Clint figured he couldn’t ask the sheriff about a tracker in town, so he decided he’d go to someone even better. The people who knew everything about everybody in a town were the bartenders.
Clint walked to the Dancing Lady and entered. At that time of day, Mike the bartender was cleaning glasses behind the bar.
“Hey,” Mike said, “beer?”
“Beer,” Clint said, “and information.”
“I got both,” Mike said. He drew the beer, set it in front of Clint, and said, “That’s one. What’s the other?”
“I need a tracker,” Clint said. “I figure every town’s got at least one.”
“A tracker.”
“Somebody I can pay,” Clint said, “and trust.”
“Ah,” Mike said, “I know just the guy.”
“Good. Where do I find him?”
Mike looked past Clint and said, “Right back there.”
Clint turned. The man Mike was indicating sat at a table alone, with a bottle of whiskey and a glass. At the moment, his head was down on the table.
“Him?” Clint asked. “He’s drunk.”
“He’s always drunk,” Mike said. “He was sitting there last night, only you couldn’t see him.”
“Mike, what good is he to me if he’s always drunk?” Clint asked.
“He’s always drunk,” Mike said, “except when he’s working.”
“He can stay off the whiskey while he’s working?”
“Yes.”
“How does he manage that?”
“Because if he’s working for you, he knows you’re gonna pay him money he can use to buy more whiskey.”
“And he stays sober until then?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am,” Mike said, “if you don’t pay him until the job is done.”
Clint looked again at the man, who hadn’t moved.
“Okay,” he said, “what’s his name?”
“Haven,” Mike said.
“First name? Last name?”
“Just Haven.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “thanks.”
Clint grabbed his beer, started away, but then turned back.
“How much has he had to drink?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mike said. “He only gets so drunk. Once he reaches that point, it doesn’t matter how much more he drinks.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” Mike said. “He’s the only man I’ve ever seen drink like that.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “okay. Thanks. Okay if I take my beer with me?”
“He won’t mind.”
Clint nodded and walked over to the table. Haven still didn’t move.
“Haven?”
No answer.
“Haven!”
Nothing.
“Hey.” He reached across and shook the man by the shoulder. “Haven!”
Haven sat straight up, his eyes wide. When he saw the whiskey bottle, he grabbed for it.
“Whoa,” Clint said, grabbing it first.
“That’s mine.”
“You don’t need it,” Clint said. “I’m offering you a job.”
“A job? Doing what?”
“Tracking.”
Haven sat back. He was a dark man—dark hair, dark skin—in his thirties. He had about a week’s growth of stubble on his face.
“Who or what am I tracking?” he asked, looking at Clint with bloodshot eyes.
“Two men,” Clint said.
“What did they do?”
“I just want to talk to them first, but I think they committed an act of sabotage.”
“How long have they been gone?”
“Since this morning.”
“From where?” As he asked the questions, amazingly the man seemed to grow less and less drunk.
“From the Kendall ranch, outside of town.”
“They work for Kendall?”
“They did.”
“Do you work for him?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’m acting in the interest of Ben Blanchard, of the King Street Salt Mine.”
“And who’s payin’ me?”
“Blanchard.”
Haven wiped his face, sat up straighter, and asked in a perfectly sober voice, “How much?”
“How much do you want?”