Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory #3

The prospect of fifty cents was enough to bring the old Mexican away from the shelter, and he had a big smile on his face as he approached.

“Gracias, senor. Cuidare muy bien de su caballo.”

“You hear that, Spirit? He is going to take very good care of you.”

After turning his horse over to the stable hand, Matt found a board stretched across the street, and though it didn’t keep the rain off him, it did keep him out of the muck and mud. Reaching the boardwalk on the other side of the street, he walked down to the Casa del Sol Cantina.

Inside the cantina, a long board of wooden pegs was nailed along one wall about six feet from the floor. Matt dumped the water from the crown of his hat, then hung his slicker on one of the pegs to let it drip dry. A careful scrutiny of the saloon disclosed a card game in progress near the back. At one of the front tables, there was some earnest conversation. Three men stood at the bar, each complete within themselves, concentrating only on their drinks and private thoughts. A soiled dove, near the end of her professional effectiveness, overweight, with bad teeth and wild, unkempt hair, stood at the far end. She smiled at Matt, but getting no encouragement, stayed put.

“What’ll it be, mister? the bartender asked, making a swipe across the bar with a sour-smelling cloth.

“Whiskey, then a beer,” Matt said. He figured to drink the whiskey to warm himself from the chill of the rain, then drink the beer for his thirst. The whiskey was set before him and he raised it to his lips, then tossed it down. He could feel its raw burn all the way to his stomach. When the beer was served, he picked it up, then turned his back to the bar for a more leisurely survey of the room.

Ascertaining that there was nothing here that represented an immediate threat, he turned back to the bartender.

“I’m looking for Moses Schuler,” Matt said. “I’m told I might find him here.”

“Why do you want Schuler?”

“That’s between Schuler and me,” Matt said.

“You the law?”

“Schuler,” Matt said again without answering the question.

“We don’t care much for the law around here,” the bartender said.

Suddenly, Matt reached his left hand across the bar and grabbed the collar of the bartender’s shirt. He twisted it into a knot that put pressure on the bartender’s neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

“Mister, I’ve ridden half a day in a driving rainstorm,” Matt said. “I’m in no mood for games. I’m going to ask you one more time where I can find Schuler. If you don’t answer me, I am going to break your neck, then find someone who will answer me.”

To illustrate his point, Matt twisted the collar even tighter, so tight now that when the bartender tried to talk, it came out as an unintelligible rattle.

Matt eased up just enough to allow the bartender to speak.

“I’ll see if I can find him,” the bartender said.

“I appreciate that,” Matt replied.

“Juan,” the bartender called.

A Mexican boy in his teens stepped out of the back room. He was wearing an apron and holding a broom.

“Si, senor?” the boy replied.

“You seen Schuler around?”

“Si, senor. He is sleeping in the back room,” Juan answered.

“Get ’im out here. There’s someone who wants talk to ’im.”

“I will try, senor. Maybe I cannot wake him up,” Juan said. “He is sleeping very hard.”

“Sleeping, or passed out?” the bartender asked.

“I think maybe he is passed out,” Juan replied.

The bartender poured a drink into a glass, then slid it down the bar toward Juan. “Give him this,” he said. “Tell ’im there’s someone out here that wants to buy him another drink. That’ll bring him out.” The bartender looked at Matt. “You will buy him a drink, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Matt said. “Give me a bottle.”

The bartender handed Matt a bottle, Matt took it, looked over at Juan, then pointed to an empty table. “I’ll be over there, Juan,” he said. “Bring him to me.”

“Si.”

Juan disappeared into the back room. After a long moment, a bent, white-haired man came out of the room. At first, Matt was about to say this wasn’t the one he was looking for. This man looked nothing like the robber he had seen in the express car. But as he studied him more closely, he saw that this was, indeed, the same man. Dispirited, but the same man.

“Someone is going to buy me a drink?” Schuler asked.

“That man over there, senor,” Juan said. He pointed to the table where Matt was sitting, and Schuler shuffled over toward him, unabashedly scratching his crotch as he did so. Matt had rarely seen a man who had come down as far as Schuler had since the last time he saw him. Schuler needed a shave, and his clothes reeked of stale whiskey and sour vomit. How could this be? Didn’t Schuler get his share from the robbery?