“I want that nigger arrested!” George shouted as he and one of his friends stomped inside.
Clint stood up just as George pointed a finger in his direction.
“Him too!” George said. “Arrest 'em both!”
Mr. Pace walked forward and was immediately flanked by a barkeep and Les. The hulking guard placed his hands upon the guns holstered at his side, but looked at George as if he was about to forsake the firearms and just bite his head off.
“Who the hell are you trying to order around?” Mr. Pace asked. “Sheriff DeFalco is still in Dodge City.”
“Then get a deputy,” George replied. “Hell, we don't need any deputies. Somebody help me chain this . . .” He stopped on his own as if he could feel the angry stares being leveled at him. Forcing himself to speak in a somewhat quieter tone, he said, “Someone help me take Carl out of here so he can be locked up where he belongs.”
“And why would anyone do that?” Pace asked.
“Because that's what we do to murderers.”
“Who was killed?” Clint asked.
George gnawed on the inside of his cheek and fumed for a few seconds before admitting, “No one as such, but a friend of mine was shot. You should know, since you was there!”
“That's right,” Clint said. “I shot him.”
Whoever wasn't paying attention to the argument before, surely was now. Even the men at the tables near the back of the room turned in their chairs to get a look.
“A group of men came in the middle of the night,” Clint explained, “and tried to attack a defenseless woman in her own home.”
One of the girls who served drinks almost dropped her tray. “Someone attacked Sadie? Is she all right?”
“She's just fine,” Carl said. “Thanks to Mister Adams.”
George stormed toward Delilah's faro table, but Carl surprised him by stepping forward to meet him halfway. Stopping short, George studied Carl as if meeting him for the first time. “My friends were shot and I'm lucky to be in one piece,” George said. “Someone should toss both the men that did it into a damn cage.”
“Did anyone see what happened last night?” Clint asked. “Right outside this establishment, you and your friends jumped Carl while he was walking away.”
Mack was quick to speak up. “I saw it. Some big fella tried to stab Carl in the back.”
“I saw that too,” another gambler said.
“Where's your wounded friend now?” Clint asked.
George looked around, but could only find the one follower he'd brought with him. “He's lying down. He's hurt.”
“Not dead,” Clint pointed out. “Hurt. Considering how bad you boys are at staging an ambush, you wouldn't believe how hard I had to work to keep from killing all three of you!”
That sent a ripple of laughter through the gambling hall.
George stabbed a finger at Carl. “The fact remains that that one cheated me.”
“Prove it,” Mr. Pace snarled.
“I don't got to prove a damn thing. Just look at him.”
“I beg to differ, sir,” Pace said as he sidled up to stand between George and Carl. “If you're leveling that sort of accusation at someone under my employ, you'll damn well need to prove it.”
Like any animal, George knew when he was backing himself into a corner. “I ain't insulting you, Mister Pace. I was cheated, that's all.”
“Cheated in my place? I won't tolerate that kind of talk, no matter who's saying it. Prove your claim or take it back.”
“I . . . I didn't . . . I can't . . .”
“Can't prove your claim?” Pace said. “Then get out.”
“But I'm still in the tournament,” George whined.
Pace snapped his fingers to the hulking guard beside him. “Refund his entry fee and see him out.”
Les only had to reach into one of his pockets to pull out a wad of cash. He peeled off seventy-five dollars and handed it to George.
“But how can this be?” George asked. “That man is a cheat and I'll see him arrested for it.”
Mister Pace looked over to Carl as if he was studying a horse he was considering buying. Clasping his hands behind him, he said, “That man's hardly said more than a dozen words since I hired him and he's never been accused of a thing. As for being a cheat, I would have discovered that by now on my own. From what I hear, you know all too well that Carl has my trust where money is concerned. He knows better than to steal from me or any other man in here. If you can't prove your claims, I suggest you get your ass out of my establishment.”
Holding his entry fee in one hand while still pointing the other at Carl, George looked too flustered to move. “I . . . but my friends . . . I insist that . . .”
Turning on his heels while waving dismissively, Mr. Pace said, “Les, show this man outside.”
When the massive gunman took hold of George, it was unclear whether or not he intended to toss George through the door or the nearest window.
TWENTY
George left Pace's Emporium, but he didn't do it quietly. Every step of the way, he cussed and shouted about being treated unfairly and how Carl had cheated him out of what was rightfully his. Clint and Carl followed along behind Les, but none of them was too concerned with what was being said. They were more interested in what George and his friend would do once they were outside.
“This is bullshit!” George snarled as he wheeled around to face his escort. His friend stood next to him, keeping his hand within a few inches of his holstered pistol. “The sheriff is gonna hear about this!”
“I'm sure he will,” Mr, Pace said from the doorway.
Squaring his shoulders to all three men, George smirked and said, “You got five seconds to make this right. Toss that cheat out, and Adams along with him, and all is forgiven.”
Clint didn't like the way George said that. More importantly, he didn't like the confident glint in George's eye once he'd picked his spot in the street.
“One,” George announced.
Looking up and down the street, Clint could only find a few locals gawking at the display. Other than that, George and his friend seemed to be alone.
“Two.”
Clint looked back at Carl to see if he knew anything more than what was right in front of them. Carl's eyes were fixed upon George and his hand wavered over a spot close to his belly. Apparently, he'd smuggled in the old pistol under his jacket.
“Three.”
George's friend was obviously armed, but they were outnumbered. The last time they'd been in a fight, they cracked like dry twigs. Unless they'd grown an extra set of balls, those two must have some sort of advantage that Clint didn't know about. He only had two more seconds to figure it out.
“Four . . .”
Make that one more second.
Just as George was pulling in a breath to shout out the number five, Clint spotted the reason why those two blow hards were so confident. “Across the street,” Clint announced. “Second window, top floor!”
When Carl and Les spotted the figure in that window, everything went to hell. The next few seconds seemed to tick by a little more slowly as they all went for their guns. The man in the window already had a rifle to his shoulder and was looking down at Pace's Emporium. Clint didn't need to see much to figure the rifleman was the friend of George's who'd been wounded the night before.
Clint lifted the modified Colt from its holster so quickly that he had enough time to pick his target. The man in the window was his first choice, but George and the man beside him were also skinning their weapons. Those two weren't fast enough to be the biggest concern, so Clint went along with his gut instinct.
The modified Colt bucked against Clint's palm, sending two quick shots up to the window across the street. He wasn't sure who else was in that second-floor room, so he did his best to be as accurate as possible. Both bullets found their mark without shattering any glass or even nicking a window frame.
The rifleman jerked up and back as hot lead ripped through him. His finger clenched around the trigger to send a wild shot into the large wood sign directly over Pace's main entrance.
George cleared leather and pulled his trigger, but was in too much of a rush. His round punched a hole into the muddy ditch that ran along the side of the street.
The man standing at George's side drew his pistol in a smooth, fluid motion. Les was just a bit faster, however, and he unleashed a torrent of lead from both of his guns. The massive guard stood his ground and kept his arms so steady that they barely seemed to register the kick from his twin pistols. For any other man, it would have been a waste of ammunition. For Les, however, it made for one hell of a sight. It was also the last sight George's friend ever saw.
Carl's hand got snagged on his jacket when he attempted to take out the gun he'd tucked under his belt. He was fresh from a day of lessons from Clint, which meant he kept his eye on his target and his head clear. Even after George took his shot, Carl fired back with one of his own that dropped his target onto the street.
“Son of a bitch!” George grunted as he hit the dirt on his back. His weapon was forgotten as soon as it slipped from his hand. He winced when he grabbed his hip and found the messy wound there. “He shot me! I told you that bastard was no good!”
“You shot at him first,” Les said calmly. “We all saw it.” Turning toward Clint, he asked, “Did you take care of the one across the street?”
Now that the two in front of him were down, Clint ran to the building that the third man had used as a lookout point. “One way to find out,” he replied. “Keep an eye out for any more.”
“Probably won't be necessary,” Les said while holster ing the gun in his left hand. “George don't have any more friends.”
The building across the street was a boardinghouse. Clint pushed open the door and nearly stampeded over a slender old woman wrapped in a heavy shawl.
“Upstairs!” the woman said. “I heard the shot come from upstairs. I swear I didn't know he was going to shoot anyone.”
Clint bolted up the staircase with his gun held at hip level. Once he reached the second floor, he turned toward the side of the house facing Pace's and found two doors. One was open to show an empty room and the other was closed. After taking one lunging step, Clint lifted his boot and slammed it against the closed door to knock it open.
The door swung inward a foot or two before it was blocked by something heavy. Clint shouldered it open a little more to get a good look inside. Sure enough, George's other friend was lying on the floor, curled into a ball. Clint might have thought the man was dead if he hadn't grunted in pain as the door knocked against the side of his head.
“Looks like you're gonna need some more bandages,” Clint said.
TWENTY-ONE
George was still cussing as the town doctor patched him up. Of course, being shackled to a ring set into the wall of the sheriff's office didn't help his mood any.
“I'm chained up and that black asshole goes free?” George snarled.
“You'll wait there for the sheriff,” a young deputy said.
Clint, Carl, and Les stood outside. From there, they could look down the street to watch the wagon roll by carrying the fresh corpse to be planted in the side of a hill just outside of town.
“I suppose I'll be locked up soon enough,” Carl said.
Les chuckled and shook his head. “Not by that deputy. He was knocked out of the poker tournament and seeking comfort in the arms of one of our working girls when the commotion started. Mister Pace agreed to keep that bit of information from Sheriff DeFalco in return for a little leniency where you're concerned.”
“I won't stand trial for all of this?” Carl asked hopefully.
“No reason for any trial,” Les replied. “George saw to that himself. There're plenty of witnesses to see what happened. You'll probably sit in front of the judge, say your piece, and let a few witnesses say theirs. After that, George and his pal will get what's coming to them.”
Clint looked at the saloon guard and said, “You sure know a lot about this.”
Les shrugged and shifted his hat toward the back of his head. “I've handled plenty of shootings and such for Mister Pace. They all end pretty much the same way.”
“Will it be over by the end of the tournament?”
“Should be.”
“Fine. That's as long as I'm staying.”
“Any time you want to go, just tell Mister Pace,” Les said. “I'd wager he'll owe you for pulling this particular set of thorns from his side.”
Clapping Carl on the shoulder, Clint said, “Then he should extend that same courtesy to his employee. He did a hell of a job.”
Les stared at Carl for a second or two and then slowly nodded. After that, he walked over to George and began roughly going through the man's pockets.
Squirming, but unable to stop Les from searching him, George yapped, “What the hell are you doing?”
When he pulled his hand from George's pocket, Les was holding the entry fee he'd refunded earlier. “Taking this back. One of your shots damaged Mister Pace's property.”
“I didn't shoot anything but the ditch!”
“And Mister Pace owns everything from his half of the street, all the way past the lot out back of the Emporium. This,” Les said while tucking the money into his shirt pocket, “should cover the damage just fine.”
Clint led Carl down the street and back toward Pace's. “You going to be all right?” he asked.
Carl thought that over for a second and seemed mildly surprised by what he came up with. “Yeah. I believe I will.”