CHAPTER NINE
Take it outside,” Clint Dawson growled through a clenched jaw as he held Praig Horn, one of the Five Sisters ranch hands, facedown on the bar, his arm bent around his back. “You’re drunk. Get out of town and back to the ranch or I’ll toss you in jail.”
The big man jerked and struggled, but was unable to free himself from Clint’s iron grip. The snootful of whiskey was working against him. Bedsides the bartender, it was just Clint and Praig.
“Let me go, tin star. Or I’ll—”
Clint grabbed a handful of hair and shoved Praig’s face onto the bar, knocking over his shot glass. Whiskey went everywhere. The man just wasn’t listening. “Or you’ll what, Praig? I’ve had enough of your foul mood. Go home and sleep it off.”
“I ain’t workin’ for no woman, no matter who she is. Not right for a man ta be told anything from a she-cat!”
“Yeah, yeah, you said that before.” Summoning his strength, Clint leaned back and hefted the thick-bodied weasel off the bar, walked him to the door, and shoved him through. He didn’t believe he’d get the hell out without help.
Praig landed in a heap on the porch. “Harding thinks he’s high and mighty now that John’s dead,” he slurred. “Running the ranch. Well, he’s not. He’s still just one of us.”
“Go home.” Clint slammed the door and ambled back to the bar. The sleepy bartender sank back down onto his chair. Clint stared at his whiskey, his usual good humor gone.
Blake’s gonna have trouble with Praig. He’ll sleep off his bender, but not his animosity and hate.
Clint took a sip from his glass. He’d wanted to be alone tonight so he could do some thinking. Instead of going to Poor Fred’s, his usual drinking establishment just a few buildings down from his office, he’d opted to walk a quarter mile to the outskirts of town and the Spanish Trail Cantina, a rundown adobe building along the Old Spanish Trail.
A Mexican owned the place, and since Clint was the sheriff, his first drink was always on the house—if he so chose, which he didn’t. Miguel Angel Alvarado and his grown son, Santiago, were having a difficult time making ends meet as more white settlers came to Eden and the Spanish community died off or left. Miguel’s other son, Demetrio, two years Santiago’s senior, was locked up in Sugar House Penitentiary up Salt Lake City way. He’d gotten into trouble in Santa Fe, and, as harsh as the conditions were at the prison during a fifteen-year sentence, the alternative was worse. The other two outlaws who’d been convicted at the same time, with a long list of priors, had swung by the neck until dead.
Clint shook his head and took a drink, feeling a mite bit insignificant. His birthday was coming, and he didn’t like the thought of adding another year to the thirty-six he’d already lived. Loneliness edged in on him. He had Nicole, his sixteen-year-old half sister, whom he’d taken in when their mother passed. And his fourteen-year-old son, Cash, who was more of a man already than most grown fellas in town. Clint’s life was full, so to speak, but still, something was missing.
Sighing, he got back to gathering wool. The Old Spanish Trail cut through town, the route going north from Santa Fe then veering west toward California. But the traffic on it was nothing like twenty years ago, when he’d come to town as a sixteen-year-old kid.
The good old days. The memory made him smile. Lifting his shot glass, he tossed back what was left. He remembered twenty mule-pack trains appearing on the horizon as they made their way toward Eden, one vaquero in the lead, one at the rear, maybe three more in between, their tall sombreros keeping off the sun as the mules trudged along. With three trains or more a week passing through, Miguel’s cantina had been booming with traders. Money and whiskey flowed like water. Miguel had had three or four girls working the room and a mariachi band pounding out music. Souvenirs from Mexico, South America, the states and territories were abundant.
Clint lifted a boot to the brass kick rail, thinking how his bones felt old and stiff. Back then, in his teens, he would drop whatever he was doing to meet the traders on the edge of town. The Mexicans would smile and toss him jerky, candy, or another treat they’d bartered for along the way in trade for his help in unrigging the animals. They didn’t go to the livery, where they’d have to pay per head to put them up for the night, but to an old abandoned barn on the edge of town that had a large corral. They’d unpack while telling all kinds of stories—wild, rowdy, and at times salacious, just the kind a kid his age wanted to hear. When they were done, they’d leave one of their men behind with their goods, several large guns, bags of bullets, and an easy trigger finger—or at least that’s what they always told the boys.
Clint chuckled and shook his head. He’d bought the line easy enough and stayed far away from the tempting stash. He was as wild as the next young lad, but he knew better than to tangle with traders whose lifeblood depended on what was in those packs. They’d just as soon sell him as be his friend.
After the animals were taken care of and their supplies and belongings were locked in the barn, those not on guard duty would head straight for this cantina, first stopping at, in a roundabout way, the sheriff’s office. They’d drop a dollar coin into a lockbox dedicated exclusively for overnight use of the barn and corral. The town had made a fair amount of money off the old corral over the years. Not so now. Eden was lucky to see one train a month anymore.
“Amigo,” Miguel’s son Santiago called to Clint as he came down the creaky stairs in the back of the cantina. He was dressed in his typical black shirt embroidered with colorful thread on the shoulders, seams, and pockets. His tight-fitting black pants were like a second skin. Even though it was one o’clock in the morning with the day well spent, and he was still too far away to tell, Clint knew there wouldn’t be a speck of dust on him. He was just that way. Clint long ago expected the twenty-four-year-old to have returned from Santa Fe with a pretty senorita on his arm.
Maybe some men are destined to remain single. Like me.
Behind the bar, Santiago flashed a wide smile. “It’s good to see you, my friend. But I am surprised. It’s late. You have trouble in town? I rarely see you at this end of Eden, where the ghosts live.” He chuckled softly, then went over and nudged the sleepy bartender, a paunchy, middle-aged man who got up, yawned, and slowly made his way from behind the bar and out the back door.
“Turned in at midnight. Found I couldn’t sleep so decided to take one more walk around town. Ended up here.” He looked around at the empty cantina. “You want to close up? I’m on my way out the door.”
Santiago opened the cash box under the bar and began transferring the money into a brown leather bag.
“No, no, we’ll stay open as long as you like. You want another whiskey? A night ‘sombrero,’ perhaps?”
Clint laughed, scraping his boot off the kick rail and straightening up. He stretched his aching back, realizing that, besides the small interruption from Praig, he’d been standing in the same position for more than an hour. “Gracias, but no. I’m gonna be cussing myself tomorrow for staying up this late. I’m too old for nights like this.”
He smiled at his friend’s raised brows.
“Old?”
Clint nodded. “I advise you not to do it, my friend. It’s no fun, getting old. And I don’t need any more coffin varnish to help me get there.”
Santiago feigned a wounded expression. “You hurt me. We serve only the best—for you, that is.” He reached under the bar and lifted a half-full bottle of whiskey. The white label read “Pure Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey, Aged 10 Years.” That was a bald-faced lie, which everyone knew. First of all, the distillery that made it was located in Santa Fe. But the label made the whiskey somehow more respectable than homemade. Several bottles of Santiago’s home brew lined a shelf under the mirror on the back bar, accompanied by six bottles of tequila, a brain-numbing elixir brought up from Central America. Two bottles of mescal, with large worms at the bottom, gathered dust at one end.
Mexicans are a hardy bunch.
Clint laid down several coins, considered the deserted cantina one last time, and started for the door. “Everyone else has more sense than me, I suppose. Adios.”
“I hear the Brinkman sisters have come to hear John’s will.”
Stopping with one hand on the door, Clint glanced back. “That’s right. All five of ’em. It’s a pity they didn’t show up before he died.”
Santiago slowly nodded. “I liked Senor Brinkman. Good men are hard to find. I can’t help but wonder what kind of girls they are.” The unsaid implication hung in the air.
Clint wasn’t touching that topic with a ten-foot pole. He shook his head and shrugged.
Santiago slapped his hand down on the bar, the sound reverberating around the quiet room. “The past is the past, as they say. Go home and get a good night’s sleep. All is well in Eden tonight.” He flashed a winsome smile as Clint walked out the door.
The night sky was clear and sparkling, with an abundance of bright stars. A cool breeze chilled Clint’s skin. To the south, the dark silhouette of the faraway San Juan Mountains reached high into the sky, bringing a sense of longing into his throat. He loved this place as much as any man could. John Brinkman didn’t have the corner on that. Eden was home. And he’d told himself during the Civil War that if he made it out alive, he’d head back to Eden and never leave again. He’d kept that promise for the last fifteen years.
The thud of hooves echoed up the road. Not that odd for someone to be traveling by night, but by the sound, Clint judged that there was more than one animal, perhaps a handful. Just to be safe, he crossed the road and stepped behind the outcropping of tall moss-covered rocks they called Castlewood. As he waited, he lifted his Colt several times, making sure his weapon was nice and loose.
The sounds came closer. Due to the darkness, it was still too soon to see who approached. A rider appeared in the center of the road. A mule came next on a lead, then another and another after that. Before the rider was alongside the cantina, Clint stepped out.
“Howdy,” he said. “Who goes there?”
The rider reined up, and his mules stumbled to a halt. From what Clint could see, he was leading a fair number of pack animals.
“Captain White,” the mule skinner called back in a soft Southern accent. He wore a light-colored shirt and a buckskin coat that picked up the gleam of the two lanterns still burning outside the Spanish Trail Cantina. His long, rawhide whip was coiled and tied to the front of his saddle. “Just making my way up from the mining camp along the Animas River, and before that, Santa Fe. Who goes there?”
Knowing full well it was too dark for Captain White to see him in his dark clothing, he came close and stuck out his hand. “Sheriff of Eden. Clint Dawson.” Hanging back in the shadows was another man on horseback. Perhaps there was yet another at the end of the train. “What’re you packing?”
The man didn’t have to answer, but Clint hoped he would. He tried to keep an eye on strangers.
“The usual. Spices, foodstuffs, kitchenware, tools, clothing.”
Although his words were friendly, his tone said he could have gone without being questioned.
“Stopping for the night?”
“Planned to, but we can move on if that’s your preference.”
Eden made money from travelers as well as freighters. They usually spent plenty on food, whiskey, and women. “I have no problem. I don’t recognize you, though. Have you been through this way before?”
“No.”
“There’s an old barn on the north end of town. Follow the trail past Wild Turkey, Falcon Haven, and Deer Ridge, then turn right on Main Street and left on White Hawk. Road signs are well marked and easy to find. There’s a large corral and barn. Also a stream behind and hay to feed. Costs a dollar a night. Payment made to me or in the sheriff’s office before you pull out.”
“Much obliged. I heard about that back in Durango.”
Clint straightened. “Durango?”
“The mining settlement I mentioned on the Animas River. They just put a name to the camp. Should be official by next month.”
Here was news he hadn’t yet heard. That was the other function freighters and traveling salesmen served. They passed on information and usually knew things before anyone else.
When his horse fidgeted, Captain White said, “We best be getting on. Any establishments still open?” He looked over to the dark cantina and then back at Clint. When he smiled, Clint noticed he was missing a front tooth.
“Poor Fred’s Saloon might be, or the Hole in the Floor; then again, maybe not. Either place serves a limited amount of foodstuffs, but you won’t go to sleep hungry. That’s the best I can offer.”
Captain White gave a casual salute. “Good enough. Obliged again. We’re headed to the barn right now. My monies are packed away. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you to make sure you do just that. “Welcome to Eden.”
He stepped back, a signal that he was done talking and they were allowed to move on.
The captain gathered his reins and clucked to the tall gray beneath him. The animal walked forward tugging a tired-looking mule. It trudged forward, the pack on its back weighing between one hundred fifty and two hundred pounds, if Clint had to guess. A crate strapped to the mule’s side looked suspiciously like it might contain dynamite.
Clint waited until the whole train had passed. He’d seen two more mule skinners and seventeen pack animals. He’d never heard of Captain White before, or seen the other two dour-faced men. They were strangers to these parts. Perhaps the lateness of the evening had them crankier than normal.
Or maybe they have something to hide.
They disappeared around the far corner, the brays of the weary animals dissipating into the night.
May as well follow along, make sure they do exactly as they said. I’m sure Captain White expects nothing less.
For a brief moment, a twinge of loneliness made Clint suck in a breath of cool air. He’d been dreaming about excitement, and now five new women had arrived in town, although he had no idea how long they’d actually stay. And an unknown freighter had shown up, dragging along seventeen mules. Things were looking up.