Kentucky Showdown (7 page)

Gage entered the office and looked at his boss, waiting for orders.

“Get me Blacker.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Blacker walked into the office with none of Gage's subservient attitude. Rather, he walked with arrogance.

“Adams was just here,” Fontaine said.

“I saw him.”

“He asked me about you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Apparently somebody mentioned you.”

“Nobody mentions me,” Blacker said. “That's how I like it.”

“Well, somebody did.”

“Who?”

“I'm thinking maybe the sheriff.”

“Hackett? Yeah, he's probably the only one. So what did you tell him?”

“About you? Nothing.”

“Good. So whataya want me to do?”

“I don't know yet,” Fontaine said. “I need time to think.”

“There's only two more days 'til the Derby.”

“I know that,” Fontaine said. “Just stay around here 'til then. When I decide, I'll want to be able to get to you quick.”

“Yeah, okay,” Blacker said. “Okay. At least the grub around here ain't bad.”

“Good idea,” Fontaine said. “Go and get something to eat.”

Blacker left and Fontaine poured himself a brandy. It was never too early for good brandy, and maybe it would help him think.

* * *

Clint got back to Louisville and reined in his horse in front of the sheriff's office. As he entered and found Hackett there, he wondered if the man ever left the building.

“Back already?” Hackett asked. “You talk to Fontaine?”

“I did. Didn't find out much. Claimed he never heard anything about Blacker being a gunman.”

“He might be telling the truth.”

“Yeah, he might be,” Clint said. “But he did tell me something else.”

“What's that?”

“That he also had somebody watching those other two out-of-town horses work out.”

“So what do you want to do with that information?” Hackett asked.

“I thought I'd go and talk to those folks,” Clint said. “Do you know where they're staying?”

“Well,” Hackett said, “they each rented places out of town. One of them is at Two Chimneys, and the other—”

“Can you just give me directions? I want to talk to them.”

“What do you hope to learn from them?”

“I don't know.”

“So what questions will you ask?”

“I don't know that either,” Clint said. “Not until I get there.”

“Well, okay,” Hackett said. “They're both only about an hour outside of town . . .”

Clint left the office armed with directions to both places, mounted up, and rode out again.

Clint rode to Two Chimneys first, where Sunday Song was being stabled, and was working. According to Hackett, the horse's owner was William Kingston, and the trainer was Ollie Shoemaker.

As he rode up on the house and stable, nobody was in sight. It wasn't a working ranch, so that wasn't unusual. That was the way it had been at the Fontaine place, as well.

He stopped in front of the house, and as he did, a man came out of the barn and walked over.

“Help ya?” he asked.

“I'm looking for Kingston, or Shoemaker.”

“I'm Shoemaker,” the man said.

“The trainer?”

“That's right.” Shoemaker gave Clint a suspicious look. “What's this about?”

“Well, I'm not really sure,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams, and I'd like to talk to you and the owner, Mr. Kingston.”

“You're Adams?” Shoemaker asked.

“That's right.”

“I heard of you,” the trainer said. “The Gunsmith, right?”

“That's right.”

Shoemaker looked over at Eclipse.

“Impressive horse.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Ever think of racing him?”

“No.”

“Too bad. He looks like he'd do really well in distance races.”

“He does have a lot of stamina.”

“Come into the house and I'll tell the boss you're here,” Shoemaker said. “Can't guarantee he'll talk to you, though.”

“That's fine.”

They entered the house and Shoemaker said, “Wait here.”

Clint nodded and waited, hat in hand. The entry hall of the house was very large, as was the house itself. Hackett had told him that the best training track in the county was here. Clint assumed it was behind the house, because he hadn't seen it.

Shoemaker returned and said, “Mr. Kingston is in the study.”

“The study?”

“Yes, sir. Follow me.”

Clint followed the tall, worn-looking trainer down a hall to a room which, like Fontaine's office, was lined with books, but it was much larger and had a lot more furniture than just a desk and chairs. Kingston and Shoemaker could have been the same age, mid-forties, but the owner looked like the healthier of the two and, also like Fontaine, was dressed impeccably.

“Mr. Adams?” Kingston asked.

“That's right.”

“William Kingston.” The man stuck out his hand, and Clint shook it. “Ollie tells me you want to talk to us. What's it about?”

“Racing, I guess,” Clint said.

“Well,” Kingston said, “if you're looking for a tip on the Derby, I don't think I can help you.”

“I've gotten nothing but tips on the Derby since I arrived,” Clint said. “It's refreshing to find someone who doesn't have a tip.”

Kingston laughed aloud and said, “Well, how about a drink?”

“Sure.”

“Ollie?”

“Sure, boss.”

“Brandy? Whiskey?” Kingston asked.

“I'll take a whiskey,” Clint said.

“Me, too,” Shoemaker said.

Kingston handed Clint a whiskey, and Shoemaker a shorter one. He poured a brandy for himself. There were a lot of plush chairs in the room, but they all remained standing.

“So, what's on your mind today, Mr. Adams?” Kingston asked.

“I think I should tell you first that Ben Canby is a good friend of mine.”

“Canby?” Kingston said. “Doesn't he have a horse in the Derby?”

“We're not going to get anywhere if we dance around each other, sir,” Clint said.

Kingston smiled.

“No, you're right,” Kingston said. “Canby trains Whirlwind.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Are you here offering information, or looking for some?”

“I'm not sure,” Clint said. “We've learned that a man named Peter Fontaine sent men out to watch Ben's horse, your horse, and the horse from the East as they worked out.”

“I thought I noticed something in the distance,” Kingston said. “Fontaine, you say. Isn't he a big man around these parts?”

“So I hear.”

“So he's looking for an edge before he bets,” Kingston said.

“Have you ever had any dealings with him?”

“I have not,” Kingston said. “In fact, this is my first time east of the Mississippi. I do most of my business in California.”

“Do you know the connections of the other horse? Uh, what is it? Easy Going.”

“I have met the owner, Daniel Farnsworth,” Kingston said. “But I haven't met the trainer, the Irishman, Seamus Callaghan.”

“I have,” Shoemaker said. “He's a good man. He'll have that horse ready.”

“What are you thinking, Mr. Adams?”

“I just wonder if all Fontaine is up to is trying to make a winning bet,” Clint explained. “It seems to me a man with his reputation would be after something much, much bigger.”

“Like what?”

“That's the problem,” Clint said with a shrug. “I don't know.”

“Have you asked Mr. Fontaine?”

“I have,” Clint said. “He wasn't very helpful.”

“What about Dan Farnsworth?” Kingston asked. “Have you talked to him the way you're talking to me?”

“No,” Clint said. “That was my next stop.”

“Well,” Kingston said, “I hope he's more helpful than I've been.”

“So do I,” Clint said. He set the glass down on a nearby table. “Thank you for the drink.”

“You will let me know if you find out something I should be aware of, eh?”

“Definitely.”

As Clint turned to leave, Kingston said, “Tell me something.”

“What's that?”

“How good is that little horse, Whirlwind?”

“He'll give anybody a run for their money,” Clint said.

“Ah,” Kingston said, “good. Competition is very good.”

“So I hear,” Clint said.

He turned and left.

After Clint left, Shoemaker said, “What do you suppose that was about?”

“He's fishing.”

“For what?”

“Answers.”

“About what?”

“Ollie,” Kingston said, “just train the horse, leave the rest of the thinking to me.”

Shoemaker frowned.

* * *

Outside, Clint mounted up and started to ride out. As he passed the barn, a small black man stepped out, stopped short when he saw Eclipse.

“Wow,” he said, “now that's a horse.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You racing him?”

“No, I'm afraid not. Besides, he's not three years old.”

“I can see that.”

“Are you riding Kingston's horse?”

“Sunday Song,” the man said, “and I sure am.”

“What's your name?”

“Lorenzo Capp,” the man said.

“I hear Sunday Song is a good-looking horse himself,” Clint said.

“He sure is. You wanna see him?”

“Can I?”

“Sure thing,” Capp said. “Come on.”

Clint dismounted and walked Eclipse into the barn.

Capp led Clint to a large stall with a locked door. Inside was a handsome three-year-old black colt. Clint had to admit that on looks alone, Sunday Song would beat Whirlwind.

“He's magnificent,” Clint said.

“Yeah, he is.”

“Is he fast?”

“The fastest,” Lorenzo Capp said. “He's gonna win the Derby.”

“Are you sure?”

“I've ridden a lot of horses, mister,” Capp said. “This one is a winner. He ain't never been beat yet.”

“I can't argue with credentials like that, can I?” Clint asked.

“No, sir,” Capp said. “Are you friends with the boss?”

“I just left him,” Clint said. “He's got a lot of faith in you, and this horse.”

“He's a good boss,” Capp said.

“And an honest man?” Clint asked.

“Like I said,” Capp said, “he's a good boss.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I wish you luck, and I guess I'll see you on Derby day.”

“Put your money on Sunday Song,” Capp said. “He can't lose.”

“I'll remember,” Clint said.

Clint's next stop was the training facility of Easy Going. It was a smaller ranch than Two Chimneys, with no name posted over a wooden arch. Clint rode through the arch and up to the house, where a few men were milling about. The training track was right there in front. The men stopped to watch him as he dismounted. None of them approached him, but continued to watch.

He started up the steps to the house as the door opened and a man came out. He was sixty if he was a day, and the suit he wore led Clint to believe this was the owner of the horse, not the trainer. The man puffed on a pipe and watched as Clint ascended the steps.

“You don't look like a drummer,” the man said, “and we're not selling anything, so what can I do for you?”

“Are you Mr. Farnsworth?” Clint asked.

“I am.”

“My name is Clint Adams.”

Farnsworth worked the stem of his pipe with his teeth as he thought a minute.

“I'm from New York,” he said, “and this is my first time west, but that name means something to me.”

“You might have heard it once or twice.”

“Wait a minute,” Farnsworth said, pointing at Clint with the pipe stem. “The Gunsmith, right? You were in New York some years ago with P. T. Barnum.”

“I was.”

“And then again with Buffalo Bill Cody.”

“Yes.”

“You're something of a legend out here.”

“Well . . .”

“Sharpshooting, wasn't it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, come in, sir, come in,” Farnsworth said, opening the front door. “I'm very interested in what brings you here today.”

Clint followed Farnsworth into the house. Smaller than the house at Two Chimneys, it was still well furnished but had no woman's touch to it. Not a home, Clint thought, just a place to stay.

“So what's this about?”

“The Kentucky Derby.”

“Ah,” Farnsworth said, “you want to know whether or not to make a bet on my horse? Well, I'll tell you, go to the bank, sir, go to the bank.”

“No, that's not it.”

“Then what is it?”

“Do you know a man named Peter Fontaine?”

Farnsworth took the pipe from his mouth and frowned at the wet stem.

“I know the name,” he said. “He's a businessman with questionable methods. In fact, some say he's more of a gambler than a businessman.”

“That's the man,” Clint said.

“Are you here representing him?”

“Not at all,” Clint said. “I'm a friend of Ben Canby's.”

“Canby,” Farnsworth said. “Another name I should know.”

“He's a local trainer.”

“Ah, yes,” Farnsworth said. “Whirlwind, isn't it?”

“That's right.”

“I've heard he's a nice little horse.”

“He is that.”

“Good,” the man said. “My horse could use a little competition from somebody other than Sunday Song. But what's this all got to do with Fontaine?”

Clint explained that Fontaine had been having all three horses watched as they worked out.

“One day, maybe more,” Clint said.

“How do you know this?”

“I tracked the watcher back to Fontaine's ranch. When I confronted him, he admitted it.”

“And what does he say is the reason?”

“He'd like me to believe he was just looking for an edge in making a bet.”

“But you don't believe it.”

“No,” Clint said. “A man like him must have another reason.”

“Money.”

“Yes.”

“You think he's got some scheme cooked up to make money off this race, but it has more to do with simply placing a bet.”

“Exactly.”

“What were you hoping to get from me?” Farnsworth asked. “Confirmation?”

“No,” Clint said, “I just wondered if you knew Fontaine, or had ever done business with him.”

“As I said,” Farnsworth said, “I've heard of the man, but no, I've never done business with him. Have you checked with Mr. Kingston?”

“I have,” Clint said. “He doesn't know him either.”

“That's odd.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, he has his fingers in a lot of pies, does our Mr. Kingston. I would have thought he'd crossed swords with someone like Fontaine before.”

“Maybe he lied to me.”

“I wouldn't want to call anyone a liar,” Farnsworth said. “I was just saying that it sounded strange.”

“How is your horse doing, Mr. Farnsworth?”

Farnsworth frowned again.

“Is it you who is looking for an edge, Mr. Adams? Some inside information?”

“I was just inquiring about the health of your horse, sir.”

“He's fine,” the owner said. “My trainer is taking good care of him.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I'm happy you're pleased.”

“And thanks for talking to me.”

“Not at all.”

Farnsworth walked Clint to the door and out to the porch.

“If you happen to discover what Mr. Fontaine is up to, will you let me know?”

“Of course,” Clint said.

“Then good luck to you.”

Clint went down the steps and picked up Eclipse's grounded reins.

“That's quite a horse you have,” Farnsworth said.

“Yes, he is.”

“A Darley, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Clint said.

“Do you mind if I ask how you came to own him?”

Clint mounted and said, “He was a gift from P. T. Barnum.”

“I wish my trainer were here to see him.”

“Maybe another time,” Clint said. “I have to be going.”

Farnsworth took the pipe from his mouth. “As I said, good luck.”

“Thanks,” Clint said.

Farnsworth remained on the porch until Clint was out of sight, then looked at his pipe—which had gone cold—and went back into the house to find a match.