The Hunt for Clint Adams

by J. Roberts

  “Why would you do that?” Mason asked.

  “I get the feeling he got shot just because he was walking with me.”

  “Well then, sure, I’ll take care of that.”

  Clint took out some money and handed it over.

  “This is too much for the doctor,” the sheriff said.

  “Use what’s left to pay for his hotel,” Clint said. “I get the feeling he’s going to be there for a while.”

  “Okay,” Sheriff Mason said, pocketing the money. “Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  The lawman left and Clint went on to finish his breakfast.

  Clint entered Mulligan’s room quietly but the big man said from the bed, “I’m awake, stop pussyfootin’ around.”

  “ Mornin’, Black Jack,” Clint said.

  “Adams? That you?”

  “It’s me.”

  Clint approached the bed so the big man could see him. “How you doin’?” Mulligan asked.

  “I’m fine. How are you feelin’?”

  “Black Jack Mulligan’s not feelin’ so good, but better than last night.”

  “Yeah, well, the doctor should be in here soon to check on you.”

  “You leavin’ town?”

  “Soon as I leave here,” Clint said.

  “Headin’ where?”

  “Might have a trail left by two men who shot at us,” Clint said. “I’m going to see if I can follow it.”

  “Don’t do that on Black Jack Mulligan’s account,” Mulligan said. “Just get back to whatever you was doin’.”

  “Well, Black Jack, they shot at both of us,” Clint said, “so it’s not only for you that I’m going to try to track them.”

  “Well, in that case,” Mulligan said, “good luck, and when you find ’em give ’em somethin’ from Black Jack Mulligan, you hear?”

  “Don’t worry, big man,” Clint said.

  “Hey, I had the doc put somethin’ on that table for you.”

  Clint looked at the end table next to the bed and saw a half of an ace of hearts.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s my invitation into that game I was tellin’ you about in Denver,” Mulligan said. “Black Jack Mulligan wants you to have it.”

  “I can’t take that,” Clint said.

  “Well, Black Jack Mulligan can’t use it, and there’s an open seat at that table,” Mulligan said. “Be obliged if you filled it in Black Jack Mulligan’s stead.”

  “Well . . . okay,” Clint said, picking up the card. “I’ll take it.”

  “And you give ’em what-for fer Black Jack Mulligan, okay?”

  “I’ll do it, Black Jack.”

  He was going to tell the big man that he’d left enough money with the sheriff to take care of his doctor and hotel bills, but he decided to keep it to himself. Mulligan would find out about it soon enough.

  “You take care, Black Jack,” Clint said. “If you got shot just for walking next to me, I’m sorry.”

  “Hey,” Mulligan said, “it was Black Jack Mulligan’s honor to play cards with you, and to walk with you. No apology necessary.”

  The big man lifted his huge right hand and Clint shook it.

  “I’ll see you again, big man.”

  “Count on it,” Mulligan said.

  TWENTY

  Clint walked over to the livery, where he found the liveryman, Bud, all four hundred pounds of him, practically lifting a horse’s hind end off the ground.

  “Be right with you,” the man said.

  Clint waited ’til the man was finished with what he was doing and set the horse down. Bud obviously knew his job, and had impressive strength.

  He took a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands, then put his right hand out to Clint, who shook it. The power in the man’s had was enormous. The sheriff was wrong. Bud was a lot more than just fat; there was a lot of muscle under there.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sheriff said you’d be comin’ to see me,” the big man said. “Come on, I’ll show you where them horses was tied off.”

  “Thanks, Bud.”

  They went out the back door of the livery, Bud having to turn sideways in order to fit. He walked Clint along the backs of buildings until they reached the rear of the hardware store.

  “Right there,” Bud said, pointing.

  Clint approached the spot, careful not to step on the tracks left by the two horses. There were no other tracks in sight. Apparently there were never horses back there by the fence. Closer to the building there were some tracks—horse and wheels—probably from deliveries made by buckboard in the back of the hardware store. But by the fence there were only the tracks left by two horses and their riders.

  “You got enough there to track?” Bud asked.

  “The tracks are clear enough,” Clint said, getting down to one knee, “but I need something unique, something to tell them apart from other tracks I’ll cross at some point.”

  Bud came closer, also careful not to trample the tracks.

  “Let me take a look,” the big liveryman said. “I ain’t no tracker, but I seen more horse’s tracks than most men.”

  Clint stood up.

  “You might as well take a look,” Clint agreed, annoyed with himself. “I sure don’t see anything.”

  Bud went down heavily to one knee and studied the tracks.

  “Here ya go,” Bud said.

  “What?”

  “Look here.”

  Clint knelt next to the big liveryman. He smelled like horses.

  “See that one?” the man asked, pointing. “Somebody sure did a piss-poor job of replacing that particular shoe.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, it’s smaller,” Bud said, as if it should be plain as day to anyone. “Can’t you see it?”

  Clint squinted, then said, “No, I can’t.”

  “Well, okay, it’s only slightly smaller, but look here.” Bud continued to point. “That’s a different pattern on the bottom. See? Somebody tried to match it, but couldn’t. Not perfectly.”

  Clint was able to make out the difference in the pattern. The longer he stared, the more the difference in size became as well. As long as he wasn’t just fooling himself.

  They stood up.

  “You got enough now?” Bud asked.

  “Enough to track them, yeah,” Clint said. “I appreciate it, Bud.”

  “Want me to saddle your horse?”

  “I’ll walk back with you and saddle him myself,” Clint said. “And settle up. I won’t be coming back.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jed Tarver rode into Colorado Springs with Dexter and the others about three days after Clint had left. They stopped at the telegraph office even before getting a room at a hotel.

  “Wait out here,” he told Dexter and the others.

  He went inside, presented himself to the clerk and asked if there were any messages for him.

  “Yes, sir, here ya go.”

  He took the telegram from the clerk and walked to the window to read it. It was from Tom Melvin. He read it, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

  He stepped outside and looked at Dexter.

  “What’s happenin’?” Dexter asked.

  “Denver,” Tarver said, tucking the telegram into his shirt pocket. “It looks like the Gunsmith is heading for Denver.”

  “That where we’re goin’?”

  “After a while,” Tarver said. “First we’re going to Limon.”

  “Where’s that?” Dexter asked.

  “Missouri,” he said, “but not far from here.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Somebody,” Tarver said, “who’s going to tell us how to make a lot of money. There’s a bank there that supposed to be easy to hit.”

  “There’s a bank worth hittin’ in a place called Limon?” Dexter asked.

  “Supposed to have a payroll comin’ in,” Tarver explained.

  �
��So how long we stayin’ here?”

  “Overnight,” Tarver said. “And tell them all to stay out of trouble. Your two friends shot somebody while they were here.”

  “Not Adams?”

  “No, somebody he was with. Look, we don’t want to attract any attention. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, make them understand,” Tarver said. “It’s your responsibility. I don’t want any more foul-ups makin’ the law look at us.”

  Dexter firmed his jaw, then said, “Okay,” instead of what he really wanted to say.

  Bobby and Tom camped, secure in the knowledge that their tracks couldn’t be followed. Tarver had told them how to cover their tracks, or even how not to leave any.

  “So now what?” Bobby asked.

  “Well, we told Tarver Clint Adams is goin’ to Denver,” Tom said. “I guess we better hope that’s really where he’s goin’.”

  “Well, he’s goin’ in that direction, ain’t he? What else is there?”

  “We’ll head that way in the mornin’ ourselves,” Tom said. “That way we can make sure.”

  “You know,” Bobby said, “we ain’t makin’ any money this way.”

  “Tarver says he’s holdin’ our shares.”

  “He better be,” Bobby said. “He just better be.”

  A week later, Clint was in Denver.

  The trail left by the two men had taken him north-west, in the direction of Denver. He’d followed it as long as he could, came across a couple of cold campsites, but eventually the trail had petered out when the ground became rocky and would not retain tracks. He tried to continue tracking, using methods he’d learned from men of superior skills, but eventually he had to give up. At that point he was about half a day’s ride from Denver, so he decided to go ahead and ride there. It had been a while, and he had Black Jack Mulligan’s invitation in his pocket. And he had a friend there, Talbot Roper, the best private detective in the country, who he hadn’t seen in a while. So why not?

  Clint always stayed at the Denver House Hotel when he went to Denver, and this time was no different. Since leaving Colorado Springs, trying to track the two shooters, he hadn’t even detected anyone behind him. Perhaps the shooters had seen an opportunity, tried to take advantage of it, and then decided to run when it didn’t pan out.

  The Denver House had their own stable for guests, and once Clint had seen to it that Eclipse was taken care of, he went inside to check in.

  “Nice to see you back with us, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said.

  Clint knew he’d seen the clerk before, but he’d seen many clerks in all the times he’d stayed there, so he simply nodded and said, “Nice to be back.”

  “Staying with us long, sir?”

  Clint pushed the register back to the clerk, smiled and said, “I guess that depends on how things go.”

  “Well then, I hope things go well for you,” the man said.

  “Thanks very much.”

  “Second floor okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Can I do anything else for you?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I need a message delivered.”

  “By telegraph or courier?”

  “Let’s go with the courier.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The desk clerk provided Clint with pencil and paper. He wrote a message to Talbot Roper, asking him to meet him at the hotel for dinner later that evening. He pushed the note back to the clerk.

  “I’ll have it delivered immediately.”

  “If it can’t be delivered—if he’s not there—I’d like to know that as soon as possible, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint took the room key, and carried his saddlebags and rifle up to his room.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Within the hour, Clint got a message back from Roper saying he would meet him for supper in the Denver House Hotel dining room. Clint took the time to have a long hot bath, and then cleaned his gun just in case he needed it later on.

  He found Roper in the lobby as he came down the stairs, and the two shook hands warmly.

  “What are you doing in the lobby?” Clint asked.

  “I thought we’d have a drink at the bar first,” Roper said.

  “Good idea.”

  They went into the hotel saloon. The clientele here was always very different from the saloons Clint was more used to: no cowboys or gamblers here, but a lot of businessmen who worked in the area.

  Roper ordered two beers at the bar and then turned to Clint.

  “What brings you to Denver without warning?” he asked.

  “I was nearby,” Clint said, “tracking two men who took some shots at me.”

  “Not unusual for somebody to shoot at you,” Roper said. “What made these so special you had to track them down?”

  “They shot a friend of mine who was only guilty of walking with me.”

  “Dead?”

  “Luckily, no.”

  “Who was the friend, if I can ask?”

  “Big fellow named Black Jack Mulligan.”

  Roper thought a moment, then said, “Don’t know him.”

  “You might have come to know him,” Clint said. “He was supposed to come here to Denver for a poker game. Private invitation.”

  “That have anything to do with you really being here?” Roper asked.

  Clint took out the ace of hearts, neatly cut in half.

  “The invitation?” Roper asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What about the location?”

  “The Wellington Hotel,” Clint said.

  “Wellington.” Roper sounded surprised.

  “You know it?”

  “Open two years ago, owned by a man named Harry Orchid.”

  “Orchid? That a real name?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Some kind of flower, isn’t it?”

  “Fancy one,” Roper said. “People grow them, and collect them.”

  “Collect flowers?”

  Roper laughed.

  “Better than collecting bullets.”

  “You have a point.”

  “I hear Tarver got out,” Toper said. “Think he’s behind the shooting?”

  “When Tarver comes for me, it’ll be head-on,” Clint said.

  “Maybe he’s . . .”

  “He’s what?”

  Roper shrugged. “Maybe he’s trying to soften you up.”

  Clint thought about that. Send two men to shoot at him and miss? But why shoot Mulligan? What would be the point of that?

  “I’m hungry,” Roper said.

  “Me, too.”

  They finished their beers and went in to have supper.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The poker game was the next evening. Clint came out of the Denver House and had the doorman hail him one of Mr. Joseph Hansom’s cabs.

  “You know where the Wellington Hotel is?” he asked the driver.

  “Sure do. New place. Real nice. But ain’t you stayin’ here?”

  “Just drive,” Clint said.

  It was a short ride before the driver pulled up in front of the Wellington. It may have been a new place, but the building was old. Someone had bought and renovated it, and opened the Wellington Hotel. It looked to have four floors. The building had apparently once been the home of some kind of warehouse.

  He paid the driver and walked to the front door. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with his “invitation,” so he decided to show it to the doorman.

  “Yes, sir,” the doorman said. “See the desk clerk.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint entered the hotel and walked across the lobby, which was a combination of old and new: old wood walls and high ceilings buffed to a sheen and well-cared for, and new floors and furniture.

  He presented himself to the desk clerk.

  “Help you, sir?”

  Clint showed him the playing card.

  “Right, sir, second floor, room two-oh-one. Just show the ca
rd to get in.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was about to go up the stairs when he noticed that whoever had renovated the building had installed an Otis elevator. He’d only been in an elevator in New York, and hadn’t liked it much, so he went up the stairs.

  He walked to the door of room 201 and knocked. A big man in a suit with a bulge under his arm answered the door and stared expressionlessly at him. “Yes?”

  Again, Clint produced the card. The man stuck his hand in his own pocket and came out with what appeared to be the other half. He held the two halves together and regarded them critically. Finally satisfied that they were indeed two halves of the same card—and not just two halves of an ace of hearts—he said, “Come in, sir. I’ll need to pat you down.”

  “No,” Clint said as the man went ahead and started.

  “Sir?”

  “I have a gun, and I intend to keep it.”

  “May I see it?”

  Clint took his Colt New Line from the small of his back and held it flat in his palm for the man to look at. He tried not to wear his gun belt on the streets of Denver, which was rapidly becoming one of the major cities in the United States. Located in the West, but not the Old West.

  “Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to give up the gun in order to play.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “Then I won’t play.”

  Apparently having one of their players leave was not an option.

  “Just a minute, sir, please.”

  They were standing in a small hall. The bouncer—or whatever he was called—went into the next room and returned with another man. In his forties, he wore his black hair slicked back, and his suit probably cost more than everything Clint and the bouncer wore, combined.

  “Good evening,” the man said. “Harry Orchid. Would you mind telling me how you came across this card?”

  “It was given to me by a friend.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “A man named Black Jack Mulligan.”

  Orchid laughed, looked at the bouncer, then back at Clint.

  “Ah, yes, the colorful Black Jack Mulligan. Why didn’t he come himself?”

  “He was shot.”

  “Oh, no,” Orchid said. “He’s not dead, I hope.”

  “No, he’s recovering, but not quickly enough to come here. So he gave the card to me.”