Kentucky Showdown (6 page)

“Fontaine is a gambler,” Hackett said. “And I don't just mean that he plays poker or bets on horses. He gambles with his whole life. And the chances he takes always pay off.”

“So he's a businessman.”

“Yes,” Hackett said, “but he takes that to the next level.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“He'll do anything to make money.”

“Anything?”

“I mean anything.”

“So why would he have a man watching me?” Clint asked. “It was more likely he was watching Whirlwind.”

“Is that what Sun Horse found out for you?”

“He tracked the man to the Fontaine ranch.”

“Did you talk to Fontaine?”

“No,” Clint said, “I wanted to get your take on him first.”

“My take,” Hackett said, “is that he's always up to something.”

“I'll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

As Clint walked to the door, Hackett asked, “You gonna go and talk to him now?”

“No,” Clint said. “I'm going back to the Canby place first.”

“Good,” Hackett said. “Talk to Ben about Fontaine.”

“Are they friends?”

“They are definitely not friends,” the sheriff said.

“I see.”

“And be careful if you go to Fontaine's place,” Hackett said. “Watch your back. Fontaine employs men who are good with a gun.”

“Anybody in particular?” Clint asked.

“Fella named Blacker.”

“Never heard of him.”

“That's his biggest asset,” Hackett said. “Nobody's ever heard of him.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks for the information.”

“But do me a favor, will you?”

“What's that?”

“Try not to kill anybody in my town,” Hackett said. “At least, not until after the Derby.”

“I'll give it my best shot.”

* * *

Blacker entered Peter Fontaine's office. His boss looked up.

“What have you got?”

“Word from town.”

“About what?”

“Adams tracked me from the Canby place to here.”

“Well, how did that happen?” Fontaine asked. “I thought you hid your trail. I thought you were good at this.”

“I did, and I am,” Fontaine said, “but he hired John Sun Horse.”

“That drunken Indian?”

“That drunken Indian is the best tracker I know of,” Blacker said.

“And how did Adams know to hire him?”

“He must have been recommended to him.”

“By who?”

Blacker shrugged.

“Could have been anybody in town who knew enough to do it,” he said. “Maybe the sheriff.”

“All right,” Fontaine said. He sat back in his chair. “All right,” he said again. “So I should be expecting a visit from Clint Adams.”

“Probably.”

“When that happens,” Fontaine said, “I want you around.”

“It's either gonna happen today or tomorrow,” Blacker told him.

“Then get yourself a bunk in the bunkhouse,” Fontaine said.

“Not without bein' on the payroll.”

“I pay you a lot as it is,” Fontaine said.

“A little more never hurt.”

“Okay,” Fontaine said. “You're on the payroll. Tell Quincy to give you a bunk.”

“Okay,” Blacker said. “Boss.”

Fontaine waited for Blacker to leave, then stood up, walked to a sidebar, and poured himself a whiskey. Clint Adams was a famous man. There had to be some way for Fontaine to use that fame to make himself some money. If there was a way, he'd find it, because that was what Pete Fontaine did.

He took any situation, and made money from it.

Clint returned to the Canby ranch in time for supper. He entered the house, found Canby sitting alone at the table.

“Just in time,” Canby told him.

“Let me clean up,” Clint said. “I'll be right back.”

He went into the kitchen, surprising Elena, who was standing at the stove.

“Can I wash up in here, Elena?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Go ahead.”

Clint washed and dried his hands. “That smells great,” he told her.

“It's a roast. I'm glad you got back in time,” she said.

“So am I,” he said, and went back out to the dining room.

“Where have you been all day?” Canby asked.

“Trying to find the man who was watching us this morning.”

“And did you?”

“I think so,” Clint said. “I hired a man named John Sun Horse to track him.”

“Sun Horse? The drunken Cherokee?”

“He never drinks while he's working.”

“What did he find?”

“He tracked the rider to Peter Fontaine's doorstep.”

“Fontaine?”

Elena came through the kitchen door carrying the roast, stopped short, apparently when she heard the name. She came forward again, placed the roast on the table, exchanged a look with Canby, and went back to the kitchen.

“What was that about?”

“She worked for Pete Fontaine for a short time.”

“What happened?”

“She quit.”

“Why?”

“She never said, but we can assume it was nothing good.”

“What's your relationship with Fontaine?”

“I hate the sonofabitch.”

“Why?”

“I did business with him once or twice, came out on the short end. He's ruthless. Will do anything to make money.”

“That's what I heard,” Clint said. “So he sent somebody to watch the horse work out.”

“He's looking for an edge,” Canby said, taking a piece of roast.

“Just to make a bet?” Clint wondered aloud. “Or for some other reason?”

“Like what?” Canby asked.

The kitchen door opened again and Elena came out with a platter of vegetables. She set it on the table and returned to the kitchen.

“I don't know what,” Clint said, adding vegetables to his plate. “I thought you would, since you know him.”

“I don't know,” Canby said. “Who did he send to spy on us?”

“I don't know,” Clint said, “but I'm told he has hired guns working for him.”

“What do hired guns have to do with the Kentucky Derby?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Have you ever heard of a man named Blacker?”

“Just Blacker?”

“That's all I have.”

“I've never heard—wait. Blacker? Maybe I have heard the name, but I don't know him.”

“Your friend, the sheriff, told me Blacker's dangerous.”

“Dangerous as you?”

“Hackett said nobody wants to cross Fontaine, not even me.”

“Fontaine's not a gunman,” Canby said. “So he needs hired guns with him.”

“And Blacker is probably the best.”

“But you've never heard of him?”

“I haven't heard of every fast gun alive, Ben,” Clint said. “Some of them go undiscovered, you know. Just like a bunch of fast horses go unknown.”

“Well,” Canby said, “after the Derby everyone's gonna know the name ‘Whirlwind.'”

“You hope.”

“Clint,” Canby said, “I get the feeling you haven't been listening to me. I know my horse is gonna win.”

“How much are you going to bet on him, Ben?” Clint asked.

“A lot,” Canby said. “Whatever I can raise.”

“Wait a minute,” Clint said. “You're going to go all in on this?”

“All in,” Canby said. “Definitely.”

* * *

After supper Clint and Canby went out onto the porch with cigars.

“What are you gonna do tomorrow?” Canby asked.

“I'm going to see Fontaine.”

“What for?”

“Because I want to know what's going on.”

“Don't tell him about Whirlwind,” Canby said.

“Ben, I think he knows about Whirlwind.”

“I mean, don't tell him what I said about Whirlwind,” Canby said. “I mean, that he's definitely gonna win.”

“You don't want Fontaine to make a winning bet.”

“No, I don't.”

“I'll tell you something,” Clint said. “If Fontaine is having Whirlwind watched, I'll bet he's having those other horses watched, too.”

“Easy Going and Sunday Song?”

“Right, those two. Don't you think one of those two might win?”

“They might,” Canby said, “but they ain't.”

“How can you be so sure?” Clint asked.

“Clint,” Canby said, “I've been around horses all my life. Believe me when I tell you, this one just won't lose.”

In the morning, after breakfast, Clint went to the barn to saddle Eclipse. He was going to ride directly to Fontaine's and confront him.

He was tightening the cinch on the saddle when Davy Flores walked in.

“Good morning,” he said.

“What did you do to Alicia?” the little man asked.

“What? I didn't do anything to her.”

“She won't talk to me.”

“Well,” Clint said, “maybe that's because of something you did.”

Flores pointed his finger at Clint.

“If you did anything to hurt her—”

“Don't make threats, little man,” Clint said. “You're not big enough to back them up.” He didn't like Flores, so there was no point in going easy on him.

“This is a nice horse,” Flores said.

“Yes, he is.”

“Be a shame if something happened to him.”

Flores didn't have a chance to move. Clint grabbed him by the front of the shirt with his left hand, bunched it up, and lifted the man off his feet, then drew his gun with his right. He put the barrel of the gun under the small man's chin.

“If anything happens to my horse, I won't hesitate, I'll just blow your head off. You got that?”

Flores tried his best to nod and breathe at the same time, his eyes wide with fear. Clint released him, let him fall to the floor.

Clint took Eclipse's bridle and walked him out of the barn. Outside he mounted up and rode off.

* * *

Clint rode through the gate of Fontaine's place and followed the roads to the front of the house. He dismounted, dropped Eclipse's reins to the ground, knowing the big gelding would not move unless he had to.

He climbed the steps to the porch, then turned to look around. There was not a man in sight. He turned and knocked on the front door. A tall man wearing a white shirt, gray vest, and gray pants opened it. He was about sixty, with a shock of white hair and matching eyebrows.

“Can I help you?”

“I'd like to see Mr. Fontaine.”

“Can I say who is calling?”

“Clint Adams.”

“And what's this about?”

Clint hesitated, then said, “Tell him it's about money.”

“Wait here.”

* * *

Fontaine looked up as his man, Henry Gage, entered his office.

“Well?”

“He's here,” Gage said. “The Gunsmith.”

“Did he scare you?”

“No.”

“You look scared, Gage.”

“Well, what do you want?” Gage asked. “He's the goddamned Gunsmith.”

“What did he say he wanted?”

“To talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Money.”

Fontaine laughed.

“That's smart,” Fontaine said. “Okay, show him in, Gage.”

Gage showed Clint into Peter Fontaine's office. The walls were lined with books. The man himself sat behind a huge cherrywood desk. He appeared to be in his late forties, and even at home behind his own desk, he was wearing an expensive suit and tie. Or was he expecting company?

“Mr. Adams,” he said, standing. “Have a seat.”

“Were you expecting me?” Clint asked.

“Not at all,” Fontaine said, “but I've heard of you, of course.”

Clint shook Fontaine's proffered hand and sat down.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“Too early,” Clint said.

“Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well then . . .” Fontaine sat back down. “Perhaps you'd like to tell me what I can do for you?”

“I'm wondering what your interest is in a horse called Whirlwind.”

“Whirlwind? I hear he's a prime candidate for the Derby. For a local horse, I mean.”

“Do you think he can win?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” Fontaine said. “Not at this point. There are a couple of good horses coming in from out of town.”

“Yes, I've heard of them,” I said. “But you had a man watching Whirlwind work out yesterday.”

“Did I?”

“I tracked him from the Canby place to here,” Clint said. “You're not going to deny he came here, are you?”

Fontaine seemed to consider the question for a moment, then shrugged and said, “No, why should I deny it? The fact is, I had someone watching all three of the horses.”

“Easy Going and Sunday Song?”

“Yes,” Fontaine said. “I feel these are the three with the best chance to win.”

“Have you decided where to place your bet yet?”

“Not yet,” he said. “We still have a couple of days, however.”

“Yes, we do.”

“But you didn't come here just to find out what I thought of the horse, did you?” Fontaine said. “Perhaps you thought I had a man watching you?”

“That possibility had crossed my mind.”

“I suppose that's not surprising, considering your reputation. But I can assure you, I have no interest in the Gunsmith. I'm a gambler, not a gunman.”

“I understand you might have a few gunmen on your payroll.”

“Now who could have told you that?” Fontaine wondered. “The sheriff perhaps?”

Clint didn't answer.

“Yes, well,” Fontaine said, “I have men with all kinds of talents working for me. Could be some of them consider themselves to be gunmen. And if any of them are interested in you, that would be their business—and their problem, I suppose. I know I wouldn't want to go up against you with a gun, even if I could.”

“You've got a man named Blacker working for you, don't you?”

“I do,” Fontaine said, looking either genuinely surprised or feigning it. “What's your interest in Blacker?”

“I don't have any interest in him, really,” Clint said. “I've just heard about him since I came to town.”

“What have you heard?”

“That he might be one of those men you talked about to consider themselves a gunman.”

“And you're afraid he might go after you?”

“Not afraid,” Clint said, “but concerned.”

“I can arrange an introduction, if you like,” Fontaine said. “Then you could ask him yourself.”

“That's not necessary,” Clint said. “I think I got what I came here for.”

“Really? I can't imagine I've said anything that would be important to you.”

Clint stood up.

“I've taken up enough of your time.”

As Clint turned to leave, Fontaine said, “Perhaps I could ask you some questions?”

Clint turned back.

“Sure.”

“How do you think Whirlwind will do in the Derby?”

“I think he'll do well.”

“Will he win?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Unlike you, I don't have any information on the other horses.”

“But you're a man who knows horseflesh,” Fontaine said. “You ran your gelding in tandem with the three-year-old. What did that tell you?”

“That the little horse is competitive,” Clint said. “He'll try hard.”

“I see. No predictions, eh?”

“I'd be guessing, not predicting, Mr. Fontaine,” Clint said. “Thanks for seeing me. Have a good day.”

“Same to you. Shall I have Gage show you out?”

“I'll find my own way out, thanks.”

“Very well.”

Clint left the room, got back to the front door without difficulty. Gage was waiting there, and opened the door for him.

“What's your name?” Clint asked.

“Gage, sir.”

“Gage, do you bet on the horses?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Gage said. “I work too hard for my money to gamble it. I leave that to Mr. Fontaine, and others.”

“Probably a good idea,” Clint said.

“Good day, sir,” Gage said.

“Yes,” Clint said, “good day to you, too.”

Clint stepped outside, and Gage closed the door gently behind him. There were still no other men in sight, but Clint had the feeling he was being watched. As he mounted up and rode away, he felt an itch in the center of his back.