Chapter 48: The Moonshine Formula
If Mac hadn’t been around Davey every single day, he might have started to believe his brother had been replaced by someone else.
The change was just that drastic.
So drastic, in fact, that Mac could hardly believe it himself.
“Maybe it’s because of when I got hurt back then?” he wondered.
After thinking it over, Mac convinced himself it must’ve been his fault—that his near-death experience was what made Davey turn into the man he was now.
He still remembered that time in Colter Village, when Davey sat beside his bed, lost in thought for days on end, barely saying a word.
Maybe that was when everything started to change.
No matter how much Mac tried to make sense of it, one thing was undeniable—Davey had truly become a big shot now.
The kind of man even the Pinkertons couldn’t do a damn thing about.
“Alright, Mac, stay here for now. You can head into town and have some fun if you want,” Davey said.
“Donal, you’re coming with me.”
He gave the order casually. He still needed to visit the speakeasy—his plans had been thrown off earlier by the Pinkertons’ sudden arrival.
“Got it, Davey. I’m heading to town!”
That was exactly what Mac wanted to hear. A few drinks were all it took to lift his spirits.
Donal, meanwhile, straightened up with renewed respect.
Even though Davey told him not to be so formal, Donal couldn’t help it—he was following a man who even the Pinkertons couldn’t touch. Of course, he had to show respect.
The reason Davey brought Donal to the speakeasy was simple—sales.
Making moonshine was one thing, but selling it was another.
Mac was useless in that regard; at best, he could serve as muscle for deliveries.
Donal, on the other hand, was the key to breaking open the moonshine market.
And besides, it wasn’t like Davey could keep the speakeasy’s location a secret from him forever.
They rode out together, and soon the small building came into view—not far from Valentine.
Donal’s excitement was obvious. The fact that Mr. Callander was bringing him here meant he was being trusted as an insider.
“Oh, Mr. Callander, perfect timing! Come taste these—I’ve got a few different flavors, and I can’t decide which one’s best!”
“I’ve already recreated the flavor of fine whiskey. No ordinary man could tell the difference!”
Benedict’s voice called out eagerly as Davey entered, Donal trailing behind. He didn’t seem to care that Davey had brought someone new. All he wanted was to show off his results.
Three bottles sat neatly on the counter. The liquid inside looked crystal clear, almost indistinguishable from real whiskey.
Smiling, Davey said, “Mr. Benedict, you’ve certainly lived up to expectations. These three bottles—different formulas, I take it?”
Benedict nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Callander. The formulas are mostly the same, but each one emphasizes a different characteristic. I just can’t decide which works best.”
“It’s been bothering me for days. But now that you’re here, I’ll let you make the call.”
Davey nodded—he’d planned on tasting them anyway.
He grabbed a glass and poured a little from the first bottle.
Before it even touched his lips, the strong aroma hit him, and he was instantly pleased. That smell alone was on par with any top-shelf whiskey.
But the real test was always in the taste.
A good whiskey should be smooth on the palate, well-balanced, rich in aroma, and leave a lingering finish.
Davey took a small sip—and his eyes lit up.
He tried the second, then the third.
All three were impressive, each one good enough to rival genuine name-brand liquor. With moonshine like this, the business was bound to take off fast.
After all, who wouldn’t want to pay less for something that tasted just as good as the real thing?
In fine spirits, the qualities people prized most were aroma, sweetness, purity, and body.
The very best didn’t make you thirsty or give you a hangover.
These three batches, though, each stood out in a different way—one for its aroma, one for its sweetness, and one for its purity.
After a brief moment of thought, Davey chose the sweet one.
That decision had everything to do with the current state of the US—sweet flavors were popular everywhere, from the East to the West. People loved sweetness; it was a comfort.
A whiskey with a pleasant, lingering sweetness would sell easily.
Normally, that sweetness came naturally through the distilling process. But in Benedict’s case, it was clear he’d added artificial sweeteners to achieve the effect—something that made the recipe even more valuable.
“Mr. Benedict, I’m very pleased with all three versions,” Davey said finally.
“So now I’ll need you to write down the formulas for each of them.”
“And then, I’d like you to make another batch right here in front of me, using those same recipes.”
“I trust such a simple request won’t be an issue for you, Mr. Benedict?”
Author's Note
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