Kentucky Showdown (5 page)

As Blacker entered his boss's office, he saw two stopwatches on the desk. He placed his alongside the others.

“How did the horse look?” his boss asked.

“Like a million dollars,” Blacker said. “It ran with the Gunsmith's big gelding. That's a horse with a lot of competitive drive.”

His boss nodded thoughtfully.

“How about the others?” Blacker asked.

“As advertised,” the boss said.

“Gonna be some race,” Blacker said.

“I'm not looking for ‘some race,'” the boss said. “I'm looking to make money.”

“With a bet?”

“To start.”

“How will you bet?”

“I have a couple of days to figure that out,” the boss said. “A couple of days to do something.”

Blacker laughed.

“You mean we have two days for me to do something,” he said.

“True,” his boss said, “but I'm the one who will decide what you do.”

“Well,” Blacker said. “you let me know when you decide. I'll be around.”

* * *

“What do you plan to do?” Canby asked Clint.

“I thought I'd follow the trail, see where it leads me,” Clint said. “Maybe I can find out who was on that hill. And why.”

“It's not really important, you know,” Canby said. “It just means that somebody recognized Whirlwind as a threat.”

“That's one way of looking at it.”

“What's another?”

“That they were watching me,” Clint said. “I have to find out.”

“I can see that,” Canby said. “If someone's got it out for you, you wanna know it.”

“Right.”

“Well,” Canby said, “do what you've got to do, Clint. Then come back here.”

They were in Canby's house, and when the trainer walked in, Clint explained again what he'd found on the hill. He hadn't said anything about Alicia yet.

“Before I go . . .”

“Yeah?” asked Canby.

“In case I run into him,” Clint said, “what can you tell me about the local sheriff?”

“Ted Hackett?” Canby said. “He's a bad checker player, but a pretty good sheriff, I think.”

“Can I use your name if I see him?”

“Sure,” Canby said. “Tell him you're a friend of mine.” The man shrugged. “See what that gets you.”

“I will.”

Clint turned to leave, still unsure of what to tell Canby about Alicia.

“Clint?”

He turned back.

“Have you seen Alicia?”

“She's up on that hill.”

“What is she doin' up there?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“A few things,” Clint said. “Give her time. She'll be back.”

“If you say so.”

Clint turned to face the man again.

“What about Davy Flores?”

“What about him?” Canby asked. “He's a good jockey.”

“What else?”

“He's a mean man,” Canby said. “That small man mean, you know?”

“Dangerous?”

“Only to himself.”

Clint nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I'll be back later tonight.”

“Watch your back.”

“I've been doing that for a long time, Ben,” Clint said. “You watch your horse, just in case whoever was watching means him harm.”

Canby looked shocked.

“I hadn't thought of that,” he said. “I just thought maybe somebody was spying on us. You know, to get some information before making a bet.”

“Well, I'm just saying, be careful.”

“I'll arm a couple of my men, just in case.”

“Good idea,” Clint said. “I'll let you know as soon as I find out anything.”

Clint avoided Alicia and picked up the trail on the other side of the hill. He followed it for a few miles, and then it disappeared. He rode in a circle, trying to pick it up again. He realized then that the rider had hidden his trail, as if he'd expected to be followed.

Somebody knew what he was doing, better than he did. Clint was an able tracker, but not an expert one.

He mounted up and rode for Louisville.

* * *

Clint entered the sheriff's office, found the man seated behind a huge desk in a fairly modern-looking office. Gone were the potbellied stove and the wanted posters. There were two deputies standing there, apparently being dressed down by the sheriff.

“. . . next time I catch you two goin' at it, you're both fired. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

“Now get out,” the sheriff said. “Go do your jobs.”

The two young deputies turned, walked around Clint—one on either side—and went out the door.

“They're young,” the sheriff said. “You've got to keep a tight rein on the young.”

“Amen,” Clint said.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?”

“You know who I am?”

“I know who you are, and when you got to town,” the lawman said. “It's my job.”

Sheriff Theodore Hackett was in his late fifties, a robust-looking man with ruddy skin tones and sparkling blue eyes.

“I also know that you're friends with Ben Canby.”

“I am.”

“Ben's good people,” Hackett said.

Clint looked around.

“This is a pretty modern-looking office.”

“Louisville is thinking about bringing in a police force,” Hackett said. I'm tryin' to convince them they don't need one. What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?”

“Somebody's been spying on Ben Canby's place, watching his horse work out,” Clint said. “I tracked him for a while, but then lost the trail.”

“I'm afraid I'm not much of a tracker,” Hackett said. “Besides, spying ain't exactly a crime. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” Clint said, “not yet anyway. I just need you to suggest someone who can read sign. I need an expert, because the man I was trailing took steps to cover his trail.”

“I see,” Hackett said. “Well, the man you want is probably John Sun Horse.”

“An Indian?”

“Full-blooded Cherokee.”

“That's perfect,” Clint said. “Where do I find him?”

Hackett spread his arms and said, “Pick a saloon.”

“He's a drunk?”

Hackett thought a moment, then said, “Let's just say he's drunk . . . a lot of the time.”

“Is there a particular saloon I should look in?” Clint asked.

Hackett took a piece of paper from his desk and wrote three names on it. He then handed the paper to Clint.

“I suggest you try these three first,” he said. “If you don't find him there, you'll just have to start trying the others.”

The third saloon Clint entered was called the Buckshot. It was midday, and the place was not even half full. He stood just inside the batwing doors and looked around. At a back table sat an Indian wearing a top hat, staring into a mug of beer that had about an inch or two left in it.

Clint walked to the bar and asked the bartender, “Is that John Sun Horse back there?”

“That's him.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Is he awake?” the bartender asked. “If he's awake, he's drunk.”

“Is he always drunk?”

“Only when he's not workin'.”

“How often does he work?”

“Hardly ever.”

Clint turned and looked at the Indian.

“You gonna try to talk to him?” the bartender asked.

“I am.”

“Wait.”

The bartender drew two beers and put them on the bar in front of Clint.

“You better take this to him,” he said. “He won't even talk to you otherwise.”

“Two?”

“One's for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Thank me by putting four bits on the bar.”

Clint took out the money and set it down, then picked up the two mugs and walked to the back table.

“You look like you can use a fresh one,” he said, putting one beer down in front of the Indian.

The man looked up, brown eyes studying Clint from beneath the brim of his worn top hat. He had a thick nose and fleshy mouth, looked to be about thirty-five.

He pushed his empty mug away and wrapped his hand around the full one.

“Mind if I sit?” Clint asked.

Sun Horse shrugged.

Clint sat.

“I have a job for you, Mr. Sun Horse.”

“I am John Sun Horse,” the man said. “Or just Sun Horse. No ‘Mr.'”

“All right, John Sun Horse. I have a job for you.”

“Doing what?”

“What I hear you're good at.”

Without smiling, Sun Horse said, “Drinking?”

“Tracking.”

“Oh, that.”

“You are an expert tracker, aren't you?”

“I am.” He took two big swallows of the fresh, cold beer. Clint sipped his.

“I need you to pick up a trail that somebody is trying to hide.”

“Not an easy thing,” Sun Horse said, “especially if your quarry knows what he is doing.”

“Apparently he does.”

“How do you know?”

Because I can't find the trail.”

Sun Horse looked Clint in the eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Clint Adams.”

“This is true?” Sun Horse asked without the slightest look of surprise on his face.

“Yes.”

“And you want to hire me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I need to find out who was watching me this morning.”

“Where?”

“I was out at the Canby place.”

“He has a horse entered in the Derby.”

“Yes.”

Sun Horse leaned forward then, the first look of interest in his eyes.

“Can you tell me if the horse is going to win?” the Cherokee asked.

“No.”

Sun Horse leaned back, sipped his beer again.

“But I can tell you the horse is in fine shape,” Clint said.

“So are the others,” Sun Horse said. “That doesn't help me make a bet.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe if you take the job, you'll be able to find something out that will help you.”

Sun Horse leaned forward again.

“Are you sure your quarry was watching you?” he asked. “Or the horse?”

“That is what I want to find out.”

Sun Horse sat back again. Despite what the bartender had said, John Sun Horse did not appear to be drunk.

“Will you take the job?”

“You will pay me?”

“I will.”

“How much?”

“Enough to make a healthy bet on the Kentucky Derby.”

Very deliberately John Sun Horse pushed the remainder of the beer away.

“You're not going to finish that?” Clint asked.

Sun Horse looked at him and said, “I never drink when I am working.”

They went to a nearby livery stable to pick up John Sun Horse's swaybacked mare.

“This is your horse?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

Clint looked the animal over while Sun Horse tossed a blanket on her back.

“What's wrong with my horse?” the Cherokee asked. “She's a good animal.”

“She's kind of long in the tooth,” Clint commented. “What is she, about ten years old?”

“She'll do fine,” Sun Horse said. “She always has.” He affixed a bridle to the horse and then looked at Clint. “Where's your horse?”

“In front of the sheriff's office.”

“Well, I am ready.”

“Fine,” Clint said. “I just hope your horse can keep up.”

“Sheba will keep up.”

“Sheba?”

Sun Horse stared at him, no sign of humor in his eyes.

“Oh, all right,” Clint said. “Come on, Sheba.”

* * *

“This is your horse?” Sun Horse asked when they reached Eclipse.

“That's right.”

John Sun Horse looked Eclipse over.

“Still think your Sheba can keep up?”

“You just watch.”

They both mounted their horses, Clint sitting considerably higher than Sun Horse.

“You lead the way,” Sun Horse said.

“Don't you know where the Canby place is?”

“I do,” Sun Horse said, “but I do not know where this man who was watching you was standing.”

“Good point. But maybe I should take you to the place where I lost his trail.”

“I want to see where he was when he was watching you,” Sun Horse said. “I want to see his tracks, and his horse's tracks. Then I will be able to recognize them when I see them.”

“All right, that makes sense. I'll take the lead.”

They rode out of town.

* * *

“He was right here,” Clint said when they reached the hillside.

John Sun Horse nodded and dismounted. He handed the reins of his horse to Clint, who had to admit that the ten-year-old mare had, indeed, kept up with Eclipse.

Sun Horse walked the area, always looking down, crouching from time to time. Clint thought this was a good way to judge the man's abilities. If he tracked the man to the same point Clint had lost him, then he surely knew what he was doing.

“All right,” Sun Horse said, reclaiming his reins and mounting up.

“Want me to take you to the place where I lost him?” Clint asked.

“No,” Sun Horse said. “I will track him that far myself.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “You're the expert.”

“That's right,” John Sun Horse said with no hint of humor on his stolid face. “I am.”

While John Sun Horse did his work, Clint tried to engage him in conversation, but the Cherokee did not seem to be the talkative type. Clint finally fell silent and remained that way.

Eventually, they came to the place where Clint had lost the trail.

“Here,” Sun Horse said. “This is where he tried to cover his trail.”

“This is where I lost him, all right.”

Sun Horse nodded and slipped from his horse's back. He walked the area, looking at the ground intensely, careful of where he set his moccasin-covered feet.

Finally, he knelt for a long time, swiping lightly at the ground with one hand, then stood and walked back to Clint.

“Your man knows what he is doing,” Sun Horse said.

“But you found the trail?”

“Of course,” Sun Horse said, mounting up. “That is what you are paying me to do, is it not?”

“It is.”

Clint wished the Cherokee would exhibit more expression when he spoke. Part of the time—almost half the time, in fact—he felt the man was pulling his leg.

* * *

By late afternoon they were sitting outside the gate of a ranch. There was no fence, just an arch built as an entry to the property. There was no name anywhere.

“Here,” John Sun Horse said. “This is where your man went.”

“Do you know whose place this is?” Clint asked.

“Yes I do,” the Cherokee said.

Clint waited, but when he realized nothing further was forthcoming, he said, “Who?”

“Peter Fontaine.”

“And who is Peter Fontaine?”

“A rich man.”

“What does he do?”

“He gambles.”

“Bets on the horses?”

“Bets on anything,” Sun Horse said.

Well, it made sense that such a man would be looking for an edge when it came to betting on the Derby.

“What do you do now?” Sun Horse asked.

“Do you know this Fontaine?”

“I know of him,” Sun Horse said. “I do not know him.”

So, no introduction there.

“Let's go back to Louisville,” Clint said. “I want to talk to the sheriff again.”

Sun Horse nodded and turned his horse around.

* * *

As they rode into Louisville, Sun Horse asked, “You pay me now?”

“You did your job,” Clint said. “I'll pay you now.”

Sun Horse reined his horse in. Clint went a few more feet before he realized the man had stopped. He turned and looked at him.

“You mean right here, in the middle of the street?” he asked.

“I do not like the law,” Sun Horse said. “I don't want to go to the sheriff's office.”

Clint rode back to Sun Horse, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some money. He counted out the amount they had agreed upon into Sun Horse's hand. The Cherokee then nodded and tucked the money away in his war bag.

“If you need Sun Horse again,” he said, “I will be in the saloon.”

“Which one?” Clint asked.

The Cherokee shrugged and said, “All of them.”

Clint watched as the man rode away, then shrugged himself and continued on to the sheriff's office.

* * *

Sheriff Ted Hackett looked at Clint as he came in the door.

“Find Sun Horse?”

“I did, thanks.”

“He get the job done for you?”

“Yes, he did.”

Hackett had been standing at the gun rack when Clint entered. Now he turned and seated himself behind his desk.

“What else can I do for you?”

“Tell me about a man named Fontaine.”

“Pete Fontaine?”

“That's the one.”

“Pete Fontaine is a man nobody wants to cross,” Sheriff Hackett said, “not even the Gunsmith.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe you can elaborate on that for me?”

Hackett opened his bottom drawer and came out with a bottle of whiskey.

“This'll take a drink,” he announced.