Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“Does she know she is yours?”

“That’s irrelevant,” Barker said. “Her feelings are not the issue. The issue is you infringing where you are not wanted.”

“She hasn’t beaten me off with a broom yet,” Clay said.

Harve Barker became a portrait in marble. When he spoke, he did so biting off each syllable as if it were a piece of jerky. “Enough of this. I will say it plain so you will understand. Before I do, let me make it clear to you that I am not a man to be trifled with. Nor do I have a forgiving nature. Continue to impose and the consequences are on your shoulders.”

“I do believe that was a threat.”

“Construe it as you will,” Barker said. “The important thing is that you have gone on your last supper date with Melanie Stanley.” He turned back to the table. “Our talk is at an end. Charles, see him off.”

Clay Adams slowly stood and put on his derby. But instead of going with Charles, he leaned on the table. “You have had your say, Barker, so now I will have mine.”

Harve Barker was too surprised to take exception.

“I have heard about you. I have heard how you lord it over everyone. That you do whatever you please and get away with it because you are the most powerful man in Bluff City. Most people are scared of you. Most would tuck tail if you told them to. But I’m here to stay, and I’ll continue to see Melanie for as long as she lets me.” Clay straightened and smiled and touched the derby’s brim. “I thank you for the warning, though. It’s always good to know who your enemies are.”

The gambler’s quiet laughter followed Clay as he merged with the throng and made his way to the ornate bar that ran the length of the north side of the palatial room. He ordered a whiskey, chugged it in two gulps, and ordered another. He watched the mirror behind the bar and saw Harve Barker storm from the private section to a flight of stairs that led to the galleries. Shortly after, the gambler rose and came to the bar. Clay pretended not to notice him.

“Buy you another, Mr. Adams?”

“I’d better not,” Clay said. “But I thank you for the offer.”

The gambler studied him from under a wide-brimmed black hat. The gambler’s frock coat, his pants, his boots—they were all black. Only his frilled shirt was white. He had sandy hair with wisps of gray at the temples, and gray eyes. “That was something to see. It’s not every day someone has the grit to stand up to Harve Barker. Be on your guard.”

“The cock of the walk, is he?”

“Son, you have no notion of the hornet’s nest you’ve stirred up,” the gambler said. “He will make his move when he is good and ready, but mark me, he will make one, and it will be permanent.”

Clay pursed his lips. “Barker will go that far?”

“He’s no bluff,” the gambler answered. “A whisper in the right ear, enough money changes hands, and you disappear.”

“Why are you warning me? You must be an acquaintance of his to play at his personal table.”

The gambler shrugged. “I know him, sure, but that doesn’t mean I like him. I do like taking his money, though.” He held out a slender, pale hand. “Wesley Oaks, but you can call me Wes.”

Clay shook. “Been in Bluff City long?”

“About half a year now,” Wes revealed. “The smart gamblers go where the money is to be had, and Bluff City is bursting at the seams with jackasses who think they know how to play cards.” He paused. “How about you? Are you a gambling man?”

“I used to be but I’ve turned over a new leaf. You could say I’ve turned over a whole tree’s worth of late.”

“Any of those new leaves have to do with wearing a six-shooter on your hip?” Wesley Oaks asked.

“I’m not the only man in town who doesn’t,” Clay evaded the query.

“True. But you are one of the few who wears a shoulder rig. Don’t look so surprised. In my line of work I have to be able to spot hide-outs. My point, though, is that those others who don’t go heeled don’t have Harve Barker out to nail their hides to the wall. It won’t be him who pays you a visit. It will be men who are good with guns and aren’t bashful about using them.”

Now it was Clay who shrugged. “Better now than later, and better I know it is coming than wonder if the stories about him are true.”

“I saw you flip that coin,” the gambler said. “I saw you miss it. Nicely done. I hope your lady is worth the risk.”

“Have you ever wanted to crawl into a woman’s heart and stay there?” Clay bluntly asked.

A pained expression came over Wesley Oaks. “Yes,” he said throatily. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

“How did it work out, if that is not too personal?”

“She let me in and I stayed there for six years,” Wesley said. “The six best years of my life. I wasn’t a gambler then. I pushed a plow for a living. I married that gal. We bought a farm. One day she was out in the barn milking the cows, and when she bent down to pick up the stool a hornet stung the cow she was about to milk and the cow kicked her. Crushed her head like you would crush a grape. Can you imagine? A stupid damn cow killed the woman I loved. I shot it, after.” He stopped and looked down at himself. “Why in hell am I telling you this?”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Clay said. “That woman of yours, she was to you as Melanie is to me.”

“Have you told the young lady how you feel?”

“Not yet. I figure I shouldn’t throw my loop until I’m sure the mare is mine to rope.”

Wesley Oaks chuckled. “I like you, son. You are welcome to sit in on my games any time you want.”

Clay was smiling when he left the Emporium half an hour later. He bent his steps toward the outskirts of town, and his apartment. He made a point of glancing at every storefront window he passed, and had gone a couple of blocks when he spotted the three men who were following him. He did not let on that he knew they were there but continued strolling along as if he did not have a care in creation.

The three held well back until the center of town, with its many streetlamps, was behind them, and Clay was passing through a quiet—and dark—neighborhood. They began to narrow the gap.

The trio wore townsman’s clothes. Bowlers crowned their heads. Brogans were their favored footwear. They were perfectly ordinary, except that each was a brawny husky with shoulders as wide as a buffalo’s and a neck as thick as a bull’s.

Clay walked faster. He knew the area, having been through it many times on his way to and from work. Around the next corner was a house under construction. He took that corner, and the instant he was out of sight he broke into a run.

Stacks of lumber offered plenty of places to hide, but he was not trying to shake his shadowers. He was after a suitable board or a tool.

The frame and the floor had been erected. Lying on the floor near the edge was a three-foot length of wood. Hefting it, Clay smiled. He moved into the inky shadow of a stack of planking, and waited.

The three men were abreast of the lot when they stopped and glanced about in confusion.

“Where did he get to?” one wondered.

“He must have seen us and run off, but he can’t have gotten far,” said the second. “If we hurry we can catch him.”

The third was the smart one. He proved it by saying, “Hold your horses. It could be that is exactly what he wants us to think. It could be that’s exactly what he wants us to do.” The man motioned at the construction site. “I say we check there first.”

“What if you’re wrong?” said the first man. “Then he gets away, and Mr. Barker has us strung up by our thumbs.”

“I have an idea,” the second man said. “I’ll go on ahead while the two of you look around. If you find him, give a holler. If I find him, I’ll trail him to where he is staying and come fetch you.”