Sanctuary Read Free

one end of a mahogany bar so dark and richly carved it gave the room a gothic air. That impression was enhanced by the rows of stuffed heads that lined the walls—great, dead animals surveying the dimly lit scene with glass eyes.
    â€œWhat’ll you have?”
    The bartender was short and wiry, the white apron he wore an accent point painted into a melancholic picture too somber to be real. While he waited for Mordecai’s order, he polished glasses with a clean, white towel, snapping it as he finished each glass.
    â€œThree fingers of red eye.”
    The bartender cocked his head, staring at Mordecai. “Got some coffee—good and stout.”
    â€œBar whiskey.”
    The bartender nodded. “Name’s Ben,” he said, offering his hand. “… Johnson.”
    â€œMordecai,” the preacher replied, taking Johnson’s hand.
    Whispers followed the preacher’s first sip of the whiskey. He was all right, they said. Can’t fault a man of the cloth who owns up to having a taste for whiskey. Preachers need a drink once in a while just like everyone else. Only thing is that some of them won’t admit it.
    The preacher settled back, for a moment forgotten. He watched as the back door opened and a grizzled creature in an ancient, tattered suit slouched through. He wore a white beard, the product not of intent but of neglect.
    Johnson set an empty glass on the bar. The old man stiffened then, studying the glass as a starving wolf studies a lone sheep.
    He nodded, his lips moving in a conversation only he could hear, and shuffled to a closet. He reached inside for a push broom and a box of oiled sawdust, then stopped, staring at the bar until Johnson poured the glass full of whiskey. The old man nodded again and resumed his conversation with himself. He took a scoop of oiled sawdust and shuffled determinedly toward the front door, spraying sawdust from his shaking hand. He paused after each trip to the barrel, to look at the glass of whiskey and to wet his lips.
    â€œName’s Doc,” Johnson said to Mordecai, propping his elbows on the bar. “Old Army doctor, rode with Colonel Miles. Told me one time that he was up in the Bear Paws when Chief Joseph turned himself in.”
    Mordecai nodded. “How long’s he been doing that?”
    â€œSwamping? He’s been here longer than I have. I ’spect he’ll be here long after I’ve gone … if his liver holds out. Man who owned the Silver Dollar before me gave him a place out back. Didn’t see any reason to take it away from him.”
    The old man worked steadily, the swish, swish, thump of the broom broken only by the scrape of wood on wood as he moved tables and chairs. When he finished, he circled the room, dumping cigar and cigarette butts into a spittoon still awash from the night before. Then he carried the other spittoons out back, presumably to empty and wash them.
    â€œDoes a good job,” Johnson said, returning from a trip to one of the tables. “At least so long as that whiskey glass sits on the bar. Give him a drink first, and he’s done for the day.”
    The old man returned, put the spittoons in their receptacles at the bar and on the floor by the tables, then shuffled toward the bar, wiping his reddened hands on his pant legs. He shuddered to a stop and stared at the glass of whiskey. The quiet talk stopped, and everyone turned to watch the morning routine.
    Doc ran his tongue around his lips and reached for the drink, hand shaking violently. He tried to pick up the glass, but some whiskey spilled on the bar and the old man set the glass down so hard more sloshed out.
    Doc leaned over and pressed his lips down on the bar next to the glass, but before he licked up the whiskey, he felt the eyes on his neck. He stood then, pulling himself to attention like the old soldier he was.
    â€œHere, Doc,” Johnson said. The old man looked up as the bartender launched a