Texas Bluff

CHAPTER 52

Luke Short and Butler went to Al Newman’s house and, right on the doorstep, Butler said, “Send your message to Sutherland. Tell him to meet you at that saloon on the docks. It’s as good a place as any.”

“All right,” Newman said. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” Short said. “Make it noon. It’ll give us time to get down there and set up.”

“Set up?”

“We’re going to try to take him alive,” Short said, “so he can clear me.”

“All right,” Newman said. “I’ll get it sent over right away.”

“Good,” Short said. “Thanks.”

“Uh, has something happened since we met last?” Newman asked.

“No,” Short said, “nothing special.”

They had found out what they wanted to know from Andy Dennis—that it was Sutherland who sent the three of them to kill Butler.

“He wanted us to take care of you,” he said to Butler, then looked at Short and said, “and he’s gonna kill you himself.”

“He is, huh?” Short asked. “Well, he’ll get his chance soon enough.”

So now they had Sutherland set up to meet them at this saloon on the docks—or did they?

“You still don’t trust Al much, do you?” Butler asked Short.

“No, do you?”

“No,” Butler said. “The message we want him to send and the message he does send may be very different.”

“We’ll have to be ready for anything, then.”

“Maybe,” Short said, “we should go down there tonight and have a look.”

“Okay,” Butler said, “but you have to do something about the way you’re dressed.”

Short looked down at himself, touched his silk hat and said, “There’s nothin’ wrong with the way I’m dressed.”

“I know,” Butler said, “that’s the problem.”

Once again Butler had left his gambler’s suit behind in favor of his trail clothes. He looked just fine, he thought, but Luke Short looked woefully out of place and uncomfortable in his plain trousers and cotton shirt.

The saloon Al Newman had told them about turned out to be a sailor’s pub called The Anchor. They entered and stopped just inside the door. They must have looked normal enough, because although they garnered a few glances, nobody seemed to have their nose out of joint.

“Jesus,” Short said, “don’t drink anything.”

“I know.”

They decided to order two whiskeys, take them to a table, sit for a short time, and then leave. They really just wanted to scope the place out ahead of time.

The bartender was a beefy man in his fifties with hairy forearms and a salt-and-pepper beard. His head was bald and he wore an earring in one ear.

“What’ll ya have, mates?”

“Whiskey,” Butler said, “for both of us.”

The man put two shot glasses on the bar and filled them. Butler paid, and they took their drinks to a back table, as planned.

The place was only half full, at a time when the White Elephant was overflowing with patrons.

“Not much going on here,” Short said.

There was no gambling, and not a Stetson in sight. The clientele was all seamen.

“Neither one of us knows what Sutherland looks like,” Butler said. “All we have are some descriptions.”

“And nobody here fits those.”

“Not much more to accomplish here,” Butler said. “Let’s go.”

As they stood up to leave, three men who had been sitting at a table together stood up and barred their exit.

“Whatsa matter, ya don’t like our whiskey?” one of them asked.

“The whiskey’s fine,” Butler said.

“How do ya know? Ya didn’t even drink it.”

“Ya can’t leave without drinkin’ it,” the second man said.

“That’s jes’ rude,” the third man said.

The three of them seemed able-bodied and not too drunk. In a fight Butler wasn’t sure he and Short could handle them, and they certainly didn’t want to have to shoot them. And most of all they didn’t want to attract undue attention.

“Okay,” Butler said, “we’ll drink the whiskey.”

He went back to the table, lifted the glass and drank while Short watched him as if he was crazy.

The whiskey was cheap and burned all the way down.

“Now your friend,” one of the seamen said.

“Ya come to our bar, ya drink our whiskey,” one of the others said.

Short walked to the table.

“Drink it and let’s get out of here,” Butler said under his breath.

Short gave him a murderous look, lifted the glass and drained it.

“There ya go,” one of the men said, slapping Short on the back. “That weren’t so bad, were it?”

“No,” Short said, “it wasn’t so bad.”

The three men stepped aside and actually ushered Butler and Short through the door. From outside they could hear the men laughing.

“I should go back in and—” Short started, but Butler cut him off.

“We did what we came to do,” he said. “We had a look. Let’s just go.”

“I can’t get this taste out of my mouth,” Short said, sticking out his tongue. “Yeah, let’s get back to the White Elephant so I can have a real drink.”

Sutherland entered the Anchor late that night and went directly to the bartender. It was his second time there in so many days.

“Anything come in for me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the bald barman said. “Got it right here.” He reached under the bar and pulled out an envelope that now was covered with wet circles.

“Thanks. Lemme have a beer.”

Sutherland took the envelope to a table with his beer. He read the message from the lawyer, Al Newman. He’d already heard what had happened in front of the White Elephant Saloon, and knew that Butler wasn’t dead. So they were going to come for him tomorrow.

Good. He’d be ready.

He stood up and started to leave, but three men barred his exit.

“You didn’t finish yer beer,” one said.

“That’s rude,” a second said.

Before the third man could speak, Sutherland hit him square in the jaw with his fist. The other two men were stunned at the speed with which their friend hit the floor, but before they could act, Sutherland hit one, and grabbed the other, tossing him across the room.

“Anybody else want me to drink my beer?” he asked.

Nobody responded. He started to leave, then something occurred to him. He turned to face the room again.

“Who wants to make some money?”