Out of the Past (2 page)

“I never did see it,” one of the other men said.

“It's very rare,” Clint said, “So rare, in fact, that you didn't see it this time, either. Not fairly, anyway.”

“What?” Wells asked.

“Well, I guess that cleans me out,” Michaels said, starting to rise, but Clint clamped his hand on the man's wrist to stop him.

“Mr. Michaels didn't get that fourth king from the deck,” Clint told Wells.

“Well, where . . . you mean, he's been cheatin'?” Wells asked.

He reached for the wrist Clint was holding, felt up and down the sleeve.

“He ain't got nothin' up his sleeve,” Wells said.

“That's because he got it from his pocket when he withdrew his wallet and most of us were looking at the hundred dollar bills he laid on the table. Go on, check his pocket. I'm sure you'll find the card he replaced in there with the wallet.”

“I don't have to stand here and—” Michaels started, but Clint cut him off.

“Yes,” he said, “you do.”

Elias Wells open Michaels's jacket, reached into the inner pocket and pulled out the man's wallet—and a five of clubs.

“Son of a bitch!” Wells said, throwing both items down on the table.

“All right, all right,” Michaels said, “you caught me. I'll just take my wallet and—”

“Leave it,” Clint said.

“What?”

“You can go, but leave the wallet. These men lost money to you. They're going to get it back.”

“But . . . there's two thousand dollars in there!” the man cried.

“That'll more than cover their losses,” Clint said, “and buy a round of drinks for the house.”

Their conversation had drawn some attention from nearby tables, and while not a lot of people knew what was going on, the news of a round of drinks spread like wildfire.

“That's it, Mr. Michaels,” Clint said. “You can go.”

“But I—”

“Get out while you can still walk,” Clint said.

While Victor Michaels staggered out the door, Clint picked up his winnings and said to the rest of the men at the table, “Split that money up and leave enough for drinks for the house.”

“That sounds good to me,” Wells said.

“And just take what you started with,” Clint added. “Don't be looking to make a profit.”

“That's fair,” Well said.

He and the other men opened the wallet and took what was theirs and then Wells shouted, “Drinks on the house!”

That wasn't exactly true, but it was close enough for everyone.

Clint walked to the bar and secured a place for himself, then signaled the waiter for a beer.

“Mr. Adams?”

He turned, then looked down to see the young lad who had been at the door looking up at him.

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

“Well, sir, you are Clint Adams, right?”

“That's right.”

“I need to talk to you, sir.”

“What about? You know, you shouldn't be in here. What are you, thirteen?”

“I'm almost sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” Clint said. “You're a little small for your age, aren't you, son?”

“You might be right about that,” the youngster said, “if I were a boy.”

“What? You mean—”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I'm a girl.”

“Well . . . then you really shouldn't be in here, should you? What's your name?”

“Sandy.”

“Well, Sandy,” Clint said, “don't you think your mother might be looking for you?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“She's dead.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Clint said. “Well, your father, then. Surely he's wondering where you are.”

“I hope not, sir,” she said.

“Why's that?”

“Well,” she said, “I'm hoping I'm lookin' at my father right now.”

Clint wasn't sure he'd heard right above the din of the men bellying up to the bar for their free drinks.

“Come outside,” he said. He almost took the girl's arm, but then pulled his hand away as if she were hot.

Together they left the saloon and stopped outside on the walk.

“What did you say?”

“I said I think you're my daddy.”

“What makes you think that . . . Sandy?”

“Well, sir,” she said. “Momma told me.”

“When?”

“Just before she died,” Sandy said. “She told me to go looking for you if I ever needed help, because you'd help me.”

He studied the girl standing in front of him. Her hair was chopped short but it was red. Beneath the grime she looked pretty—freckled face and green eyes. She stood about five foot two and she stared at him boldly, but he could see a hint of fear lurking behind those emerald eyes. Fear of him? Or that he might reject her?

“Who was your momma, Sandy?”

“Anne Archer.”

Clint felt as if he'd been punched in the gut and stabbed in the heart at the same time.

“You knew my ma,” Sandy said.

“Oh, yes,” Clint said. “I knew her.”

“Did you love her?”

Clint thought about the question. Anne Archer was a beautiful woman who also happened to be a bounty hunter. She had two partners, Sandy Spillane and Katy Littlefeather. They were all exceptional women and very good at what they did, but it was Anne Archer he really connected with. Over the years their paths crossed and at times it seemed that they wouldn't uncross, but in the end they'd end up going their separate ways. It had been many years since he'd seen her, or even heard from her . . . and now this. He felt an ache that came not only from sadness, but from shame.

And now this . . .

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I'm hungry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on,” he said. “We'll get something to eat and talk about . . . your mother.”

He took her to a small café off the main street and ordered them two steak suppers. The kid ate as if she hadn't eaten for weeks. Clint ate his own steak, watching her the whole time. He thought he saw little flashes of Anne Archer, but what he was looking for was something of himself.

“You never answered my question,” she pointed out around a mouthful of steak and potatoes.

“What question was that?”

“Did you love my mother?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why didn't you ever marry her?”

“I'm not the type to get married,” he said.

“Because of your reputation?”

“And my nature.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“It's my nature to travel. My . . . inclination. I can't stay in one place for too long. I get . . . itchy.”

“I'm like that,” Sandy said. “I want to travel. My mother says—said—I got it from you. I mean, from my father. That was before she told me who you were.”

“When did your mother die?”

“A week ago.”

That surprised him.

“Where?”

“In Kansas City.”

“How?”

“Somebody killed her.”

“Who?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Nobody does.”

“I don't understand. Was she working?”

“She didn't do that anymore,” she said. “She was murdered. ”

“How did you know where I was?” Clint asked. “Who sent you to me?”

“My aunts.”

“Aunts?”

“My mother's partners,” she said. “Sandy and Katy.”

“Sandy . . .”

“My full name is Sandy Littlefeather Archer,” she said.

“Where are your aunts now?”

“In Kansas City,” she said. “We heard that you were here. I took a horse and rode here.”

“You stole a horse?”

“Borrowed,” she said. “I'll bring it back.”

“We'll bring it back,” he said.

“You mean?”

“Eat up,” Clint said. “We're going to Kansas City.”

Clint got Sandy a room at his hotel and told her to get some sleep, they'd be leaving early the next day.

In his own room sleep eluded him. Once before a young boy had claimed to be his son, and that had turned out to be a hoax. How was this one going to turn out? Back then he'd had a bit of a hard time remembering the woman the boy said was his mother, but this was different. Anne Archer was a woman who, under different circumstances, he might have married and settled down with, but neither of them were bred for that. They spent more time on horses than in hotel beds and wore a gun wherever they went.

He was pleased that both Sandy and Katy Littlefeather would be in Kansas City. At least he could talk to them about this. God, he hadn't seen any of them in . . . nine or ten years.

Wait a minute. Nine or ten years? And Sandy said she was almost sixteen?

He put his boots and trousers back on and went down the hall to her room. She answered his first knock, stared at him expectantly.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said.

“That's all right,” she said. “I wasn't asleep. Come in.”

“That's okay,” he said. “I have one question and I can ask it out here.”

She had washed her face and he could see now that she was very pretty. He wondered if she kept her hair short and wore boy's clothes all the time.

“You told me that you're fifteen?”

“Almost sixteen,” she corrected.

“But . . . I saw your mother and your . . . your aunts about nine or ten years ago.”

“I was wonderin' when you'd get to that,” she said. “I would've been around six. My mother said she didn't want to tell you about me back then.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged.

“Only she knows why she kept me from you,” Sandy said. “Or maybe you could ask Aunt Sandy.”

“I guess I'll have to,” he said. “Okay, you can go back to sleep . . . or to whatever you were doing.”

“Can't sleep,” she said. “Can you come in and talk a while?”

He looked up and down the hall, didn't see anyone, then said, “Sure,” and stepped into the room.

Outside the hotel two men stood in the doorway of a building across the street.

“You think that was him?” one of them asked.

“Of course that was him,” the other man said. “He got the girl a room, didn't he?”

The other man grinned and said, “Unless he put 'er in his room. Maybe he likes 'em young.”

“You're a pig,” the first man said. “She's supposed to be his daughter.”

“Yeah, but maybe he ain't so sure,” the second man said. “I mean, I seen that girl in a dress. She's kinda tasty.”

“You're the one that likes 'em young,” the first man said, “and that's because you're a pig.”

“And I suppose you like old women.”

“You know what?” the first man said. “Just don't talk to me. We're here to watch.”

“I thought we wuz here to kill the Gunsmith and make sure he don't get to Kansas City.”

“Yeah, well,” the man said, “that, too.”

“What about the kid?”

“What about her?”

“We supposed ta kill her, too?”

“My orders is to make sure the Gunsmith don't get to Kansas City. That's it.”

“Good,” the second man said with a leer. “That means we don't hafta kill the tasty little girl.”

The other man looked at him and said, “You're a pig.”

Clint woke the next morning actually looking forward to spending the day on the trail with Sandy. They had sat up in her room for hours with her asking him questions about her mother and Clint telling her stories about the two of them as well as her two aunts.

“They ever tell you stuff like this?” he'd asked her.

“They said I didn't need to hear these stories,” she told him, “but they're wrong. I need to know everything I can about my mother.”

Clint agreed. Sandy and Katy might be mad at him for telling her the stories, but he'd argue for the girl that she needed to hear it. She had to know who her mother was, especially now that she was dead.

As he left the room, a lump came to his throat. He remembered that this was all about Anne Archer being dead. He hoped that the modernized police department in Kansas City would have a lead on who her killer was, or might even have caught him by now.

He walked down the hall carrying his saddlebags and rifle and knocked on young Sandy's door. She answered right away and smiled at him. That was another thing he had discovered about her last night, that smile. It was definitely her mother's.

“Ready?”

“I'm ready.”

“Let's go see what kind of horse you, uh, borrowed.”

“They're comin' out,” the first man said, nudging the second man awake.

“Jeez,” the second man said, stretching, “why'd we both hafta stay out here all night?”

“What do you care?” the first one said. “You slept the whole time.”

“Slept pretty good, too,” the second man answered. “Dreamt about that sweet little gal.”

Ed Presser turned and stared at his partner, Hal Chance.

“Do you say stuff like that just to annoy me?” Presser demanded.

“What, you'll kill a man but you won't fuck a fifteen-year -old girl?”