Under a Turquoise Sky (3 page)

When the knock came at his door, it was no surprise, but at least now he had splashed some water on his face and was awake. He opened the door and found himself facing a man wearing a sheriff's badge.

“Sheriff.”

“Your name Clint Adams?” the man asked.

“That's me.”

The sheriff had a craggy face behind a bushy mustache, and looked like a man who had been wearing tin for about twenty years. Clint had no desire to give him a hard time.

“The Gunsmith, right? No joke?” the lawman asked.

“No joke.”

“Well, based on what the witnesses said, I'm inclined to believe you,” the sheriff said. “Of course, two of the witnesses are a drunk and a whore.”

“And the man with the wallet?”

“He's in room ten,” the sheriff said. “Says you saved him from bein' robbed, and probably saved his life.”

“I don't know, you tell me,” Clint said. “Were you acquainted with the dead man?”

“Mike Dolan? Everybody around here was acquainted with Mike Dolan. He needed killin'. Yeah, you probably saved the fella's life.”

Clint looked out into the hall where a couple of men were removing the body.

“My name's Cafferty,” the lawman said. He put his hand out for Clint to shake.

“Sheriff Cafferty.” Clint shook the man's hand.

“Fella down the hall whose life you saved wants to thank you,” the sheriff said.

“That's it?” Clint asked. “You're not going to ask for my gun? Tell me to leave town? Ask me when I got here, what I want here?”

“Desk clerk says you got here last night, all you wanted to do was sleep,” Cafferty said. “Seems to me the commotion in the hall woke you up and you came out just at the right time.”

“Or wrong time.”

Cafferty shrugged.

“That depends on how you look at it, I guess,” he said. “Wrong for you, right for the dude from the East. He's in room ten, by the way. Wants you to stop in.”

“How is he?”

“Battered, bruised,” Cafferty said. “The doc's in with him now, patchin' him up.”

“I'll stop in.”

“By the way,” the lawman asked. “What are you doin' in town?”

“Just passing through, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Just passing through.”

 

After the lawman left, Clint closed his door, locked it, and walked to room ten. He knocked on the door and heard someone shout “Come!”

As he entered, the man on the bed pushed the doctor away and said, “That's the man who saved my life! Come in, come in, my friend.”

Clint looked at the sawbones, who had an exasperated look on his heavily lined face. He got the same feeling from the doctor that he got from the sheriff: that they'd been here awhile and seen a lot.

“How's he doing?” Clint asked.

“He's got a bump on his head,” the doctor said, “and he's ornery. I'm Doc Miller.”

“Clint Adams.”

“Mr. Adams,” the man on the bed said, “my name is George Markstein and I owe you my life.”

“Mr. Markstein,” Clint said, “you really don't owe anything, not for killing a man—”

“That man needed killing,” Markstein said. “He was…brutal. Did you see the marks on the woman?”

“On the whore?” Clint asked.

“Whore or not, he needn't have marked her that way,” Markstein said. “Any man who would treat a woman that way deserves to be shot.”

“Well, I just wish I hadn't had to do it,” Clint said. “I only came out of my room because the noise woke me up.”

“And lucky for me that you did,” Markstein said. He had a bandage on his head, and there was a little blood seeping through. “I hope you'll let me repay you in some way.”

“I think you'd better just concentrate on healing up, sir,” Clint said. “I just dropped by to see how you were doing.”

“I'm doing quite well, thanks to you.”

“And the doctor.”

“Yes, of course,” Markstein said. “Will you dine with me, sir? Perhaps tomorrow evening? My treat, of course.”

“You don't have to—”

“I'd like to talk with you about a business proposition.”

“Business? What business are you in, Mr. Markstein?”

“Stone,” the man said, “precious stones.”

The doctor was closing his bag and said, “You must be here about the mines, then.”

“Doctor, how much do I owe you?” Markstein asked.

“You two settle up,” Clint said. “I just got to town last night and I haven't eaten a thing yet. I'm going to go out and find a restaurant.”

“Find a good one and we can go there tomorrow,” Markstein said. “I believe I can make it worth your while.”

“Sure,” Clint said, “why not? I'll see you tomorrow evening, Mr. Markstein.”

“Now, Doctor,” the man was saying as Clint left, “about your fee…”

Clint found a place for a decent steak and a good cup of coffee, then found a saloon with cold beer and poker. He was definitely unhappy about having had to kill Mike Dolan, but everywhere he went he heard people talking about it, saying that “finally” somebody had killed Dolan, who “needed” it.

The saloon he settled in was called the Nighthawk Saloon. Kingman, which just several years earlier had been a one-tent, one-saloon, one-horse town, was growing, but the Nighthawk had been one of the first saloons and was not only still around, but was prospering.

He could still smell the new wood scent as he entered. While the long bar was scarred in places, they obviously were not years worth of scars. With a cold beer in hand he turned to examine the room. It had everything it was supposed to have—games, girls, music. And in one corner, eyeing Clint Adams, it had Carl Breckens and Aaron Edwards…

 

“It's a damn good thing we didn't go into that hotel today,” Edwards said. “Who knew the goddamned Gunsmith would be in there. We'd both be dead by now.”

“And why didn't we go in?” Breckens asked.

“I know, I know,” Edwards said, “it was because you wouldn't let us. You was right, we got to go slow and think first.”

“You can go slow,” Breckens said, “but the thinking is gonna be up to me. Right?”

“Yeah, right.”

“So why don't you go slowly up to the bar and get us two more beers,” Breckens said. “And try not to get killed while you're doin' it.”

 

At the far end of the bar to his left Clint saw somebody he recognized, but he couldn't quite place him. It took him a few moments, but then he realized he'd seen the man in the hallway near his room in the hotel during all the ruckus.

He called the bartender over and asked, “Who's that fella down there? At the end of the bar, by the window?”

“Him?” the bartender said. “That's Wooster, Charlie Wooster. He's the town drunk.”

“Town drunk?”

“Well, as much of one as we got,” the man added. “He ain't fallin' down drunk all the time, but he does odd jobs for whiskey money.”

Clint wondered what odd job Wooster had been doing in the hotel. Was he the go-between for the room switch that was supposed to take place? Did he get the amount of money wrong? At the moment the man was staring morosely into a glass of whiskey. Clint decided to leave him alone. He'd probably be able to get the whole story from Markstein at supper the next night, anyway.

“That an open game?” he asked the bartender, indicating a four-handed poker game that was taking place across the room.

“Yep. Anybody can play. Just walk over, sit down and put your money on the table.”

Clint finished his beer first, because he didn't like to drink at the poker table. The he walked over and did like the bartender said, he just sat down and put his money on the table. They dealt him in the next hand.

 

“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.