Standoff in Santa Fe

by J. R. Roberts

  “Let’s just say I’m glad I never had to find out,” Clint said.

  “Yeah, well, I woulda liked to find out,” Miller said. “I like to try myself against the best.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I think you’ll pretty much have your pick here, Miller. Thanks for the beer.”

  “Anytime,” Miller said.

  Clint wondered how many of the others were like Miller. Were they here to try their luck?

  ELEVEN

  Clint moved away from Miller before the man could decide to try his luck right there and then. By doing so, he came face-to-face with John Wesley Hardin.

  “Hello, Clint,” Hardin said.

  “Wes.”

  “What was on Miller’s mind?”

  Clint raised his mug and said, “He just wanted to buy me a drink.”

  “Yeah,” Hardin said, “I think he’s tryin’ to decide which of us to try first.”

  “Is that what you’re doin’?” I asked. “Looking to try your luck against someone?”

  “Not necessarily,” Hardin said. “But I wouldn’t back away either. Where are your friends? Thomas? Reeves? And Bat Masterson?”

  “They went to get something to eat.”

  “I see that Mexican kid, Elfego Baca, over there. Anybody else in town?”

  “I haven’t seen anybody else yet,” Clint said. “Not so far anyway. But with the wake being put off—”

  “What? Put off?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “the owner of this saloon is a guy named Conlon. He says the body isn’t ready to be seen yet. At least, he claims that’s what the undertaker told him.”

  “So when will it be ready?”

  “Probably tomorrow.”

  Hardin shook his head. “There’s lots of itchy trigger fingers around here, Clint. I wonder if we’ll make it without somebody gettin’ killed.”

  “I don’t know, Wes,” Clint said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “And speakin’ of itchy trigger fingers . . .” Hardin said, looking toward the batwing doors.

  “Clay Allison,” Clint said.

  “This should be interestin’,” Hardin said. “You hear the story about him and Bat Masterson?”

  “Never happened,” Clint said.

  “Is that a fact? Masterson didn’t make Allison back down?” Hardin asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “and the story went that Earp and Bat Masterson made him back down. But I don’t think anybody ever made Clay Allison back down, do you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Besides,” Clint said, “I heard he’s ranching and has a wife and child these days.”

  “I’ve known lots of men who tried to put down the gun and ranch, or farm,” Hardin said. “It never works. And look at him. He’s wearing his gun.”

  “Ranchers wear guns,” Clint pointed out.

  “Well,” Hardin said, putting his empty mug on the bar, “I’m gonna get me a hotel room, if the wake isn’t gonna be until tomorrow. See you then.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” Clint said.

  “I always try to stay out of trouble,” Hardin said, “no matter what stories you’ve heard.”

  Hardin was referring to the story that had gone around that he’d shot a man in the next room because he was snoring. Clint had never believed it, but he didn’t know Wes Hardin well enough to say for sure.

  Hardin left the saloon as Allison presented himself at the bar for a beer. The number of guns in town was now at a dangerous level, with almost an equal number on both sides of the law.

  * * *

  Clint was at the bar when Bat Masterson returned. Clint waved to the bartender for another beer as his friend approached him.

  “Here you go,” Clint said, handing Bat the beer.

  “Thanks.”

  “What happened to Bass and Heck?”

  “Both went to their rooms,” Masterson said.

  “And Luke?”

  “Found a poker game in another saloon.”

  “And not you?”

  “I don’t want to sit at a table with Luke,” Bat said. “It would demoralize him.”

  Clint knew what good friends the two men were, and probably equals at the poker table. Certainly they were both better poker players than he was.

  “I see Clay Allison has arrived,” Bat said. “What happened to Miller and Hardin?”

  “Went to find rooms.”

  “This town,” Bat said, “and this saloon are powder kegs with all these guns here.”

  “And with the wake being put off until tomorrow,” Clint said, “there’s time for more to arrive.”

  “No wonder I haven’t seen the local lawman on the street,” Bat said. “I bet he’s in hiding.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” Clint said. “I’d hate to have to get between some of these guys.”

  “I’m thinkin’ maybe you, me, Luke, Heck, and probably Bass should all be watchin’ each other’s backs while we’re here.”

  “We can travel at least in twos,” Clint agreed. “If Jim Miller keeps drinking, he’s going to be looking for trouble.”

  “And he may find it from Hardin. Or Allison,” Bat said.

  “Somebody asked me about you and Allison,” Clint said.

  “Never happened,” Bat said. “If it had, I can’t see Allison backing down from anybody, so one of us wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Speaking of Allison and Tombstone,” Bat said, “I wonder if Wyatt will be comin’.”

  “Last I heard, he was in San Francisco, refereeing some big fights.”

  “I know,” Bat said. “He’s also been talkin’ about maybe goin’ to Alaska.”

  “Probably won’t be here, then.”

  “That’s not bad news,” Bat said. “Kinda short-tempered since Tombstone.”

  “Who can blame him?”

  “You gonna be stickin’ around here?” Bat asked.

  “Nothing else to do,” Clint said. “I just finished the Twain book I was reading.”

  “I think I’ll find a game,” Bat said. “Watch my back, will you?”

  “You got it,” Clint said.

  It didn’t take long for Bat to find a chair, and then he was engrossed in a draw poker game. Clint ordered another beer and settled down to keep an eye on his friend’s back.

  TWELVE

  Before long, Bat Masterson had a stack of chips in front of him. Clint could see that it had also come to the attention of some other men in the place. He didn’t recognize them as anyone who might be there for the wake. He thought they were just there looking for trouble.

  They were young, in their late twenties, and had been drinking a lot. Now they were nudging each other and pointing over toward the table Masterson was at.

  Clint grabbed a saloon girl who was going by at that moment.

  “Excuse me, what’s your name?”

  The woman was young, blond, and pretty.

  “My name’s Karen. What can I do for you, handsome?” she asked, blinking her big blue eyes at him.

  “I’d like you to take three beers over to that table,” he said, pointing.

  “You’re buyin’ them a drink?”

  “Do you know them?”

  “I do,” she said. “They can get good and drunk all on their own, believe me.”

  “Well, bring them the beers anyway.”

  “Do you want me to tell them the drinks are from you?”

  “No,” he said, “I’ll take care of that myself.”

  “Well, okay.”

  She went to the bartender, got three mugs of beer, and brought them over to the three young men. Two of them tried to grope her, but she avoided them as if she’d had great practice doing it.
<
br />   She walked by Clint and said, “There ya go.”

  He put some money on her tray and said, “Thank you, Karen.”

  She shrugged and moved on.

  Clint picked up his own beer and went to join the three men.

  “Mind if I sit down?” he asked, then sat without waiting for an answer.

  “What do you want, mister?” one of them asked.

  “You’re crashing a private party, friend,” another one said.

  “Really?” Clint asked. “I thought seeing as how I supplied the drinks, maybe I was invited.”

  “You bought the beers?” the third man asked.

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “You mind if I ask, are you boys from town?”

  “That’s right,” the first one said.

  “We work around here,” the second one said. “So?”

  “What are your names?”

  None of them answered.

  “Hey,” he said, “you’re drinking my beer, I should at least know your names.”

  “Sam,” the first one said.

  “Ted,” the second man said.

  “My name’s Al,” the third said. “So what’s your name, mister?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  The three men stared at him.

  “The Gunsmith?” Sam asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “W-What are you doin’ here?” Ted asked. “With us?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I noticed the three of you looking over at my friend, at that poker table.”

  “Your friend?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “the one with all the chips in front of him? I had the feeling you were getting the wrong idea.”

  “What idea?” Al asked.

  “Like maybe trying to relieve him of his money?”

  The three young men exchanged glances nervously.

  “You should all know,” Clint said, “who that is you’re thinking about robbing.”

  “Whataya mean?” Sam asked. “He’s a tinhorn gambler.”

  “A tinhorn gambler named Bat Masterson,” Clint said.

  Their eyes widened.

  “Yes. If you had been foolish enough to try to rob him, you would have ended up dead,” Clint told them. “So drink up and be happy I came over to warn you.”

  They all picked up their beers and drank.

  THIRTEEN

  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.”

  FOURTEEN

  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 ar
rive 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.”

  FIFTEEN

  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.