“Oh, that ham was so delicious,” Kitty said. “I have had many fine meals since that time, but never have I had a meal better than that one.”
“Senor Matt sounds like a very good man,” Frederica said.
“He is a good man, Frederica,” Kitty said. “That’s why I sent for him. I think he is just the kind of man I need now, to help me through this difficulty.”
Chapter Ten
The Mud Hole was a poor second place saloon to the Sand Spur. Whereas the Sand Spur had a real bar, a brass foot rail, a mirror, and lantern sconces, the Mud Hole bar was boards, spread across barrels. There was no mirror, the light was dim, and provided by no more than three or four lanterns that were strategically set around the room.
No bar girls worked the Mud Hole, because the clientele didn’t believe in buying drinks for anyone but themselves. So different was the clientele that frequented the two saloons that even in a town as small as Mudbury, there were men who were regulars at the Mud Hole, who would not even be recognized if they stepped into the Sand Spur.
Such was the case with John “Mole” Mueller, and Harold “Cooter” Cotter, habitues of the Mud Hole, who earned their money in the most menial tasks imaginable. Logan had met Mole and Cooter when he spent some time with them in prison.
Logan, who tended to move back and forth between the saloons, needed a couple of men to help him “take care of” Matt Jensen, so he recruited them in the Mud Hole, calling upon Mole and Cooter.
“Ten dollars?” Cooter said. “Ten dollars to do what?”
“To do what I tell you to do, without asking any questions,” Logan said.
“Hell, what kind of job is that?” Mole asked.
“It’s a job that will earn you ten dollars,” Logan said. He waited for a moment, then added, “each.”
“Wait. We each get ten dollars?” Cooter asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s different. I thought you was just talkin’ about ten dollars for the two of us to have to share. When do we get it?”
“When the job is done,” Logan answered.
Cooter shook his head. “No, we need it before we do the job.”
“Why do you need it before you do the job?”
“I don’t know what the job is, but since you won’t tell us beforehand, it ain’t likely to be all that easy,” Cooter said. “Besides, we may want to buy us a bottle of whiskey.”
“I ain’t goin’ to have you gettin’ drunk on me,” Logan said.
“We ain’t goin’ to get drunk. We just want a couple of drinks.”
“You got horses and guns?” Logan asked.
“Yeah, I got me a gun and a horse,” Cooter said proudly.
“I ain’t got either one. I used to have a gun, only I sold it in order to get enough money to buy some whiskey,” Mole said.
“All right, I’ve got a gun I’ll lend you, Mole. And we can rent you a horse from the livery.”
“What about the ten dollars?” Cooter asked.
Logan stared at them for a long moment, then sighed and pulled out two ten dollar bills. “Here it is,” he said. “But if you two try and run out on me before we do the job, I’ll hunt you both down.”
“We ain’t goin’ to run out on you,” Cooter said, smiling as he took the money. “Come on, Mole, let’s split the cost of buyin’ a bottle of whiskey.”
An hour later Logan, Cooter, and Mole were on the top of the Bruneau Canyon Wall. A moment earlier, Logan had ridden out onto the lip of the canyon rim and looked north toward the Snake River. That was when he saw Jensen and Gilmore coming south in a buckboard. There was a horse tied on to the back of the buckboard.
Smiling, Logan turned his horse and rode back far enough from the edge of the canyon to avoid being silhouetted against the bright, blue, sky. He dismounted and tied his horse off where Cooter and Mole had ground staked their own mounts.
The two men were sitting cross-legged, passing back and forth the bottle of whiskey they had bought with the money Logan had given them.
“Cooter, he’s comin’. You two boys get ready.”
“Put the whiskey away, Mole,” Cooter said.
“What about it, Logan? Before I put it away, you want a drink?” Mole asked holding up the bottle. He dropped the bottle, and though it didn’t break, it did turn over and some of the whiskey began gurgling out.
“Sum’ bitch, Mole, you’re pourin’ out all our whiskey,” Cooter said, angrily.
“Don’t worry about it. There ain’t practically none of it spilt,” Mole said.
“Hah. If it had’a been spillin’, like as not you would be down on your hands and knees tryin’ to lick it up,” Cooter
