Standoff in Santa Fe

by J. R. Roberts

  Clint didn’t know Miller well enough to predict his reaction. But he’d heard enough about him so he wasn’t surprised by it.

  “I’ll come with you and answer your questions,” Miller said, “but you ain’t gettin’ my gun.”

  J. Burle stared at Miller, then looked at Clint, but for what?

  “It sounds fair to me,” Clint said. “If he gives up his gun, he’s a target.”

  “While in my custody?”

  “Is he under arrest?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then he’s not in your custody, is he?”

  Burle frowned, then looked at Miller.

  “All right,” he said to the gunfighter. “Let’s go to my office.”

  Miller looked at Clint, then turned and followed the sheriff to his office.

  Bat stepped up and stood next to Clint while a group of men lifted the dead bodies and carried them off. Before long, the street was no more crowded than on a regular busy day.

  “Looks like it’s starting,” Bat said.

  “Yep.”

  “Think Miller had call for this?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “but then we don’t have to, do we? We’re not wearing badges.”

  “No,” Bat said, “we’re not.”

  “Still,” Clint said, “let’s keep a sharp eye out. This might just be the beginning.”

  NINETEEN

  Rather than go to the Crystal Queen for a drink, Clint took Bat Masterson to the Buckskin, where bartender Kelly O’Day greeted him warmly.

  “Hey, I heard the shootin’,” he said. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

  “No, not me or my friend here,” Clint said. “Kelly, this is Bat Masterson. How about a beer for each of us?”

  “Comin’ up,” O’Day said. “Pleased to have ya both in my place.”

  He drew two beers and set them on the bar.

  “On the house,” he said, leaning his elbows on the bar. “Come on, tell me, who was shootin’?”

  Clint looked at Bat, who just shrugged.

  “It was Jim Miller,” Clint said. “Apparently two locals wanted to try their luck.”

  “And they didn’t fare very well,” Bat said.

  “Miller?” O’Day said. “Aw, damn!”

  “Why?” Clint asked.

  “I didn’t have him in the pool.”

  “What pool?” Clint asked.

  “The bettin’ pool,” the bartender said. “I picked you to be the first one to kill somebody.”

  Clint stared at the man and Bat said, “I think you better walk away, friend.”

  “Hey, uh, I didn’t mean nothin’—”

  “Walk away,” Bat said again. This time the man obeyed.

  Clint sipped his beer, then made a face and slammed it down on the bar so that it spilled.

  “Lost my thirst,” he said. “For this place anyway.”

  “Me, too,” Bat said. “We might as well go over to the Crystal and see what’s goin’ on.”

  Clint nodded and the two men left the saloon.

  * * *

  One of the other men in the saloon walked up to the bar and asked O’Day, “What was that all about?”

  “Beats me,” O’Day said. “That was Clint Adams and Bat Masterson. All I did was tell ’em about the bettin’ pool and they got all upset and left.”

  “You gonna dump those beers out?” the man asked.

  “Yeah, unless you want ’em.”

  “We’ll take ’em,” the man said. He grabbed the two beers left by Clint Adams and Bat Masterson and carried them back to his table. He set one down in front of his partner.

  “Was that them?” Cleve Johnson asked.

  “Yeah,” Steve Carter said, “it was them.”

  “Who’s beer do I got?” Johnson asked.

  “That one was Masterson’s.”

  “I want the Gunsmith’s.”

  Carter shrugged, switched beers with Johnson. He didn’t care. There was more beer in Masterson’s mug anyway.

  “Whataya think they got all mad about?” Johnson asked.

  “Seems like they don’t like bein’ bet on.”

  “I ain’t too happy with the pool neither,” Johnson said. “I had me John Wesley Hardin. Damn Miller.”

  “I had Clay Allison.”

  “I wonder who Miller killed.”

  “What’s it matter?” Johnson asked.

  “I’m just thinkin’ . . .”

  “Uh-oh,” Johnson said. “That’s never a good sign. We always get in trouble when you start thinkin.’” “Naw, naw, just hear me out.”

  “All right,” Johnson said with a deep sigh, “go ahead. After all, you did get me a free beer.”

  “With all these big reps in town,” Carter said, “we got us an opportunity . . .”

  TWENTY

  Clint and Bat entered the Crystal Queen and weren’t surprised to find it as packed as the day before, perhaps even more.

  “See anybody?” Clint asked.

  “Hardin at the bar,” Bat said, “further down Allison.”

  “I see Baca at a table.”

  “What about Heck and Luke?”

  “Not here,” Clint said. “Let’s get a drink.”

  They went up to the bar and elbowed open two places for themselves. This time when they got two beers, they kept quiet and drank them.

  And then he walked in.

  Craddock.

  It was as if everyone in the saloon recognized him, and wondered if they were on his list. Craddock was known as a man who always brought home his prey. If you were on his list, you were as good as dead.

  Clint, Bat, and the absent Heck Thomas, Bass Reeves, and Luke Short were the only ones who knew who he was really after.

  Clint looked down the bar at John Wesley Hardin and Clay Allison. Both men seemed very calm.

  “Must be no paper out on those boys,” Clint said. “They know Craddock’s not after them.”

  “Maybe they just know they can take him,” Heck suggested.

  “Does anybody know that?” Clint asked.

  “Well . . . you can take him, can’t you?” Bat asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “and I’m not looking to find out.”

  “Have you ever seen his move?” Luke Short asked.

  “I don’t have to,” Clint said. “He’s a killer, pure and simple. You never want to face a man who kills for a living. And maybe for pleasure.”

  Craddock examined the room, then moved to the bar. A space cleared for him somewhere between Clint and John Wesley Hardin, with Clay Allison the farthest away from him.

  Craddock got a beer placed in front of him, leaned on the bar, and sipped it. Suddenly, from the other end of the bar, Clay Allison pushed away from it and walked down to where Craddock was standing.

  “Now,” Heck Thomas said, “I wonder what this is about.”

  * * *

  Allison had no trouble securing a place next to Craddock because nobody else wanted it.

  “Craddock,” he said.

  “Clay.”

  “You still owe me a drink.”

  “Do I?”

  “From Waco, remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” Craddock said, making a face.

  “You forgot?”

  Craddock looked at Clay Allison.

  “Nobody likes to remember having to have his life saved,” Craddock said. “What are you drinkin’?”

  “A beer.”

  Dutch Craddock waved to the bartender, who brought a beer over.

  “How long have you been here?” Craddock asked.

  “Since yesterday,” Allison said. “Came for the wake. Is that why you’re here?”

  “I didn’t know anything about a w
ake until Clint Adams told me.”

  “When did you see Adams?”

  “Just today, when I rode in.”

  “Was that a happy . . . reunion?”

  “No reunion,” Craddock said.

  “So you’re not friends with Adams?”

  “No,” Craddock said, then looked at Allison and added, “Not friends with you either, as I recall.”

  “No,” Allison said, “that’s how I remember it, too.”

  But he didn’t move from his place. As Craddock had bought him the beer, he decided to finish it there, in the man’s company.

  “So, if you’re not here for the wake, you must be huntin’ somebody.”

  “I’m always hunting somebody.”

  “Who is it this time?” Allison asked. “Anybody in this saloon?”

  “Not anyone I saw when I walked in,” Craddock said. “Not you, Allison.”

  “Hardin?”

  “I saw him when I walked in,” Craddock said. “I have no paper on him.”

  “Jim Miller, then,” Allison said. “He killed two men in the street today.”

  “Then he’s the problem of the local law, not mine,” Craddock said.

  “So who is it, then?”

  “Not your worry,” Craddock said.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Allison said, “I wouldn’t warn him.”

  “This way,” Craddock said, “you won’t even be tempted.”

  “Good point.”

  “Finish your beer and let me be, Allison,” Craddock said. “We’re even now.”

  “Well,” Allison said, “if one beer is the value you put on your life, then yeah, we’re even.”

  When Craddock didn’t reply, Allison shrugged and took his beer back to his place at the bar. Before he got there, though, he was stopped by John Wesley Hardin.

  “Get anythin’ out of him?”

  Allison raised his mug and said, “Just a beer he owed me for savin’ his life.”

  “Is that what his life is worth?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Is he here for the wake?”

  “No,” Allison said. “I got that much out of him, at least. He didn’t know anythin’ about the wake until Clint Adams told him.”

  “Hmmm,” Hardin said.

  Allison moved on, reclaimed his former place at the bar.

  * * *

  “That didn’t look like a happy reunion, did it?” Bat asked.

  “Not at all,” Clint said, “although it did look like Craddock bought Allison a drink.”

  “Almost like he owed it to him,” Bat said.

  “You and I owe each other many drinks,” Clint said.

  “For saving each other’s lives many times over,” Bat said. “You think that was it?”

  “More than likely,” Clint said. “They didn’t look like friends.”

  “Why don’t the two of you stop talking so one of you can go into your deep pockets?” Luke Short said, waving his empty mug.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Killin’ Jim Miller walked into the saloon a short time later to a smattering of applause. Clint didn’t know if he was being applauded for killing two men, or for not being in jail.

  Whatever the case, he found himself a spot at the already crowded bar and ordered a beer.

  Right behind him came Sheriff Burle. He stood inside the batwings, observing the room. When he saw Clint, he walked over.

  “Have a beer with us?” Clint asked. “We’re waiting for the wake to begin.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Burle said, “if the rest of your friends don’t mind.”

  “Hell,” Heck Thomas said, “belly on up to the bar.”

  Burle moved up, stood between Clint and Bat, and Clint bought him a beer.

  “What’d you get out of Miller?” Bat asked.

  “The two men decided to try their luck with him, as he said,” Burle said. “He had no choice.”

  “Any witnesses speak up?” Clint asked.

  “Nope,” Burle said. “I had to depend on the word of the only living witness or participant.”

  “Jim Miller,” Luke Short said.

  “Right.”

  “You call on any of those deputies yet?” Clint asked.

  “Well,” Burle said, “that’s kind of why I’m here to talk to you boys.”

  “Count me out,” Luke Short said. “Last time I wore a badge, I got into a lot of trouble.”

  “My deputies are young,” Burle said, “and inexperienced.”

  “They’ve got to learn sometime,” Bat said. “I’m out.”

  Burle looked at Clint and Heck Thomas.

  “All I need is one man to wear a badge and work with them,” Burle said. “Show ’em the ropes.”

  “I’m a rancher now,” Heck said. “Just here for a wake.”

  Burle looked at Clint, who was saved when the batwings swung inward and Bass Reeves walked in, his deputy marshal’s badge very prominently displayed on his chest.

  “Just in time,” Clint said as the big black lawman approached them.

  “For what?” Reeves asked.

  “Well,” Clint said, waving the bartender over, “let’s start with a beer.”

  Moments later, Bass Reeves told Sheriff Burle, “Sure, I’ll help out. No problem.”

  “That’s great to hear,” Burle said.

  “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Burle said.

  Reeves slapped Clint on the back and said, “Clint, here, has to agree also.”

  “Now wait—” Clint said.

  “Sounds fair to me,” Heck Thomas said.

  “Me, too,” Bat said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Luke said.

  Reeves raised his eyebrows at Clint.

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said.

  “Okay,” Burle said. “Come on over to the office. I’ll introduce you to the other deputies, and give you each a local badge.”

  “We’ll wait here,” Bat said with a smile, “hold your places.”

  “Thanks,” Clint said.

  Reeves slapped Clint on the back again, and they followed Sheriff Burle out the door.

  * * *

  “What’s the big idea?” Clint asked Reeves along the way.

  “Come on,” Reeves said, “we work good together. Besides, you kinda hung me out to dry on this one, didn’t ya?”

  Clint hesitated, then said “Yes, well, maybe I did.”

  “There ya go,” Reeves said. “Besides, all we gotta do is back the sheriff up in case of trouble.”

  “Like with Miller today.”

  “What happened with Miller?”

  Clint told Reeves about the encounter Jim Miller had with two locals in the street.

  “You think they pushed him, like he said?” the black marshal asked.

  “I guess I don’t have any reason to doubt him,” Clint said. “After all, I caught three locals eyeing Bat Masterson, figuring to try to rob him.”

  “I guess the temptation to get a reputation is too big for some people to handle.”

  “As evidenced by their deaths,” Clint said.

  They reached the sheriff’s office and Burle stopped at the door.

  “As I said, my deputies are young,” he said to them. “And inexperienced.”

  “Why not hire more experienced men?” Reeves asked.

  “I had two experienced deputies,” Burle said, “but they were both killed earlier this year. I have two . . . boys waiting inside.”

  “Well,” Reeves said, “let’s have at them, then.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The two young deputies were impressed to meet not only Bass Reeves, well known as a deputy marshal in the court of the Hanging Judge, but the Gunsmith, as well.
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  “That’s Thad,” Burle said, “Thad Burnett, and Billy Cunningham.”

  Both deputies nodded.

  “Boys, Marshal Reeves and Mr. Adams have agreed to help us keep the peace, as long as we have so many visitors in town for the wake.”

  “That’s great,” Deputy Cunningham said.

  Burle went to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out two badges. He handed one each to Clint and Reeves.

  “I propose you each work in tandem with my deputies,” he said. “They can learn a lot from each of you. Just making rounds together.”

  “Sounds good,” Clint said.

  “I’ll put this in my pocket,” Reeves said. “No point in wearing two badges.”

  Clint hesitated, then pinned the badge on.

  “Clint, you can team with Thad,” Burle said. “He’ll show you his rounds.”

  “Fine.”

  “Deputy Reeves?”

  “Me and Billy, right?” Reeves slapped Billy on the back. Clint knew how hard that big hand could hit, even in camaraderie.

  The four deputies left the sheriff’s office.

  “I’ll see you at the Crystal later,” Clint said to Reeves, who nodded and followed his young deputy on his rounds.

  “Well, Thad,” Clint said. “Lead the way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As they walked, Thad asked, “Is there likely to be a lot of trouble, Mr. Adams?”

  “Call me Clint,” Clint said, “and with the personalities we have in town, and the lack of judgment your locals have already shown, I’m sure of it.”

  “We’ve heard that John Wesley Hardin and Clay Alison are in town, as well as Killin’ Jim Miller,” Thad said. “Are they likely to start killin’?”

  “Not for no reason,” Clint said. “But it’s likely that someone will try to push them. And that could even happen with men like Bat Masterson and Heck Thomas.”

  “But they’ve been lawmen themselves,” Thad said.

  “That doesn’t mean they can’t be pushed,” Clint said. “And when it comes to getting shot, nobody just stands by and lets it happen.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Especially not me.”

  * * *

  Craddock picked out a likely-looking saloon girl and accompanied her up to her room.