A Different Trade (5 page)

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 another 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.”

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.