Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“I agree with the girl this time,” Cavendish said.

Clay argued but they refused to heed. And so, lashing the dun’s reins, Clay flew down the steep slope at breakneck speed. Melanie clamped hold tighter than ever, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her warm, excited breath fanning his neck. But not a single shot shattered the night. Just whoops and hollers as the miners swarmed to meet them.

“Mr. Cavendish! Mr. Cavendish!” Teckler clasped his employer’s calloused hand as Sam Cavendish dismounted. “Praise the Almighty you are all right! They let you go as they promised they would.”

“Like hell they did,” Cavendish said, and grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders. “My money! Tell me my money is safe!”

The bookkeeper frowned. “I don’t understand. We paid the ransom over an hour ago.”

Chapter 14

The Courier had the details.

Teckler had ridden to Bluff City alone, as Jesse Stark had demanded. The bookkeeper rushed into the Greater Bank of Bluff City and shoved a note from Gary Franks, the vice president, under the nose of the head teller. The head teller wanted to send someone to fetch Marshal Vale but Teckler talked him out of it. “For all we know, the outlaws are spying on us as we speak. If we don’t do exactly as Jesse Stark wants, Mr. Cavendish’s life is forfeit.”

Every employee at the bank was pressed into service to help count the money. A guard was sent to the mercantile for sacks to stuff it in. Most of the one hundred thousand was in the form of National Bank notes and United States notes. The counting took hours but was completed with time to spare.

Since Teckler had about ridden his horse into the ground, a fresh mount was obtained. He immediately headed back up the mountain and reached the switchback an hour early. On not seeing sign of anyone, he called out.

None other than Jesse Stark came out of the trees and cheerfully took possession of the ransom.

“What about Mr. Cavendish?” Teckler had asked.

“Your boss will be let go as soon as I make sure all the money is there,” Stark responded. “You can go on to the mine and wait there for him.”

The loyal bookkeeper had not liked the arrangement but he had done as the outlaw commanded. He was shocked to learn he had been duped.

But Teckler’s shock was as nothing compared to Sam Cavendish’s. He was out nearly every cent he owned. He had to lay off most of his workers, and his mine was in danger of going under. He scrambled to secure financing to keep the mine operating but no one was willing to help. The only offer he received was one already tendered—Harve Barker’s pittance to buy the mine outright.

The Courier related the financial dealings. It also covered the abduction of Sam Cavendish in remarkable detail. Every aspect was covered. Every word Stark uttered was set down for posterity.

But when it came to the escape, Melanie Stanley suffered a lapse of memory. She reported that the three captives snuck off when Stark was not looking. She made no mention of the part played by Clay Adams. To hear her version, one would think he did nothing at all.

The morning after the newspaper came out, Clay sat on the edge of her desk and placed a copy in front of her. “I’m obliged.”

“Go away. I have pencils to sharpen.”

“What changed your mind?” Clay inquired.

“I don’t know,” Melanie said a trifle angrily. “I guess I decided it wouldn’t hurt to honor your request, although why you want to keep what you did a secret is beyond me.”

“I have my reasons.”

“Which you are unwilling to share. And here I thought we were friends.”

“There is no one in this world I like more,” Clay said matter-of-factly.

“You have a strange way of showing it.”

Clay sighed and stood. “Think what you want. But I do appreciate what you did. I know it went against your principles.”

“Who are you, Clay Adams?” Melanie unexpectedly asked.

“What?”

“Just this morning it struck me that I know next to nothing about you. Where you are from. What you did before you came here. You are secretive about your past. But you are clever about it, so no one realizes how secretive you are being. Why hide who you have been unless there is something worth hiding?”

“We have all done things we would rather forget,” Clay remarked.

“True. But I suspect there is more to it than that. And since you won’t willingly confide in me, I have decided to do some digging.”

“Please don’t,” Clay said.

Melanie made a tepee of her hands. “You can stop me. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know.”

“I never took you for a snoop.”

“How could you not? Look at what I do for a living.” Melanie gestured to encompass the newspaper office. “Snooping is in my blood.”

“Please leave well enough alone,” Clay tried again.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. There is nothing I like more than digging for information, and you are a gold mine of facts waiting to be unearthed. I will get to the bottom of the mystery that is Clay Adams. Just see if I don’t.”

Melanie said it lightheartedly but there was nothing lighthearted about Clay’s expression. “Do what you have to,” he said, and returned to the front desk.

The rest of the day was uneventful. Melanie left early to see about a woman who had been run over by a buggy after a hornet spooked the horse. Clay stayed until near eight, when Jerome Stanley told him he could go home.

“Thank you, sir. See you tomorrow.” Clay donned his derby, stepped outside, and was immediately wreathed in cigar smoke.

“I have been waiting for you,” Marshal Vale said. He came out of the shadows, puffing contentedly on a cheroot. “Let’s walk.”

Without saying anything, Clay fell into step.

The marshal went on puffing until they came to the end of the block. Then he casually gazed over his shoulder, presumably at a young woman in a tight dress. “Who are you?”

“The question of the day,” Clay Adams said.

“I’ve read the newspaper account,” Marshal Vale remarked. A carriage clattered past and they crossed behind it. “It leaves out a lot, which strikes me as strange. Usually Miss Stanley is more thorough.”

“Maybe you should be talking to her, then.”

“Sheathe your claws, son. I’m not out to find fault with either of you. But I would like to know what you are up to.”

“You’re speaking in riddles,” Clay said.

“Don’t do this,” Marshal Vale said. “I can be your friend if you’ll let me.” He removed the cigar from his mouth and flicked ashes to the street. “I had a long talk with Sam Cavendish. He told me a lot that wasn’t covered in the newspaper. Most of it was about you.”

“I told him not to make more of it than there was.”

“That’s the point, son,” Marshal Vale said. “No one is making nearly enough of it. Certainly not Miss Stanley. I only got Sam to talk after he made me promise to keep what he told me to myself.” Vale stared at Clay. “You’re no clerk. I’m not sure exactly what you are, but that suit you’re wearing is a disguise. You’re up to something. You came to Bluff City with a purpose in mind. I’d like to know what that purpose is.”

Clay’s lips pinched together. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“No, son, I don’t. It’s why I’ve lasted so long. For instance, I haven’t missed the two men who are following us. Or should I say following you, since they both work for Harve Barker?”

“I’d forgotten about him,” Clay said.

“An oversight like that can get a man buried,” Marshal Vale commented. “But your squabble with Barker is your affair. He likes Miss Stanley. You like Miss Stanley. Two men fighting over a pretty woman. It happens all the time. So long as neither of you spray lead in public, there’s not much I can do.”