Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“I hope it won’t come to that.”

“He’s not the reason you’re here, though. From what Miss Stanley tells me, you didn’t know Barker existed until you came to Bluff City. Which brings us back to where we started. Who are you and what are you up to?”

Clay said, not without irritation, “You are fishing without bait.”

“Am I? Well, I have been wrong before. Maybe you are what you seem to be. If that turns out to be the case, I’ll be man enough to apologize.” Marshal Vale smiled. “I’ll quit badgering you now. But I’ll leave you with a few words of advice.” Vale glanced at a storefront window they were passing, a window that showed the street behind them. “Have a care, my young friend. You have made powerful enemies. Enemies who might take it into their heads that the only good Adams is a dead Adams. Savvy?”

“All too well,” Clay said. “And, Marshal?”

Vale had started to turn up a side street. “Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“Just doing my job, son,” Marshal Vale said. “It’s best to keep on top of things. Fewer nasty surprises that way.”

Clay resumed walking. It was dark and the street-lamps had been lit. He came to an intersection and paused. To the right would take him to the Emporium; to the left, the outskirts of town and the Rusty Spittoon. He went to the right.

It was early and Bluff City’s premier gambling den was not as crowded as it would be later. Clay threaded through the poker and roulette tables to the roped-off section, and Harve Barker’s private table. No one was there. He made for the bar and heard his name called.

Wesley Oaks was at a poker table, winnings piled high in front of him. “It has been a few days.”

“I’ve been busy,” Clay said.

“So I’ve read.” The gambler indicated an empty chair. “You are welcome to sit in.”

“I’m looking for Barker. Is he here?”

“I spoke to him about noon,” Wesley said. “He was in good spirits. Something to do with the Cavendish mine.”

“Sam Cavendish sold out to him.”

“Give Barker ten years and he will be the richest man in the territory,” the gambler predicted.

From behind Clay came a familiar voice. “Make that five years, and the richest man west of the Mississippi, and you will be closer to the mark.” Harve Barker was the epitome of fashion in a flawlessly tailored suit. Flanking him were the two men who had been shadowing Clay.

“Just so I get to win some of it,” Wesley Oaks said.

“You can try.” Harve Barker sobered and wagged a finger at Clay. “Wasn’t I clear enough the last time you paid me a visit? The Emporium is off limits to you so long as you draw breath. This time you get off with a warning. The next I won’t be so charitable.”

“I go where I want, when I want,” Clay said. “Try to stop me and you will find that out.”

“Brave words for a clerk.”

“I have more. Stop having me followed. I should think you would know better after the other night.”

Barker turned to the two toughs. “Did you hear him, boys? He doesn’t like you. Why don’t you show him the door and the bottoms of your boots?”

“Is that really called for?” Wesley Oaks asked.

The two underlings were cast from the same mold: husky, muscular and obedient. Without saying a word they closed on Clay.

And just like that, a derringer was in the gambler’s hand. It was not pointed at anyone in particular but there was no denying his intent as he said, “You are distracting me from my game, gentlemen, and I can’t have that.”

The two toughs stopped and looked at their boss.

Harve Barker was not pleased. “You walk a fine line, Mr. Oaks. I don’t presume to tell you how to play cards.”

“As a favor,” Wesley said.

Clay stepped between them. “It’s all right. I wasn’t planning to stay. I only wanted to deliver the two messages.”

“Two?” Barker repeated.

“The other is this. I will also see who I want, when I want. The sooner you accept that, the less wear and tear on your hired help.”

Harve Barker glowered. “The arrogance.”

“Listen to the kettle call the pot black,” Clay said. “But I guess you can afford your temper tantrums.”

“I can indulge my every whim,” Barker boasted. “You would do well to keep that in mind.”

“There you go again. Haven’t you heard? All our stupidities eventually catch up with us. I know that better than anyone. You’ll learn it too, someday, and you won’t like the lesson.”

“Listen to you. You should be a preacher.”

“People aren’t always as they seem,” Clay Adams said. Nodding to Wesley Oaks, he walked off. At the glass doors he looked back, smiled at Harve Barker, and gave a little wave.

Barker did not smile back.

Hurrying across the street, Clay turned right at the next intersection. He stopped and waited, but no one came after him.

Whistling cheerfully, Clay ambled west. High on the bluff and surrounding mountains the lights from mines and camps sparkled like land-bound stars. Two men on horseback came up behind him and his hand drifted under his jacket. But they were townsmen on their way home after a long day’s labor.

The Rusty Spittoon was elbow to elbow. Clay shouldered through to the bar and found himself next to Skagg. The giant smiled and pounded him on the back.

“Good to see you again! How about a game of cards? I’m low on money, so we can’t play for high stakes.”

“How would you like to earn a hundred dollars?” Clay asked.

Skagg’s craggy face split in a grin. “Who do I kill?”

Before Clay could answer, Gressel came down the bar, wiping his hands on his greasy apron. “Well, if it isn’t the bundle of surprises.”

“How so?” Clay asked as Gressel slid a bottle toward him.

“Someone was in here asking about you this afternoon. If I had charged by the question, I would be rich.”

“Let me guess. It was one of Harve Barker’s men.”

Gressel chuckled and winked. “Who said it was a man?”

Clay froze with the bottle halfway to his mouth.

“It was as pretty a gal as you’ll find anywhere. I told her I don’t talk about my customers behind their backs, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Showed credentials from the Courier. Her name was Melanie Stanley.”

Chapter 15

The next day at the Courier, Clay went about his tasks as he normally would. He was polite to Melanie. For her part, her friendliness had been replaced by an aloof reserve. Clay did not think anyone else noticed, but along about the middle of the afternoon, after Melanie had left to cover a fire, Jerome Stanley came to the counter, puffing on his ever-present pipe.

“How are things, my boy? Have you recovered from your ordeal in the mountains?”

“As ordeals go, sir,” Clay answered, “it wasn’t much.”

“My niece has certainly recovered,” Stanley said. “Where that girl gets her energy is beyond me. She never stops. It’s work, work and more work.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Clay said.

“I have tried to persuade her to enjoy herself more. But there is no talking to someone her age. They think they know everything.”

“I’m her age.”

Jerome Stanley chuckled. “That you are. And for a while there, I had high hopes you were just what she needs. She could do worse. In my opinion you are a fine young man.”

Clay shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sheepishly mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”

“I should thank you. She hasn’t shown an interest in men since I can remember. Watching the two of you brought back memories of my own courtship. Always smiling and laughing and giving each other those special looks.” Stanley took the pipe from his mouth. “But something has happened. I can tell. She is not acting the same toward you.” Stanley held up a hand when Clay went to speak. “Never you mind. It is between you and her and I would not presume to stick my nose in. But I am troubled. Doubly so after her admission to me last night.”