Under a Turquoise Sky (4 page)

Clint drew his gun and pressed it to the side of the man's neck.

“I wouldn't.” He lifted the man's gun from his holster. “Now do like the sheriff said and stand up. You, too,” he said to the other man.

Bailey didn't try anything. He placed his gun on the table gently and stood up. The two merchants at the table just sat back and watched the proceedings, wide-eyed.

“I'll come back for the guns,” Cafferty told the table.

“Want me to walk out with you?” Clint asked.

“No, thanks, Adams,” Cafferty said. “You did enough spotting these two, and then saving my bacon when that one tried to go for his gun. I got it now.”

“You?” Anderson said, “No wonder you kept sitting out.”

“Let's go,” Cafferty said.

The two men stood up and marched out of the saloon in front of Cafferty's gun.

“You knew they was cheatin'?” Jerry Hill asked.

“I caught on a little while into the game.”

“And you told the sheriff?” Herb Olands said.

“That's right.”

“Well,” Hill said, “we're much obliged, mister.”

“Don't mention it.”

“But…what do we do with their money?” Hill asked.

“You fellas split it between you,” Clint said, gathering up his own winnings. “After all, they took it from you.”

He stood up, put his money in his pockets and said, “Good night to you.”

As he left, the two men were divvying up the cash. Since it included the money from the two cheaters, it was probably one of the only times they had both come out ahead after a game.

Clint went to the bar and the bartender had a cold beer waiting for him.

“On the house,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“That was slick the way you spotted those two,” someone came up alongside him and said.

“They weren't being very subtle about it,” Clint replied. He picked up his beer and turned to face the owner of the voice. Earlier he'd noticed three girls working the floor—a blonde, a brunette and a redhead. The saloon seemed to like catering to all tastes. This was the redhead, the taller of the three, and the more bosomy. Much of her bosom was overflowing from the top of her green gown and he could see a sprinkling of freckles on the pale slopes.

“Also slick the way you drew your gun and saved the sheriff,” she said.

“Probably saved him from having to kill that fella,” he said. “I think the sheriff can handle himself.”

“Oh, he sure can,” she said. “He's been doin' it for as long as I been livin' here.”

“And how long has that been?” Clint asked.

“A few months,” she said. “Came in on a stage that left without me.”

“And why was that?”

“I didn't have enough money to keep travelin'.” She put her hand out. “My name's Shannon.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, really,” she said.

He took her hand and said, “It's nice to meet you, Shannon…”

“O'Doyle,” she said. “And that's real, too.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, releasing the long, graceful fingers of her hand. “My name is Clint Adams.”

“I heard the sheriff say Adams,” she said, “but…Clint?”

“That's right,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

“Not for me,” she said. “But I imagine it can be a problem for you, sometimes.”

“It can be.”

“Would you like to sit awhile and get acquainted?” she asked, touching his hand.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Just a whiskey,” she said. She looked at the bartender and added, “And don't water it. I want to enjoy myself with Mr. Adams.”

“Clint,” he said. “My name is Clint.”

She accepted her whiskey from the bartender, slipped her arm through Clint's and said, “I have a special table in the back.”

 

As he walked across the saloon floor with Shannon on his arm, it was clear to him that she was the more popular of the three girls. Most of the men watched their progress, and the other two women frowned after them.

“It seems as if the other two girls don't like you,” Clint said as they sat down, he with his back to the wall.

“They had the place all to themselves before I got here,” she said. “Also, they're a little older and more experienced than I am.”

“And that makes them less desirable, or more?” he asked.

“I guess that depends on who you ask,” she said. “Some of the old-timers here have favorites. On the other hand, when the miners come to town they really don't care who they poke it in as long as they get to poke it.”

“Seems to me you'd be a little more choosy, though.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “That's why I'm sitting here with you. And that's also why I've decided that, when we finish our drinks, we should go back to your room and get acquainted there.”

“Well,” he said, “I really don't see why we even have to wait until we finish our drinks.”

Clint and Shannon were walking through the lobby on the way to the stairs when George Markstein came walking down.

“Mr. Adams,” he said. “What a coincidence running into you. Young lady.” He bowed slightly, and wasn't wearing a hat because of the bandage on his head.

“Mr. Markstein—”

“George, please,” Markstein said.

“Hi, George,” the redhead said. “I'm Shannon.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Shannon.”

“Shouldn't you be in bed, George?” Clint asked.

“That's what the doctor said,” Markstein replied, “but I feel like a walk.”

“You're not going to find anyplace to eat this late, if that's what you're looking for.”

“Not at all,” Markstein said. “The doctor was kind enough to arrange to have some food brought in for me.”

“I see. Then why would you be going out this late?” Clint asked the man curiously.

“I'm feeling cooped up in my room,” Markstein said, “even though the hotel was kind enough to move me to room five.”

“The bigger room? The one you got hurt over?”

“That's the one. Look, I'm just going out for some air,” Markstein said. “Don't forget we have an appointment for supper tomorrow night.”

“I haven't forgotten,” Clint said, “but I don't think it's wise for you to go out on the street at this hour.”

“Nonsense,” Markstein said. “What could befall me just going out for a walk?”

“Honey,” Shannon said, “you ever been in a mining town before?”

“No, I have not.”

“That's obvious,” she said, “or you wouldn't ask such a question. There's people on these streets who would kill you for your shoes.”

“That's ridiculous—”

“You almost got killed over a room this afternoon,” Clint reminded him.

Markstein looked frustrated.

“I just want to get some air, and perhaps smoke a cigar. Couldn't I just go out front safely?”

Clint looked at Shannon, who smiled.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Give me your key and I'll wait in your room for you.”

Clint handed his key over.

“You enjoy your cigar, George,” she said to Markstein, touching his arm before she went up the stairs.

“What a delightful young woman,” the easterner said. “Does this mean you'll be coming outside with me?”

“Just out front,” Clint said. “A deep breath, a cigar, and then back to your room.”

“Excellent!”

The two men walked outside and stopped on the boardwalk just in front of the hotel. Clint looked left and right, and found two wooden chairs they could use.

As they sat, Markstein pulled out a cigar.

“Would you like one?” he asked Clint.

“Not tonight, thanks.” Clint could see that the cigars were expensive, and he didn't want the man to waste one on him.

Markstein lit his cigar with a wooden match, puffed at it until he had it going to his satisfaction, then shook the match out and tossed it into the street.

“Ah,” he said, sitting back. “There's nothing like a good cigar.”

“A good horse,” Clint said, “a cold drink, a good woman…ah, a really good poker hand.”

“I don't ride, or gamble,” Markstein replied readily. “My days with women are over, and I prefer my liquor at room temperature. Therefore for me, it's the good cigar.”

Clint couldn't argue with the man when he put it that way. He did wonder, though, if Markstein was done with women willingly or unwillingly. He didn't appear to be sixty yet—and Clint knew quite a few sixty-year-old men who still enjoyed women.

“Shall we discuss my business proposition tonight?” Markstein asked, then.

“No,” Clint said. “I have other things on my mind. Besides, I have a place picked out for us tomorrow that has decent steaks and good coffee.”

“Very well,” Markstein said, “we'll wait. May I ask what your business is, Clint?”

Clint looked at the man, who was staring at the tip of his cigar as he waited for his answer. It seemed as if the man truly had no idea who Clint was. He found that refreshing.

“I'm a gunsmith,” Clint said. “My business is guns.”

“Ah, you work with your hands, then.”

“Yes.”

“And, I assume from what happened this evening, that you are fairly proficient with the tools of your trade?”

“Fairly,” Clint said.

“Good, good.”

Markstein continued to enjoy his cigar until it was about half gone. The street was dark and quiet except for the music coming from a couple of saloons down the street. Clint found his mind wandering to Shannon, who was waiting upstairs in his room.

Finally, Markstein said, “Well, I suppose it's time to turn in.” He tossed half of his expensive cigar into the street, where Clint was sure someone like Charlie Wooster would find it and claim it as a prize.

“Thank you for the company, Clint,” Markstein said, rising unsteadily. Clint grabbed his arm. “I seem to be a little dizzy.”

“Come on,” Clint said, “I'll get you back to your room.”

“I seem to be relying on you quite a bit today,” Markstein said. “I would say you are my first true friend in the West, Clint.”

At that moment Clint didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

When Clint entered his room, Shannon was on the bed, reading a book she had found in his saddlebags. It was
Treasure Island
, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

“This is very good.”

She was still wearing her dress, but had discarded the shawl she'd thrown over it for the walk to the hotel.

“Yes, it is.”

“Did you take care of your friend?” she asked. “Make sure he got to bed all right?”

“I got him to his room,” he said. “He'll have to get himself into bed. We're not that good friends yet.”

“When did you meet?”

“Only today.”

“Oh,” she said, setting the book aside, “then we're just as good friends as you and him?”

“Maybe,” he said, removing his gun belt, “but we're about to get a lot more friendly.”

 

In his room George Markstein removed his trousers, then reached into the pocket and took out the stone. It was rough, with brown veins. To the naked eye it might not have seemed like much, but Markstein came from a family of people who knew stones when they saw them. When this one was cleaned up, it would be breathtaking, and he knew where to get a lot more like it.

He set it on the table next to the bed. As he slid between the sheets, he thought that he had made some mistakes on his first day in Kingman—some mistakes since arriving in the West. He'd almost gotten killed today, but thanks to Clint Adams, he was alive to enjoy tomorrow.

He had decided that afternoon that if he was to see any more tomorrows, he was going to have to make sure Clint Adams was around him for a long time. And he didn't care how much it would cost him.

 

Across from the hotel both Breckens and Edwards stood in a store doorway, hidden by the shadows.

“We ain't goin' in tonight, are we?” Edwards asked.

“Not on your life,” Breckens said. “Not while Clint Adams is inside.”

“Then what are we doin' here?”

“Watchin',” Breckens said, “and thinkin'. But you know what? I don't need you for either one.”

“So…”

“Go on back to the hotel and get some sleep,” Breckens told him. “I won't be here much longer. I just got to figure some things out, and I can't do it with you breathin' down my neck.”

“I can go to sleep?”

“That's what I said.”

He didn't have to tell Edwards twice. The man quit the doorway and said he'd see Breckens in the morning.

Breckens waited until Edwards was out of sight, then left the doorway himself and went the other way, to the opposite end of town. He had a meeting and he was late.

 

“What took you?” the man demanded.

“I had to get rid of Edwards.” Breckens sat down at the table across from his employer. They were in the tiny Saloon No. 1, the first saloon to have opened in Kingman. Very few people ever patronized it now, and the owner didn't much mind. He had other investments in town to be able to afford this conceit.

“So did he get to town?” the man asked.

“Got off the stage this afternoon.”

“And is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

The man sat back in his chair.

“I paid you to kill him.”

“I know.”

“And he's not dead.”

“He will be.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

The man sat forward.

“I want it done tomorrow.”

“That may not be possible.”

“Why not? What's the holdup?”

“There's another player takin' a hand in the game.”

The man raised his hand and said, “Save me your poker metaphors, Breckens.”

“What?”

The man sighed.

“Go ahead—and stop chewing that damn tobacco while you're talking to me!”

Breckens stopped chewing, then spit the wad into his left hand. He looked around for someplace to put it, then simply dropped his hand down below table level. The thing sat in his hand like a hot turd. He'd pop it back into his mouth when he was done here. No use wasting good chaw.

“Now tell me,” his employer said. “who is this new man you're talking about?”