Crossing the Line (11 page)

“How does it feel to stand up for yourself?”

“Good. Real frightening, but real good.”

“I'm glad,” Clint told him. “Just don't make a habit out of it. If George has any more friends or decides to take another run at you when this blows over, just meet him head-on and he'll back down.”

“You think I may have to kill him?” Carl asked.

“I doubt it'll come to that. He's hurt and has his back against a wall. All he's got left is a bunch of tough talk and hot air.”

“So . . . what now?”

Clint nodded toward the Emporium, which was nearly filled up as if it was just another night of drinking and gambling. “Now I go in and finish playing while you go back to work.”

About twenty paces away from the Emporium's front door, Carl stopped. He looked at the wide entrance, up at the weathered sign, and then up a bit farther to the sky overhead. He sighed and almost looked ready to drop back into his familiar slouch. “There's gonna be hell to pay.”

“What?” Clint asked.

“For all of this. There's gonna be hell to pay and I'll be the one who'll have to pay it.”

As much as Clint wanted to get back inside, he wasn't about to leave Carl behind in such a state. “Everyone knows George brought this on. He's even pissed off Mister Pace, and I don't think that's a man anyone should cross. George has dug a deep enough hole for himself that he shouldn't waste more time bothering you.”

“I'm not exactly thinking about him,” Carl explained.

“I'm talking about the folks who don't like the notion of someone like me taking a stand against anyone.”

“It wasn't just you,” Clint told him. “Both Les and I stood with you. It's over. Unless you start anything else, it'll stay over. You're not about to go around shooting this town full of holes, are you?”

Carl smirked at that. “No.”

“Then sit back and let George dig himself into a deeper hole. The more he talks, the worse he'll make it for himself. An idiot like that doesn't need any help where that sort of thing is concerned.”

“I suppose you're right.”

When they got back inside Pace's, Clint and Carl were already old news. The tournament was rolling again and gamblers were in the heat of their own private battles. Clint sat back down at his table and Carl sat down at his.

The tournament lasted until a little past one that morning and ended with a hand between Clint and a local man who'd proven to be one of the luckiest men in town. His luck ran out when Clint called a bluff and took every last chip he had.

“We're rich,” Delilah said as she rushed up behind Clint's chair to wrap her arms around him. “Time for you to get your prize.”

“I think Mister Pace needs to collect the money before handing it—”

Pulling Clint from his chair, she dragged him toward a back room and said, “I've got my own prize in mind.”

“Hey!” Mack shouted.

It took every bit of strength Clint had to plant his feet and break Delilah's momentum. “What is it, Mack? Aren't you happy with third place?”

“To hell with third place. I want another crack at you, and I don't mean in one of these penny ante tournaments. I hold a real game, and the next one's to be held in a month or so. Come back if you want to play for some real stakes.”

Delilah tugged impatiently at Clint's arm and even let out a few anxious groans while attempting to drag him toward the back room. He wouldn't be able to hold his ground much longer. Considering how excited Delilah was, Clint didn't want to put her off for long.

“What kind of stakes are we talking about?” Clint asked.

“Let's just say your winning here wouldn't even be enough to buy you a seat.”

“A lot of gamblers know about your game?”

“Enough to make a few players damn rich,” Mack said.

Clint nodded and allowed himself to be pulled away. “Count me in,” he shouted over his shoulder.

The Emporium was alive with music, loud complaints from tournament losers, and boisterous stories from the men who'd come close to winning. The winner of the big game remained out of sight for a while, listening to some throaty groans that weren't very loud but were spoken directly into his ear. When Clint and Delilah finally emerged from the back room, she was tousled and he looked as if he'd gotten his prize several times over.

When Clint had left Trickle Creek, it was the afternoon following the tournament and the whole town was still buzzing about all that had gone on during the game. The streets were crowded and spirits were high. Clint's pockets were padded with a few extra dollars and Eclipse was trotting upon a new set of shoes.

When he returned, things couldn't have looked more different.

Not only were the streets empty, but the air was stagnant and thick. Some of that could have been explained by the time of day or heat of the season. But those things couldn't explain the discomfort Clint felt as he rode down the street. A few faces looked out through some nearby windows, but seemed more like shadows passing over solid rock.

The town was more than just quiet.

It felt dead.

There were no banners or stagecoaches lining the streets, but that wasn't a surprise since there wasn't a poker tournament going on. The game that had brought Clint back to Trickle Creek was a private affair. Still, he thought he might see more folks out and about doing their normal business.

When he did spot a local who met his eyes, Clint tipped his hat.

That local promptly averted her gaze and turned away.

He couldn't see any lawmen around, which wasn't much different than the last time. He'd heard the sheriff's name mentioned once or twice, but never did lay eyes on the man.

Just a little over a month had passed, but Clint couldn't help feeling like it had been longer. Every inch of Trickle Creek felt dried up and barren. By the time he got to Pace's Emporium, Clint would have welcomed the sound of George's whining voice if only to break up the monotony.

Inside, Pace's was a bit on the empty side, but otherwise fairly close to how he'd left it. Mr. Pace was seated at a small table in the corner farthest from the door, and Les stood directly beside him. Only a few card tables were in use and one of them was for a game of solitaire. One faro game was being run, but not by Delilah. Since she wasn't at her table, neither was Carl.

“Well, look who's back,” the bartender said. “Spend your winnings so soon?”

“No. I thought I'd come back to build them up a bit more, though. Where's Mack holding his game?”

“Hell if I know. Ask him yourself when he stops by. That's been closer to eight or nine o'clock. Care for a drink in the meantime?”

“Not yet. When's Delilah coming in?”

The bartender looked at Clint blankly.

“Delilah,” Clint repeated. “You know. The tall beauty who runs the faro game?”

“Yeah. I know who you're talking about.”

“Well, where is she?”

After steeling himself a bit, the bartender told him, “She's gone. We buried her not long after you left.”

Clint was lunging across the bar to grab hold of the tender's shirt before he knew what he was doing. “What did you say about Delilah?” he snarled.

“You mean you haven't heard?”

“No,” Clint replied. “Why don't you tell me.”

Judging by the look on his face, the bartender was reluctant to deliver that bad news again after the way Clint had reacted to it the first time. Unable or unwilling to form the words, the barkeep merely opened and shut his mouth like a trout that had accidentally flopped into a boat.

Just as he was coming to his senses, Clint felt a heavy hand settle onto the back of his neck. The thick, meaty fingers didn't cut off his air, but they flexed as if to let Clint know they could do so without any trouble whatsoever.

“What's the matter, Clint?” Les asked as he tightened his grip just a bit. “Did you just hear some bad news?”

While Les might not have threatened him directly, Clint got the other man's intent well enough. If he didn't quiet down quickly, Les would be forced to quiet Clint down himself. Letting go of the barkeep, Clint retreated to his own side of the bar. Pulling out of Les's grasp, he turned to the guard and said, “I think you know damn well what I just heard. Is it true?”

“A lot's been going on since you left. You'll have to be more specific.”

“Delilah.” Just saying her name brought Clint's eyes to the faro table where she'd dealt her game. At that moment, the table looked twice as empty as the other ones that weren't in use. Now that the wind was out of his sails, Clint asked, “Is it true that she's gone?”

Les nodded solemnly. “She was killed a little while after you left.”

“Who did it?”

“Perhaps we should do this somewhere a bit more private.”

“What do you know about this?” Clint asked. “What aren't you telling me? Just spill it.”

“I'm not gonna hide anything from you. I just said we should talk somewhere else. You want to come along? Fine. If you want to tear things up in Delilah's name, you'll have to do it somewhere else.”

Clint let out a breath. “Last time I was in town, I barely heard you string three words together.”

“That was back when you were another gambler I had to watch. You were also just another man locking horns with George and his asshole partners. Things change once you stand side by side with someone while there's lead flying around you. Besides, if you were anyone else who'd grabbed hold of Jerry like that, you'd be eating the bar instead of leaning against it right about now.”

Clint glanced at the barkeep and saw the man nod. “It's true,” Jerry said. “I seen it, and it ain't pretty.”

“Come on,” Les said as he draped a muscular arm across Clint's shoulders and steered him toward the back of the place. “Mister Pace would like to have a word with you.”

Mr. Pace's office was small, but lavishly decorated. The little patch of floor space was covered by a fancy rug and every wall was hung with paintings and even a few photographs documenting the Emporium's rise from little saloon to its current state. In a room that could very well have been the size of two large closets combined, the desk situated in the middle of it seemed big enough to push three grown men straight outside. Seeing Les fill up a corner like a giant's coat rack was damn near comic.

Mr. Pace sat behind the desk, rolling a cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “Care for one?” he asked.

Clint shook his head.

Deciding not to fill the cramped room with smoke, Pace motioned to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Why don't you take a load off?”

“I don't want a cigar and I don't want to sit,” Clint said. “I want to know what happened to Delilah.”

Pace put the cigar in his mouth and reached for a match from one of the many shiny little boxes on top of his desk. He grabbed a stick, tapped it against the desk, and seemed to consider striking it despite what he'd decided a few moments ago. Clenching his teeth to the point that he looked ready to bite clean through the cigar, he said, “George shot her.”

Clint barely had time to tense his muscles before he felt Les's hand on his shoulder again. Shaking loose once more, he snarled, “What the hell kind of law do you have in this town? George was supposed to be in jail!”

“He was in jail. He was about to get carted away to a bigger jail a few towns south of here when he got loose and decided to get himself some payback.”

“Got loose, huh?” Clint scoffed.

“Well, some folks raised a stink on account of George being locked up on the word of a colored man.” Before Clint could jump in again, Pace held up a hand and added, “There were other people speaking up on Carl's behalf. Plenty of others around here had a problem with George. I'm one of them. That's how we got George taken care of without a trial. Sheriff DeFalco came back to town, heard from all concerned parties, and decided to ship George off to rot in a cage built to hold him for a good, long time.”

“Then he escaped?” Clint asked.

“From what I hear, he was given a day to get his affairs in order before being ridden out of town. One of the deputies was along with him when he was allowed to say good-bye to his ma. Sometime that day, George got away from the deputy.”

Clint furrowed his brow and scowled as if choking on the smoke that would have been spewing from the thick cigar between Pace's teeth. “Do all your prisoners get such good treatment?”

“I own a saloon, Adams. I'm not the law around here. If you want to know why the sheriff or his deputies did what they did, I suggest you ask them.”

“I might just do that.” Clint turned and found himself facing a solid wall of muscle. Looking up into Les's eyes, he asked, “You mind getting out of my way?”

Les didn't budge and he didn't respond to Clint's question. He simply shifted his head a little to look at the other man in the office.

“Delilah was here when she was shot,” Pace said.

Clint turned around to face the desk.

Now that he saw he had Clint's attention, Pace went on. “She was at her table, doing her job, when the bastard came barging in here waving a gun around. He screamed about how he was railroaded and cheated and all that other bullshit he normally spouts.”

“Don't you hire men to take care of situations like that?” Clint asked as he shot a glance over his shoulder.