Trek of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Western
ISBN: 9780786013319
Google: ewwdyNzYwdQC
Amazon: 0759254672
Goodreads: 2013420
Publisher: Pinnacle
Published: 2002-11-15T06:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

After walking up and down Court Street a couple of times, Smoke decided to enter a saloon named the Dog Hole. He smiled when he read the sign over the saloon, since out West dog hole was a generic name for any bar or saloon, especially one that was dirty or unclean. He thought it would take a man with a special sense of humor to use the term as a name for his establishment, and he looked forward to meeting him.

As was his usual custom when Smoke first pushed through the batwings, he immediately stepped to one side with his back against the wall and his right hand hanging near his pistol butt. He let his eyes become accustomed to the relatively dark room while he looked over the occupants of the fifteen or so tables scattered around the place.

He saw no familiar faces from his past, and so he walked slowly to the bar, where he took up station at the end nearest another wall. He never stood with his back to the room or where people were sitting behind him. It was a habit that had saved his life on more than one occasion and the practice had become second nature to him now.

The bartender ambled over, wiping out a glass with a dirty-looking cloth rag, as bartenders always seemed to be doing.

“What can I getcha?” he asked, his eyes dull with boredom and disinterest.

Though Smoke was normally not a drinking man, when in such places he would order a drink so as not to stand out from the usual crowd. “A shot of whiskey with a beer chaser,” Smoke answered.

When the man bent over and pulled out a bottle with no label on it, Smoke held up his hand. “I don’t want that,” he said in a friendly tone. “Give me some of the good stuff off that back shelf.”

“It’ll cost you extra,” the man said sullenly.

Smoke shrugged. “That’s not a problem,” he said, still keeping his voice amiable. The barman turned and took a dusty bottle off the rear shelf with a label that read OLD KENTUCKY on it. Smoke doubted if any part of the bottle or the liquor within had ever been within a thousand miles of Kentucky, but he kept his mouth shut.

The bartender pulled the cork and slapped a glass down in front of Smoke that was so dirty it was almost black.

Just as the man started to pour, Smoke put his hand over the rim of the glass. “And I’d appreciate a clean glass,” he said, his voice getting a little harder this time.

The bartender raised his eyebrows. “Am I gonna have trouble with you, mister?” he asked, pulling a three foot long wooden stake that was three inches in diameter from under the bar and slapping his open palm with it.

Smoke’s eyes grew flat and dangerous. “The only trouble you’re going to have is trying to take a shit with that pole stuck up your ass!” Smoke growled, letting his voice grow deeper and harsher.

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