Authors: J. Roberts

The Hunt for Clint Adams (10 page)

BOOK: The Hunt for Clint Adams

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“I call,” Clint said.

Cipriot firmed his jaw. He'd hoped one of them would fold.

“Last card,” the dealer said.

She dealt Clint another three; Bat received another nine, to give him a pair; and Cipriot received a queen of diamonds. Clint was now low man on the table with a lowly pair of threes.

“Mr. Cipriot?” the Dealer said. “You have two pair on the table, queen high. Your bet.”

“Ten thousand,” he said. “All I have left.”

Bat looked across the table at Clint. “Whaddaya say, Clint? We just call 'im?”

“You may start a side pot, gentlemen,” the dealer said.

“That's okay,” Clint said. “We'll be head-to-head soon, anyway.”

“So I call,” Bat said.

“Call,” Clint said.

Cipriot blew some air out of his mouth.

“That's it,” he said. “Queens up.”

Bat flipped over his hole card: a king.

“Mr. Masterson has kings over threes,” the dealer said.

The other players looked at Clint expectantly.

He flipped over his hole card.

A three.

“Mr. Adams has three threes,” the dealer said. “He wins the pot.”

Cipriot stood up, shook hands with Clint, Bat, the dealer and Harry Orchid, and left the room.

“You gents are heads up,” Orchid said, “and you look almost even in chips. How do you want to play this? Continue? Take a break?”

“A break,” Bat said.

“Two hours for a nap and a freshening,” Clint said.

“How does that sound to you, Mr. Masterson?”

“Sounds good,” Bat said.

“All right, then,” Orchid said. “We'll meet back here in three hours. How's that?”

Clint and Bat agreed.

“One last thing,” Clint said.

“Yes?”

“I'd like the same dealer.”

“Mr. Masterson?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.”

“No problem. And you may both eat in the dining room at no cost.”

With three hours Clint figured they had just enough time for a nap, and bath, and a meal.

“You can leave your chips on the table,” Orchid said. “The door will be locked and guarded.”

Clint hesitated. Could they be sure Orchid was trustworthy? Well, if he owned the hotel he wasn't going to steal seventy thousand and disappear.

“Okay with me,” Clint said. “Bat?”

“I want to meet the guard,” Bat said.

“Right outside,” Orchid said. “His name's Dave Masters.”

“Miss Dealer?” Bat asked. “Dave okay?”

“Dave is my brother,” she said. “He's very okay.”

“Okay,” Bat said. “Dave's fine with me.”

“Then let's lock up,” Orchid said, “and meet back here in three hours.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Clint had his nap before his bath, and then went to the dining room for a meal. While he was waiting for his food, the dealer walked in. She spotted him and came across the floor.

“Hello,” he said. “Have a seat and join me.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'd like to but I can't. Not as long as the game is still going on.”

“I see,” he said. “Then you weren't looking for me when you walked in?”

“Actually, I was,” she said. “And I'll be looking for you when the game is over. Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” he said.

She smiled, said, “Good,” then turned and left. She passed Bat Masterson on the way in. He watched her walk away, then joined Clint.

A waiter hurried over. Bat said, “Bring me whatever he ordered.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was our lovely dealer doing here?” he asked.

“She came to tell me she couldn't join me for . . . what is this? What time is it?”

“Afternoon,” Bat said. “I guess this is lunch.”

“So she came to tell me she couldn't join me for lunch.”

“Oh,” Bat said. “Well, lucky you, I can.”

Bobby Davis and Tom Melvin rode into Denver, weary and a bit confused.

“How the hell are we supposed to find him here?” Bobby asked.

“I don't know,” Tom said.

“I still don't even know what the hell we're doin' out here,” Bobby said.

“Tarver says he's put the word out, and he'll get information on where Adams is.”

“Yeah, well we're the ones who tracked him to Colorado Springs and told Tarver about it.”

“So what do you want to do?” Tom asked.

“I want a hot meal, a whore, a bed, and I wanna stop wandering around looking for Clint Adams. Gimme a good bank job, any time. That's what I want.”

“If you want a woman,” Tom said, “you better add a bath to that list.”

“Fuck it,” Bobby said. “I didn't say woman, I said whore. If I'm payin' a whore she can take me the way I smell.”

Tom decided he wasn't going to share a room with Bobby in Denver.

Clint had played head-to-head with Bat Masterson before. He knew that he was going to have to get very lucky to beat Bat, who was the better player of the two.

The dealer took her place and called the players to the table.

“Gentlemen, we've counted the chips,” she said. “Mr. Masterson has thirty-six thousand, and Mr. Adams has thirty-four thousand.”

“Damn close,” Bat said to Clint, who nodded.

“Since there are only two players left, we will dispense with the two-hour sessions and just keep playing until somebody wins. Does that suit both of you?”

“Fine with me,” Clint said.

“Yes,” Bat said.

“Then we'll begin,” she said, introducing a brand-new deck to the game. “Mr. Masterson, the first choice of game is yours.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

They played all night, and by morning the word had gone out to the gambling community in Denver. The Gunsmith and Bat Masterson were locked in a head-to-head battle for seventy thousand dollars, winner take all. The wagering began and grew as the day went on. Bat was favored, but not by much, so Talbot Roper placed a bet, since he knew the two principals personally.

The word got around to everyone.

“I just made a bet,” Tom said to Bobby.

They were staying in a small hotel on Larimer Street, several blocks away from the Wellington Hotel. They were meeting now in a small saloon down the block.

“What kind of bet?' Bobby asked.

“There's a poker game goin' on not far from here, been goin' on for two days and it's down to only two players.”

“What's that mean to us?”

“One of the players is Clint Adams.”

Bobby slammed his beer mug down on the bar hard enough to attract the attention of the bartender. He waved the man off.

“Where?”

“Some hotel called the Wellington, supposed to be a few blocks from here.”

“We better get over there,” Bobby said.

“Or maybe not.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well, the other player ain't exactly unknown.”

“Well, you gonna make me ask?”

“Bat Masterson.”

“Geez,” Bobby said, “I ain't about to take the chance of facing the Gunsmith and Bat Masterson at the same time.”

“Me, neither,” Tom said. “I think we should just send a telegram to Tarver and let him know.”

“Telegram where?”

“He gave us a few places he might be,” Tom said. “We'll send a telegram to all of 'em and tell him Adams is in Denver.”

“Should we mention Bat Masterson?”

Tom hesitated, then said, “I'm thinkin' we should leave a few surprises for Tarver to find for himself.”

TWENTY-NINE

“This could go on forever,” Bat said, staring across the table at Clint.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

The dealer looked at both of them.

“It appears, after fifteen hours, that the two of you are still about even.”

“We're just passing the same money back and forth,” Bat said.

“And wearing each other out doing it.”

“What do you propose?” Harry Orchid asked, observing from off to one side.

Bat and Clint exchanged a look.

“One hand,” Bat said.

“Winner take all,” Clint said.

“You would both be amenable to that?” Orchid asked, sounding surprised.

“Sure, why not?” Bat asked.

“It's okay with me,” Clint said.

“Let's hope it's okay with the bettors,” the dealer said.

“The bettors?” Clint asked.

Orchid gave the dealer a murderous look and she averted her eyes.

Bat turned and looked at Orchid.

“You're takin' bets on the outcome?”

“Well,” Orchid said, “people started to get real interested, so . . .”

“So you thought you'd hedge your bet and take some action?”

Orchid shrugged.

“I didn't see the harm.”

“The harm,” Clint said, “is in not letting the players in the game know your plans.”

“I'm sorry,” Orchid said. “I didn't think it would be a problem.”

“Well,” Bat said, “I don't know how many wagers you've taken, but your players didn't bank on there being a winner-take-all last hand.”

“I can guarantee you they're not going to like it,” Clint told him. “They were all betting on who they thought would grind this out, no matter how long it takes. A winner-take-all hand, that's pretty much luck.”

“Well,” Orchid said, “maybe the two of you could keep playing?”

“I don't think so,” Bat said, stretching elaborately. “I'm getting pretty tired.”

“Me, too,” Clint said. “I think one last hand really appeals to me.”

“Sounds good to me, too,” Bat agreed.

The dealer was still keeping her eyes down on the table.

“Well,” Orchid said, trying to save the situation for himself, “nobody outside of this room has to know that's the way it went.”

“Whether or not that gets out is your problem, Orchid,” Bat said.

“Bat and I are only concerned about these chips,” Clint said. He pushed his to the center of the table, and Bat followed.

“Okay,” Orchid said, “but this doesn't leave this room, right?”

“We don't have any reason to tell anyone, right?” Bat asked Clint.

“Unless somebody gave us a reason,” Clint said.

Now Orchid frowned. He was being told something he didn't understand. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, suppose the pretty dealer hereâwhat's her name?”

“Jane.”

What a plain name to have waited two days to hear, Clint thought, especially for somebody so pretty.

“Well, if the dealer, here, were to lose her job,” Clint said, “that would be reason enough for me to spill the beans.”

Jane raised her eyes and looked at Clint gratefully.

“Don't worry about that,” Orchid said. “She's not gonna lose her job.”

“You got anything?” Clint asked Bat.

“No, nothing,” Bat said. “I'm satisfied. Let's play.”

Clint looked at Orchid and said, “Let's play.”

Orchid looked at Jane and said, “Deal.”

“Mr. Adams picks the game,” she said.

“Five-card stud,” Clint said. “Might as well get it over as quickly as possible.”

She dealt the first card facedown, and the second card faceup. “King of spades for Mr. Masterson, two of hearts for Mr. Adams.”

Orchid leaned forward.

She dealt the third card and called them. “Ten of spades for Mr. Masterson. Three of hearts for Mr. Adams.”

Fourth card.

“Queen of spades for Mr. Masterson,” she said. “Ace of hearts for Mr. Adams. Both men are working on a straight flush.”

“What are the odds,” Bat said.

Clint shrugged.

Orchid moved closer to the table.

“Fifth and last card coming out: jack of spades for Mr. Masterson. Five of hearts for Mr. Adams.”

She set the deck down. “Mr. Masterson needs an Ace of Spades for a Royal Flush, or simply an Ace or a nine for a straight. Mr. Adams needs a four of Hearts for a straight flush, or simply a four for a straight. The gentlemen need only to turn their hole cards over.”

Bat turned over his card, and then Clint turned over his.

“Sonofabitch,” Harry Orchid said.

BOOK: The Hunt for Clint Adams

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