Under a Turquoise Sky

by J. R. Roberts

  “So what are we gonna do about him?” Edwards asked, indicating the poker-playing Gunsmith.

  “Right now there’s no reason to think he’ll get in our way,” Breckens said. “He just happened to be staying in a room down the hall from the commotion. But he did us a big favor.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “If he hadn’t killed Dolan, then Dolan woulda killed our meal ticket,” Breckens said. “That fella from the East would be dead right now.”

  “Jesus, you’re right.” He stared down into his fresh beer. “Maybe we need help with this?”

  “You wanna split your end of the money?”

  “Well, no, I just thought—”

  “And I thought we said I was gonna do all the thinkin’,” Breckens said.

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Yeah, well nothin’, Aaron,” Breckens said. “Just drink yer beer and shut up. I’ll decide what we’re gonna do and when we’re gonna do it.”

  Breckens turned his attention away from his partner and back to Clint Adams, who seemed to have already accumulated some money in front of him.

  Clint started doing well immediately because the other players at the table were so bad. Two of them were town merchants who played in the saloon regularly; the other two were like Clint, strangers passing through who were looking for a way to pass the time. They didn’t seem to know each other, but Clint didn’t like the coincidence of so many strangers at the same table, so he kept his eye on them.

  As it turned out, that was a good idea.

  Abruptly, the tide began to change in favor of the other two strangers. They weren’t taking Clint’s money, but they were doing a good job of taking money from the two merchants. It was a small-stakes game, but they were doing all right for themselves.

  It soon became apparent to Clint that the two men were cheating. Obviously they knew each other, but each had come to the game separately. They probably traveled from town to town doing this.

  Whenever one of them had a big hand, the other one began to build a pot by betting or raising with nothing, then getting out of the pot to leave it for his partner. They weren’t so much cheating—nobody was bottom dealing or anything—but they were working in tandem, which was almost the same thing. Poker was a solitary game, not a team game. Playing it that way was frowned upon.

  Clint was seated so he could see most of the room—he would not have joined the game otherwise—so he was immediately aware when the sheriff entered the saloon.

  “Deal me out a couple of hands,” he said, and stood up to go to the bar. That would make the two cheaters happy, because any time one of them had a hand, Clint would fold.

  He went to the bar, where the sheriff had gotten himself a beer.

  “Adams,” Sheriff Cafferty said. “Found yourself a friendly game, I see.”

  “Maybe not so friendly,” Clint said. He signaled the bartender for a beer.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “You know any of those players?”

  “Two of ’em,” Cafferty said. “Herb Olands owns the mercantile, and Jerry Hill runs the livery.”

  “I thought I recognized him,” Clint said. His memory of arriving in town and putting Eclipse up at the livery was hazy. “You don’t know the other two?”

  “No better than I know you,” the man said. “One rode into town early yesterday, the other the day before.”

  “The one who arrived first, he play any poker that you know of before the other one got here?” He asked the question knowing that a good lawman would be keeping an eye on strangers.

  “Now that you mention it, no.” Cafferty put his mug down on the bar. “Why? Are they cheatin’?”

  “Depends on what you call cheating,” Clint said. “They’re playing together.”

  “I call that cheatin’. Can you prove it?”

  “Watch the game when I go back,” Clint said, and explained the scam to the lawman so he’d know what to look for.

  Clint drank about half his beer and then returned to the game.

  For the next hour or so the sheriff watched and saw what Clint Adams was talking about. The two merchants were being scammed, all right. Whenever the two strangers launched one of their bids, Clint would fold, sit back and wait. Finally, the sheriff had seen enough.

  He walked over to the table and stood next to one of the strangers. After a moment, the man looked up at him.

  “Looks like you’re doin’ pretty well for yourself,” Cafferty said to the man.

  “Uh, I’m doin’ okay.”

  This was a man named Tim Bailey. He was in his late twenties. The other man was called Frank Anderson, in his forties and probably the mentor of the first man. He was obviously the more experienced of the two.

  “Yeah, I’m doin’ okay,” Anderson said to the sheriff. “What about it, Sheriff?”

  “I think you boys better come with me.”

  “What for?” Anderson asked.

  “We’re gonna have a little talk outside.”

  Bailey looked over at Anderson, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Okay,” Anderson said. He looked at Bailey. “You see anythin’ wrong with havin’ a little talk, mister?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I’ll just gather up my money—” Anderson said, but the sheriff cut him off.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “Just leave it on the table.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t need it.”

  “Whataya talkin’ about?” Anderson demanded. “It’s my money.”

  “Not anymore.”

  As if he thought nobody could see him, Bailey started picking up his money from the table. Cafferty dropped a hand on his shoulder.

  “That’s okay, friend,” he said. “Just leave it.”

  Bailey tensed, looked across the table and made a big mistake. “Frank?” he said.

  “Shut up!”

  “Let’s go, boys,” the sheriff said. “We don’t take kindly to poker cheats in this town. I think we’ll just walk over to the livery, saddle your horses and you can be on your way.”

  “I’m not leavin’ without my money,” Anderson announced.

  “It’s not your money,” Cafferty said, “it’s theirs.” He put his hand on his gun. “Now put your guns on the table and stand up.”

  Anderson dropped his right hand below the table, made like he was going to stand and then went for his gun.

  SEVEN

  Clint drew his gun and pressed it to the side of the man’s neck.

  “I wouldn’t.” He lifted the man’s gun from his holster. “Now do like the sheriff said and stand up. You, too,” he said to the other man.

  Bailey didn’t try anything. He placed his gun on the table gently and stood up. The two merchants at the table just sat back and watched the proceedings, wide-eyed.

  “I’ll come back for the guns,” Cafferty told the table.

  “Want me to walk out with you?” Clint asked.

  “No, thanks, Adams,” Cafferty said. “You did enough spotting these two, and then saving my bacon when that one tried to go for his gun. I got it now.”

  “You?” Anderson said, “No wonder you kept sitting out.”

  “Let’s go,” Cafferty said.

  The two men stood up and marched out of the saloon in front of Cafferty’s gun.

  “You knew they was cheatin’?” Jerry Hill asked.

  “I caught on a little while into the game.”

  “And you told the sheriff?” Herb Olands said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” Hill said, “we’re much obliged, mister.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “But…what do we do with their money?” Hill asked.

  “You fellas split it between you,” Clint said, gathering up his own winnings. “After all, they took it from you.”

  He stood up, put his money in his pockets and said, “Good night to you.”

  As he left, the two men
were divvying up the cash. Since it included the money from the two cheaters, it was probably one of the only times they had both come out ahead after a game.

  Clint went to the bar and the bartender had a cold beer waiting for him.

  “On the house,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “That was slick the way you spotted those two,” someone came up alongside him and said.

  “They weren’t being very subtle about it,” Clint replied. He picked up his beer and turned to face the owner of the voice. Earlier he’d noticed three girls working the floor—a blonde, a brunette and a redhead. The saloon seemed to like catering to all tastes. This was the redhead, the taller of the three, and the more bosomy. Much of her bosom was overflowing from the top of her green gown and he could see a sprinkling of freckles on the pale slopes.

  “Also slick the way you drew your gun and saved the sheriff,” she said.

  “Probably saved him from having to kill that fella,” he said. “I think the sheriff can handle himself.”

  “Oh, he sure can,” she said. “He’s been doin’ it for as long as I been livin’ here.”

  “And how long has that been?” Clint asked.

  “A few months,” she said. “Came in on a stage that left without me.”

  “And why was that?”

  “I didn’t have enough money to keep travelin’.” She put her hand out. “My name’s Shannon.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “No, really,” she said.

  He took her hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Shannon…”

  “O’Doyle,” she said. “And that’s real, too.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, releasing the long, graceful fingers of her hand. “My name is Clint Adams.”

  “I heard the sheriff say Adams,” she said, “but…Clint?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me,” she said. “But I imagine it can be a problem for you, sometimes.”

  “It can be.”

  “Would you like to sit awhile and get acquainted?” she asked, touching his hand.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Just a whiskey,” she said. She looked at the bartender and added, “And don’t water it. I want to enjoy myself with Mr. Adams.”

  “Clint,” he said. “My name is Clint.”

  She accepted her whiskey from the bartender, slipped her arm through Clint’s and said, “I have a special table in the back.”

  As he walked across the saloon floor with Shannon on his arm, it was clear to him that she was the more popular of the three girls. Most of the men watched their progress, and the other two women frowned after them.

  “It seems as if the other two girls don’t like you,” Clint said as they sat down, he with his back to the wall.

  “They had the place all to themselves before I got here,” she said. “Also, they’re a little older and more experienced than I am.”

  “And that makes them less desirable, or more?” he asked.

  “I guess that depends on who you ask,” she said. “Some of the old-timers here have favorites. On the other hand, when the miners come to town they really don’t care who they poke it in as long as they get to poke it.”

  “Seems to me you’d be a little more choosy, though.”

  “Oh, I am,” she said. “That’s why I’m sitting here with you. And that’s also why I’ve decided that, when we finish our drinks, we should go back to your room and get acquainted there.”

  “Well,” he said, “I really don’t see why we even have to wait until we finish our drinks.”

  EIGHT

  Clint and Shannon were walking through the lobby on the way to the stairs when George Markstein came walking down.

  “Mr. Adams,” he said. “What a coincidence running into you. Young lady.” He bowed slightly, and wasn’t wearing a hat because of the bandage on his head.

  “Mr. Markstein—”

  “George, please,” Markstein said.

  “Hi, George,” the redhead said. “I’m Shannon.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Shannon.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed, George?” Clint asked.

  “That’s what the doctor said,” Markstein replied, “but I feel like a walk.”

  “You’re not going to find anyplace to eat this late, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Not at all,” Markstein said. “The doctor was kind enough to arrange to have some food brought in for me.”

  “I see. Then why would you be going out this late?” Clint asked the man curiously.

  “I’m feeling cooped up in my room,” Markstein said, “even though the hotel was kind enough to move me to room five.”

  “The bigger room? The one you got hurt over?”

  “That’s the one. Look, I’m just going out for some air,” Markstein said. “Don’t forget we have an appointment for supper tomorrow night.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Clint said, “but I don’t think it’s wise for you to go out on the street at this hour.”

  “Nonsense,” Markstein said. “What could befall me just going out for a walk?”

  “Honey,” Shannon said, “you ever been in a mining town before?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “That’s obvious,” she said, “or you wouldn’t ask such a question. There’s people on these streets who would kill you for your shoes.”

  “That’s ridiculous—”

  “You almost got killed over a room this afternoon,” Clint reminded him.

  Markstein looked frustrated.

  “I just want to get some air, and perhaps smoke a cigar. Couldn’t I just go out front safely?”

  Clint looked at Shannon, who smiled.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Give me your key and I’ll wait in your room for you.”

  Clint handed his key over.

  “You enjoy your cigar, George,” she said to Markstein, touching his arm before she went up the stairs.

  “What a delightful young woman,” the easterner said. “Does this mean you’ll be coming outside with me?”

  “Just out front,” Clint said. “A deep breath, a cigar, and then back to your room.”

  “Excellent!”

  The two men walked outside and stopped on the boardwalk just in front of the hotel. Clint looked left and right, and found two wooden chairs they could use.

  As they sat, Markstein pulled out a cigar.

  “Would you like one?” he asked Clint.

  “Not tonight, thanks.” Clint could see that the cigars were expensive, and he didn’t want the man to waste one on him.

  Markstein lit his cigar with a wooden match, puffed at it until he had it going to his satisfaction, then shook the match out and tossed it into the street.

  “Ah,” he said, sitting back. “There’s nothing like a good cigar.”

  “A good horse,” Clint said, “a cold drink, a good woman…ah, a really good poker hand.”

  “I don’t ride, or gamble,” Markstein replied readily. “My days with women are over, and I prefer my liquor at room temperature. Therefore for me, it’s the good cigar.”

  Clint couldn’t argue with the man when he put it that way. He did wonder, though, if Markstein was done with women willingly or unwillingly. He didn’t appear to be sixty yet—and Clint knew quite a few sixty-year-old men who still enjoyed women.

  “Shall we discuss my business proposition tonight?” Markstein asked, then.

  “No,” Clint said. “I have other things on my mind. Besides, I have a place picked out for us tomorrow that has decent steaks and good coffee.”

  “Very well,” Markstein said, “we’ll wait. May I ask what your business is, Clint?”

  Clint looked at the man, who was staring at the tip of his cigar as he waited for his answer. It seemed as if the man truly had no idea who Clint was. He found that refreshing.

  “I’m a gunsmith,” Clint said. “My bus
iness is guns.”

  “Ah, you work with your hands, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, I assume from what happened this evening, that you are fairly proficient with the tools of your trade?”

  “Fairly,” Clint said.

  “Good, good.”

  Markstein continued to enjoy his cigar until it was about half gone. The street was dark and quiet except for the music coming from a couple of saloons down the street. Clint found his mind wandering to Shannon, who was waiting upstairs in his room.

  Finally, Markstein said, “Well, I suppose it’s time to turn in.” He tossed half of his expensive cigar into the street, where Clint was sure someone like Charlie Wooster would find it and claim it as a prize.

  “Thank you for the company, Clint,” Markstein said, rising unsteadily. Clint grabbed his arm. “I seem to be a little dizzy.”

  “Come on,” Clint said, “I’ll get you back to your room.”

  “I seem to be relying on you quite a bit today,” Markstein said. “I would say you are my first true friend in the West, Clint.”

  At that moment Clint didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  NINE

  When Clint entered his room, Shannon was on the bed, reading a book she had found in his saddlebags. It was Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

  “This is very good.”

  She was still wearing her dress, but had discarded the shawl she’d thrown over it for the walk to the hotel.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Did you take care of your friend?” she asked. “Make sure he got to bed all right?”

  “I got him to his room,” he said. “He’ll have to get himself into bed. We’re not that good friends yet.”

  “When did you meet?”

  “Only today.”

  “Oh,” she said, setting the book aside, “then we’re just as good friends as you and him?”

  “Maybe,” he said, removing his gun belt, “but we’re about to get a lot more friendly.”

  In his room George Markstein removed his trousers, then reached into the pocket and took out the stone. It was rough, with brown veins. To the naked eye it might not have seemed like much, but Markstein came from a family of people who knew stones when they saw them. When this one was cleaned up, it would be breathtaking, and he knew where to get a lot more like it.