Clint looked over at her and realized she was even more attractive when she was calm than when they’d been wrangling the out-of-control horse. She had a thick, dark brown hair that was tied back behind her head to show high cheekbones, dark blue eyes, and a wide, full mouth. “Either that,” she added, “or you’re just a fool with a lucky streak.”
“Well, thank you,” Clint replied. “I think.”
“Whichever it is, I’m mighty grateful for your help. Anything I might be able to do to repay you?”
He smiled at her. “I can think of a few things.”
THREE
As much as Clint would have liked to continue his conversation with the horse’s pretty owner, there was still business to conduct. It made it even easier for him to get back to that business when he decided that wrapping it up would allow him to get back to other matters that much quicker. Before parting ways with her, Clint got three key pieces of information.
First of all, he asked the lady for her name. It was Danielle Hagerty.
Second, he set up a time and place where they could meet again.
Third, he needed directions to the Dig Dog Saloon.
Danielle had furrowed her brow when he’d asked her about that last one. “The Digger?” she’d asked. “Why would you want to go there?”
“Is that another name for the Dig Dog?” Clint asked.
“One name’s as ridiculous as the other.”
“Good point. How do I get there?”
“Why do you want to go there?” she asked as though Clint had wanted directions to the middle of a swamp.
Instead of explaining every reason he had for being in Larga Noche, Clint simply told her, “I’m meeting a friend. Shouldn’t keep me occupied for too long, so it won’t interfere with our own meeting.”
She showed him a mischievous smirk and said, “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”
“Into what?” Clint replied. “It’s just a meal and—”
“Right,” she cut in. “It’s the and part that’s got me concerned.”
“Concerned or anxious?”
Danielle allowed that to hang in the air between them before grabbing the horse’s reins, turning on her heel, and walking back to the stable where Clint had originally found her. He looked around, spotted Eclipse calmly waiting for him a short distance away, and went to retrieve him.
When Clint got to the stable, the horse that had bolted not too long ago now stood in a stall of its own and was quietly working on a feed bag. He allowed Eclipse to drink from the water trough out in front.
After the stallion had drunk his fill, Clint mounted up and called out to Danielle, “I’ll be back before you know it.” In response, she pretended as though she’d already forgotten he was there.
Even as he thought back to it a short while later, he had to smile at her display. Mostly, he was looking forward to seeing that face again no matter what expression it wore. Unfortunately, Clint had more time than expected to think back to his conversation with Danielle as he wandered the streets looking for Sharp Bend.
When she’d given him directions to the saloon, Danielle did indeed tell him to look for Sharp Bend off Third Avenue. At the time, however, he’d thought she meant to just look for a sharp bend in Third Avenue. After it branched off Linden Street, Third Avenue was full of sharp bends and Clint figured it would be quicker to just investigate every one.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Before Clint reached the end of one sharp bend, he found another. And when he reached the end of that one, he nearly forgot how far back he needed to go to return to where he’d started. There wasn’t much to see along those sharp bends. Mostly, they were just lined with a few shops, homes, or the occasional saloon. Naturally, none of those saloons was the one he was looking for. Clint was just about to give up the wild-goose chase when he noticed a sign nailed to a post at yet another small street branching off Third. The sign read, SHARP BEND. So her reference was for a street named Sharp Bend, not a bend in a road that was sharp. To top things off, as Clint rode down that street, the only bend he came to wasn’t even particularly sharp.
“I’m really beginning to hate this town,” he grumbled.
After rounding that single gentle bend, Clint found himself in the closest thing to a saloon district he’d found in Larga Noche. The Dig Dog Saloon was on his left a short ways up the street. A bit farther along and next to that saloon was a taller, narrower building with a colorful sign hanging in front of it. Clint couldn’t make out the lettering on that sign just yet, but it was impossible to miss the tiger drawn onto it. Across from that establishment was a place with two floors and windows decorated in expensive curtains. The softer colors and number of women lounging in front of that place made it clear that its primary specialty wasn’t liquor or gambling. Even from a distance, Clint had caught the attention of a couple of those ladies so he tipped his hat to them and moved along.
Of the three places, the Dig Dog wasn’t the one that Clint would have chosen if he was just looking for somewhere to slake his thirst. When he saw the crudely drawn picture on the front window, that opinion only grew stronger. Stepping in through the batwing doors, Clint was already making plans to visit the other two places down the street.
The Dig Dog resembled any number of saloons Clint had visited across the country. There was a long bar on one side of the main room, a small stage on the other, and several tables scattered in between. The woman on the stage was attractive, if a bit past her prime, but she merely sat on a stool beside a bearded fellow plucking a lazy tune on a guitar. Only two of the tables were occupied by card players, who looked to have been there since before the place was built. The only thing that stood out in Clint’s eyes was the bar itself. Part of that was due to the impressive array of bottles on the shelves behind it. The other part was the fact that the barkeep had just been grabbed by the man he’d been talking to and pulled halfway over the polished wooden surface.
FOUR
Clint made his way over to the bar and stood close enough to the other two men to hear what they were saying, but far enough away from them to be out of swinging distance.
“Are you deaf?” the man on Clint’s side of the bar growled. He was a tall fellow with a muscular build that tested the strength of the stitching on his dusty cotton shirt. Thick brown hair hung down past his shoulders and was tied back with a leather cord in a sloppy manner that barely served to keep his face from being covered. That face was cruel, marred by scars, and partially covered by a thick, brushy beard.
The barkeep looked to be somewhere in his early forties. Although his arms were spindly and his chest was narrow, a rounded belly could be seen now that he’d been lifted up by the man in front of him. Although his straw-like red hair had been trimmed to a respectable length, it sprouted at unruly angles from his scalp. “I’m not deaf,” he said. “I heard you. It’s just that—”
“Just that what?” the other man snapped as he pulled the barkeep a few inches closer to him.
Since he hadn’t seemed to have been noticed just yet, Clint leaned back against the bar and loudly cleared his throat.
Both of the other two men at the bar turned to look at him. The big one with the long hair looked ready to bite Clint’s head off and spit it through the window. The barkeep, on the other hand, smiled warmly and asked, “Can I get you something?”
“Actually, yes,” Clint replied. “I’ll take a beer.”
Since the barkeep couldn’t move, he shifted his eyes over to look at the man that was holding him on top of the bar.
The man next to Clint easily outweighed him by fifty pounds. When he glared over at him, the bearded man’s eye twitched as if it were trying to leap from its socket. “What the hell’s wrong with you, mister?”
Clint shrugged. “I’m thirsty.”
When the big man smiled, it lo
oked more like an animal baring its teeth. “Why don’t you just hop on over the bar and help yourself. Me and this pregnant pencil here have just a bit more talking to do.”
“Why don’t you let the man go so he can do his job?” Clint asked.
That captured a bit more of the big man’s attention. Before he could say anything, the barkeep quickly sputtered, “There’s no need for more unpleasantness. Especially not to my customers.”
“I’ll be unpleasant to anyone I damn well please,” the big man said.
“I need every customer I can get, Westin,” the barkeep said. “Without them, I won’t be able to pay you anything.”
“You ain’t been paying me now. That’s the goddamn problem.”
Clint looked about at the rest of the people in that saloon. Despite a few cautious glances tossed toward the bar, the gamblers kept playing, the guitar player kept strumming, and the drinkers kept drinking. The only one to move a muscle was the girl onstage, who’d gotten up from her stool to walk behind the piano.
Placing both hands upon the bar, Clint hopped up onto it and swung both legs over to come down on the other side. “Can I get anything for you?” he asked.
It took a moment, but Westin soon realized the question had been directed at him. “Give me a whiskey from one of them real pretty bottles on the top shelf.”
Clint looked down near the bartender’s feet. “There’s some fancy bottles of something down here. How much for a sip of that?”
“Th-That’s—”
Westin interrupted the barkeep’s stuttering with a violent shake that caused the redhead’s flailing legs to knock into some glasses behind him. “Them’s are no charge,” the big man said. “See, Leo? That’s how you win over new customers.”
“You’re Leo?” Clint asked.
The barkeep nodded.
“Leo Parker?”
“I am.”
“Well, that changes things.”
“I’m sick of you already,” Westin grunted. “Get the hell out of my sight before I mess you up even worse than I intend on messing up this here barkeep!”
Clint shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. You are.”
“Really?” Westin said through another ugly smile. “And what if I don’t?”
“Put me to the test and see for yourself.”
FIVE
Like most big men, Westin thought his size alone was enough to win any fight for him. He kept hold of Leo’s neck in one hand while straightening up to his full height and nodding as though nobody could have guessed how massive he truly was. “You sure you want to go there, boy?”
And like any man who had any self-respect, Clint felt an urge to throw a punch when someone called him “boy.” Since Westin obviously knew that, Clint wasn’t about to play into his hands. “Let the barkeep go,” he said, “and walk out.”
“That what you want?”
Clint nodded once.
Although Westin let go of Leo’s shirt, it wasn’t until after he’d slammed the redhead’s face against the top of the bar with just enough force to bloody his nose. He then took one step away from the bar and planted his feet. “If’n you want me to leave, you’ll have to make me.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because maybe you got a brain in your head. Gotta be smarter than this one anyway,” Westin said while giving Leo a quick backhanded swat.
Clint was already stooping a bit to reach for the fancy bottles kept under the bar and out of plain sight. When he stood up, he was holding something other than overpriced whiskey in his hands. Gripping the sawed-off shotgun that had been kept at the barkeep’s knee level, Clint thumbed back both hammers and held the weapon at the ready. “Now you’ve got two choices,” Clint said. “Walk out or be carried out of here after being scraped off the walls, ceiling, and floor.”
“You think this is the first time I seen that scattergun?” Westin asked. “If I’m supposed to quake in my boots at the sight of it, I gotta think you have the sand to pull them triggers.”
For a few moments, both men stared at each other. The rest of the saloon had grown quiet, and once again, the woman on the stage was the only one moving. While the other customers kept their heads down and prayed not to be noticed, she stepped out from behind the piano to show Clint that she was now carrying a pistol that had most likely been stashed back there.
“I can usually sniff out a lawman,” Westin said as he took one step toward Clint, “and you don’t strike me as anyone with a badge pinned to him somewhere. That means you’re most likely someone trying to do the right thing by helping this little runt here. Trust me, the barkeep brought this on himself.”
“I would have been glad to let the two of you conduct your business,” Clint told him. “But I’ve got business of my own with that man.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes, sir. And I won’t have it ruined by the likes of you.”
“That’s just too bad, then.” Without another word, Westin lunged forward to slap the barrel of the shotgun aside with a thick paw of a hand.
The move came much quicker than Clint had anticipated and would have been enough to send any shot fired from the shortened barrels into one of the nearby walls. Instead of pulling his triggers, however, Clint snapped the other end of the shotgun around to crack it against the side of Westin’s head. As the bigger man reeled back from the blow, Clint hopped over the bar to stand toe to toe with him.
As Westin reeled from taking the knock to the head, Clint opened the shotgun and dumped both shells onto the floor. The ammunition was still rattling against the boards near their feet when Westin plucked the shotgun from Clint’s grasp and swung it viciously at his jaw. If Clint hadn’t been quick enough to duck beneath the attack, it could very well have put him out of the fight altogether.
While he was crouched down low, Clint drove a few quick punches into Westin’s midsection. The big man’s stomach felt more like a slab of beef wrapped around a post. Clint was still doing his best to chop that post down when a pair of beefy forearms dropped onto his shoulder like a sledgehammer. The impact stole some of the breath from Clint’s lungs and dropped him to one knee.
Leering down at him, Westin hunched over a bit as he asked, “Did that hurt?”
Clint’s reply to the taunt was to reach up with one hand, take a firm grip on Westin’s beard, and pull him down sharply. The big man’s chin thumped against the edge of the bar, and he staggered back while letting out a pained roar. Clint pulled himself to his feet and put every bit of strength he could muster behind a right cross to the head.
Although Westin was hurt by the last blow, he had enough of his wits about him to catch Clint’s incoming punch. The sound of knuckles slapping against his left palm still hung in the air when Westin tightened his grip around Clint’s fist. “You made a whole lot of mistakes here, boy,” he snarled into Clint’s face.
When Clint tried to pull his hand free, he only felt Westin’s grip become even tighter. Already, sharp jolts of pain shot up through his arm.
“You picked the wrong saloon to come into,” Westin said. “You opened your mouth when you should’a kept it shut. And you raised a hand to a man who can put you six feet under anytime he chooses.”
Clint balled up his other fist and took a swing at Westin. That punch bounced off the big man’s side, and before Clint could follow up, the bones in his trapped hand were mercilessly ground together. Even though Clint was able to stand up in front of the bigger man, he couldn’t do much else at that moment.
“Look at the idiot you stuck your neck out for,” Westin said. “He don’t even have enough of a brain to know when he should run. It ain’t like he’ll get many more chances after this little dance.”
Sure enough, Leo had his back to the wall of shelves behind the bar as though he were stuck there by half a barre
l of glue.
“I’ll only say this one more time,” Clint said. “Leave now.”
“And I’ll say this one more time: Or what?”
“Or I draw the pistol that I’ve left in its holster this long just to keep this from getting too messy.”
Westin’s eyes darted downward to verify Clint’s claim. The Colt wasn’t easy to miss, and though he wasn’t shocked to see it there, Westin let go of Clint’s hand. “That brings us right back around to where we started.”
“You mean about whether or not I’ve got the sand to pull a trigger?” Clint asked. “Can you look in my eyes and have any doubt of that?”
Westin took a look for himself, and before he could respond to what he saw, someone spoke up from a few paces behind him.
“You shouldn’t doubt me on that count,” the woman who’d been on the stage not too long ago said. She held her pistol in a two-handed grip and stared at Westin over the top of its barrel. When he positioned himself so he could shift his gaze between her and Clint, Westin said, “I should’ve guessed you’d need the help of a woman, boy.”
“Just get the hell out of my sight,” Clint replied.
Westin casually turned to look at Leo, who was still glued to the wall behind the bar. “You remember what I told you before we was interrupted?”
“Yes,” Leo replied.
“Then I’m done here.” Westin turned his back on all the guns in the room as if none of them were capable of making him bleed, and he walked out through the front door.
Once he was certain the big man wasn’t about to come back, Clint looked over at the woman and asked, “What took you so damn long?”
SIX
It wasn’t until after he’d drunk the beer he’d been given that Clint actually took a good look at the woman who’d been on the stage when he’d first arrived. Before then, either she was on the opposite side of the room, or he was more interested in the gun she’d been carrying. Now that the storm had passed and she was right in front of him, he could see that she was much younger than he’d originally thought.
A Different Trade Page 2