Clint’s shoulder, stood up, and walked toward a narrow door near the back end of the bar marked PRIVATE. When he stood up, Clint’s hand twitched toward the Colt at his side. His eyes shot daggers into the man sitting on the other side of the room, and every fiber of his body wanted nothing more than to cross that room and knock Samuel’s head from his shoulders.

  “Not a go
od idea, friend,” Henrietta said from a few paces away.

  Clint shifted his eyes toward her. When he saw her looking up at him, he couldn’t help but relax a bit. “How do you know what ideas are in my head?” he asked.

  “Near as I can figure, there’s only one at the moment, and it ends with me having to help clean up another mess in this place.”

  He let out a sigh. “Doctor and fortune-teller, huh? Why waste your talents tending bar?”

  “Free drinks.”

  Somehow, the rest of Clint’s anger drained away. He knew it would return easily enough if Samuel looked at him for too long, but the one-armed man seemed to be wrapped up in his game.

  “Here,” Henrietta said while handing Clint a mug that was less than a quarter full.

  He took it, sniffed its contents, and smiled. “I thought you said I was only allowed one helping every twelve hours.”

  “You’re in worse shape than most of my patients. Just don’t even try to convince me to make any more for a while.”

  “Saint Henrietta,” was all Clint needed to say as he accepted the mug and allowed the one-armed man to keep his teeth for one more day.

  On the other side of the door Leo had used was a modest office complete with the wooden frame of a small cot and a round table with a washbasin on it that was drier than the desert floor. Leo sat next to a little desk that seemed ready to collapse beneath the weight of all the disorganized papers stacked on top of it. “If you want to put this place on the map,” Clint said as he made his way to the cot frame, “put that woman in charge.”

  “You mean Henrietta?”

  “Whatever you’re paying her isn’t enough.”

  Leo nodded halfheartedly and stood up. “That man out there works with Westin Voss.”

  “I put that together already.”

  “So was it him that did that to you?” the barkeep asked while nervously waving a hand to indicate Clint’s battered face.

  “Him, Westin, and some bald ape with a thick neck.”

  “That’d be Kurt.”

  “Yes, it would. Westin said he wanted me to have a word with you.”

  “About what?” Leo asked.

  “Don’t try to sound innocent,” Clint said as he took a breath that he felt all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He tried to keep from wincing, but the stabbing pain in his ribs made that next to impossible. “Westin said you’d know what he was after, and I’m inclined to believe him.”

  “When you came along yesterday, Westin was trying to get me to pay him a sum of money that he says is owed to him.”

  “For what?”

  “For being a Voss.”

  Clint took a sip from the mug Henrietta had given him. After the brew had helped ease some of the pain rolling through his body, he asked, “He’s some important man in this town?”

  “Not really, but his father had an eye for land speculation that allowed him to pull together enough money for a comfortable living. When the old man died, he left just enough to Westin for him to buy a new horse and a secondhand saddle.”

  “How do you know so much about all of this?” Clint asked, already dreading the answer.

  “Because that old man was my father, too.”

  Clint swore under his breath. There were a few kinds of fights that were best viewed from a distance. Those on a battlefield and those between brothers. “So Westin Voss is your kin?”

  “We’re stepbrothers. His father took me in when I was eight. I’d lost my parents and . . . well . . . it’s a long story, but the short of it is that me and Westin grew up together.”

  “You were close?”

  “Close?” Leo asked with a chuckle. “Westin started off hating me and only grew to hate me more. See, the old man always wanted to pass along his business to his family. He would always take Westin aside and try to teach him, but Westin wouldn’t have any of it. As he grew older, Westin became . . . pretty much what you’ve seen. He struck out on his own when he was seventeen and would only show up at home when he needed money or at one of the old man’s properties when he needed a place to lay low for whatever reason.”

  “But the old man got along with you, right?”

  “Yes,” Leo replied softly. “But it felt more like a friendship. A strained one at best. Westin hated him for it. He hated me worse.”

  “So Westin is after a piece of his inheritance,” Clint said.

  “That’s right. The only problem is that there isn’t one to be had.”

  THIRTEEN

  “There’s nothing left?” Clint asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “So why don’t you just tell that to Westin?”

  “I did!” Leo said. “That was the first thing I told him, in fact, and he didn’t believe me. The last time he saw the old man was years ago and there was still a big family spread, horses, and plenty of money to go around. But property speculation, especially when it involves mining claims and dealing with the railroads, can be—”

  “Tricky,” Clint finished for him.

  “At best. By the time the old man passed on, he was close to broke. Fact is, that’s probably what drove him into the grave in the first place.”

  “How could Westin not know about any of that?” Clint asked.

  “When I say Westin left home, I mean it in every sense of the word. He was gone and didn’t give a damn about what happened while he was away. When he came back, he stuck his hand out and said whatever he needed to for someone to put a few dollars into it. Then he rode off to rob or carouse or whatever else he did. Honestly, I never knew exactly what he got up to. I was just glad he was gone.”

  Clint noticed that the expression on Leo’s face was similar to that of a dog that had been whipped for most of its life. His eyes never stayed in one place for long, and his head’s natural position was at a slightly downward angle.

  “When we were boys,” Leo continued, “Westin never missed a chance to knock me down or bloody my nose. As we got older, I thought things would get better. That was foolish. He just grew stronger and carried a gun. One time when he came home, he saw how much closer me and the old man had gotten. He cornered me one night and beat the tar out of me. At one point, I swore he was going to kill me. The next day, he apologized and blamed it on him being drunk.” Leo shook his head as he stared at a point far beyond that office. “But I know it was more than that.”

  “What was your father’s name?” Clint asked.

  Although he seemed grateful to talk about something else, Leo was also confused. “His name?”

  “Yes. All I’ve ever heard you call him is the old man.”

  As soon as he saw the shadow fall over Leo’s face, Clint knew why he hadn’t heard the elder Voss’s name.

  “Jarrett,” Leo said as if he’d just heard about his stepfather’s death. “His name was Jarrett. He was a good man. Even though he never truly looked at me with pride or compassion, I know he thought of me as a . . . well . . . that he cared.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted any of this to happen between you and Westin.”

  “He knew the two of us butted heads. He always just told me we’d work things out eventually.”

  “Can you appeal to some of the other family members?” Clint asked. “Maybe get some sort of proof that you don’t have the money Westin is after?”

  “It won’t matter. I already told him that right before you walked in. He wasn’t interested in what was left over or what I might have. He wants to take everything from me, plain and simple, and I doubt he’ll be happy with just money.”

  “What is he trying to get from you?”

  “Well, money is a part of it, that’s for certain,” Leo admitted. “Whatever sum I was willing to pay, he wanted more. Knowing him the way I do, I can tell you that even if I came up with that new sum, he’d tack more onto it
. What he really wants is Madeline.”

  Clint laughed. “Can’t he just come to watch her sing?”

  “That’s not it. He wants me to hand her over to him.”

  Any trace of humor on Clint’s face disappeared when he heard that. “What?”

  Leo drew a deep breath and let it out in a labored sigh. “He wants me to draw up a contract with her that ties her to me legally so I can then hand her over to him.”

  “You mean like a slave?”

  “I mean like a whore. There are plenty of soiled doves who accept money in advance to pay for them to come out West or to a different city or even to a different country. In exchange, they’re required to work off their debt in any number of ways. On paper, it’s all spelled out in prettier language but it all boils down to the same thing.”

  “You seem to know quite a lot about this sort of thing,” Clint said.

  “I’ve discovered many unsavory kinds of men making offers for various goods and services to be featured in my saloon. Men like that make the rounds, peddling everything from women to opium and—”

  “And vodka?”

  “If you’re thinking of Gregor, I can put your mind at ease. I’ve dealt with him for years, and the reason for that is because he’s got scruples. He may work in some shady areas, but he’s an angel compared to the scum that try to shackle young ladies with contracts and threats of violence.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Clint said. “Because it’s my experience that scum of that sort usually come to a bad end.”

  “Them or the people around them,” Leo replied. He stood up, walked over to one of the dusty boxes piled in a corner, and removed a slightly less dusty bottle. “When I got into this business, it was to put some of what I’d learned from the old man to good use without dealing in the cutthroat circles that he did. I won’t say that running a saloon is as risky as what he did, but it’s a much more difficult trade than I imagined.”

  Clint stood as well, mostly because sitting on the cot frame was playing hell with his already aching bones. “Tell me what Westin proposed exactly.”

  “I didn’t ask you back here to heap my problems onto you. I wanted to thank you for stepping in the way you already have and repay your kindness as best I can.” Brushing off the label stuck to the bottle in his hand, Leo treated it as a collector might treat a fine work of art. “This here wine is older than the both of us, and I’m guessing it came from a much fancier house than we’ve ever lived in. Take it,” he said while handing it over.