Standoff in Santa Fe Read online

“No, just that he was dead.”

  “What’d Judge Smith say about you coming here?” Clint asked.

  Reeves laughed and said, “He told me to be sure not to kill anybody.”

  “Well, that might be hard, with so many gunhands around,” Clint said. “I already met three youngsters who were on the prod. Got to be others, too.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Reeves said. “With so many of us in town, there’s bound to be temptation.”

  “I heard Masterson’s here.”

  “If he is, I ain’t seen ’im,” Reeves said. “But I only got here last night.”

  “He’s probably keepin’ a low profile,” Clint said.

  “I wonder who else is comin’,” Reeves said.

  “Who knows?” Clint said. “Friend, enemies, looky-loos. The works.”

  “Should be some press here, as well.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Clint said, “lots of reporters asking lots of questions.”

  “Lookin’ for stories,” Reeves said. “I could tell them a story or two.”

  “Guess I could, too.”

  Reeves pushed his plate away. He had demolished the steak, even though it had been overcooked.

  Clint had eaten only half of his, but had finished all his vegetables.

  Reeves pointed and said, “You gonna finish that?”

  “Too well done.”

  “You mind?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Reeves pulled Clint’s plate over to him and started cutting into what was left of Clint’s steak. He was a big man with a big man’s appetite.

  “Gonna have me some pie after this,” he said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Clint said. He turned and waved at the waiter. “More coffee, please.”

  “Comin’ up,” the man said.

  When the waiter came with the coffee, Reeves asked, “What kinda pies ya got?”

  FOUR

  They finished their food, topping it all off with pie and coffee, and left the café.

  “Think the body’s on display yet?” Reeves asked.

  “I suppose we ought to take a look.”

  They crossed the street and walked toward the Crystal Queen.

  They exchanged a few stories about the departed, and then Reeves asked, “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Hmm,” Clint said, “I guess it was . . . four or five years ago.”

  “What happened then?”

  “That’s a long story, as I recollect it now,” Clint admitted. “I’ll have to tell it to you later.”

  “Hey, I’ll wanna hear that,” Reeves said.

  “How much time did the Judge give you?”

  “Just enough to pay my respects,” Reeves said, then laughed. “He don’t know I just wanna make sure the bastard is really dead.”

  They reached the front of the Crystal and once again there were several young men there. They spotted Clint right away, though, and word spread so that they stepped aside to let him and Reeves enter.

  “What was that about?” Reeves asked.

  “We’ve met before,” was all Clint said.

  If anything, the place was even more crowded than when Clint had been there last. But using Bass Reeves’s bulk, they were able to find two places at the bar.

  “When’s the body go on display?” Reeves asked the bartender when he brought them two beers.

  “Soon,” the man said.

  Clint sipped his beer, studied the room looking for friends or foes. He finally spotted Bat Masterson sitting at a poker table with a stack of chips in front of him.

  “Bat’s here,” Clint said.

  “Where?” Reeves asked.

  “There, second poker table.”

  Reeves took a look.

  “Seems to be doin’ okay.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “he tends to do that.”

  “Wanna say hello?”

  “Not while he’s playing,” Clint said. “Best to wait until he’s done.”

  “Your call. Think he’s seen us?”

  “Oh,” Clint said, turning back to lean on the bar, “he’s seen us.”

  * * *

  Bat continued to play poker for an hour before pushing his chips in to cash out. He tipped his hat to the other players, and Clint knew he was thanking everyone for their contributions. It was the kind of thing that made other players want to shoot Bat Masterson sometimes.

  Clint knew where Bat Masterson would be heading for next so he ordered a fresh beer and was waiting with it in his hand.

  “Bless you,” Bat said, accepting the beer and moving up between Reeves and Clint. He put the beer down on the bar and shook hands with both of them.

  “Nice to see you boys,” Bat said. “I was hopin’ somebody I liked would show up.”

  “When did you get here?” Clint asked.

  “Yesterday morning,” Bat said. “I’ve had time for a few hands.”

  At that point a saloon employee came up to Bat and said, “Here’s your money, Mr. Masterson.” It took him a few moments to count out all the bills.

  “Thank you very much, Leroy,” Bat said. He gave the man a big tip, and tucked the rest away in his jacket pocket.

  “A few hands?” Reeves asked.

  “A few hands, but a lot of money,” Bat said, picking up his beer again. “How about you boys? When did you all get into town?”

  “Last night,” Reeves said.

  “Today,” Clint said.

  “Seen anybody else?”

  Reeves shook his head and Clint said, “I’ve just seen Bass—and you.”

  “I was wonderin’ if Wyatt was comin’ in,” Bat said. “They had a set-to a while back, you know.”

  “A lot of people did,” Clint said. “I bet this town’s going to be full of them.”

  “They shoulda had somebody at the town line collectin’ hardware,” Reeves said. “The air around here could be full of hot lead at any minute.”

  “You’re right,” Bat said, smiling. “It should be fun, at that.”

  The batwing doors opened at that point, and sometime lawman, sometime railroad detective Heck Thomas walked in. He spotted the three of them and came walking over.

  “And the fun’s just beginning,” Clint agreed, wondering if any or all of them were on good terms with Heck Thomas.

  FIVE

  “Clint.”

  Thomas extended his hand and Clint shook it. He knew he was on good terms with Heck. They were friends.

  “Bat.” Heck shook Bat’s hand. That left Reeves.

  “Bass Reeves,” Heck Thomas said to the big black lawman. “It’s been a while.”

  “Hello, Heck.”

  The two big men stared at each other for a few moments, then they shook hands.

  “I could use a drink,” Heck said.

  “Belly up to the bar, as they say,” Bat said.

  The room had suddenly grown quiet. Even the piano player had stopped banging on the keys.

  Heck looked around. The four of them were now the center of attention.

  “Go back to what you were doin’!” Heck shouted at the staring crowd.

  After a moment of hesitation, men turned their heads away, the games started up again, and then lively, off-key piano music resumed in the background.

  “Have a beer,” Clint said, handing Heck a cold one. “Guess you’re here for the same reason we all are.”

  Heck accepted the beer and said, “Looks like quite a wake.”

  “It will be,” Reeves said. “So far all I’ve seen are lawmen or ex-lawmen. Some of the guest of honor’s other compadres are gonna have to show up.”

  No sooner had Reeves spoken than the batwings opened and a man walked in. He stopped just inside the doors and looked around. When he saw the four me
n standing at the bar, he stared and then walked over.

  “Am I gonna have any trouble with any of you badge toters because I’m here for a wake?” John Wesley Hardin asked.

  “Not me,” Clint said. “I’m not wearing a badge.”

  “Neither am I right now,” Heck Thomas said.

  “I’m just playin’ cards while I wait for the wake,” Bat said.

  Hardin looked at Bass Reeves, whose badge was still on his chest. The two men stared at each other for a few moments.

  “Far as I know,” Reeves said, “Judge Smith ain’t put a warrant out on you. That’s all I care about.”

  “Well, all right,” Hardin said, and moved down the bar. Several men got out of his way to allow him access to the bar. Hardin ordered whiskey.

  “Talk about a situation,” Reeves said. “When some other hothead gets here, there could be a problem.”

  “Hardin’s okay,” Clint said. “He won’t go looking for trouble.”

  “Ain’t he the one they say shot a man for snorin’?” Heck Thomas asked.

  “That’s not lookin’ for trouble,” Bat said. “That’s just tryin’ to get some sleep.”

  “I wonder if the local lawman will be smart enough to stay away,” Reeves said.

  “I talked to him,” Clint said. “I don’t think he’ll come out of his office.”

  “Smart man,” Heck said.

  “Another drink?” Clint asked.

  They all said yes.

  * * *

  “Oh, Lord,” Reeves said about half an hour later.

  “What’s wrong?” Clint asked.

  “The fella who just came in.”

  They all turned and looked. The man certainly looked like a hard case, wore his gun low on his hip, scanned the crowd with knowing eyes, and then approached the bar.

  “Know ’im?” Heck asked.

  “Jim Miller,” Reeves said.

  “Killin’ Jim Miller,” Clint said.

  “If he sees Hardin . . .” Heck Thomas said.

  “Or Bass’s badge,” Bat said.

  “It’s a wake, boys,” Clint said. “Nobody’s looking for trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Reeves said, “but Jim Miller and Wes Hardin in the same saloon? Gotta be trouble.”

  “That’s what some folks would say about us,” Clint pointed out.

  “We’re not hotheaded gunhands,” Bat said.

  “We know that,” Clint said, “but what do our reputations say?”

  “Jeez,” Heck said, “they’re comin’ in hot and heavy now.”

  The doors had swung in again and a well-dressed, diminutive-looking dude entered.

  “Luke Short,” Bat said. “Talk about hotheads.”

  “Didn’t he gun down Jim Courtwright recently?” Heck asked.

  “In Fort Worth,” Clint said. “Yeah.”

  “Is he gonna be lookin’ for trouble?” Reeves asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “he’ll be lookin’ for a poker game.”

  “You can say that again,” Bat said.

  Clint and Bat were both good friends with Luke Short, so when the man saw them, he came over with a grin on his face and his hand out.

  “Good to see you, Luke,” Clint said, shaking his hand. “Do you know Heck Thomas and Bass Reeves?”

  “I’ve met Heck,” Luke said with a nod, “heard of Bass Reeves. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

  “Have a drink,” Clint said. “On me.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Once he had a drink and a spot at the bar, Short asked, “Who else is in town?”

  “Further down the bar from you, there’s John Wesley Hardin and Jim Miller,” Clint said.

  “Together?” Short asked.

  “Naw,” Heck Thomas said, “they got a few cowboys between them.”

  “You run into them yahoos out on the boardwalk?” Heck asked.

  “Young bucks with more piss than sense?” Luke asked. “Yeah, I convinced them to let me pass.”

  “Did you kill any of ’em?” Bat asked.

  “They ain’t dead,” Short said, “but they’ll remember me.” He looked at Bat. “How’s the poker?”

  “Easy pickin’s,” Bat said. “Just don’t sit where I sit.”

  “How would that change anything?” Short asked.

  “Hey,” Bat said, “you lost a pretty penny to me last time.”

  “Yeah, but I beat you the two times before that,” Short said.

  “Fine,” Bat said, “let’s call it even.”

  “When they gonna roll the body out?” Short asked.

  “We been wonderin’ that ourselves,” Reeves said.

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “Bass just wants to make sure he’s really dead.”

  “Same reason I’m here,” Short said. “Just to look down at the sonofabitch in his coffin.”

  “What’d he do to you?” Bat asked.

  “Beat me at poker,” Short said.

  “If you go to the wake of everybody who beats you at poker—” Bat started.

  “Then I won’t be going to yours,” Luke finished, “will I?”

  “Very funny.”

  Clint called the bartender over.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Who’s in charge of this wake?” he asked.

  “Um,” the bartender said, “I guess the owner.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “That’s Mr. Conlon, sir.”

  “Conlon?” Bat asked. “Ben Conlon?”

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender said. “That’s him.”

  “You know him?” Reeves said.

  “I do.”

  “Maybe you can get him to wheel that body out, then,” Heck Thomas said.

  “Nobody gets Ben Conlon to do anythin’ before he’s ready,” Bat said, “but I’ll tell you one thing.”

  “What?” Clint asked.

  “If Ben Conlon is behind this,” Bat said, “there’s more goin’ on here than just a wake.”

  SIX

  The five friends continued to drink and talk, Bat filling them in a bit on Ben Conlon.

  “He’s a gambler, and well traveled,” Bat said. “And I’m talking about overseas—Europe. The Orient. He’s traveled and gambled and won. He owns a couple of places in San Francisco. I didn’t know he had bought a place here in Santa Fe. I wonder where else he’s got his grubby little fingers.”

  “Grubby?” Reeves asked.

  “Just because he’s well traveled doesn’t make him a gentleman,” Bat said. “The man’s got no manners. I’m tellin’ you, this wake is a front for somethin’ else. He’s got a reason for wantin’ to get us all here—lawmen and outlaws.”

  “And in between,” Clint said.

  “Maybe somebody should talk to him about it,” Reeves suggested.

  “Or at least find out when the damn thing is gonna start,” Heck said. “We might all be too drunk to gloat.”

  Bat looked at Clint.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said, “I don’t know him.”

  “You know everybody.”

  “Not this Conlon. You’re the guy, Bat.”

  “You don’t understand,” Bat said. “I dislike this man intensely.”

  “Because of the way he dresses?” Luke asked.

  “Because of the way he does business,” Bat said. “There’s nothing on the up-and-up with him, whether it’s business or poker.”

  “I tell you what,” Clint said. “I’ll go with you to make sure you don’t kill him.”

  “That’ll work,” Bat said. “Let’s finish our drinks and then find out where he is.”

  * * *

  It was unusual for a saloon owner’s office to be upstairs. Most of them liked to be down on the main
floor with their business. This was just another way Conlon was different.

  As they went up the stairs, Clint said, “Maybe he likes to look down at his business.”

  “Whatever his reason is,” Bat said, “I don’t like it.”

  They walked to the door and Clint knocked. The door was opened by a man wearing a suit that looked as if it had been slept in. He had a massive head of hair that went in all directions. He was in his mid-forties, and his hair was starting to go gray from black, so it looked a bit salt-and-pepper at the moment.

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” he said, “Bat Masterson.”

  “Conlon.”

  “And who’s this with you?”

  “Meet my friend, Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith,” Conlon said. “I’m honored. Why don’t you gents come on in?”

  The man stepped back to allow Clint and Bat to enter. The inside looked like a whore’s bad dream. Red and blues—red lamps, blue curtains—indicated that Conlon had little or no taste.

  Standing in a corner, however, was a woman in a blue dress. She was tall, dark-haired, had a full bosom shown off by the low-cut neckline of her gown.

  “Allow me to introduce you to Alicia Simmons,” Conlon said. “Alicia, this is Clint Adams, and that is my old friend Bat Masterson.”

  “Your friend?” she said. “That’s not the impression I get whenever you speak of him, Ben.”

  Conlon laughed.

  “A pleasure, ma’am,” Clint said.

  “Indeed,” Bat echoed.

  “My pleasure, gentlemen,” she said, inclining her head slightly.

  “What brings you gents up here?” Conlon asked.

  “The wake, Ben,” Bat said. “When do you think it will start? We got folks down there gettin’ antsy just bein’ around each other.”

  “Oh?” Conlon asked. “Who-all is here?”

  “Bass Reeves and Heck Thomas are standing at the bar together,” Bat said. “And Luke Short.”

  “Wes Hardin and Jim Miller have come in separately,” Clint added.

  “Well,” Conlon said, “that does sound like a volatile situation, but I’m afraid the wake will have to be put off until tomorrow.”

  “Why?” Bat asked.

  Conlon spread his hands and said, “Unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Wouldn’t it be a nice idea to let people know?” Clint asked.