Standoff in Santa Fe

by J. R. Roberts

  Elfego Baca came up alongside Clint and said in a whisper, “He is drinking whiskey.”

  “Oh,” Clint said.

  “What does that mean?” Bat asked.

  Clint looked at his friend. “He always drinks whiskey before he kills somebody.”

  “Really? That’s what he’s known for?”

  Clint nodded. Baca went back to his seat and looked on with interest.

  “You’re wearing a badge,” Bat said. “That means you can’t just stand by and watch.”

  “I know.”

  Clint studied the backs of the men at the bar, stopped when he saw one in particular.

  “Is that Tom Horn?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t know him from the back,” Bat said, “but it could be.”

  “Bat,” Clint said, “cover me from here. We don’t know who’ll take Craddock’s side.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Clint walked toward the bar, and the man he thought might be Tom Horn. Several men moved away to give him room.

  He stood alongside the man, who appeared to be engrossed in his beer.

  “Hello, Tom.”

  “Adams,” Horn said without turning his head. His trail clothes were covered with dust. He’d been on the trail a long time.

  “What brings you here?” Clint asked.

  “Same as you, I suspect,” Horn said. “A wake. Did I miss it?”

  “It hasn’t started yet.”

  “Good. I want to see for myself if the bastard is dead.” Horn looked at him. “Buy you a beer?”

  “Craddock is here.”

  “Craddock? The bounty hunter?” Horn asked. “Why should that interest me?”

  “He says he’s after you,” Clint said. “He’s got paper on you from Arizona.”

  Horn frowned.

  “The Pleasant Valley thing?” he said.

  “That’s my guess.”

  “I didn’t do anythin’ wrong there.”

  “I don’t think he cares.”

  “Where is he?”

  “About fifteen feet to our right.”

  “What’s he doin’?”

  “Drinking whiskey.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Horn!” Craddock snapped.

  The men at the bar between them quickly darted away. Craddock turned to face Horn, but Clint was still between them.

  “Step aside, Adams,” Craddock said.

  “No.”

  “Do it, Clint,” Horn said.

  “No,” Clint said. “You’re not a gunfighter, Tom. He’ll kill you.”

  “Probably.”

  “He may not be a gunfighter,” Craddock said, “but he’s a killer. I’m takin’ him in.”

  “I’m the law here, Craddock,” Clint said. “You’re not killing him.”

  “I didn’t say I was gonna kill him,” Craddock said. “I’m takin’ him in.”

  “We all know what it means when you take somebody in.”

  “So you’re gonna stop me, Adams?” Craddock asked. “You’re gonna fight me?”

  “If I have to.”

  Craddock raised his voice.

  “I’ll share the bounty on Horn with any man who stands with me.”

  Nobody moved, or replied. Then suddenly, one man stepped forward.

  “I’ll take a piece of that,” Clay Allison said.

  “Me, too,” Killin’ Jim Miller said. They moved away from the bar and spread out. The saloon’s patrons flattened themselves against the walls, but nobody tried to leave. This was the kind of thing they’d been waiting for.

  “Count me in,” a third man said. And then a fourth. Soon, Clint and Horn were facing eight men.

  “I don’t like these odds,” Horn said.

  * * *

  Upstairs, Trench said to Conlon, “What do you want me to do?”

  “You want to side with someone?” Conlon asked. “Who?”

  Alicia appeared at the rail and asked, “What’s happening?”

  “Watch,” Conlon said. “This is gonna make us famous.”

  FORTY

  Clint watched Craddock. He was the key. The action was his to call. Allison and Miller, and the others, wouldn’t move until he did.

  But the fact remained it was two against eight, until . . .

  Bat Masterson moved up alongside Clint and said, “The odds just got better.”

  Three against eight.

  “We’ve got them right where we want them,” Clint said.

  “Perdón, amigos,” Elfego Baca said, “but two-to-one is much better odds, don’t you think?”

  Better, Clint thought, but Allison and Miller were fast guns. There was no way to know who was faster, them or Clint or Bat. Horn was not a gunfighter. Baca was good with a gun, but not a gunfighter.

  Clint looked up and saw Conlon, Alicia, and Trench, who were watching the proceedings, then looked around at the others who were watching.

  “Just hold on,” Clint said.

  “What for?” Craddock asked.

  “Just look around,” Clint said. “All of you. Look around. We’re putting on a show for the rest of these idiots. And for them, up there.” He pointed.

  Craddock looked up, as did Allison and Miller.

  “That’s Conlon up there, in the middle. He owns this place. And we’re about to make it famous. Some of us are going to die here, and he’s going to make money because of it.”

  Craddock looked back at Clint.

  “You’ve got at least five or six of us here who know what we’re doing with a gun,” Clint said. “Who’s faster, we don’t know, but we’re all deadly. Yet you’ve got some men on your side we know nothing about. That makes for stray bullets. Stray bullets make for dead innocent bystanders—innocent bystanders who are too stupid to leave because they want to see the show.”

  Craddock, Allison, and Miller stared at Clint. Behind them Clint could see John Wesley Hardin smiling. He obviously had a brain.

  “I get it,” Hardin said. “You all might as well be dancing monkeys.”

  Clint could see the men he was facing thinking about that. He assumed that the men on either side of him were also thinking about it.

  Finally, Clay Allison spoke. “I ain’t nobody’s monkey.” He spread his hands and stepped back, took up a position next to Hardin, who handed him a beer.

  “What do you suggest?” Craddock asked.

  “Everybody just step back,” Clint said. “This doesn’t have to happen today. Not in here anyway.”

  He could see Craddock considering his words.

  He raised his voice.

  “We’re all here for a wake,” Clint said. “Why kill each other while we’re waiting? And why wait any longer?”

  The batwings opened at that point and Sheriff Burle walked in, flanked by Bass Reeves, Thad, and Billy. They were all carrying rifles.

  “Nobody’s killing anybody today!” Burle called out. “Not in my town.”

  After a moment of silence Craddock said, “Relax, Sheriff. It’s all just been a misunderstanding.” He turned to the bar and picked up his beer. A collective sigh was heaved by the customers—for half of them it was relief, and the other half disappointment.

  Craddock’s supporters backed off. Miller went back to his beer. The other, lesser known men who had tried to get involved went back to their tables. Men peeled themselves off the walls and went back to their tables and drinks.

  Horn looked at Clint, Bat, and Elfego Baca and said, “Appreciate the support, gents.”

  “De nada, amigo,” Baca said, and went back to his table.

  Sherriff Burle came over to them, leaving his deputies at the door—except for Reeves.

  “Tom,” Reeves said.

  “Hello, Bass.”

  Reeves
looked around.

  “Where’s Heck? He missed the action.”

  “Luke, too,” Bat said.

  “Luckily,” Clint said, “there didn’t turn out to be much action.” He looked up at Conlon, who was still watching. “Much to the disappointment of Mr. Conlon.”

  “What was this about?” Burle asked.

  Apparently, he’d not connected Reeves’s “Hello, Tom” to Tom Horn yet.

  “Just another tense moment,” Clint said. “The wake is way overdue.”

  “I agree,” Burle said. “Let’s see what I can do about that.”

  “You going to talk to Conlon again?” Clint asked.

  “I am.”

  “Want company?”

  “Naw,” Burle said, “you and Bass stay here, keep my two young deputies out of trouble.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Burle entered Conlon’s office and closed the door, leaving Trench and Alicia outside.

  “Things don’t seem to be going so well,” Burle said, sitting down.

  Conlon got up, poured two glasses of brandy, and handed one to Burle. Then he sat behind his desk again.

  “It almost did,” Conlon said. “You came in a little too late.”

  “In time to hear Adams talk them all out of it,” Burle pointed out. “Not the dancing monkeys we were hoping for.”

  “Without him, it would have worked,” Conlon said. “They would’ve started shooting. Somebody would have died. We could have owned the place where Bat Masterson died, or where Clay Allison bought it, for where Heck Thomas caught a bullet.”

  “Along with a lot of innocent bystanders,” Burle said.

  Conlon waved that off.

  “Small cost to build a big reputation,” he said.

  Burle sipped his drink.

  “We’ll have to send Trench after Adams,” Burle said. “Get him out of the way. It’s the only answer.”

  “What about the wake?” Conlon asked. “It’s got to start sometime.”

  “You forget,” Burle said, leaning forward. “We don’t really have a body. How can we start a wake?”

  “You know,” Conlon said, “when you came up with this harebrained scheme, it sounded good to me.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Burle said. “Just let me do the thinkin’, Ben, and things will turn out all right. Now get Trench in here. I want to talk to him.”

  “I already talked with him—”

  “What did I just say about thinkin’?” Burle asked.

  Conlon shut his mouth, frowned, then stood up and walked to the door. “Trench,” he said.

  The security man entered the office. Alicia, still standing at the rail, craned her neck to get a look into the room. Conlon smiled at her and closed the door.

  “Give the man a drink, Ben,” Burle said. “We’re gonna talk.”

  “And what are you gonna tell them downstairs? I mean, why you were in here so long?”

  “Don’t worry so much, Ben,” Burle said. “Just get Captain Trench a drink—a real drink.”

  * * *

  The two young deputies took up position at the near end of the bar, close to the front window, and nursed a beer each.

  Clint studied the two young deputies, then looked up toward Conlon’s office, where Burle had gone.

  “Bass.”

  “Yeah?”

  Clint pointed. “Why would you hire those two as deputies?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Reeves said. “They’re okay kids, but they’ll never make good lawmen. What’s your point?”

  “That is my point,” Clint said. “Why would Burle hire them as deputies?”

  “He said he couldn’t get anybody else,” Reeves pointed out.

  “In a town this size?” Clint asked. “Wouldn’t you think he’d have his pick?”

  “I would think that, but . . . are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

  Clint asked, “What do you think I’m saying?”

  “That he purposely hired two young men he knows can’t do the job?”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “that’s what I’m saying.”

  “But why?”

  “Now that’s a question I’d really like the answer to.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Clint and Reeves went over to the Buckskin with Bat, Luke, and Heck. Tom Horn decided to go along with them, instead of staying in the Crystal with Craddock.

  Craddock, seeing Horn walk out with Clint and Bass Reeves, decided to let him go. No sense bracing him in the street with those two along. Besides, he didn’t think Horn would leave town. That would look too much like running.

  “Craddock?”

  The bounty hunter turned, looked at Killin’ Jim Miller.

  “Yeah?”

  “You still offerin’ that money for Horn?”

  “You help me take him down, I’ll pass some of that bounty money on to you.”

  “As long as it don’t mean tanglin’ with the Gunsmith,” Miller said, “you got a deal.”

  “What about Allison?”

  “You’ll have to talk to him about that.”

  Craddock looked down the bar, decided that before he talked to Clay Allison, he’d take a run at John Wesley Hardin. Of the three, he figured Hardin had the fastest gun, might have the best chance of taking the Gunsmith out of the play.

  “I’ll let you know,” he told Miller.

  “Good enough,” Miller said, and went back to his beer.

  * * *

  “You’re sayin’ what?” Heck Thomas asked.

  “There’s no body,” Clint said. “That’s why Conlon’s holding up the wake.”

  “Then what was the point?” Reeves asked.

  “Getting men like us into town with men like Hardin, Allison, Miller, Craddock, and seeing what happens.”

  “Like what almost happened in the Crystal.”

  “That place would not just have been famous,” Clint said, “it would have been infamous.”

  “But what if a showdown like that didn’t happen in his place?” Luke Short asked.

  “Then it would happen in town,” Clint said. “He still benefits when Santa Fe becomes known as the place where Bat Masterson was killed.”

  “Or the Gunsmith,” Bat said.

  “Right.”

  “So what do we do?” Heck asked.

  “We get a look at that body.”

  “Which means goin’ against Trench and his men,” Luke Short said.

  “Right,” Clint said.

  “So we get the sheriff to go in with us,” Reeves suggested.

  “I’ve got some thoughts about him, too,” Clint said. “Goes back to what I said about him hiring inept deputies.”

  “We’re listening,” Bat said.

  * * *

  “Is this really what you want?” Alicia asked Conlon in his office. “A gunfight in front of your place?” She had entered while Conlon was still talking with Sheriff Burle. The lawman had stood up, doffed his hat to her, and left.

  “This is exactly what I want,” he said. “Do you know the names of the men who will get killed here? They’re legendary!”

  “If they are legendary, how did you get Trench and his men to go against them?”

  “Money,” Conlon said, “and ego. With Trench’s men, it’s money, but with him, it’s ego. See, he wants to be a legend, and he can achieve that by killing himself some legends.”

  “And what about you?” she asked. “What do you want to be? The man who put on a phony wake?”

  “I want to be rich, Alicia,” Conlon said. “That’s what this is all about. Inside my place, in front of my place, it’s all the same to me. As long as the Gunsmith or Bat Masterson falls, I make money.�
�

  “You’re a sick man, Ben.”

  “Maybe,” Conlon said, “but I’ll be a rich sick man.”

  * * *

  Trench collected his best men, moved out onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon with them. He had four other men still in the room with the casket, but he didn’t think they’d be pressed into service.

  “What’s goin’ on, Trench?”

  He turned his head, looked at Craddock, standing just outside the batwing doors. They knew each other, but had not spoken until now.

  “What’s it to you, Craddock?”

  “Well,” the bounty hunter said, “if you’re settin’ up to do what I think you’re doin’, I just might join you.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I got a price to collect on Tom Horn’s head and I don’t want anybody else getting it.”

  “I don’t care about no bounty money,” Trench said. “You can have it. But what makes you think Horn will come along with the others?”

  Craddock shrugged and asked, “Why not?”

  “You bringin’ anybody with you?”

  “Jim Miller.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to havin’ him on my side,” Trench told him.

  Craddock looked at the ten men Trench had with him in front of the Crystal.

  “You think you got enough men?”

  “I do now,” Trench said.

  “We’re talkin’ about Clint Adams, Bat Masterson, Bass Reeves, Heck Thomas, Luke Short, and maybe Tom Horn,” Craddock said. “There ain’t a slouch in there.”

  “We got ’em outnumbered.”

  “Might also be Elfego Baca.”

  “Don’t matter,” Trench said, “My men are battle tested and hard, and with you and Miller along, we got thirteen.”

  “You gonna have any trouble with the law?”

  “The law is in Conlon’s pocket,” Trench said, “or the other way around. Either way, he ain’t gonna be a concern.”

  “You got this all figured, huh?”

  “Pretty much,” Trench said. “I was you, I’d go and get Miller so he don’t miss none of the action.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “See if you can get John Wesley Hardin and Clay Allison, too,” Trench said. “That’d pretty much give us an unbeatable edge.”