Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens by Jake Logan

And the third one that I know of is a short, wiry, skinny man who goes by the name of Ruben Loomis. The bartenders, whose names I don’t know, although I think one of them is named Cal—anyway, they always have a sawed-off Greener and a club within reach. I’ve seen them clear the room when the patrons got rowdy.”
    â€œSounds like a saloon I visited in Dodge City,” Slocum said.
    â€œThe Mexicans got Injun blood in them and don’t hold their likker too good sometimes. They’ve carted a few of them out of there feet first.”
    â€œI’ll keep my eyes peeled,” Slocum said.
    The two men entered the saloon, stepped to one side as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the light from the lamps.
    â€œLet’s head for the bar,” Swain said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
    â€œObliged,” Slocum said and followed Swain as he walked to an empty space at the long bar.
    One of the bartenders came up and wiped the bar top with a dirty towel. He looked at Slocum, then at Swain.
    â€œSwain, isn’t it?” the barkeep said. “I don’t recollect seein’ your friend in here.”
    â€œCal, is it?”
    â€œYeah. Cal Meecham, Mr. Swain. Ain’t you Jethro’s brother?”
    â€œHow do you know my brother?”
    â€œOh, I seen him in here a few times. Ain’t seen him lately, though.”
    â€œYou’re a goddamned liar, Meecham,” Swain said, his voice pitched low so that it didn’t carry beyond the three of them.
    Cal reared back as if he had been struck. Then he looked toward the end of the L the bar made. Slocum swung his head to track Cal’s line of sight. In the dark corner at the end of the L, he saw a short wiry man who was smoking a cigarette.
    â€œYou call Ruben over here, Cal, I’ll drop you where you stand.”
    Slocum readied himself to draw his pistol if the dispute went any further.
    â€œWhat’s your pleasure, gents,” Cal said, a slight quaver in his voice. He was a short burly man with a beer belly and a small square moustache that looked as if he had a mouse in his mouth. His hair was thinning on top, and his sideburns were patchy as if they had fed a colony of moths.
    â€œOld Taylor for me,” Swain said.
    â€œYou got any Kentucky bourbon?” Slocum asked.
    â€œWe got bourbon,” Cal said. “I don’t know where it was born.”
    â€œBring whiskey and bourbon then.” Swain plunked a five-dollar gold piece on the counter. Cal’s eyes widened. He turned and left to fetch the bottles. Swain turned around, his back to the bar. Slocum did the same.
    â€œYou see him over there in the corner?” Swain asked in a low voice. “Loomis?”
    â€œI saw him,” Slocum said.
    Swain scanned the room. He stopped when he saw Scroggs and another man at Scroggs’s usual table in the far corner of the room.
    â€œThat’s Scroggs over yonder,” Swain said. “That back table. He’s the pudgy one with the gold vest. Don’t know who he’s with.”
    â€œI see him. He’s the owner, eh?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Cal set glasses on the bar top and poured drinks.
    â€œBourbon’s from Tennessee,” he said. He grabbed up the gold piece and went to the cash register. He plunked the change, in silver, down on the counter.
    â€œLeave the bottles,” Swain said.
    Cal slunk to the center of the bar and looked the other way. Slocum followed his line of sight clear to the end of the bar. There, he saw a tall blond man who looked Swedish. The man stood with his muscular arms folded across his chest as if he was looking for trouble to break out at any moment.
    â€œThat’s Thorson down there,” Swain said. “He’s hoping for the chance to break a couple of heads.”
    â€œHis muscles have got muscles,” Slocum said.
    Swain laughed.
    â€œHe used to wrestle for a livin’,” Swain said.