Standoff in Santa Fe (5 page)

Clint returned to the bar with the rest of his beer.

“You saved their lives,” someone said.

He turned his head and looked. Standing next to him was Bill Tilghman, the former marshal of Dodge City, but now a rancher.

“Hello, Bill.”

“Thought I was sneakin up on you,” Tilghman said.

“No, I saw you.”

“Still aware, eh?”

“I haven't lost my senses yet,” Clint said. “I'm not that old.”

Tilghman, older than Clint and sporting some gray in his bushy mustache, said, “With age comes great wisdom.”

“Then I admit,” Clint said, “that you are the wiser of the two of us.”

“That means you're buyin'.”

Clint signaled to the bartender to give Tilghman a beer. Clint was still working on his own. He'd consumed quite a few by now. He was trying to slow down.

“When did you get to town?” Clint asked.

“About two hours ago. Stopped for somethin' to eat before comin' here. When's the wake?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I thought it was today.”

“It was supposed to be,” Clint said. “Change of plans.”

“By who?”

“Fella who owns the joint,” Clint said. “His name's Conlon. Know him?”

“I know of a Ben Conlon.”

“That's him.”

“Then there's money to be made,” Tilghman said, “or he wouldn't be here.”

“Look around,” Clint said. “He's makin' plenty of money.”

“I mean from the wake,” Tilghman said. “Is he charging admission?”

“No.”

“Then he's up to somethin'.”

“More than what you see here?”

“Seems like it,” Tilghman said. “I saw Allison when I came in, Bat playing poker, Jim Miller later. On the street I spotted Wes Hardin.”

“And more,” Clint said. “Bass Reeves, Heck Thomas, and Luke Short.”

“Trouble, trouble, and trouble,” Tilghman said.

“And why are you here?”

“Not for trouble,” Tilghman said. “Just to pay my respects.”

“That's why I'm here,” Clint said, “but most of the men here just want to make sure he's dead.”

“Well,” Tilghman said, “I can't blame them for that. You or I may not have had anythin' against him, but others certainly do.”

Clint finished his beer, contemplated another. It was at his elbow before he could decide, with Bill Tilghman paying.

“Thanks.”

“What was your business with those three?” Tilghman said, jerking his chin toward the table where Sam, Ted, and Al sat.

“Like you said,” Clint replied, “I saved their lives.”

“So they were eyeing Bat's chips, eh?”

“They were.”

“And why aren't you playin'?”

“Because I might end up in a game with Bat or Luke,” Clint said.

“You can handle them,” Tilghman said. “I've seen you play.”

“I'm on a bad streak,” Clint said. “The cards haven't been coming to me lately. That's not a time to try to tangle with men whose skills transcend the cards.”

“Meaning?”

“They don't need good cards in order to win,” Clint said. “I do.”

“You're modest,” Tilghman said, “but I wouldn't want to play against them either.” Tilghman smiled. “Maybe you just don't want to take money from friends.”

“That could be it, too.”

Tilghman looked around. “Well, there are enough pretty girls here to keep you occupied.”

“And one lovely woman,” Clint said, looking up at the second floor.

Tilghman looked also and saw Alicia Simmons staring down from the balcony.

“Oh,” he said, “I see.”

The drinking and music and poker went on into the night, and on to morning. Conlon had decided to stay open as long as he could, until the law closed him down. Yet the law never appeared.

Conlon himself decided enough was enough around 6 a.m.

Clint stuck it out all night, as did Bat. The others faded away a few at a time.

“Closing time,” the bartender called.

The poker game broke up, and Bat joined Clint at the bar, where there was now plenty of room.

“The sheriff never showed up to close the place down,” Bat observed. “Still playin' it smart, I guess.”

They had coffee before they left, found they were staying in the same hotel, the Chatwith House.

“Best in town,” Bat said. “Undoubtedly, Luke is also here.”

“No doubt,” Clint agreed.

“Breakfast?” Bat asked.

“Now or later?” Clint asked.

“Well, now,” Bat said. “Later it would be lunch.”

“Breakfast, it is.”

*   *   *

They got a table in the hotel dining room, which had just opened to serve breakfast.

“None of our colleagues are up yet,” Bat said, looking around. “I saw Tilghman standin' with you for a while.”

“Yeah, he had only just arrived a couple of hours before,” Clint said.

“I wonder who will arrive today,” Bat said. “A whole day for more guns to arrive. If this town doesn't explode, I'll be shocked.”

Clint and Bat both ordered steak and eggs, and coffee.

“Lots and lots of strong coffee,” Bat said.

“You plan on staying up?” Clint asked.

“Possibly. I'm just not sleepy.”

“Odd,” Clint said, “but neither am I.”

“You see?” Bat asked. “We're both feelin' the same thing. Somethin's gonna happen that we don't want to miss.”

“Or maybe we can stop.”

“I also saw you talk to those three whelps who were thinkin' about robbin' me.”

“They were drunk and stupid,” Clint said. “I saved their lives.”

“Oh, I wouldn't have killed them,” Bat said. “At least, I don't think so.”

The waiter brought the coffee, poured it for them.

“Maybe we should talk with the sheriff,” Bat said. “See how many deputies he has.”

“Are you thinking of volunteering?”

“Me? No. Maybe you, though.”

“Not me,” Clint said. “Burle must have his own deputies.”

“You've met the sheriff?”

“I have,” Clint said. “Stopped in to see him upon my arrival. He was . . . unimpressive, but I don't know yet if he's smart or cowardly.”

“Smart to stay out of the saloon, I'd say,” Bat said. “Why look for trouble?”

“To keep it from happening.”

“Spoken like a true ex-lawman,” Bat said, “but we do have lawmen in town. Bass Reeves still wears a badge. What about Tilghman?”

“Not for a while,” Clint said. “Ranching.”

“But more recently than we have,” Bat said. “He'll still hold that mind-set.”

“Maybe.”

“Well,” Bat said as the waiter arrived with their plates, “we have other matters to attend to now.”

Clint looked down at the plate laden with steak and eggs and said, “So we do.”

After breakfast Clint and Bat stepped outside the hotel and watched as the town awoke. People on the streets, wagons and buckboards carrying people and supplies.

“Looks peaceful enough,” Bat said.

“Well,” Clint said, “everyone but us is asleep. Wait until they wake up and hit the streets.”

“The trouble will most likely come from Miller, Hardin, or Allison,” Bat said.

“That's what I figure,” Clint said, “or from some local who's feeling brave and stupid.”

“Who else is there to arrive but Wyatt, Virgil . . .”

“What about James?”

“My brother won't be here.”

“Then there's Siringo, and Tom Horn . . . I ran across them both sometime back. Working together.”

“That must have been an experience.”

“Speaking of lawmen,” Clint said, “we forgot Baca. He still wears a badge.”

“Then the sheriff should have all the help he needs, and not expect any from us.”

“Agreed.”

“I think I'm gonna to see if the general store is open yet,” Bat said. “I need some good cigars.”

“I think,” Clint said, “I'm going to pull up one of these chairs and just sit awhile. I'll be here in case you run into any trouble.”

“If I do,” Bat said, “you'll be the first to know.”

Bat stepped into the street and crossed while Clint sat in a wooden chair and leaned it back against the wall.

While Clint was sitting in front of the hotel and relaxing, more and more people appeared on the streets. Some of them nodded to him when they passed; some women even graced him with smiles. More and more buckboards rolled by as businesses got rolling. And then a man on a black horse rode down the center of the street. Clint recognized him immediately, and knew that trouble had definitely come to town.

*   *   *

Dutch Craddock was a bounty hunter, and whether his prey was worth money alive or dead, he brought them back dead.

Every time.

Craddock spotted Clint Adams as soon as he came within sight of the hotel. He directed his horse that way, stopped right in front of the seated Gunsmith.

“Adams.”

“Dutch,” Clint said. “Here for the wake?”

“What wake?”

“You haven't heard?”

“I'm not here for any wake, Adams,” Craddock said, “unless the man I'm lookin' for makes me kill 'im.”

“Don't they all make you kill them, Dutch?”

“Hey,” Dutch said, “the paper says dead or alive. I leave the choice up to them.”

“Seems to me they always make the wrong choice.”

“So you're here for some wake?” Craddock asked.

“I'm here for the wake. It's—”

“I don't even want to know,” Craddock said. “It doesn't matter to me. You stayin' in this hotel?”

“I am.”

“Any good?”

“The best one in town.”

“They still got rooms?”

“There are a lot of people in town for the wake, but I think they do.”

“Good,” Craddock said. “I'll see to my horse first.”

Craddock started to wheel his horse around when Clint called out, “You didn't say who you were here looking for.”

“No,” Craddock said, “I didn't.”

He rode away.

*   *   *

Bat returned smoking a big cigar but looking a bit sleepy.

“You still sittin' here?” he asked. “I thought you'd be in bed by now.” He pulled a chair over and sat next to Clint. “What's been goin' on?”

“Another gun came to town.”

“Oh? Who was it this time?”

“Dutch Craddock.”

“Craddock?” Bat asked, pausing with the cigar almost to his mouth. “What's he here for?”

“Not what,” Clint said. “Who? He doesn't know anything about the wake. Didn't even want to know who the wake was for. Just if this was a good hotel.”

“Well, if he's not here for the wake, who's he here for?” Bat asked.

“He didn't say.”

Bat put the cigar in his mouth and twirled it while he thought.

“It's got to be somebody with a price on his head,” he said. “That leaves out you, me, Luke, Heck, Bass, and Elfego Baca.”

“Right,” Clint said, “but that leaves in Hardin, Allison, and Jim Miller.”

“Unless it's somebody else,” Bat said, “and Craddock got here first.”

“The question is,” Clint said, “will he be tempted to go against one of them while he's waiting?”

“I haven't heard that Craddock ever had anything to prove,” Bat said. “He's fast, I know that . . .”

“But he doesn't need to prove it,” Clint said.

“Then why does he bring in all his bounties dead?”

“I guess it's just easier for him that way,” Clint said.

“I wonder what the local sheriff will think about Craddock being in town.”

“If I remember correctly,” Clint said, “Craddock usually checks in with the locals, so I guess we'll find out.”

“You know what?” Bat asked.

“What?”

Bat looked at the tip of his cigar and said, “I'm gonna finish this cigar and then get some sleep.”

“I think,” Clint said, letting the front legs of his chair come down, “I'll have a talk with the sheriff.”

“Gonna check him out for real this time?” Bat asked. “See what he's made of?”

“Might as well find out if he's going to do his job or not,” Clint said.

“Well,” Bat said, “let me know what you decide—when I wake up.”

“I'll do that,” Clint said. “Sleep well.”

Sheriff Jim Burle looked up from his desk as Clint entered his office.

“Back again?” Burle asked. “The wake over?”

“Hasn't even started yet,” Clint said.

“Really?”

“According to Mr. Conlon, the body wasn't ready yesterday,” Clint explained.

“Will it be ready today?”

“He says so.”

“People must be gettin' impatient.”

“If they do, and tempers get short, there could be trouble,” Clint said. “Are you ready for that?”

Burle sat back and regarded Clint for a moment.

“Who are you askin' for?” he asked then.

“Just for my own benefit,” Clint said.

“Tell me,” Burle said, “who else is in town for this wake?”

“You don't know?”

“I know John Wesley Hardin is here. I saw Bat Masterson around town, and Luke Short. Some others. I'm just wonderin' who I missed.”

Clint reeled off the names of everybody who had been in the saloon the night before. “And today, Dutch Craddock rode into town.”

“Craddock?” Burle asked. “The bounty hunter?”

“That's right.”

“Is he here for the wake?”

“He says no,” Clint said, “so that means he's here to collect on somebody.”

“If that's the case,” Burle said, “he'll be comin' in to see me eventually.”

“I suppose so,” Clint said. “If that's the way he does business.”

“It's the way he's supposed to do business,” Burle said.

“Well,” Clint said, “with all the short tempers and quick trigger fingers in town, I was just wondering if you were prepared. You know, if you had deputies?”

“Why? Do you want to volunteer?”

“Not at all,” Clint said. “Like I said, I was just wondering.”

“Well, Mr. Adams,” Burle said, “let me assure you that I know how to do my job.”

“I hope so,” Clint said. “Are you the only law in town? Is there a marshal? A police department?”

“Nope,” Burle said. “Just me.”

“And . . .”

“If I need deputies,” Burle said, “I have them.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

“What if I
did
want to volunteer?”

Burle smiled.

“I would say thanks but no thanks, I don't need you,” he answered.

“Okay,” Clint said, “then I guess you're prepared.”

“I am.”

“For anything?”

“That's right,” Burle said. “For anything.”

“If you say so.”

Clint started for the door. When he got there, the sheriff said, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the concern. I appreciate it.”

“Sure.”

“Now you can tell your friends that you think I know my job.”

Clint grinned, opened the door, and said, “I'll tell them.”