Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Streaking his hand under his jacket, Clay drew his Colt and fired at where he had seen muzzle flashes. There was a yelp and the drum of rapidly retreating boots.

Clay gave chase. Stopping at the corner, he risked a peek. An inky silhouette was almost to the front of the house. Clay snapped a shot, but as he squeezed the trigger the silhouette darted around the far corner. He was sure he had missed.

Clay dashed along the side of the house. The dull glint of a gun barrel gave him an instant’s warning. He dived flat as the would-be killer fired and a wasp buzzed over his head.

Again boots pattered. Heaving upright, Clay flew to the front of the house and out the front gate. He expected to hear the drum of hooves, but the assassin was on foot half a block away. Clay ran flat out. He was fast but so was the other, and he could not gain.

The man was making for the middle of town, where the streets were thick with wheeled traffic and riders and pedestrians. He could lose himself among them.

Clay raised his Colt but lowered it again. If he missed, and odds were better than even he would, the slug might take the life of an innocent.

A house near the street had every window lit. Bright shafts of lamplight impaled the fleeing assassin just as he glanced back.

“Gorman!” Clay blurted.

Stark’s lieutenant grinned.

Clay redoubled his effort, but it was in vain. At the next intersection Gorman veered to the right and was momentarily out of sight. Clay reached the corner and gazed down the street, only to find it empty. Stopping, he scanned the yards and the dark spaces between the houses but saw no trace of the outlaw. He went another block before he would admit Gorman had outfoxed him.

“Damn,” Clay said, and turned back.

The house was still dark, still quiet. Clay figured the Crisps were gone. Not so the neighbors, many of whom had ventured outside after hearing the shots and were standing around speculating on the cause.

Slipping around to the rear, Clay placed his saddle, blanket and bridle in the shed, and carried his bedroll and saddlebags inside. He threw everything on the bed and lit the lamp. Undressing, he dipped a washcloth in the pitcher that the kindly Mrs. Crisp left outside his door each morning and cleaned himself from crown to toes. He shaved, splashed lilac water on his cheeks and sprinkled some in his hair, and examined the result in the mirror.

His buckskins were dusty. He shook them out the window before donning them. The same with his wide-brimmed black hat. After tugging on his knee-high moccasins, he strapped on his gun belt and twirled the pearl-handled Colt into his holster. Taking the Colt out again, he replaced the spent cartridges. “Almost forgot them,” he said to himself.

The night air was cool on Clay’s face. He did not follow his usual route but took a roundabout way, checking over his shoulder often and stopping to listen now and again, but no one was stalking him.

By the clock on a nearby bank it was ten minutes to ten when Clay slipped into a recessed doorway across from the Emporium. As usual, the popular gambling den was a beehive of activity.

Punctually at ten Mr. Train came down the street. Around his waist were the Whitney and the bowie.

Clay called out and crossed over. He had to dodge a carriage midway. Then he was shaking Train’s calloused hand and asking, “Have any trouble getting here?”

“No. Why?”

Clay told him about Gorman.

“Yet another mystery,” Mr. Train said. “What do you say we bait the wolf in his lair and see if we can find some answers?”

Chapter 26

A doorman clad in purple admitted them with a bow, saying, “Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.”

“Do you happen to know if Harve Barker is here?” Clay asked.

“No, sir, I don’t,” the doorman said. “I have not seen him since my shift began, but he often comes and goes out the back of the building.”

Controlled chaos enveloped them. The Emporium was filled to bursting with gamblers and revelers and indulgers in intimate passions. Clay and the manhunter made for the roped-off area where private games were played. The table reserved for Barker was not being used.

“It’s early yet,” Mr. Train remarked. “Maybe he will show up later. How about a drink to tide us over?”

Shouldering their way to the bar, they ordered whiskeys and, when the drinks were brought, they leaned back and slowly sipped while surveying the throng. Mr. Train was raising his glass when he stopped and said, “Uh-oh.”

“You see him?” Clay said.

“Not him. Her.”

“Her?” Clay repeated, and then saw the one Mr. Train had alluded to coming toward them. Her dress was exquisite. It clung to her where a dress should cling to a woman. She smiled, but Clay did not return it. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Melanie arched an eyebrow. “Is that any way to greet a friend and coworker?” She gestured at the sea of heads and bodies. “I am here for the same reason they are. To relax and enjoy myself.”

“Like hell,” Clay said.

“Why are you so mad?” Melanie asked, smoothing her already smooth dress. “Has the luster worn off?”

“Don’t bandy words with me. You are not here to gamble and you are certainly not here to visit the private parlors.”

“Are you sure?” Melanie said, and winked and laughed.

“You want to be here when we confront Barker,” Clay said.

“What is wrong with that?” Melanie rebutted. “He is an acquaintance of mine, after all.”

“That’s not it, either,” Clay said. “You don’t like him all that much. You have come right out and said so. All he is to you is a news story.”

“I do report the news, you know,” Melanie said. “Wait until tomorrow’s edition comes out. You will love my write-up of how the notorious Baine wiped out most of the Stark gang.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I have it to do, as you like to say. It is my living. And I was there, remember? I can provide a first-hand account.”

“Do you realize what it will mean? The rumors were bad enough.”

“Oh, please,” Melanie said. “I am just doing my part to make Baine as famous as he can be.”

Clay downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp and smacked the glass on the bar. “I never thought you could be so underhanded.”

“The truth will out. Unlike a certain person I could mention, I don’t delude myself. Baine is the real you, not Clay Adams. Clay Adams is a farce, a deception, a disguise.”

“You think you know everything.”

Melanie’s eyes bored into his. “I know you have lied to me. I should have seen it that night at the stone bridge, when you gunned those two men. But my affection for you blinded me.”

Clay motioned at one of the bartenders. “Give me another,” he said, and tapped his empty glass.

“That might not be wise,” Mr. Train said.

Clay ignored him, and after the bartender filled the glass he tilted back his head and swallowed half at a gulp.

“My, my,” Melanie baited him. “Someone is in a mood.”

“Go home,” Clay said. “This is no place for you to be. We are not paying Barker a social call.”

“We want to ask him a few questions,” Mr. Train said.

“Maybe you do,” Melanie said, “but not him.” She waved a slender hand at Clay. “He wants to shoot Barker dead, and he is hoping Barker will give him an excuse to do just that. Isn’t that right, Mr. Baine?”

“Quit calling me that.”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Not anymore. Neville Baine is dead. He died in Kansas and was reborn.”

“If that is so, why are you dressed as Baine and wearing the Colt Baine always wears?”

Clay had no immediate answer to that, and downed the rest of the whiskey. This time he set the glass down slowly. He did not look at Melanie. After a bit he said softly, “Baine is the past, not the present. As God is my witness, I want that more than anything.”