Kentucky Showdown (10 page)

There was no time for Clint to send for any help. And Canby was no hand with a gun. There was only one person Clint thought he could go to for help.

He found John Sun Horse in the fourth saloon he looked in. It was coming on midday and the small saloon was filling up. Sun Horse had a table in the back. Clint approached the table without bringing a beer with him this time.

“Sun Horse.”

The Cherokee looked up from the beer mug he'd been staring into.

“Your hands are empty.”

“Yes, they are,” Clint said. He sat across from the Cherokee. “I need your help.”

“I do not usually talk without a fresh beer,” the Indian reminded him.

“I don't have the time to sober you up, John,” Clint said.

“What is it?”

“I found out what Fontaine is up to,” Clint said, and went on to explain . . .

* * *

John Sun Horse pushed the remnants of his beer away when Clint finished his story.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “I am a tracker.”

“You must know some men who know how to use guns,” Clint said.

“Perhaps.”

“I need them.”

“To do what?”

“To protect the track.”

“Do they not have security for that?”

“I'm going to talk to the security people and offer them our help,” Clint said. “But I have to know that I have help to offer.”

“The race is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You have not given me much time to come up with a fighting force.”

“But can you do it?”

“Will I be paid?”

“Yes.”

“Will they be paid?”

“I'm sure I can get the track to pay a reward once we save their money.” He wasn't sure, at all.

“How many men will you need?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “How many can you get?”

“On short notice? I do not know.”

“Will you try?”

The Cherokee nodded.

“I will try,” the Indian said. “Meet me back here in two hours.”

“Good,” Clint said. “I'm going to the track now. Thank you, Sun Horse.”

“Do not thank me yet.”

* * *

Clint went to Churchill Downs and paid his admission to get in. There were races going on, but he wasn't interested in that. He found a security guard.

“Where's your boss?”

“In his office, I guess,” the bored guard said.

“Where is that?”

The man pointed and gave Clint directions.

“Thanks. By the way, what's his name?”

“Butler,” the guard said, “Captain Sam Butler.”

* * *

Clint followed the directions, found a door marked
SECURITY,
and knocked.

“Come!” a deep voice called out.

He opened the door and walked in. A barrel-chested man with thick arms and an even thicker mustache eyed him from behind a desk. He wore a uniform with a badge on his chest. Clint had the feeling he was looking at an ex-lawman.

“What do you want?” the man asked. “Who are you?”

“Captain Butler?”

“That's me.”

“My name is Clint Adams.”

The man eyed Clint and asked, “On the level?”

“On the level.”

“I heard you were in town.” Butler stood and extended his hand. Clint shook it. “What can I do for you?”

“I think the question is, what can I do for you?” Clint said.

“What do you mean?” Butler asked. “What could you do for me?”

“Maybe save your job,” Clint said, “and save the track a lot of money.”

Butler sat back down.

“I'm listening.”

Captain Butler listened to what Clint had to say, sitting stock-still the whole time. When Clint finished, the man shook his head.

“Can't be done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our security is too good,” Butler said. “There's no way anybody can rob us.”

Clint had heard that before from the securest of banks.

“Anyone's security can be beat, Captain.”

The man firmed his jaw and said, “Not mine.”

“I have information that indicates you're going to be hit,” Clint reminded him. “Why don't you show me your security so I can—”

“If you'll excuse me, Mr. Adams,” Butler said. “I know your reputation, and there's nothing in it that says you're a security expert.”

“I'm not trying to—”

“I thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Butler said, “but if someone is going to try to hit us, I welcome the attempt. They'll have a big surprise coming to them. Good day.”

Clint sat there for a moment, but he recognized that the man had shut down and would not be listening to anything else he had to say on the subject.

He stood up and left without another word.

* * *

Clint made a circuit of the track, trying to figure out what Captain Butler was so proud of. There were guards everywhere, including the area where the bets were made. For the most part, though, Clint thought they looked as bored as the first guard he'd encountered.

There could only be two reasons Butler was so sure his security couldn't be breached. First, it was so good that Clint couldn't figure it out, or second . . . like the sheriff, he was also in the pocket of Peter Fontaine.

That had to be it. Fontaine had managed to buy both the local law and the heads of security at the track. The take of this robbery was probably so huge he could afford to buy everybody he needed. In the end, he probably didn't intend to actually pay any of them, but they were too greedy to realize it.

He was going to have to do this himself, with whatever assistance he could get from John Sun Horse.

* * *

Clint headed back to the saloon. When he walked in, he saw the bartender, John Sun Horse, and five more Indians. Other than that, the saloon was empty.

Clint approached the bartender.

“What's going on?” Clint asked.

“You tell me,” the bartender said. “Sun Horse walked in here with five of his friends, and the rest of my customers left.”

“Oh, well, that might be my fault. I asked Sun Horse to meet me here with his friends.”

“Well then, could you get them out of here?”

“I could, yes I could,” Clint said, “but first I have to have a meeting with them. So could you please give each of them a drink? One drink.”

“I ain't servin' no Indian any whiskey,” the man said.

“Okay then, bring them each a beer, please, at that back table. And one for me. That's seven beers.”

“Well, only because I ain't got anybody else in here buyin' drinks.”

“Fine,” Clint said, “whatever the reason is, bring them over to that table.”

Clint left the bar and walked over to where Sun Horse was sitting with his friends.

“Sun Horse,” Clint said.

“Mr. Gunsmith.”

“So . . . these are your men?”

“These are the men you asked me to find,” Sun Horse said.

Clint looked at the five Cherokee. Two of them were sixty if they were day, only it was hard to tell with Cherokee. They could have been eighty. The others were certainly over fifty.

“Each of these men can handle a gun,” Sun Horse said.

Clint looked at the men and said, “I don't see any guns.”

“Oh, I did not say they owned guns, I said they can handle one,” Sun Horse said. “You will have to buy them guns. And I mean rifles. They cannot handle revolvers.”

“Well . . . all right,” Clint said as the bartender came over with the beers. The eyes of each Cherokee lit up and they made a grab for a mug each.

“Hold on now,” Clint said, “before you drink any of that.”

They all stopped, including Sun Horse.

“I'll buy a rifle for each of you,” Clint said, “and tell you what to do, but you have to agree that until you're finished working for me, this will be the last drink you have.”

They all looked at Sun Horse.

“And after?” he asked Clint.

“I'll buy each man a bottle of whiskey.”

“And the rifles?” Sun Horse asked.

“You will be able to keep the rifles.”

Sun Horse looked at the five Cherokee and spoke to them in their own language.

“They don't understand English?” he asked.

“They do,” Sun Horse assured him. “They will understand your orders. I just wanted to make sure they understood everything before they all agreed.”

“And?”

Sun Horse raised his mug and said, “We will all be working for you, Mr. Gunsmith.”

“Mr. Gunsmith,” his friends echoed.

Clint picked up his beer and said, “All right, then. Drink your beer and I'll tell you what you're supposed to do.”

“So what we have to do,” Sun Horse said later, “is keep the racetrack from being robbed tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“That does not seem to be so hard.”

“Now,” Clint said, “I warn you, I don't know how many men will be involved.”

“White men?” Sun Horse asked.

“Most likely.”

“Then it does not matter,” the Indian said. “One Cherokee is worth any five white men.”

“Sun Horse,” Clint said. He took the man's arm and drew him away from the others, who were still working on their beers. “How old are these men?”

“That does not matter,” Sun Horse said. “They can all shoot.”

“That may be, but—”

“Did I not do the job you asked me to do?” Sun Horse asked. “Find and track the man you were after. Ride with you, keep up with you?”

“Well, yeah, you did.”

“Do you know how old I am?”

“Well . . .” Clint said. He studied Sun Horse for a few moments. The man's face was weathered from constant exposure to the sun over the years. So he added ten years to his guess. “Sixty?”

“I'm seventy-two,” Sun Horse said. “I'm older than all of these men. Do not worry. They will be able to do the job.”

“Well,” Clint said, “all right.” He turned to the other men. “Finish up those beers. We've got to go and get you your rifles.”

All five men nodded and upended their beer mugs.

* * *

When they came out of the gunsmith's shop, all six Cherokee were carrying Winchesters.

“Now what?” Sun Horse asked.

“Now,” Clint said, “let's find someplace for them to try out their rifles. Once they're all comfortable, we'll go over to the track.”

“There's an empty lot two blocks over,” Sun Horse said.

“Lead the way, Sun Horse.”

* * *

In the empty lot, which was behind the feed and grain building, Clint watched while the Cherokee tried out their rifles. He was impressed by the ability of each man to hit what he shot at—especially Sun Horse.

“Well?” Sun Horse asked.

“I'm satisfied,” Clint said. “Line them up so I can talk to them.”

Sun Horse got them in a straight line, holding their rifles.

“We're going over to the track to see how many entrances they have,” he said. “I'm going to post one man at each entrance—or as many entrances as we can cover.”

“How will we know who to let in and who to stop?” Sun Horse asked.

“I'll want you to stop anyone from entering around the time of the race,” Clint said.

“Will some of them not get in before that?” Sun Horse asked.

“You and I will be inside, Sun Horse,” Clint said. “We'll take care of any of them who get in.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Gunsmith,” Sun Horse said. “You are the boss.”

“Come on, then,” Clint said. “Let's find each man his post.”

Clint found he was able to cover all of the public entrances with the Cherokee at his disposal. There were others that were available to owners, trainers, and jockeys, as well as employees of the track, but he felt the robbers would probably get in through the public entries.

“All right,” he said, “now we know where to be tomorrow.”

They all nodded.

“Sun Horse,” he said, “I expect you to keep them sober 'til then.”

“They do not drink when they are working,” Sun Horse said. “Just like me.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said. “I'll meet you all right out here. Let's make it the beginning of the racing day.”

“As you say,” Sun Horse said. “What will you be doing until then?”

“There's somebody I want to see,” Clint answered. “I'm thinking I might be able to cut this off at the source. If not, I'll see you all here tomorrow.”

Sun Horse nodded, and they went their separate ways. Clint hoped the others were as trustworthy as John Sun Horse.

* * *

Clint rode out to Fontaine's place. If he could convince the man to call the robbery off, it might save a lot of trouble, and lives.

He reined in Eclipse in front of the house and dismounted. No one was around as he mounted the steps to the door. He started to knock when he saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it open and entered.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Anyone here?”

Still no answer.

Was the house deserted?

He went to Fontaine's office, found it empty. Then he searched the second floor. And found nothing.

Fontaine was gone.

But the question was, had he gone willingly? Perhaps into hiding until the robbery was over? Or had he been taken? And if so, by whom? And for what purpose?

Clint took another walk through the house. There was no signs of a struggle, no blood. Fontaine and Gage were both gone, but the closets in the bedrooms were still full of clothes.

He turned and went out the front door.

* * *

Fontaine opened the door of the small house and went inside.

“I haven't been here in many years,” he said. “Smells musty.”

“I'll air it out,” Gage said. “How long will we have to stay here?”

“Just a few days,” Fontaine said. “There are supplies in the root cellar.”

“I'll take a look, see how much there is,” Gage said.

Fontaine nodded. This was where they would live until the job was done, and for some time after. Adams wouldn't be able to find him here. Of course, that was if Adams managed to avoid being killed by Blacker—which he hoped would not be the case.

Gage went around the small house, opening the windows and the shutters. The inside of the house immediately felt better, less stuffy.

“How will we know for sure when it's over?” Gage asked.

“Blacker knows where we are,” Fontaine said. “He'll tell us.”

Gage turned and faced his boss. He'd been working for Fontaine for many years, since they were both younger men. He had an almost fatherly concern for the man, as well as a paternal pride.

“What if he doesn't?” Gage asked. “What if he has other ideas?”

“You mean, what if Blacker double-crosses us?” Fontaine asked.

“Yes.”

The younger man seemed to give that some thought before answering.

“Well,” Fontaine said, “I guess we'll just have to trust him.”

“Who are you kidding, Peter?” Gage asked with a snort of derision. “You don't trust anybody.”

“That's not true, Gage,” Fontaine said. “I trust you.”

The older man gave him a long look.

“Well,” Fontaine said, “I trust you as much as I trust anyone.”