Gnarled Flask

You push past a curtained gap in a canyon wall and the canyon's dry heat is replaced by a small, spice-sour smoke that clings to the rafters. Light from a few battered lanterns pools over mismatched crates and a low bar made from a split wagon wheel; the walls are draped with faded bandanas, a coil of rope, and a ledger stuck with clay. Conversation is kept deliberately low; the few patrons — a pair of cloaked riders, a scabbed prospector, and a woman fingering a pistol — trade glances and coin like contraband. The still itself hisses behind the bar: a copper kettle rimmed in salt, a string of dates drying nearby, and a narrow spout pouring a pale fire into chipped clay cups. The smell of juniper and cactus sugar wraps the room, and someone taps a crooked dagger against wood in time with a thin, reedy tune. Newcomers are watched for a long beat before a calloused hand offers a cup and a price, and even the dogs in the corner seem to keep their distance from a battered crate tucked under the counter.