Standoff in Santa Fe (9 page)

Miller moved up next to Allison. Two men moved away to give him room.

“Did you see Clint Adams and Bass Reeves?” he asked Allison.

“What about them?”

“They're wearin' badges.”

“That's not news,” Allison said. “Reeves is a deputy marshal.”

“They're wearin' local badges.”

Allison finally looked at Miller.

“What's that about?”

“That's what I'm wonderin'.”

Allison looked around.

“Are they still here?”

“No, they left.”

“Any lawmen in the place?”

“No locals,” Miller said. “Baca is still here.”

“Is he wearin' a badge?”

“Yeah, from somewhere in New Mexico.”

Allison turned his attention back to his drink.

“Have a beer,” he said. “Nothin's gonna happen until tomorrow.”

“I don't like this,” Miller said. “The wake was supposed to be today.”

“If you're impatient, leave,” Allison said.

“Not a chance,” Miller said. “I wanna make sure the bastard is really dead.”

“Then we have to wait it out,” Allison said.

*   *   *

Delilah rolled over to get off the bed. As she did, Craddock grabbed her wrist.

“Where are you goin'?” he asked.

“I have to go back to work.”

“No,” Craddock said.

“Look, love,” she said, “if I don't work, I don't get paid.”

“I'll pay you for the night.”

“The whole night?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean you want to—”

“I want to sleep,” he said. “You want to sleep?”

“I'd love to sleep,” she said. “I don't hardly ever get a good night's sleep.”

“Okay then,” she said, sliding back onto the bed next to him. She rolled over, facing away from him. “Good night.”

But he was already asleep again.

*   *   *

Clint and Bat got back to their hotel and split up in the lobby. Their rooms were on different floors.

“Craddock is stayin' here, right?” Bat asked.

“That's right.”

“Did you see him leave the saloon?”

“No,” Clint said, “I didn't.”

“I hope nothin' happens tonight,” Bat said. “I'm tired.”

Clint was tired, too. He hadn't slept all that much the day before.

“I'll meet you down here for breakfast,” he told Bat.

“Okay,” Bat said, “but not too early, okay?”

They settled on a time and went to their rooms.

*   *   *

Conlon walked down to Alicia's room and knocked. When she answered, he tried to look past her into her room.

“Are you alone?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” she asked.

“I was just wondering,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“I'm really tired, Ben.”

“Is that your way of telling me there really is someone in there with you?”

“No,” she said, “it's my way of tellin' you that I'm tired.”

“Is it Adams?” he demanded. “Is he in there with you? Is that why you won't let me in?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I know you had him in there once before,” he told her.

“Well, he's not in here tonight. Good night, Ben.”

She closed the door in his face. He owned the saloon, he owned the buildings, and he owned her. What he should have done was kick the door in and take her.

What he did was turn and walk back down the hall to his office.

*   *   *

Alicia waited until she felt sure that Conlon was in his office, then picked up her wrap and walked to the door. Clint Adams may not have been in her room, but Conlon demanding to know if he was gave her an idea.

She cracked the door and peered out. When she didn't see Conlon lurking about, she stepped out and closed her door gently behind her. She went to the stairs, walked down, and slipped out the back door.

Clint was trying to decide whether to reread a Twain or a Poe when there was a knock on his door. His holster was hanging on the bedpost. He grabbed the gun and carried it to the door with him.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Alicia.”

He opened the door, holding the gun behind his back with his left. She was standing in the hall, alone.

“It's just me,” she said, putting her hands up. “I didn't bring any gunmen.”

He opened the door all the way and said, “Come in.”

She stepped past him. As she did, he stuck his head out and looked both ways.

“Worried about my reputation?” she asked him as he closed the door.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then I'm not either,” he said.

He walked to the bedpost and holstered the gun, then turned to face her. He was bare-chested and barefooted, wearing only his trousers.

“What brings you here, Alicia?”

“What do you think?”

She tossed her wrap away, reached behind her to undo her dress, and let it drop to the floor. It was a practiced move Clint had seen many women do before—saloon girls, whores, and women who simply wanted to impress.

He was impressed.

*   *   *

Three men sitting in the saloon were having a similar conversation to what Bat Masterson and Heck Thomas had been talking about.

“I'm getting tired of waitin' for this wake,” Teddy McCain said. “How about you guys?”

“Yeah,” Dick Dutrow said. “We seen enough famous guns walkin' around here in the past two days.”

“So whatta we do?” Andy Thomas asked.

McCain looked around. “Looks like most of the lawmen quit for the night.”

“Yeah, but the others are still here,” Dutrow said. “Allison, Hardin, and Jim Miller.”

“They won't get in our way,” McCain said.

“Way of what?” Thomas asked. “Whatta we gonna do?”

“We,” McCain said, “are gonna get a look at the body.”

“How do we do that?” Dutrow asked.

“I heard some talk that the body is locked in a storeroom in the back,” McCain said. “They're waitin' for word from the undertaker before they bring it out.”

“So?”

“So we're gonna go in and take a look.”

“How?” Dutrow asked.

McCain looked at his two partners and said, “Come on, boys. It's only a lock.”

*   *   *

Clint approached Alicia and cradled her two perfect handfuls of breasts in his palms. He squeezed them, popped the nipples with his thumbs while she sighed and dropped her head back. He leaned over to touch each nipple with the tip of his tongue. He licked them until they were distended, then took them and worried them between his teeth. She moaned and put her hands behind his head to hold him there—and then they heard the barrage of shots.

He jerked his head up and looked at her.

“Forget it,” she said. “Probably some drunk cowboys. Let the law handle it.”

“The problem is,” he said, grabbing his shirt, “for the time being, I am the law.”

As he put his shirt on, she saw the light glint off the badge pinned to it.

“Oh,” she said.

He pulled on his boots, grabbed his gun belt, and said, “If you're here when I get back, we can continue.”

“Well, okay—”

But Clint was out the door.

*   *   *

When Clint hit the street, he saw people running toward the Crystal. It didn't surprise him that the large saloon was the source of the shooting. He only hoped Alicia was right, and it was just drunk cowboys.

When he got to the saloon, he had his gun belt strapped on, and his shirt buttoned. He entered through the batwing doors and the occupants of the saloon turned to look at him.

“In the back,” somebody said, and a few men pointed the way.

“It's the storeroom,” a saloon girl said.

Of course it is, Clint thought.

Clint reached the inner door to the storeroom, which was wide open. Inside was a coffin, with the lid on it, and four men wearing some sort of uniform. On the floor were three other men, bleeding profusely, and dead.

“Hold it!” a man said to him.

Clint turned to the man. He was in his forties, broad shoulders, dressed in the same dark clothes as the other guards, but while they wore silver badges, he wore a gold one.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Trench,” the man said. “Head of security. These are my men.”

“Did you shoot these men?” Clint asked.

“We did.”

“Why?”

“They forced the door and attempted to enter,” Trench said. “We have orders to keep anyone from coming inside.”

“By killing them?”

“By any means necessary.”

Clint heard someone behind him, turned, and saw Bass Reeves coming toward him, followed by Deputy Billy, and finally, Sheriff Burle himself.

“What's goin' on?” Burle demanded.

“Your security men killed these three men,” Clint said, pointing, “because they tried to enter this room.”

“Which was locked and off-limits to customers,” Trench added.

“Any witnesses?” Burle asked.

“Just me and my men,” Trench said.

“Well,” Burle said, “I'm going to need you and your men to hand over your guns and come to my office with me and my deputies.”

“That's not a problem—” Trench started.

“Good. Let's—”

“As long as we wait until I can get some more of my men down here to guard this room.”

“You have more men?” Burle asked.

“I do.”

Burle looked at Clint, then at Reeves, who shrugged.

“I say no,” Clint said. “Let's take them in now.”

“I can't allow that,” Trench said.

“You'd resist?” Burle asked.

“Forcefully,” Trench assured him.

Burle looked at Clint.

“We don't need another shooting in this hallway,” he said. “We'll wait for him to get some more men down here.”

“Fine,” Clint said.

“Meanwhile,” Burle said, “Billy? Go out into the saloon and get some men to carry these men over to the undertaker's.”

“I'd like to come along,” Clint said.

Burle looked at him.

“To the undertaker's,” Clint added.

“Why?”

“I have some questions for the undertaker,” Clint said, “who seems to be missing.”

“Missing?” Burle asked. “I don't know anything about that.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I'll find out. What's the undertaker's name?”

“Driscoll,” Burle said. “Henry Driscoll.”

“Billy,” Clint said, “let's get those men to carry these bodies.”

“Yessir.”

“I'll stay here with the sheriff,” Reeves said.

Clint nodded. As he and Billy walked away, he heard Burle say, “All right, Mr. Trench—”

“Captain Trench.”

“Let's have those weapons and then you can fetch your other men.”

Clint followed the townsmen who were carrying the three dead bodies to the undertaker's office. When they got there, the men looked at him and he stepped forward to pound on the man's locked door. He had to knock again before a light appeared inside.

“I'm comin', I'm comin'!” a man shouted.

The door opened and a man appeared.

“Are you the undertaker?” Clint asked.

“Yeah, that's him!” one of the townsmen said. “The sheriff tol' us to bring these bodies here.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said. “Bring 'em in.”

He stepped aside and the men carried the bodies inside. The undertaker was in his sixties, tall with snow white air. His eyes were watery, probably because they had jarred him from a deep sleep.

“Take 'em in the back.”

The man turned and looked at Clint.

“New deputy?” he asked.

“Temporary,” Clint said. “Are you Henry Driscoll?”

“That's me,” the undertaker said. “And you?”

“Clint Adams.”

“The Gunsmith? That Clint Adams?”

“That's right. Listen, there are a lot of people waiting for the wake to take place.”

“The wake?”

“At the Crystal Queen.”

“Why tell me?”

“Well, Mr. Conlon told me the wake was being held up by you,” Clint said. “That he can't put the body on display until you clear it.”

“I've got nothin' to do with Mr. Conlon's business,” Driscoll said. “If he told you that, he's lyin' to you.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” Clint said. “Okay, Mr. Driscoll, thanks.”

“Hey,” Driscoll said, “where were these men killed?'

“At the Crystal.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?”

*   *   *

Now convinced that there was no good reason for the holdup of the wake, Clint headed back to the Crystal. But when he arrived there, he found the place locked up tight. He wondered how they'd managed to get everyone out so quickly.

He changed direction and walked to the sheriff's office.

When he entered the office, he found Sheriff Burle behind his desk, with Billy on one side and Bass Reeves on the other. The other deputy, Thad, was nowhere to be seen.

Sitting in front of the desk were Trench and one of his men. The other two men were standing behind them.

“You get the bodies taken care of?” Burle asked Clint.

“Yeah, we got them stowed away for the night.”

“And the undertaker? Driscoll?” Burle asked. “Is he missing?”

“Nope,” Clint said, “he was there—and he doesn't know anything about the wake or why it hasn't started.”

“Then Conlon's been lyin' to us,” Reeves said.

“Oh, yeah,” Clint said. “And I'm going to ask him about it tomorrow.”

“Well, before we get to that,” Burle said, “let's finish up with tonight.”

“Fine,” Clint said. “I was surprised to find the Crystal closed when I got back.”

“I didn't want anybody else gettin' shot tonight,” Burle said. He looked at Trench. “I want to know what exactly your job is, Trench.”

“Security,” Trench said.

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“You'd have to ask Mr. Conlon about that,” Trench said. “He told me I'm in charge of security.”

“And what does that mean to you?”

“That I can do whatever I want to keep Mr. Conlon, his employees, and his saloon safe and secure.”

“And is that what you feel you did tonight?” Burle asked him.

“Definitely,” Trench said. “Mr. Conlon especially wants that room to stay secure until the wake starts.”

“And when will that be?” Burle asked.

“I don't know anything about that,” Trench said.

“Well, why haven't I seen you in town before?” Burle asked. “Or know about your job at the Crystal?”

“Again,” Trench said, “you'd have to ask Mr. Conlon about that.”

“Don't worry,” Burle said, “I intend to.”

“Can me and my men go?” Trench asked.

“You can leave this office,” Burle said, “but don't leave town.”

“Why would we do that?” Trench asked, standing up. “We've got a job to do.”

Trench stood up and turned, found himself face-to-face with Clint, who didn't move. The tension was thick as all the other men in the room watched them. They stood that way for a few seconds, and then Trench stepped around him.

Trench's men followed him out the door.

“Wasn't there any way you could hold them responsible for what they did?”

“Marshal?” Burle said to Bass Reeves. “You want to explain it?”

“They tried to enter a section of the saloon that was off-limits to customers,” Reeves said. “And they forced a locked door.”

“But they had the right to kill them?” Clint asked.

“They were armed,” Reeves said, “and according to Trench, they drew their guns.”

“You have to take his word for it?”

“His men backed his story,” Burle said, “and there were no other witnesses. But don't worry. I'm gonna have a talk with Conlon tomorrow.”

“That makes two of us,” Clint said.