The South Fork Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  “Well . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “There is a way.”

  “How?”

  “If you were a member of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, we could give you a room at the club. If you’re not in Pittsburgh, they can’t take your gun.”

  “But I’m not a member,” Clint said, “and don’t your members need to vote to make me one?”

  “A mere technicality,” Frick said. “I’ll just stretch the truth a little.” He stood up and called out, “Guard!”

  * * *

  They took Clint to a bare room, with just a table and two chairs. Lieutenant Kane was waiting there.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” Kane sad. “I assume Mr. Frick is outside?”

  “He is.”

  “Well,” Kane said, “I’ll try not to take too long.”

  Clint sat across from Kane at the table.

  “I just have a few questions.”

  “Go ahead . . .”

  * * *

  Kane questioned him about the three people who had been killed—two men and a woman. Clint answered the questions honestly. He’d never heard of any of them.

  “How were they killed?”

  “Why does that matter?” Kane asked. “I mean, if you don’t know them?”

  “I’m assuming they were shot,” Clint said, “or you wouldn’t be questioning me.”

  “Well, yes, they were shot.”

  “Do you have other suspects?”

  “We have some,” Kane said. “I’ll be questioning them, just as I’ve questioned you.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “For now.”

  “I’ll need my gun.”

  Kane hesitated, then opened a drawer, and took out the gun and holster.

  “Of course,” he said, “although it goes against my better judgment.”

  Clint accepted the gun and holster, stood up, and strapped them on.

  “I imagine you felt naked without that.”

  “Very,” Clint said.

  “That must be a difficult way to live.”

  “It’s the only way I know,” Clint said.

  Kane stood up and opened the door of the room.

  “An officer will show you the way out,” he said.

  Clint stepped out of the room, into the hall, where a uniformed officer was waiting.

  “Where’s Mr. Frick?”

  “He’s outside the building, sir.”

  “Well then,” Clint said, “lead the way.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Frick was indeed waiting out front for Clint, with Jason and the carriage.

  “Ready to go?” Frick asked.

  “We’ve got to stop at my hotel first.”

  “No problem.”

  Jason held the door open for both of them, then climbed aboard and got under way.

  “I have a question,” Clint said.

  “I thought you might,” Frick replied.

  “Did you have anything to do with me being arrested?” Clint asked.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “So you could offer me sanctuary at the club.”

  “That would have been a good idea,” Frick said, “but no, I did not. I was quite surprised when I received word that you had been arrested.”

  “I don’t suppose they really suspected me of any of those murders.”

  “I suspect,” Frick said, “that they simply took advantage of the situation to ask you some questions.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence.

  * * *

  Frick waited outside while Clint packed his carpetbag and checked out of his hotel.

  “It was a pleasure to have you, Mr. Adams,” Steve, the clerk, said.

  Clint didn’t respond as he paid his bill.

  “Sir,” the clerk said, “about the police—”

  “I know,” Clint said, “you had no choice.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And I suppose I should thank you for contacting Mr. Frick about my arrest.”

  “Well . . . I felt it was the right thing to do, sir.”

  “It probably was,” Clint said, “and I’m sure Mr. Frick has taken care of you for it.”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to leave my horse here for a while,” Clint said. “That animal is the most important thing to me, so if anything happens to him, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  The clerk swallowed, his eyes wide, and said, “You can count on me, sir.”

  Clint had to send a message to Pike at Solomon’s Saloon, but he didn’t know if he should trust the task to the clerk or not. Chances were he’d tell Frick about it. But who else could he depend on to send such a message?

  He looked around the lobby, saw several bellboys, and the doorman standing at the door.

  “Anyway . . . thanks,” he said, and walked to the door.

  “Sir,” the doorman said.

  “I need to send a message,” Clint said, “without the clerk knowing about it.”

  “He is a bit shiftless, sir.”

  “Can I trust you to send it?”

  “I can handle that job, sir.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He went back inside, asked a bellman for a piece of paper and a pencil. He wrote as simple a message as he could to let Pike know what was happening, then carried it outside and handed it to the doorman with a few silver dollars.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll see that it’s delivered as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint walked down to the street, where the carriage was still waiting, Jason standing alongside it.

  “Ready to go, sir?”

  “I’m ready, Jason.”

  Jason took his bag and held the door for him. Clint heard the man climb aboard, and secure the carpetbag on top. Then he remained silent and still, waiting for instructions.

  Inside, Frick said, “You seemed bothered.”

  “My horse,” Clint said. “I’m having second thoughts about leaving him here.”

  “Well, then, there’s no need to,” Frick said. He knocked on the top of the carriage.

  “Jason, pull around to the hotel stable.”

  * * *

  Clint went into the stable, and walked Eclipse out after putting his bridle on. As he tied the reins to the back of the carriage, Jason went inside and came out carrying the saddle, which he secured to the top.

  When Clint got back to the carriage with Frick, he said, “Thank you for that.”

  “We have an excellent stable at the club, and several handlers who know what they’re doing. Your magnificent horse will be in good hands.”

  “That makes me feel a lot better.”

  Frick knocked on the roof of the carriage and Jason got them under way.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The meeting this time between Dash Charles and his employer was hurriedly arranged, and took place on a street corner.

  As the well-dressed man approached, Charles could see how unhappy he was. His bodyguard followed right behind him.

  “I don’t like these rushed meetings,” he complained.

  “Hey,” Charles said, “you called it.”

  “I know,” the man said, “but only because you are being so unreasonable about this Gunsmith thing.”

  “This is about the Gunsmith?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “He was arrested earlier today.”

  “For what?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the man said. “He’s out. Frick got him out and has offered him sanctuary at the club.”

  �
��Sanctuary?”

  “The police won’t touch him there.”

  “What the hell did they want him for?”

  “Essentially,” the man said, “as I understand it, they were attempting to disarm him.”

  “Christ,” Charles said, “killing an unarmed Gunsmith would get me nothing.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” the man said. “He’s been released, and they gave him his gun back. But he’s left his hotel and is on his way to the club.”

  Charles rubbed his jaw.

  “That might actually be better for me,” he said. “I’d be out of place in his hotel, but I have the right to be at the club, since I’m the engineer for the dam.”

  “Oh my God, you’re not going to kill him at the club, are you?”

  “What are their plans for him?”

  “What are the usual plans for someone like the Gunsmith—although we’ve never really had someone of his caliber there.”

  “I want the first shot at him,” Charles said.

  “I wish you’d just be satisfied to do your job,” the man said. “Look, I’ll increase you salary by half.”

  “My salary is fine,” Charles said. He looked past his employer at the bodyguard, who stood by silently, seemingly staring at nothing in particular.

  “How come he never speaks?” he asked.

  “Because he knows his job,” the man said, “and speaking isn’t part of it.”

  The bodyguard’s eyes did not flinch.

  “I have to go,” the man said, looking around uncomfortably.

  “Go ahead,” Charles said. “I’ll be coming out to the club soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Just tell your colleagues that we’re meeting about the dam,” the engineer said.

  “And will we?”

  “Yes,” Charles said. “I’ll have a solution by then.”

  “You’d better,” the man said. “For the money we’re paying you—”

  “Hey,” Charles said, cutting him off, “didn’t I just save you money by not taking you up on a salary increase? You know, for some of us, life is about more than money.”

  The man blinked, stared at him, and said, “I don’t understand.”

  Charles turned and walked away.

  * * *

  He found his two friends, Dale and Conlin, waiting in the dive saloon they were using as a meeting place. He got himself a beer and joined them at their table. Counting the three of them, there were six people in the saloon.

  “You look bothered,” Dale said.

  “The opposite,” Charles said. “Turns out the Gunsmith left his hotel and went to the club.”

  “And that’s good?” Conlin asked.

  “Yeah, it is,” Charles said. “I can deal with the Gunsmith out there without having to worry about the police.”

  “Yeah, but can we come out there?” Dale asked.

  “We’ll work it out,” Charles said.

  “Why’d he move?” Conlin asked.

  “He got arrested,” Charles said. “Seems the police wanted to disarm him.”

  “That woulda made him easier to take,” Conlin said.

  Dash Charles stared at him.

  “What good does it do me to kill an unarmed Gunsmith?” he demanded.

  “Well,” Conlin said, “at least that way he wouldn’t be able to kill you.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Charles said.

  “Yeah,” Dale agreed. He looked at Charles. “So when do we go?”

  “Probably tomorrow,” Charles said. “I’m still working on the dam problem.”

  “You ain’t solved that yet?” Dale asked.

  “I’ve come up with a way to shore up the dam,” Charles said, “but I don’t know how long it’ll hold.”

  “Long enough for us to get paid and get away from here?” Dale asked. “That’s all we need.”

  “Yeah . . .” Charles said. “Yeah, that’s all we need.”

  THIRTY

  When they reached the club, Clint made a point of seeing to Eclipse’s care before allowing himself to be shown to his room.

  There were three handlers employed by the club, and they were all excited when Clint walked Eclipse into the stable with Jason carrying the saddle.

  He discussed the Darley Arabian’s care with the three men—who all seemed to be experienced—then followed Jason back to the main building. The big driver insisted on carrying the carpetbag.

  “Do you have a room here, Jason?” Clint asked.

  “I have a small room that I use when I stay over,” Jason said.

  “How often do you stay?”

  “That usually depends on the members and how early they’ll need me the next day.”

  “What goes on here at night?”

  “Nothing much, sir,” Jason said. “The members spend a lot of time reading their newspapers—usually the financial pages—having dinner, smoking cigars, and drinking brandy. Oh, and occasionally there is a poker game.”

  “Ah,” Clint said, “that’s the part I’m interested in. I figure I might as well make some money while I’m here. Are they any good?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” Jason said. “I do not know the game myself.”

  “So what do you do, then?”

  “I read.”

  “Ah, so do I,” Clint said.

  That surprised the big man, and he raised his eyebrows.

  “You? Read books?”

  “I do.”

  “Who do you read?”

  “I spend a lot of time on Twain and Dickens,” Clint said. “I enjoy Dickens very much, and I enjoy Twain even more because I know him.”

  “You have met Mark Twain?”

  “I’m proud to say we’re friends,” Clint said.

  That changed Jason’s demeanor drastically, and suddenly he became very chatty, wanting to know everything Clint knew about Mark Twain.

  The two were still talking about it as they entered the building. Henry Frick was waiting there with another man, and seemed very surprised to see the two men talking.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “Have you two gentlemen found common ground?”

  “We have,” Clint said. “Literature.”

  “Indeed?” Frick said. Clint didn’t know what surprised him more, that Jason could discuss literature, or that the Gunsmith could.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “indeed.”

  “Well,” Frick said, indicating the Mexican-looking man standing next to him, “this is Hector. He is one of our housemen, and will show you to your room.”

  “All right,” Clint said, watching his carpetbag change hands from Jason to Hector. “Thanks,” he said to Jason.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jason withdrew, going back out the front door.

  “Hector,” Frick said, “after you’ve shown Mr. Adams to his room, please bring him to lounge number three.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  To Clint, he said, “Several of our members would like to have a drink with you and welcome you.”

  “That’s fine,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “This way, sir,” Hector said, leading Clint to the stairway.

  * * *

  Clint followed Hector to the second floor, and down a long hallway of doors to one that was closed.

  “This will be your room, sir,” Hector said, and opened the door.

  Clint entered and found himself in a larger room than he’d ever had in any hotel—including suites. It was massive. He wanted to turn to Hector and ask, “Who needs this much room?” but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

  “Is it all right, sir?” Hector asked.

  “It’s fine, Hector,” Clint said. “More than I could ever have asked for.”

  “Ver
y good, sir.” He walked to the big bed and set the carpetbag down on it. “Can I show you to the lounge, sir?”

  “Why don’t you wait in the hall for me, Hector,” Clint said. “Just a few minutes.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Hector left the room and closed the door behind him. Clint walked to the window and looked out. His view was of the front grounds, and he watched as Jason climbed aboard the carriage and drove it away, presumably to the stables.

  He turned away from the window and went to make use of the indoor plumbing the club had.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Clint followed Hector back down to the first floor, then along several hallways to a lounge, where Henry Frick and some of his colleagues were waiting.

  Clint recognized all the men as part of Frick’s inner circle.

  “Thank you, Hector,” Frick said. “That’ll be all.”

  All of the men were holding brandy glasses but there was also a waiter present, so Frick said, “Walter, please bring Mr. Adams a mug of cold beer.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away,” the white-haired waiter said.

  “Thank you,” Clint said, “for not offering me a glass of brandy.”

  “If you become a member of the club,” Frick said, “you will have at your disposal whatever beverage you might desire.”

  “That sounds . . . good,” Clint said, wondering what would happen if he asked for a sarsaparilla.

  “Have a seat,” Frederick Upton said. “Anywhere.”

  They were all standing, leaving him a choice of any armchair he wanted. He chose one at random. When he noticed that Foster looked even more sour than usual, Clint figured he had taken the old man’s favorite chair.

  The rest of them seated themselves, and the waiter appeared with Clint’s beer.

  “Thank you,” Clint said, taking it from the tray the man was holding.

  The man looked slightly flustered as if he was unused to being thanked, then said, “Uh, you’re welcome, sir.”

  “That’ll be all, Walter,” Frick said.

  The waiter withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “Why do I have the feeling this room is only used by you gents?” Clint asked.

  “That is not actually the case, but a lot of the other members do eschew the use of it.”

  Clint wasn’t sure what “eschew” meant, but he thought he got the drift.