The Hunt for Clint Adams (6 page)

Tarver went out the batwing doors, then stepped to the window to look inside. Dexter got up from the table and walked back to the bar to stand next to Gerald. Those two were thick as thieves these days. They were planning something, but Tarver figured Dexter wouldn't do a thing until they made some money.

He went to find that steak.

 

“He's bein' real picky, ain't he?” Gerald asked. “What makes you think he'll hire these boys yer bringin' in?”

“Because he's bein' so picky,” Dexter said, “he's also gonna get impatient. He's ready to pull a job.”

“Got one in mind?”

“There's a bank in a town near here that's holding' a payroll,” Dexter said, “That'll probably be first.”

“When do we go?”

“Tarver and me usually go in first and take a look,” Dexter said. “I said Tarver was getting impatient. Don't you do the same. It's all gonna work out.”

“It better,” Gerald said. “If Tarver catches on to you . . .”

“Don't worry, he ain't gonna catch on,” Dexter said. “He trusts me, and he thinks I still trust him.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Stop worryin', I toldja,” Dexter said. “It's all gonna work out.”

“We gettin' some Mexican food?” Gerald asked.

“Yeah,” Dexter said. “Finish your beer and we'll get some tacos and beans.”

“And rice,” Gerald said. “I want rice.”

Dexter drained his beer, hoping he'd learned more in four and a half years outside than Tarver had learned on the inside.

The next day, two men arrived in town. Dexter met them at the hotel.

“Bobby, Tom,” he said, shaking hands with them. “Just make sure you tell Tarver everything he wants to hear.”

Bobby Davis said, “I really wanna work with Tarver, man.”

“What for?” Tom Melvin asked. “We're just gonna end up killin' him.”

Hey!” Dexter snapped. “Get that thought out of your mind, you hear?”

Tom stared at Dexter, confused.

“But you said—”

“Never mind what I said,” Dexter cut him off. “Just make sure he takes you guys on. After that, do what he says until I say different. You got that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom said. “I got it.”

“Bobby?”

“I got it, Dex,” Bobby said. “Where is he?”

“He's at a cantina across the street, having breakfast,” Dexter said. “I'll take you over.”

“Can we get a drink there?” Tom asked.

“At nine a.m.?” Dexter asked.

“We been ridin' all night ta get here,” Tom complained. “I need a drink.”

“You'll get a drink, but not in front of Tarver, understand? Not this early.”

“Tequila?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, I'll get you some tequila, but later. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, “okay.”

Tarver was sopping up some beans with a piece of tortilla bread when Dexter entered with the two men. They were both in their early thirties and wore guns on their hips. Tarver liked the guns. He hated men who wore flashy, pearl-handled silver guns; show-offs, with no substance. He learned in prison it was what was inside a man that counted, and no fancy clothes or guns meant anything if a man had nothing inside.

“Jed, this is Bobby Davis and Tom Melvin.”

“Boys.”

“Mr. Tarver,” Bobby said. “Heard a lot about you.”

Melvin only nodded.

“You boys want some coffee? Somethin' to eat?” Tarver asked.

“Sure,” Bobby said, “sure, I could use somethin' to eat.”

“Mex's eat beans for breakfast, you believe that?” Tarver asked. “Ain't bad, though, if you eat 'em with some tortillas.”

“Suits me, Mr. Tarver,” Bobby said.

“Don't call me ‘Mister,' Bobby. Just Tarver.”

“Okay, Tarver.”

“Pull up some chairs and have some breakfast,” Tarver said. “Let's talk.”

By the time breakfast was over, Tarver had made up his mind.

“Okay,” he said, “you boys are okay. You're hired.”

“That's good, Mist—I mean, Tarver.”

“So what's next?” Tom Melvin asked.

“I got a job for you boys,” Tarver said.

“What kind of job?” Bobby asked.

“Real important,” Tarver said. “Get settled at the hotel and I'll tell you about it later.”

“Come on,” Dexter said, “I'll take you over—”

“No, Dex,” Tarver said. “You stay here. I want to talk to you.”

“Hotel's across the street, boys,” Dexter said. “Livery stable at the end of the street. Get settled, like Tarver said.”

“Okay,” Bobby said.

He and Tom Melvin got up and left the cantina.

“What's this job you got for them already?” Tarver asked.

“I want them to find Clint Adams.”

“And what will we be doin' while they're doin' that?” Dexter asked.

“We're gonna do that bank,” Tarver said. “Get some money.'

“They think they're hirin' on to work with us, Tarver.”

“And they will be,” Tarver said. “We'll give them a share, but I need Adams to be on edge. I need him to know I'm comin'.”

“So you don't want them to kill Adams?”

“
I'm
gonna kill Adams, Dex,” Tarver said. “I only need those boys to find him.”

“And do what?”

“Deliver a message.”

Clint looked across the poker table at the man who called himself Black Jack Mulligan—literally. He said it whenever he made a play: “Black Jack calls,” or “Black Jack folds,” or “Black Jack wins.” It would have been funny except for a couple of things—they were playing for big money, and Black Jack Mulligan was a damned good poker player.

There were three other players at the table in the Queen High Saloon and Gambling Hall in Colorado Springs, Colorado, but they were like useless appendages. They'd been donating money for hours while Clint and Black Jack kept passing the chips back and forth.

They were playing five-card stud, and with four cards on the table the other three had dropped out. Clint was showing a pair of kings, Black Jack a pair of aces.

“Black Jack bets a hundred,” Mulligan said.

Wearing a black suit, the big man looked like a blacksmith. He scratched his long black beard and regarded Clint across the table with eyes that betrayed more intelligence then you would have thought by looking at him. Or listening to him. Black played the fool so people would underestimate him. Clint had caught on after ten minutes.

Clint studied the man while the crowd murmured and buzzed. The man was the strength on the table, there was no doubt about that, but Clint had to see how strong he really was.

“I call the hundred, and raise two hundred,” Clint said.

“Black Jack Mulligan likes you, Adams,” Mulligan said with a smile. “He's gonna be sorry to take your money.”

“Why's that, Black Jack?” Clint asked. “You been taking it all night long.”

Mulligan laughed. The noise sounded like it was coming up from the bottom of a barrel.

“Black Jack Mulligan calls your two hundred, and raises two more.”

So, Clint thought, pretty strong. Three aces? Maybe. Could be two pair, but that wouldn't be as strong.

“Call,” Clint said, tossing the chips in.

One of the other players, Hector Trent, was the dealer, but was so engrossed he forgot.

“Trent,” Clint said. “Deal.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Trent picked out the deck and dealt each man his last card. They now had one card down and four up.

Clint had been dealt an eight, a king of hearts, a king of clubs, and now another eight. Two pair.

Black Jack Mulligan had been dealt an ace of diamonds, a three, an ace of hearts, and another three. Two pair, but aces high.

“Wow,” Trent said, and put the deck down on the table. He'd been warned earlier by Mulligan about holding onto the deck between deals.

“Black Jack bets,” Trent said.

“Black Jack Mulligan bettin' five hundred,” Mulligan said.

Clint looked down at his chips, and at Mulligan's. Then he looked around the table. Nobody left a game until after a hand, so it looked as if all three of the other players were done and would vacate the table when the hand was over. Should he push Mulligan now? If the big man had a discernible vice it was that he paid too much attention to his own hand and not enough attention to others'. He was skillful when he had the cards, and he had the cards now, but there was something he might not have noticed.

Clint downplayed his hand, staring first at the cards on the table, then looking at his hole card, and then looking at Mulligan, who was smiling, white teeth showing up stark in his beard.

“Black Jack Mulligan is waiting, Adams,” he said.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Black Jack,” Clint said. “Here's your five hundred, and a thousand more.”

Black Jack laughed loudly.

“You're tryin' to push me out of this hand, Adams,” he said.

“You're right,” Clint said.

“Yeah, I know I am,” Black Jack said. “Two thousand more.”

“This might be the last hand of the night,” Clint said.

“Looks like it,” Black Jack said. “Win or lose, Adams, I'll buy you a drink after.”

“You're on,” Clint said. “I'm all in. I got . . . five thousand here.”

Black Jack looked down at his chips.

“That's about what I got, more or less. I can count it—”

“Don't bother,” Clint said. “Just push it in. We'll round it out. That is . . . if you call.”

Black Jack Mulligan looked at the pot, at Clint, at the hole card in front of him.

“Come on,” Clint said, “what's Black Jack Mulligan say?”

Mulligan looked at him then said, “Black Jack Mulligan says, I call.”

At the bar Black Jack Mulligan bought two beers, and a whiskey for himself.

“Here's to king full,” he said, raising the whiskey. “Beats aces over every time.”

Clint drank some beer.

“I didn't think you had it,” Mulligan said. “I thought you were just tryin' to push me out.”

“I told you I was.”

“What if I'd had that other ace?”

“You couldn't have it.”

“Why not?”

“Trent folded an ace.”

Mulligan raised his eyebrows.

“I didn't notice.”

“I know,” Clint said.

“You know,” Mulligan said. “You could give me lessons. I heard you've played with Masterson and Short, and Ben Thompson.”

“I have, and a lot others,” Clint said, “but I don't give lessons.”

“Why not?”

“I don't have time,” Clint said “But you don't need lessons. You're pretty good.”

Mulligan drank half his beer and said, “Not good enough, though. That's obvious.”

“You have one fatal flaw.”

“What's that?”

“You don't pay enough attention to the other cards on the table,” Clint said. “You just look at your own.”

“Nah, that ain't true,” Mulligan said. “I do look at the other cards. I just can't remember 'em. I got a really bad memory.”

“If that's true, you can probably work on it.”

“How?”

“That I can't tell you,” Clint said. “I know one thing you can do, though.”

“What's that?”

“Play Draw, don't play Stud.”

“What's that do?”

“Keeps you from having to memorize the cards on the table.”

Clint and Black Jack Mulligan had a few drinks and then left the saloon to go back to their hotel. They happened to be staying in the same one.

It was about an hour after sunup. The poker game had gone on all night. It was what the Queen High Saloon advertised: a never-ending poker game.

“Where you headed after this?” Clint asked.

“Black Jack Mulligan's got a game waitin' in Denver,” Mulligan said. “You wanna come along?”

“I don't think I want to see look across a poker table at you for a while, Black Jack,” Clint said.

“I think I'll just take that as a compliment.”

The first shot rang out as they approached the hotel. Clint heard the bullet slap flesh, but didn't feel any pain. He rolled and was still rolling when the second and third shots sounded. He came to a stop behind a horse trough, tried to see where the shooting had come from; might have been a doorway, or a rooftop. He couldn't tell.

Men came running out of the saloon. The other businesses still had their doors locked. Clint saw Black Jack Mulligan lying on his stomach in the middle of the street.

He stood, ready to hit the ground again if there was another shot, but it was quiet. He approached Mulligan as a man with a badge came running from the opposite direction.

Clint leaned over Black Jack and turned him over. The big man's eyes fluttered weakly and he looked up at Clint.

“Goddamn,” he said. “Black Jack Mulligan's been kilt.”

Later, Clint visited Black Jack Mulligan, who had been carried up to his room so the doctor could work on him there. They wanted to take him to the doctor's office, but the hotel was closer and Clint wanted the doctor to start working on Mulligan as soon as possible.