Charlie Martz and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

in Mesilla.”
    â€œThe only one, ain’t it?”
    â€œWell, yeah, but that don’t make it not the finest. Just ask Smitty there.” He beckoned to the sole customer in the saloon. A heavy, balding man in a tight, tan-bleached coat was standing in the middleof the bar. One hand was on the brim of a limp Panama lying on the bar, the other hand was reaching for a bottle in front of his empty glass. He eyed the stranger curiously, but answered the man in the apron.
    â€œI cannot argue with you, Martin, when you are the only saloon within thirty miles.” He spoke with a faint German accent. “Come over, my friend, and let me buy you a drink. Every day I have to look across the bar to Martin’s homely face. A change will do me good.”
    â€œSet it up, mister. You got a taker,” the rider said as he walked over.
    The German studied him eagerly as he approached the bar. He saw a sun-scarred, dust-streaked face beneath the dirty, narrow-brimmed, white sombrero. The face was young, but at the same time old. Maybe just past thirty, but more likely closer to forty. A sandy-colored mustache drooped around the corners of his mouth. The middle part was stained slightly from tobacco juice. His arms hung limply, his left hand almost touching a holstered revolver that hung low on his left hip. As the rider came up to him, the German saw part of the butt of another revolver protruding from his open buckskin jacket. The second gun was under his right arm. Approaching the bar, his strides were long, slow, but noticeably stiff . . . he’d been riding for a good many hours.
    â€œFriend,” said the German extending the bottle, “you walk like you have been riding for a week straight. Come far?”
    The rider shifted his position at the bar, facing the German more, but only poured another drink.
    â€œIf you have been riding far, from the east, like you came into town, then you must have come through Mescalero country. Word reached town the other day that some of the bucks jumped the reservation and got themselves up a little war party.”
    The German stopped and waited eagerly for the stranger to take up the conversation . . . but he had not even looked up from his drink.
    â€œI don’t blame you for wearing all those guns, friend. If I went riding through Apache country this time of year, which you can be sure I would not, I’d even get me a few more. Now, what did you say you—”
    The rider slammed his glass down on the bar with a loud rap that made the German jump back with surprise.
    â€œMister, for all them questions you’re asking you’re going to have to pour a whoppin’ lot more drinks down me to get all the answers.”
    The German relaxed visibly as he saw a slight smile under the rider’s straggly mustache . . . then he smiled himself as he saw the rider’s grin broaden.
    â€œAnd I might just let you pour all you want,” the rider finished.
    The man in the white apron had been standing still just inside the doorway while the German had unsuccessfully tried to open the conversation. He had taken the rider’s silence as a sign of hostility, so he had been more than reluctant to approach the two men and take the chance of getting in the way of an argument. Especially the kind he had seen so many times in front of the same bar. Now he hurriedly stepped around behind the bar to serve the two men. He let go with a hearty laugh, but it wasn’t very convincing. His nervousness had not altogether subsided.
    â€œTake another, gents . . . on the house. Seeing my patrons enjoying theirselves is worth a drink any old time.” He filled the two thick glasses almost to the brim. The bartender was feeling more sure of himself now.
    â€œAnd so’s we won’t be strangers drinking together . . . this old dude here is Adolph Schmidt. My name’s Martin Huber. Mr. Schmidt meet Mr. . . .”
    â€œBill.”
    â€œMr.