Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“If that is what you want,” Clay said.

“All I ask is that you think about it,” Melanie requested. “I’m not stupid. I won’t do anything to put you or me in danger. But I am sure I can help you and, in the process, help myself.”

Clay thought about it. For three days it was about the only thing he thought about. On the fourth day, attired once again in his store-bought clothes and the derby, he arrived at the Courier and walked to where Melanie stood near the printing press. “I’ve made up my mind.”

Melanie eyed him expectantly.

“You can help me. But I have conditions of my own. You must share everything you find out. You are not to go anywhere without me if it involves Stark. And at night, every night, I walk you home.”

“Why, Mr. Adams, can it be that you are using our pact as a pretext to get to know me better?” Melanie asked with an impish chuckle.

“I only want to protect you, is all.”

“I’m flattered, sir,” Melanie teased. “And I agree to all your conditions, even the last. But I should warn you. Start walking me home every night and people will start to talk.”

“I never have much cared what people think,” Clay said, but later, when he was at the counter, he realized it wasn’t true. He did care. He had cared ever since that fateful fall from the hayloft. The fall did more than disfigure his nose. It made an outcast of him. It set him apart from the common herd. He became an object to be gawked at. A monstrosity to be gossiped about. A loner, but not by choice.

Clay touched his new nose, and smiled. Then he shook himself and thought about something else, specifically, the deaths of Skagg Izzard and Rat. Their bodies had been found by a miner on his way into town. Both were buried in pauper’s graves. Marshal Vale and Deputy Wiggins had asked around but no one knew what the pair were doing at the stone bridge. The official verdict: death by person or persons unknown.

Melanie made no mention to anyone of being there, or of being chased by Gorman.

The Stark gang appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth. They robbed no one. They killed no one. They were not seen by anyone. After several weeks people speculated that maybe Jesse Stark had left Colorado for Wyoming or the Badlands, or perhaps California.

True to his word, each and every night Clay walked Melanie home after work. He was spending most of each day in her company, and he liked it that way. Usually they arrived at the Courier at seven, and except when she was off gathering news and he was off running errands, they were together.

The nights were exceptions. Clay spent at least three nights each week at the Rusty Spittoon playing cards and keeping his ears open for hints to Stark’s whereabouts. He visited the Emporium now and then, mainly for Wesley Oaks’s company. The two had become friends, and if the gambler suspected there was more to Clay than Clay let on, Oaks kept his suspicions to himself.

The first cold snap brought a few snow flurries. Higher up, more peaks were mantled in white.

A chill tang was in the air on the afternoon of the fifteenth when Jerome Stanley sent Clay to meet the stage. Stanley was expecting important papers in the mail and wanted them brought right over.

The stage was late, a not infrequent occurrence. Clay was gazing to the east, looking for the telltale cloud of dust that always preceded its arrival, when a purple-clad figure stepped from out of the knot of people on hand to greet the stage and held out an envelope.

“For you, sir.”

“Charles, isn’t it?” Clay said. He scanned the boardwalk and the street, but saw no sign of the manservant’s employer or of any of the toughs he had tangled with.

“Yes, sir. I am flattered you remember me.”

Accepting the envelope, Clay suspiciously asked, “What is this?”

“I am sure I don’t know, sir,” Charles answered. “Mr. Barker gave it to me to give to you. I am to await your reply.”

Clay slit the envelope with a fingernail and opened it. Inside was a short sheet of paper with gold-embossed lettering. He read it, then read it again. “Is this some sort of practical joke?”

“Sir?”

“It’s an invite to have supper with Barker tomorrow at his place. You must have given it to the wrong person.”

“Oh, no, sir, Mr. Barker was quite explicit. I was to give one to you and then one to Miss Stanley.”

“Barker is inviting Melanie too? Why the two of us? What is he up to?”

“Again, sir, I couldn’t say. Mr. Barker does not take me into his confidence in such matters.” Charles coughed lightly. “What shall I tell him, sir? Will you be there?”

“I would like to hear what Melanie has to say.”

“I am afraid I must insist on a reply, sir. Mr. Barker is waiting down the street in his carriage.”

Clay hesitated. It had been so long since their last clash that he had begun to think Barker had forgotten about him.

“Sir?” Charles prompted.

“Tell your boss I would rather swallow a cactus, but I will be there if Melanie says she wants to go.”

“Yes or no, sir,” Charles said with exaggerated forbearance. “Mr. Barker undoubtedly wants a definite answer.”

Clay’s features clouded and he clenched his fists. “Don’t push me, mister. I don’t like being prodded.”

Charles took a step back. “I am sorry, sir. It was not my intention to be rude. I will relay your answer to Mr. Barker.”

“You do that.”

Clay was pacing with impatience when the stage eventually clattered to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust in front of the company office. It did not help his disposition any that there was no mail for Jerome Stanley. He hurried to the Courier.

Melanie was at her desk. He dropped his invitation on it and asked, “Did you get one of these too?”

Picking it up, Melanie read it, her eyebrows arching. “Interesting. So he invited you, as well.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I would be delighted to accept.”

“Why did he invite me when he wants me six feet under?”

Melanie bestowed her sweetest smile. “There is only one way to find out. We will enter the lion’s den and pray we make it out alive.”

Chapter 18

As much as Clay disliked Harve Barker, he had to admit one thing. Barker was not a miser. The man spent his money as if there was no end to it. The Barker estate, like the Emporium, oozed luxury. The first inkling was the high wall and wrought-iron gate. Once the carriage was admitted by a guard, it wound up a gravel drive lined by stately trees to an imposing mansion.

Gold and silver barons were famous for building homes to rival Solomon’s temple. Not to be outdone, Barker had made his not just the largest in Bluff City, but the largest in the territory.

“I had no idea!” Melanie breathed in awe. “I had heard stories but I had no real idea.”

Wide marble steps flanked by Grecian-style columns led to an ornate door. The central section was four stories tall. Wings, two stories high, spread to either side. Dazzling white, the mansion was fit for a king.

“There must be a hundred rooms in that place,” Clay marveled.

Charles admitted them. He accepted Melanie’s shawl and hung it on a bronze hook next to Clay’s derby. “Right this way, if you please.”

The hallway was paneled. Plush carpet was underfoot. At intervals hung paintings. Originals, not copies. The sitting room into which they were ushered was brightly lit by whale-oil lamps. The furniture was rose-wood with thick upholstery. Melanie perched on a settee, but Clay stayed on his feet and paced the room like a caged tiger, going from the window to the doorway and back again.

“You will wear out the carpet.”