“Don’t push it, George,” Clint said in a steady tone. “I’m warning you.”
By now, several men from the game in the back of the room as well as the rest of the patrons in the saloon were watching what was happening at the bar. Some of the faces were amused by George’s predicament, while several seemed to be more concerned with what would happen to Clint.
“You gonna hand back my three hundred?” George asked.
“No,” Clint said. “But I’ll give you a chance to win it back in a game between you and me. No buy-in necessary. How’s that?”
“How’s that? I’ll tell you how’s that! If there’s gonna be a game between you and me, this is the only game I want!” With that, George clamped his hand around his gun and pulled it once more from its holster. He moved quicker this time and his eyes were set upon his target, but he still wasn’t fast enough.
Clint snapped his hand down and drew his own modified Colt from the holster at his side in a flicker of motion. He cleared leather before George could even touch his trigger. “You already made enough bad moves today, George,” Clint warned. “Don’t make this one your last.”
Although George wasn’t moving, every muscle in his body twitched anxiously. His teeth ground together. His lips turned white as they drew into a pair of tight lines. His fingers tightened around the grip of his .44 and his chest strained with his next breath.
Sensing the dilemma within the man, Clint narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side in a simple gesture that said more than enough. The moment George took his eyes off him to glance at the rest of the men in the saloon, Clint knew the fight was over.
“Keep yer damn money,” George grunted. “You’ll probably just cheat me again anyways.”
“You sure about that, George?” Clint asked.
Picking up on the meaning of Clint’s question, George shook his head and eased his gun back into its holster. “Or…maybe you didn’t cheat. It was only a pair of goddamned sixes.”
Clint nodded. “Happens to the best of us.”
“You’d best be leaving, George,” the bartender said. “Sleep off that whiskey.”
The saloon was quiet for a few more seconds until George finally let out his breath and took his hand away from his holster. As if picking up on George’s defeat, the players got back to their games and the locals got back to their drinks. If George had a tail, he would have tucked it between his legs as he scurried out of the saloon.
When Clint looked back at Abigail, he tipped his hat and said, “Hope you don’t mind me stepping in like that. Things looked like they were about to get messy.”
“They were,” she said. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Are you in town for the Evans game?”
“I’m here looking for someone.” Stepping up a little closer, she added, “Looking for you, Mister Adams.”
Clint leaned against the bar. “Well now, it seems my day’s looking up.”
THREE
The bartender walked over to the table Clint had chosen and set down a pair of mugs filled with beer. When Clint went to his pocket for money, the bartender waved it off. “These two are on the house,” he said. “Seeing as how you kept a fight from happening in my place. Those wind up being pretty expensive for the man that’s got to replace all them broken chairs and such.”
“Thanks,” Clint said. He then picked up his mug and held it up to Abigail. She picked hers up and returned Clint’s salute before tipping the mug back.
After letting out a grateful sigh, she said, “That’s the best thing I’ve tasted in a while.”
“It must have been a long ride getting here,” Clint said quietly. “I’ve seen river water with less silt in it than this beer.”
“It’s been a long ride through rough country. You’re a hard man to find.”
“That’s funny. I’m not exactly hiding out here.”
Abigail set her drink down and took off her hat. She tousled her hair a bit, which set free a pair of braids that had previously been tucked under her collar. The braids were slightly cleaner than the hair that had been outside of the hat, but there was more than enough dust in there to create a gritty cloud around her head as she continued to muss her hair. “You don’t have to hide,” she said. “There’s just plenty of men who are willing to drop your name for any number of reasons.”
“Nothing bad, I hope,” Clint said as he furrowed his brow.
“Not as such. Most of it’s just a bunch of bragging drunks that nobody believes anyway. Still, a few more drunks spread the word and someone a few towns over thinks the Gunsmith is nearby. I got to the genuine article quickly enough.”
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Not yet,” Abigail replied with a wry grin.
Clint chuckled and forced down another sip of beer. “So what puts someone like you on my trail?”
“I’ve got a message from Colonel Farelli. You know of him?”
“Yeah,” Clint said with a slow nod. “What’s he want?”
“He’s been having some Injun troubles and he needed to get word to you as quickly as he could.”
“Word about what?”
Abigail shrugged and removed a folded envelope from the pocket of her fringed jacket. “You’ll have to read the message for yourself. It’s not meant for me.”
“You know about the Indian troubles,” Clint pointed out.
“Sure, but that’s because I had to ride through a range of hills being overrun by Navajo. Some young chief out that way’s got his feathers ruffled and he’s been sending out raiding parties to attack what ever they can find.”
“I’ve heard about that. Pretty ugly attacks, if I recall.”
“You got that right,” Abigail said. “Most of the times, the raiders don’t even bother stealing anything. They just leave a whole lot of blood so anyone and everyone can see that Tolfox means business.”
“Tolfox?”
Nodding once, Abigail said, “Chief Tolfox.”
“That’s a strange name for a Navajo.”
“All their names sound strange to me,” she replied with a shrug. “All I know is that riding through that stretch of trail was like running through hell with the devil nipping at my heels. Sitting down to sip from some sandy beer is awfully nice in comparison.”
Clint chuckled and took another sip from his own mug. “I know what you mean. After playing cards for days on end without a wink of sleep, I guess I lost some perspective. Are you a friend of Farelli’s?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering why he’d send anyone on their own through such dangerous country.”
“You mean why he’d send a woman?”
Clint shrugged, but kept his eyes on her. “No offense meant, but it sounds like it would be a tough ride for anyone on their own. I would think an Army man would have plenty of scouts or messengers he could send.”
“He sent me because I’m the best for the job,” Abigail snapped. “And you don’t have to like it.”
“Like I said,” Clint stated, “there was no offense meant.”
Slowly, Abigail nodded and then got back to her beer. She’d set the envelope on the table and now acted as if she could no longer even see it. When Clint reached for the rumpled paper, she recoiled as if she’d been expecting a punch. As soon as she saw what he was doing, she let out a breath and allowed her features to soften. “You were just making conversation,” she said. “I shouldn’t have bitten yer head off.”
“Don’t worry about it.” When he saw her down the rest of her beer and then push her chair away from the table, Clint added, “You can stay. I could use a bite to eat and you’re welcome to join me.”
“That’s a kind offer, but I think I’ll get a room for myself. I saw another saloon down the street had rooms to rent. It’d be the first night I haven’t slept on the ground for over a week, so I don’t want to risk missing out.”
“Maybe later, then,” Clint offered.
Abigail smiled and nodded. “Sure. I’d like that.”
“What about a late supper?”
“You are a bold one, ain’t you?”
“You don’t strike me as the sort of woman who’ll stay in one place for very long,” Clint told her. “And this just happens to be one of the few instances when I can afford to take some time away from the card table.”
Having started to walk away from the table, Abigail stopped and turned around so she could look at Clint and say, “Tell you what. If you can track me down later, I wouldn’t mind having some supper. I may not have much of an appetite, though.”
“I’m a gambling man. I’ll take my chances.”
FOUR
Clint had heard about the Evans game while spending a night in Tombstone. Like most big poker games, it had taken on a certain mythic quality as word was passed along by the winners and damnations were made by the losers. Also, like most big poker games, it wasn’t much more than a collection of gamblers who’d taken to cycling in and out of one continuous event instead of starting a bunch of smaller games. In short, it was just a game that was started up by a man named Evans.
That was it.
The stakes rose and fell, but all the big talk had come about simply because there wasn’t much else to talk about of late. Nothing, that is, except for the Indian raids.
Clint had heard about those as well. Coincidentally enough, he took in those stories the same way he’d taken in the ones about the Evans game—with more than a few grains of salt. The reports he’d heard sounded like a string of robberies that may not have even been committed by Indians. Some robbers and a few cowardly souls liked to blame their own deeds on Indians, simply because Indians made for good targets. Other times, there truly were Indians to blame. After all, Indians had their criminals and killers like any other group of people.
For the most part, however, Clint hadn’t thought about the attacks one way or the other. He knew he could pick a different route if he needed to ride through that area for a bit and that was all. He was reminded of the incidents as soon as he opened the letter that Abigail had brought to him.
The letter read:
Clint Adams, hopefully this letter finds you in good health and in a short amount of time. Since you must have already heard about the Navajo attacks being launched by Chief Tolfox, I won’t go into the bloody details regarding them. Just know that your assistance is needed at a meeting between myself and the chief at the end of this month. It would be greatly appreciated if you could attend this meeting to ensure the safety of my men, since too much of a military display may fan these flames rather than snuff them out. I fear we won’t get a second chance at peace talks if this chance goes by. The Navajo are getting bolder and the Army is growing impatient. I hope to settle this matter, but cannot risk losing my men simply because Chief Tolfox insists on keeping the numbers of my negotiators to a minimum. Therefore, I need to ensure the few men I do bring are of the highest quality. Your name came to mind first in this regard and I do hope our past encounters do not prevent you from lending aid in this time of need. At the very least, come to Fort Winstead and hear the rest of my offer. Your ser vice would be greatly appreciated and you will be more than compensated for your time.
Sincerely,
Col. N. Farelli
After reading through the letter, Clint set it down and watched it as if he expected it to pull some sort of trick. When it did nothing but lay on the table, Clint picked it up and walked over to the bar. The game was still going on at the back of the Jackrabbit Saloon, but was losing steam by the hour. Even so, there were a few men lined up to fill the next chairs that were vacated. As Clint looked toward that end of the saloon, he felt the impulse to go back and reclaim his spot. The letter in his hand kept him from doing so.
“What’s the matter, Clint?” the bartender asked as he stepped up to meet him. “This is the longest you’ve been away from that table for three days. Bad turn of luck?”
“Maybe it just feels good to stretch my legs.” When he saw the skeptical glint in the bartender’s eye, Clint added, “Okay, so maybe my last few hands weren’t the best.”
“A bit of rest wouldn’t hurt. I’ve got some nice rooms for rent, you know.”
“What do you know about Fort Winstead?”
The bartender winced as if a fly had just buzzed into his ear. “Fort Winstead? Ain’t that a long way to go for a night’s sleep?”
“I’m not just talking about renting a room, Eddie. I’m talking about anything you might know. I’ve never even heard of the place.”
Throughout most of the Evans game, Eddie had been tending bar. Although Eddie was staying more for the generous gratuities being tossed around by the gamblers, he had the same dark circles under his eyes and the rough edge in his voice as all the others who’d been playing for so long. In that way, it sort of made Eddie a comrade in arms. He blinked a few times and rubbed his face. “Sorry, Clint. I didn’t follow you there.”
“I guess I could’ve warned you before I switched tracks like that. You heard of Fort Winstead?”
“Yeah. It’s a few days’ ride west of here. There were a whole bunch of men driving supplies and wood through here to build the place about a year ago. Big bunch of Army men strutting around and expecting free whiskey because of their uniforms. I’m a patriot and all that, but I still got a business to run.”
“Of course.”
“Anyway, I’ve heard it’s less of a fort and more of a trading post.” Leaning over the bar, Eddie whispered, “Seems that the Federals ran out of money before they were done building the place. I even heard tell that the place was built as a clerical mistake or some sort of swindle.”
“A swindle?” Clint chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Eddie wiped off the top of the bar and shook his head. “I hear a lot of things when I’m serving drinks and that’s just one of ’em. There was an Army sharpshooter that passed through not too long ago who had a bit too much beer and started saying all kinds of things. One of them things was that Fort Winstead wasn’t even supposed to be built and the Army was too embarrassed to tear it down once they found out where all the supplies had gone. He said all the supplies were supposed to be sold off and nothin’ was even built until an officer found out what was going on. Fort Winstead was slapped together with some spit and polish to cover some cheatin’ general’s ass.”
“Or maybe a cheating colonel,” Clint grumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Just putting a few things together. Is there another saloon down the street with rooms for rent?”
When he heard that, Eddie straightened up and glared at Clint as if the honor of his mother and sister were just questioned. “What’s wrong with my rooms?”
“Nothing,” Clint replied earnestly. “I’d rent one for myself, but not everyone is as anxious to stay so close to all these gamblers.”
“Ah! You mean that pretty little gal with the dirt in her hair?”
“The one that nearly cut George off at the knees,” Clint added.
“That’s the one. She turned right when she stepped out the door, so she’s probably headed for Janeway’s down the street. That’s the only saloon in that direction that rents rooms. Leastways, it’s the only one with any rooms left. If that little lady’s out to rent a bed that ain’t here, she’s probably gonna end up there.”
“Thanks, Eddie.”
“Of course…I know my loyal customers wouldn’t stab me in the back by—”
“I’ll rent one of your rooms for myself,” Clint said before Eddie could get around to the same spot.
“And I’ll just put it on your account. It’s the Presidential Suite at the top of the stairs.”
“You had a president stay here?”
“Nope, but it’s the fanciest room I got. Worth every penny, too.”
“It better be.”
FIVE
Judging by the glee on the face of the bartender at Ja
neway’s, that saloon hadn’t had many customers walk through their doors for a while. The skinny old man practically jumped from a stool behind the bar and ran toward Clint.
“Welcome to Janeway’s,” the old man said in a distinct Irish accent. “What can I do for ya?”
“I’m just here to see one of your guests. Has a woman in buckskins just rented one of your rooms?”
The disappointment on the old man’s face looked painful. In fact, he practically drooped all the way down to the floor when he swung a tired arm toward a narrow set of stairs. “The rooms are up there,” he said. “Are you Clint Adams?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then she’s expecting you. Last door on the left.”
As he started walking toward the stairs, Clint looked around the saloon to find less than half a dozen people scattered among the tables. “Quiet night, huh?”
“Every night’s been quiet since Willie Evans decided to start up his damned game. And don’t look at me with no sympathy. I know yer just another one of them gamblers.”
Clint looked over the empty tables in the saloon one more time. Since a good number of those tables were set up for poker and faro, it seemed the old man wasn’t entirely opposed to games of chance. “Yeah, well, maybe you should start up your own game. There’s no law against that.”
Although the old man started to grumble some more sour words, he stopped and furrowed his brow. “You’re right. I just might do that.”
“Have at it,” Clint said as he hurried toward the stairs and climbed them two at a time.
The second floor of Janeway’s wasn’t much better than the first. It was as empty as it was dusty, although there was a more inviting smell drifting through the air. The closer Clint got to the door the old man had told him about, the stronger that smell became. Finally, he knocked while pulling in a deep lungful of the inviting scent.
“It’s Clint Adams,” he announced to the door when he didn’t get a response. Before he could knock again, the door was pulled open and Clint found himself looking at a vaguely familiar face. “Do I know you?” he asked.
Straw Men Page 2