Standoff in Santa Fe (6 page)

Clint left the sheriff's office and crossed the street. At that moment he saw Dutch Craddock walk to the door of the sheriff's office and enter. So checking in with the local law was the way he did business.

Clint decided to wait. He found an alley, leaned against the wall, and watched. Ten minutes later Craddock came out. Clint waited until he walked away and was out of sight, then crossed the street and went back in.

“Now what?” the sheriff asked, looking up from his desk.

“I saw Craddock coming in,” Clint said. “I waited.”

“For what?”

“I'd like to know who he's after.”

“Why?” Burle asked. “You want to warn him?”

“Well . . . no, but—” Clint said.

“Okay, look,” Burle said, “I'm gonna show this to you, but I don't want to hear it got around town. If it does, I'll know it was you.”

“Okay.”

“Here.” Burle handed Clint a wanted poster.

Clint took it and read it.

“Have you heard of him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he here in town?”

Clint handed the poster back.

“There's no way to know for sure.”

“Well,” Burle said, “if you see him, I'd liked to know about it.”

“Of course,” Clint said. “If I see him, you'll be the first to know.”

Clint turned and headed for the door, but stopped short and turned back.

“Sheriff, that poster. Did you have it among yours, or did Craddock give it to you?”

“He had it on him,” Burle said, “and he has many more copies.”

“I see,” Clint said. “Do you think he'll be showing it around town?”

“I asked him not to,” Burle said, “but who knows?”

“Yes,” Clint agreed, “who knows?”

*   *   *

Clint decided to stay off the street and get some sleep for a few hours. Once the others—other than he and Bat—were on the streets, anything could happen. And if Burle was sure he had the deputies he needed, there was no need for him to be concerned.

He slept for only two hours, but awoke fairly well refreshed.

And hungry.

He went down to the hotel dining room, and was not surprised to find some of his friends there.

“Gents,” he said, “mind if I join you?”

Bat Masterson, Luke Short, and Heck Thomas all welcomed him expansively.

“Get some sleep?” Bat asked as Clint sat.

“Two hours,” Clint said, “but it seems to be enough.”

The waiter came over and Clint ordered steak and eggs for the second time that day. His companions all seemed to be lunching on beef stew.

“Bat tells us you saw Dutch Craddock ride into town,” Heck Thomas said. “Who's he after?”

“I went to the sheriff and found out,” Clint said. “Craddock is carrying a sheaf of posters on Tom Horn.”

“Horn?” Bat repeated.

“What's Tom done?” Heck asked.

“It has something to do with the Tonto Basin thing in Arizona.”

“I thought that was being called the Pleasant Valley War?” Heck said.

“Either way,” Luke said, “it had to do with sheep.” He made a face.

“Well,” Clint said, “somebody's put a price on Tom's head, and Craddock seems to think that Tom is coming here.”

“If he does,” Heck said, “we can warn him.”

“Craddock won't take that well,” Clint said. “While we're trying to avoid trouble with the likes of Hardin, Miller, and Allison, we'd be looking for it with Craddock.”

“He won't stand against us,” Heck said. “Not against all of us.”

“Probably not,” Clint said. “But Dutch Craddock doesn't want for courage.”

“It wouldn't take courage to face us all,” Luke Short commented.

“It would be folly,” Bat said, “pure folly.”

Clint's food came and they all fell to eating in silence for a time.

“Where's Craddock stayin'?” Luke Short asked over coffee.

“Here,” Clint said.

“Maybe we should go and talk to him,” the gambler said.

“About what?” Clint asked. “You think you're going to talk Craddock out of doing his job?”

“Not a chance,” Bat Masterson said.

“Besides,” Heck said, “if there's a bounty on Horn, Craddock won't be the only man after it.”

“What did it say Horn was wanted for, Clint?” Masterson asked.

“The poster said murder.”

“Oh,” Masterson said.

“Only I know Horn's not a killer.”

“He's not?” Heck Thomas asked.

“Okay,” Clint said, “let's put it this way. He's not a murderer.”

Nobody offered an argument.

“So what do we do?” Bat asked. “Just let him ride in and face Craddock?”

“Isn't that what Tom Horn would choose to do?” Clint asked.

“It's exactly what he'd do,” Heck said.

“He wouldn't appreciate us horning in,” Short said. “
No
joke intended.”

“In any case,” Clint said, “I'll just keep an eye out for his arrival.”

“Maybe he won't even come,” Bat said.

“With all the gunhands who have already arrived?” Luke Short said. “I would bet that he does come.”

“No bet,” Bat said.

“Me neither,” Clint said.

“Well,” Short said, pushing his empty coffee cup away, “I've got to buy a new suit for the wake.”

“I'll come with you,” Heck said.

“You?” Short asked.

They'd make an odd couple, indeed, since Luke Short was always impeccably dressed in dark three-piece suits, often accompanied by a silk top hat, while Heck Thomas favored more common trail clothes.

“I could use a new hat,” Heck said.

“At least,” Short said.

“With all the itchy trigger fingers in town,” Clint said, “we're probably wise to travel in twos.”

“Good point,” Short said. “I'll be glad of your company, Heck.”

Heck was looking down at his clothes, no doubt wondering what Short meant by his “at least” comment. The two men rose and left the dining room and the hotel.

Clint poured himself another cup of coffee, and Bat nudged his cup over for the rest.

“They left us with the check,” he observed.

“What else is new?” Clint asked.

“More coffee, sir?” the waiter asked Clint.

“No,” Clint replied, “just the check.”

“For the others, too?” the waiter asked.

“Yes,” Clint said, “I'll pay for everyone.”

“With my thanks,” Bat said, toasting Clint with his coffee cup.

Clint ignored the toast and took out his money.

*   *   *

Outside the hotel, Clint and Bat studied the crowded streets. It was now midday, and all of the men who had come to town for the wake were probably up and about.

But where?

As if in answer to the question, shots suddenly rang out. Several of them.

“Where?” Bat asked.

“There!” Clint pointed.

They ran in that direction. After two blocks they saw a crowd, and went to join them. In the center was Jim Miller, standing over two dead men with his gun still in his hand.

Clint stepped into the circle made by the crowd, to join Miller.

“Jim?” he said.

Miller turned his head to look at him.

“What happened?” Clint asked.

“These two were lookin' to make a name for themselves at my expense,” Miller said. “It was a bad idea.”

“Obviously,” Clint said. “I think you can holster your gun now.”

Miller gave the suggestion some thought, then holstered his weapon. Suddenly, the sheriff appeared from the crowd.

“What happened here?” he demanded. “Who killed these men?”

“I did,” Miller said.

“Why?”

“They asked for it.”

“And you are?”

“Jim Miller.”

Somebody in the crowd shouted, “Killin' Jim Miller!”

Miller ignored the name.

Sheriff Burle leaned over to inspect the two men, then straightened.

“Both dead, shot once.”

“It usually takes only one,” Miller offered.

“These were not gunmen,” Burle said. “They work around here.”

“That one's gun is on the ground next to him,” Clint pointed out.

“So it is,” Burle said. He looked around. “All right, that's enough. Go back to what you were doing. Not you, Benson. Get a few men and take these bodies over to the undertaker.”

“Sure, Sheriff,” Benson said.

“Mr. Miller,” Burle said, “I'll need you to come to my office.” He put his hand out. “And I'll need your gun.”

Clint didn't know Miller well enough to predict his reaction. But he'd heard enough about him so he wasn't surprised by it.

“I'll come with you and answer your questions,” Miller said, “but you ain't gettin' my gun.”

J. Burle stared at Miller, then looked at Clint, but for what?

“It sounds fair to me,” Clint said. “If he gives up his gun, he's a target.”

“While in my custody?”

“Is he under arrest?”

“Well, no.”

“Then he's not in your custody, is he?”

Burle frowned, then looked at Miller.

“All right,” he said to the gunfighter. “Let's go to my office.”

Miller looked at Clint, then turned and followed the sheriff to his office.

Bat stepped up and stood next to Clint while a group of men lifted the dead bodies and carried them off. Before long, the street was no more crowded than on a regular busy day.

“Looks like it's starting,” Bat said.

“Yep.”

“Think Miller had call for this?”

“I don't know,” Clint said, “but then we don't have to, do we? We're not wearing badges.”

“No,” Bat said, “we're not.”

“Still,” Clint said, “let's keep a sharp eye out. This might just be the beginning.”

Rather than go to the Crystal Queen for a drink, Clint took Bat Masterson to the Buckskin, where bartender Kelly O'Day greeted him warmly.

“Hey, I heard the shootin',” he said. “That wasn't you, was it?”

“No, not me or my friend here,” Clint said. “Kelly, this is Bat Masterson. How about a beer for each of us?”

“Comin' up,” O'Day said. “Pleased to have ya both in my place.”

He drew two beers and set them on the bar.

“On the house,” he said, leaning his elbows on the bar. “Come on, tell me, who was shootin'?”

Clint looked at Bat, who just shrugged.

“It was Jim Miller,” Clint said. “Apparently two locals wanted to try their luck.”

“And they didn't fare very well,” Bat said.

“Miller?” O'Day said. “Aw, damn!”

“Why?” Clint asked.

“I didn't have him in the pool.”

“What pool?” Clint asked.

“The bettin' pool,” the bartender said. “I picked you to be the first one to kill somebody.”

Clint stared at the man and Bat said, “I think you better walk away, friend.”

“Hey, uh, I didn't mean nothin'—”

“Walk away,” Bat said again. This time the man obeyed.

Clint sipped his beer, then made a face and slammed it down on the bar so that it spilled.

“Lost my thirst,” he said. “For this place anyway.”

“Me, too,” Bat said. “We might as well go over to the Crystal and see what's goin' on.”

Clint nodded and the two men left the saloon.

*   *   *

One of the other men in the saloon walked up to the bar and asked O'Day, “What was that all about?”

“Beats me,” O'Day said. “That was Clint Adams and Bat Masterson. All I did was tell 'em about the bettin' pool and they got all upset and left.”

“You gonna dump those beers out?” the man asked.

“Yeah, unless you want 'em.”

“We'll take 'em,” the man said. He grabbed the two beers left by Clint Adams and Bat Masterson and carried them back to his table. He set one down in front of his partner.

“Was that them?” Cleve Johnson asked.

“Yeah,” Steve Carter said, “it was them.”

“Who's beer do I got?” Johnson asked.

“That one was Masterson's.”

“I want the Gunsmith's.”

Carter shrugged, switched beers with Johnson. He didn't care. There was more beer in Masterson's mug anyway.

“Whataya think they got all mad about?” Johnson asked.

“Seems like they don't like bein' bet on.”

“I ain't too happy with the pool neither,” Johnson said. “I had me John Wesley Hardin. Damn Miller.”

“I had Clay Allison.”

“I wonder who Miller killed.”

“What's it matter?” Johnson asked.

“I'm just thinkin' . . .”

“Uh-oh,” Johnson said. “That's never a good sign. We always get in trouble when you start thinkin.'” “Naw, naw, just hear me out.”

“All right,” Johnson said with a deep sigh, “go ahead. After all, you did get me a free beer.”

“With all these big reps in town,” Carter said, “we got us an opportunity . . .”

Clint and Bat entered the Crystal Queen and weren't surprised to find it as packed as the day before, perhaps even more.

“See anybody?” Clint asked.

“Hardin at the bar,” Bat said, “further down Allison.”

“I see Baca at a table.”

“What about Heck and Luke?”

“Not here,” Clint said. “Let's get a drink.”

They went up to the bar and elbowed open two places for themselves. This time when they got two beers, they kept quiet and drank them.

And then he walked in.

Craddock.

It was as if everyone in the saloon recognized him, and wondered if they were on his list. Craddock was known as a man who always brought home his prey. If you were on his list, you were as good as dead.

Clint, Bat, and the absent Heck Thomas, Bass Reeves, and Luke Short were the only ones who knew who he was really after.

Clint looked down the bar at John Wesley Hardin and Clay Allison. Both men seemed very calm.

“Must be no paper out on those boys,” Clint said. “They know Craddock's not after them.”

“Maybe they just know they can take him,” Heck suggested.

“Does anybody know that?” Clint asked.

“Well . . . you can take him, can't you?” Bat asked.

“I don't know,” Clint said, “and I'm not looking to find out.”

“Have you ever seen his move?” Luke Short asked.

“I don't have to,” Clint said. “He's a killer, pure and simple. You never want to face a man who kills for a living. And maybe for pleasure.”

Craddock examined the room, then moved to the bar. A space cleared for him somewhere between Clint and John Wesley Hardin, with Clay Allison the farthest away from him.

Craddock got a beer placed in front of him, leaned on the bar, and sipped it. Suddenly, from the other end of the bar, Clay Allison pushed away from it and walked down to where Craddock was standing.

“Now,” Heck Thomas said, “I wonder what this is about.”

*   *   *

Allison had no trouble securing a place next to Craddock because nobody else wanted it.

“Craddock,” he said.

“Clay.”

“You still owe me a drink.”

“Do I?”

“From Waco, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Craddock said, making a face.

“You forgot?”

Craddock looked at Clay Allison.

“Nobody likes to remember having to have his life saved,” Craddock said. “What are you drinkin'?”

“A beer.”

Dutch Craddock waved to the bartender, who brought a beer over.

“How long have you been here?” Craddock asked.

“Since yesterday,” Allison said. “Came for the wake. Is that why you're here?”

“I didn't know anything about a wake until Clint Adams told me.”

“When did you see Adams?”

“Just today, when I rode in.”

“Was that a happy . . . reunion?”

“No reunion,” Craddock said.

“So you're not friends with Adams?”

“No,” Craddock said, then looked at Allison and added, “Not friends with you either, as I recall.”

“No,” Allison said, “that's how I remember it, too.”

But he didn't move from his place. As Craddock had bought him the beer, he decided to finish it there, in the man's company.

“So, if you're not here for the wake, you must be huntin' somebody.”

“I'm always hunting somebody.”

“Who is it this time?” Allison asked. “Anybody in this saloon?”

“Not anyone I saw when I walked in,” Craddock said. “Not you, Allison.”

“Hardin?”

“I saw him when I walked in,” Craddock said. “I have no paper on him.”

“Jim Miller, then,” Allison said. “He killed two men in the street today.”

“Then he's the problem of the local law, not mine,” Craddock said.

“So who is it, then?”

“Not your worry,” Craddock said.

“Oh, don't worry,” Allison said, “I wouldn't warn him.”

“This way,” Craddock said, “you won't even be tempted.”

“Good point.”

“Finish your beer and let me be, Allison,” Craddock said. “We're even now.”

“Well,” Allison said, “if one beer is the value you put on your life, then yeah, we're even.”

When Craddock didn't reply, Allison shrugged and took his beer back to his place at the bar. Before he got there, though, he was stopped by John Wesley Hardin.

“Get anythin' out of him?”

Allison raised his mug and said, “Just a beer he owed me for savin' his life.”

“Is that what his life is worth?”

“I guess so.”

“Is he here for the wake?”

“No,” Allison said. “I got that much out of him, at least. He didn't know anythin' about the wake until Clint Adams told him.”

“Hmmm,” Hardin said.

Allison moved on, reclaimed his former place at the bar.

*   *   *

“That didn't look like a happy reunion, did it?” Bat asked.

“Not at all,” Clint said, “although it did look like Craddock bought Allison a drink.”

“Almost like he owed it to him,” Bat said.

“You and I owe each other many drinks,” Clint said.

“For saving each other's lives many times over,” Bat said. “You think that was it?”

“More than likely,” Clint said. “They didn't look like friends.”

“Why don't the two of you stop talking so one of you can go into your deep pockets?” Luke Short said, waving his empty mug.