The South Fork Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  “Is this some sort of . . . inner circle?” Clint asked.

  “Among us,” Lawrence said, “we do wield a great deal of power in the club.”

  “Like the power to choose a new member?”

  “We are actually having a meeting tomorrow to put your name forth for membership,” Bledsoe said.

  “So you’ve jumped the gun a bit by giving me a room tonight?”

  “Just a little,” Frick said. “But tomorrow, with the five of us voting for you, we can push it through.”

  “Your membership,” Upton said, “is a virtual certainty.”

  Clint said, “Well, thank you,” without feeling any gratitude.

  * * *

  A few miles away from the club, Dash Charles reined his horse in, causing Dale and Conlin to do the same. Even from this distance, they could see the main building.

  “I always wanted to get a look inside there,” Conlin commented.

  “Well,” Charles said, “today’s not the day. This is as far as the two of you go.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Dale asked.

  “Wait,” Charles said. “You’re supposed to wait.”

  “While you do what?” Conlin asked.

  “I’m going in to meet the Gunsmith.”

  “You gonna kill him?” Dale asked.

  “Not today,” Charles said. “First I’ve got to take his measure.”

  “That sounds like engineer talk,” Conlin said.

  Charles nodded and said, “It is.”

  * * *

  Clint was halfway through his beer when the houseman, Hector, reappeared.

  “What is it, Hector?” Henry Frick asked.

  As Clint watched, the ears of the other four men all seemed to perk up.

  “There is a gentleman here to see Mr. Lawrence, sir,” the houseman said.

  “Who is it?” Frick asked.

  “I’ll see hi—” Lawrence started, rising, but Frick spoke up again.

  “Who is it, Hector?”

  “It’s Mr. Charles, sir.”

  “The engineer,” Frick said, looking at Clint.

  “I’ll come out and talk to hi—” Lawrence started, but he was cut off again.

  “Bring him in, Hector,” Upton said. “We might as well all hear what he has to say.”

  Lawrence sat back down and said, “Sure.” To Clint’s mind, he looked very uncomfortable at the prospect.

  Hector looked to Frick for the final word, and the man simply nodded.

  “This should be very interesting,” Henry Frick said to Clint.

  “I agree,” Clint said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Dashmore Charles entered the room and immediately picked out Clint Adams. His heart began to beat faster.

  “Mr. Charles,” Henry Frick said, rising.

  “Mr. Frick,” Charles said. They shook hands. “I’m here to make my report to Mr. Lawrence.”

  “I can take Mr. Charles into another room—” Lawrence started, but for the third time Frick interrupted him. Clint had the feeling he was in the middle of a power struggle. Lawrence, the younger man, might have been trying to wrest power from Frick and the others, who were older.

  “Mr. Charles can make his report right here, Evan,” Frick said to Lawrence. “The rest of us are very interested.”

  “But I’m the one who’s responsible,” Lawrence said. “I hired him.”

  “Noted, Evan,” Frick said. “Mr. Charles, we are all ears.”

  But Charles didn’t respond immediately. He looked at Clint.

  “And who’s this?” he asked.

  “This is Clint Adams,” Frick said. “Mr. Adams, this is Dashmore Charles, our engineer. It is his job to keep us apprised of the structural integrity of our dam.”

  “I see.”

  “The Gunsmith, huh?”

  Charles, who had a gun on his hip, paid special attention to the one Clint was wearing.

  “Mr. Charles,” Frick said impatiently, “your report. I believe we have been waiting for this?”

  “Yes,” the engineer said, “you have.”

  “Then—”

  “Maybe Mr. Charles would like a drink,” Lawrence said. “A brandy? Or a beer?”

  “A cold beer would be good,” Charles said. “It was a long ride.”

  As if on cue, the waiter, Walter, entered the room.

  “Walter,” said Lawrence, “please bring Mr. Charles a cold beer.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And bring Mr. Adams another.”

  “Yessir.”

  He left the room.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Charles,” Frick said, “and let us have your report.”

  Charles sat down and began talking about the dam . . .

  * * *

  Clint was not an engineer, but he knew the man was lying.

  “So you’re saying that there are sections of the dam that need repairs, but that there’s no imminent danger,” Frick said when Charles was done.

  “That’s right.”

  Frick looked at Lawrence.

  “The repairs that need to be done,” Lawrence asked, “will they be expensive?”

  “No.” Charles sipped at his beer. His eyes flicked to Clint, then away.

  “How soon can you begin?”

  “I’ll have to make a list of the supplies I’ll need,” Charles said. “And I’ll need some money to purchase them.”

  Henry Frick sat back in his chair and looked at Evan Lawrence.

  “All right, Evan,” Frick said, “I suppose that’s something you and Mr. Charles can discuss elsewhere.”

  Lawrence looked like a man who had just been freed from prison. He almost leaped from his seat.

  “All right,” he said. “We might as well go and look into it, Dash.”

  “Hmm?” Charles looked surprised. “We’re done here?”

  “Yes,” Lawrence said, “we’re done . . . here.”

  “Can I take my beer with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Charles nodded, and stood up. He took a moment to look directly at Clint, who also stood.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Adams,” Charles said. “I hope we see each other again . . . soon.”

  Clint couldn’t think of any reason why he might want to see Dash Charles again.

  * * *

  After they left the lounge, Evan Lawrence pulled Dash Charles into another, smaller room and slammed the door.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I told you I was going to come up here.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t tell me you were going to come . . . barging in! I didn’t want you giving your report in front of other members.”

  “Well,” Charles said, “it’s not like I gave the real report.”

  “What? You lied about the repairs?”

  “I don’t know if they can be done so cheaply,” Charles said. “I mean, we can try, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Never mind,” Charles said. “I’ll deal with it. That’s what you’re payin’ me for.”

  “That’s right,” Lawrence said, “it is.”

  “So that was the Gunsmith, huh?”

  “What? Oh, Adams? Yes, yes, that was him.”

  “And is he a new member?”

  “We won’t know that for sure until tomorrow,” Lawrence said, “but it looks like Frick is going to succeed in ramming him down the other club members’ throats.”

  “He doesn’t look like much, does he?”

  “What? I don’t know. What’s a gunman supposed to look like?”

  Charles finished beer and set the mug aside on a nearby table. Lawrence didn’t like the faraway look that had come into his eyes.

  “Y
ou’re not going to try anything on club grounds, are you?”

  “I’m gonna do my job,” Charles said. “Isn’t that what you want me to do?”

  “Yes!” Lawrence said. “It is! I want you to do your job . . . and nothing else.”

  Charles’s eyes came into focus and he looked at his employer.

  “Let’s talk about the money for those repairs, huh?” he said.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “I understand you enjoy a game of poker,” Frederick Upton said to Clint.

  They had all retaken their seats as Evan Lawrence and Dash Charles left the room.

  “Poker?” Clint asked. “I’ve been known to play a game or two.”

  “We have a friendly game here every so often,” Old Man Foster said.

  “Friendly?”

  “You know,” Bledsoe said, “low stakes.”

  Clint wondered what “low stakes” meant to these men.

  “Perhaps,” Upton said, “we can even get a game together tonight.”

  “That would be interesting,” Clint said.

  “Gents,” the sour-looking Foster said, “why don’t we see what we can do to entertain our guest tonight?”

  “A guest tonight,” Henry Frick pointed out, “but a member tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Foster said, “indeed.”

  “Why don’t Cole and I see to that,” William Bledsoe said.

  “Huh?” Cole Foster said.

  “Come on, old codger,” Bledsoe said, standing up, “we’re going to see if we can put together a poker game.”

  “Poker!” Foster said. “Good.” He staggered to his feet and followed Bledsoe from the room with a painfully slow gait.

  That left Clint in the room with Frick and Upton.

  “Do you want another beer?” Upton asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “What would you like to do now?” Frick asked.

  “Actually,” Clint said, “I’d like to go to my room, freshen up a bit, get myself into shape if there’s going to be a late-night poker game.”

  “You can do that,” Frick said. “We can have someone come up and tell you if there’s going to be a game, and when.”

  “That’d be fine,” Clint said. “I’ve also got a book I’ve been trying to finish.”

  “I’ll see what’s going on with Evan and the engineer,” Upton said. “See you both later.”

  Upton left the room.

  “About that,” Frick said. “The, uh, books. I didn’t mean to be so surprised before, when you mentioned it.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “You didn’t expect that someone with my reputation would be a reader.”

  “I didn’t expect to hear that my driver was a reader either,” Frick said. “I was more amazed at that.”

  “Why?” Clint asked. “He seems like an intelligent fellow.”

  “I suppose I never paid that much attention,” Frick said. “I mean Hector . . . Walter . . . I don’t know how intelligent they are or not. I just don’t . . . pay that much attention to the help.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “you’re a rich man, after all. You have people . . . working for you . . .”

  “I’m a snob,” Frick said. “Is that what you mean?”

  “I’m just saying,” Clint replied, “that wealthy people with servants have a certain . . . attitude toward them.” Clint leaned forward. “Henry, you even have an attitude about me.”

  “You?” Frick said. “I’m putting you forward for membership in this club.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “because of my reputation, not because of who I am.”

  Frick sat back thoughtfully.

  “Sonofabitch,” he said. “I am a snob.”

  Clint laughed.

  “You mean that never occurred to you, ever?” Clint asked him.

  Frick shook his head. From the look on his face, Clint thought the man was telling the truth.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Raise.”

  Clint looked across the poker table at Frederick Upton. He felt sure that Upton thought he had tricked Clint into this game. Actually, after Clint told Henry Frick that he was a snob, and Frick agreed, the two men sort of bonded over that, and Frick offered to bankroll him in the game.

  “Why would you do that?” Clint asked.

  “Because they think they’re bamboozling you into this game,” Frick said. “I don’t play. But I’d like to help you take their money.”

  “In that case,” Clint said, “I accept.”

  The buy-in was fifty thousand, and nobody questioned where Clint Adams had come up with that amount—in cash.

  They had been playing for two hours, and Clint’s luck was going bad. Half of his buy-in was now sitting in front of Frederick Upton, who turned out to be a pretty damn good poker player.

  The other players were Bledsoe and Evan Lawrence, as well as two members Clint had not met before, Andrew Chelton and Blake Green.

  Chelton had opened the first round of five-card draw with a thousand-dollar minimum, but Upton had immediately said, “Raise,” and tossed an extra five thousand into the pot.

  Bledsoe, Lawrence, and Green called, and the play came to Clint, who was seated right across from Upton. Clint had the feeling that at least two of the players were in collusion with Upton to take his money. In a saloon he might have called them on it. Here he decided just to go with it.

  “Call,” he said.

  “Cards?” Chelton, the dealer, asked.

  Bledsoe and Lawrence took three, Green one, and Chelton three.

  Upton stood pat.

  “I’ll play these,” Clint said.

  Everyone was surprised that there were two pat hands in one round.

  Chelton had opened, so he said, “Check.”

  “Ten thousand,” Upton said.

  Bledsoe and Lawrence folded. Green called. The play came around to Clint.

  “Call,” he said, “and raise.” He pushed the rest of his money into the pot.

  “All in, eh?” Upton asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” Upton said, “I could make it difficult for you and raise, but instead I’ll just call.”

  Green folded.

  “Mr. Adams?” Chelton said. “Your hand, please?”

  Clint tossed two kings on the table.

  “You stood pat with two kings?” Chelton asked.

  Watching from the sidelines, Henry Frick put his hand over his face.

  “Frederick?” Chelton asked.

  Upton looked across the table at Clint, then tossed his cards on the table.

  “Two queens?” Chelton said.

  Upton shrugged and said, “Your hand, Adams.”

  Frick’s mouth hung open as Clint raked in his pot.

  He was now ahead.

  * * *

  They took a break after five hours. It was the middle of the night. Two players, Green and Chelton, had dropped out. Clint thought they were the two Upton was working with.

  “How much do you have?” Frick asked.

  “Almost two hundred thousand,” Clint said.

  “Shouldn’t you quit?” the man asked nervously.

  “Not until the game is over, Henry.”

  “And who decides when the game is over?” Frick asked.

  “The last man standing.”

  A small bar had been set up for the players, who were imbibing during the break—all except Clint. He did not drink while he was playing poker, not even during a break.

  “Gentlemen?” Upton said. “Back to the table?”

  “Let’s go,” Clint said.

  The four men went back to the table.

  * * *

  At the back of the house at that moment, Dash Charles was opening a door and admitting both
Dale and Conlin.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Conlin asked. “We been waitin’ out there for hours.”

  “I wanted to make sure we weren’t seen,” Charles said. “Some of the members are playing poker with Adams upstairs.”

  “What are you doin’?” Dale asked.

  “They gave me a room.”

  “And what about us?” Dale asked.

  “Camp out, but stay close,” Charles said. “I’ll call you when I need you.”

  “Camp out?” Conlin asked.

  “We’re hungry!” Dale complained.

  “Relax,” Charles said.

  He reached down to the floor and came up with a basket he had stocked from the kitchen.

  “I don’t think they’ll miss some cold chicken,” he said. “Now go.”

  “We need something to drink,” Conlin declared.

  “There’s also a bottle of whiskey in there,” Dash Charles said. “Don’t drink it all!”

  “But—but—” Conlin said, but Charles closed the door in their faces.

  * * *

  Henry Frick watched the game unfold from the sidelines, but he could see what was happening. He knew Upton would have somebody working with him, but he wanted to back Clint Adams, and it had turned out to be the right thing to do. Upton was now alone at the table, without his cohorts, and Frick watched with pleasure as all the money on the table started to flow Clint Adams’s way.

  And when the game was finally over, the last man standing was, indeed, Clint Adams.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Clint awoke the next morning with a carpetbag full of cash in his room. Six men, fifty thousand, a total of three hundred thousand. He repaid Henry Frick the fifty thousand he’d backed him with, and split the rest with him. He had not expected to come out of this with a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.

  Now he had to go down for breakfast with the club members, and leave the money in the room. He wasn’t comfortable with that, considering the fact that Frederick Upton had tried to double whipsaw him. Who said he wouldn’t break into his room to get his money back?

  There was a knock on his door before he could make a decision. When he opened it, Henry Frick was standing there.

  “Good morning,” Clint said. He backed up to let Frick enter. The man was carrying a bag, the kind banks used for money.