Crow Bait

Eighteen

“Beer,” he said to the bartender.

“Cold, right?” the bartender asked with a grin.

Lancaster was back in the K.O. Saloon again, having a cold beer, but what he really wanted was to talk with the bartender.

“Exactly.”

“Comin’ up.”

The barman brought the beer, with a nice head on it, and asked, “Stayin’ in town a while?”

“Just long enough for my horse to heal,” Lancaster said. He didn’t bother to mention that he also had some healing to do.

“What’s your name?” the barman asked.

“Lancaster.”

“Mine’s Lucky.”

“Lucky?”

The man grinned, showing some gaps in his teeth. “I was pretty lucky my first five or six fights in the ring.”

“Then what happened?” Lancaster asked.

Lucky shrugged.

“Then I ran outta luck and ran into a guy who could fight,” he said. “I quit after that. Didn’t wanna get my brains bashed in.”

“Sounds like it was a good decision. This place yours?”

“It is. Well, at least I’ll know what you want when you come in now,” Lucky said, and moved on to another customer.

Lancaster nursed his beer and once again tried to force his memories to come together. When that didn’t work he started thinking about a man called Sweet. Andy was right. If Sweet had come to town with his cronies before, or after, the ambush, chances were nobody would know any of them.

Except maybe for one person.

Lancaster waved the bartender back over.

“Another one?”

“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. “Have you seen Sweet around lately?”

“Sweet?” The bartender looked confused.

“A man named Sweet.”

“First name? Last name?”

“Just Sweet.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

“Never heard the name?”

The bartender gave it a thought, then shook his head and said, “No. Is he supposed to be from town?”

“I don’t know,” Lancaster said. “It’s more likely he was a stranger in town, had two other men with him.”

“Three strangers, one named Sweet,” the bartender repeated. “What do they look like?”

“Trail clothes,” Lancaster said, “thirties or forties, might’ve looked like they just rode in off the desert.” He was guessing at the ages.

“We get lots of men in here who rode in off the desert,” the bartender said. “But I don’t remember three together in the past week or so. That help?”

“Actually, it does,” Lancaster said. “Thanks.”

“Other saloons in town,” the bartender said. “You might wanna check with the bartenders there. Maybe your guys just never came in here.”

“That’s good thinking,” Lancaster said. “Thanks.”

He turned and looked around the saloon. It was still too early for business to pick up, and there were only a few men in the place. The other saloons in town would probably be the same. He left his unfinished beer on the bar, figuring he’d have to drink at least half of one in each saloon, trying to find a bartender who knew a man named Sweet.

Three saloons later Lancaster still didn’t know any more about Sweet than he did before, and he was starting to feel the effects of the beer. He knew he had to stop now, or he’d end up switching to whiskey, and then all the hard work he’d done crawling out of the bottle would be for nothing. He’d be a drunk again. It didn’t take much to go back down that road.

He had to accept the fact that Sweet—whoever he was—had either not come to Laughlin or had laid very low when he was there.

Lancaster had a name. And he had a horse—and himself—to nurse back to health. He hoped the rest of it would come to him.

It was early to turn in, but these weren’t normal circumstances. He needed the rest, and he needed to sleep off the beer. A short nap, and then a meal, should fix him up.