He decided to ride back to where he had seen them. If they were gone, he’d try to figure out what they had discovered.
* * *
On the top of the bluff, Dash Charles dismounted and studied the ground.
“One rider. Looks like you were right, Kevin,” he said to Dale.
“But that doesn’t mean he was watchin’ us,” Conlin said.
“Why else would he be up here?”
Conlin shrugged. “Maybe he was just takin’ a ride, or wanted to get a look at the dam.”
“I can’t accept that,” Charles said.
“So what do we do?” Dale asked.
“We keep doin’ our job,” Charles said, “but keep a sharp eye out for anybody watching us.”
He mounted up again.
“Come on, we still have things to look at.”
* * *
As Jason, the driver, entered the lounge, Henry Clay Frick lowered his newspaper and looked up at the man.
“Yes, Jason?”
“I have something to tell you, sir.”
There were two other members in the room, each sitting alone and reading a newspaper. They didn’t seem to be listening, but it was difficult to have a private conversation in that room.
“What is it, Jason?”
“When I brought Mr. Adams back to his hotel last night, he asked me a lot of questions.”
“Is that so?”
“He invited me to have a drink, and then bought me several mugs of beer.”
Frick frowned.
“He was trying to get you drunk, do you think?” he asked the driver.
“Well,” Jason said, “let’s say he was trying to loosen my lips.”
“And did he?”
“Let me tell you what we talked about.”
Frick listened attentively as Jason related the conversation to him.
“I see,” he finally said.
“I hope I didn’t speak out of turn, sir.”
“No, Jason,” Flick said. “You did fine. Thank you for telling me.”
“Yes, sir,” Jason said, and left. As he did, the other two men lowered their newspapers. They were Evan Lawrence and William Bledsoe. Both men set their newspapers aside, stood, and approached Frick.
“Adams is asking questions,” Bledsoe said.
“He wouldn’t be who he is if he didn’t,” Frick said.
“Yes, but maybe he’s asking too many, Henry,” Lawrence said.
“I don’t think so,” Frick said. “Besides, I think I can handle whatever questions he has.”
Lawrence and Bledsoe exchanged a glance.
“Yes,” Frick said, “I know, we need to talk to the others. But I think they’ll go along with me.”
“I hope you’re right,” Lawrence said.
The three gentlemen went back to their individual chairs and newspapers.
* * *
Clint saw the three men on the bluff, and knew they had spotted him there earlier. One of them studied the ground, then mounted, and the three of them rode off, two of them looking around. Clint, however, was well hidden and remained unseen.
Once the three men were gone, he rode down to the dam, where he had previously seen them. He hurriedly dismounted and studied the wall. Here—unlike the previous part of the wall he’d examined—he could see chips in the armor. He also saw some holes, which he assumed the man with the pike had caused.
In places, the wall seemed to be flaking. He wasn’t an engineer, but he knew that shoring up this wall would be an expensive proposition for the club. Rich men being rich men, they would not look forward to spending that money.
But what did their invitation to come visit the club have to do with the dam? And what did the dam have to do with Jeremy Pike being there?
He mounted Eclipse and rode away. He had enough to talk with Pike about at lunch the next day. He headed back to Pittsburgh.
TWENTY
Back in the city, he returned Eclipse to the hotel stable, where he unsaddled him and rubbed him down himself before returning to the hotel.
“Mr. Adams!” the clerk called as he entered.
“Yes?”
“You have a message, sir.”
Clint walked to the desk and accepted a slip of paper from Steve.
“Who dropped it off?” he asked.
“A woman.”
“Brown hair, kind of mousy?”
“No, sir,” Steve said, “quite attractive.”
Clint considered taking the message to his room to read, but instead opened it right away. It said: MEET ME AT THE KEYSTONE RESTAURANT AT SEVEN. IT’S IMPORTANT. It was signed “L,” which he assumed meant Lizzie.
“Where’s the Keystone Restaurant?” Clint asked Steve.
“A few blocks away, sir,” Steve said. “It’s very high-end, but excellent.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Thank you.”
He went to his room.
* * *
He stood at the window of his room and looked down at the street while he considered his course of action. Did Lizzie know that he was aware that she did not work with Jeremy Pike? Was she planning to try to continue that ruse? Or was she ready to reveal to him who she really was, and what she wanted?
Or was this some kind of trap?
He had been wearing his Colt in his holster while in Pittsburgh, and to date no one had come up to him to tell him he couldn’t. If he was in New York, or San Francisco, or Denver, he might have left the holster in his room and carried the little Colt New Line he often used as a hideaway. But not knowing what was waiting for him at the Keystone, he wore the holster when he left the room. And he had the New Line tucked into his belt at the small of his back.
* * *
The Keystone turned out to be close enough to walk. As he made the trip, he paid attention to his back trail, but did not feel that anyone was tailing him. That was good.
When he reached the restaurant, he saw what Steve had meant about it being high-end. The plate glass windows were etched with gold lettering, and there was a white-gloved doorman out in front. He was glad he had worn his new clothes, even though they still did not fit the venue.
“Sir,” the doorman said, “you cannot enter while wearing that gun.”
Restaurant policy, he wondered, or an attempt to disarm him?
“I have a meeting inside with a lady,” Clint said.
“If you’re meeting a lady, sir,” the big doorman said, “you shouldn’t need a gun. I can hold it for you.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then I’m afraid you can’t go in.”
“Is your manager or owner available?”
“Sure thing,” the doorman said, “but that’s not going to help you.”
“Just get him.”
“The owner,” the doorman said, “is a lady, sir. Mrs. Denham.”
“Fine,” Clint said, “I’ll talk to Mrs. Denham, then.”
“As you wish,” the man said. “Wait here.”
The doorman went inside, leaving Clint alone. He felt as if he had a target painted on his back. But in studying the street on his side, and across the street, he did not see anyone paying special attention to him. He scanned the rooftops across the way, and still saw nothing.
The doorman reappeared with a lady in an emerald green dress that revealed her smooth shoulders. She had long red hair and green eyes.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “I’d like to come into your restaurant. I’m meeting a lady.”
“I don’t see a problem there,” she said. “All you have to do is leave your gun with Winston here.”
“Winston told me that,” Clint said, “but I explained to him that I can’t do that.”
“Sir,” she said, “we simply
cannot allow you inside while you’re wearing that gun.”
“And I can’t take it off.”
“Well,” she said, “perhaps I can talk to your dining companion and ask her to come out, and then the two of you can go somewhere else.”
“That’s fine,” Clint said. “I’m meeting a woman named Lizzie.”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s . . . kind of statuesque, very attractive . . . I don’t know what she’s wearing.”
“I’ll do my best to find her,” the woman said, and went back inside, leaving Clint and the doorman, Winston, to glare at each other.
* * *
When the woman returned to the door several minutes later, she was alone. She also had an odd look on her face.
“Mrs. Denham?” Winston said.
“It’s all right, Winston,” she said. “Mr. Adams can come inside.”
“Adams?” Winston asked.
“Yes,” she said, “Clint Adams.”
Winston looked at Clint.
“The Gunsmith?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Denham said, “the Gunsmith.” She looked at Clint. “Follow me, please.”
“Thank you.”
They stepped into the restaurant, and then Mrs. Denham stopped short.
“Why didn’t you tell us who you are?” she asked.
“I didn’t know if it would make a difference,” he said. “Besides, I don’t like announcing myself.”
“Well, come this way,” she said, “I’ll take you to Miss Livingston’s table.”
As he followed her, he thought, Lizzie Livingston?
TWENTY-ONE
As they approached Miss Livingston’s table, Clint hardly recognized the woman seated there.
“Miss Livingston,” Mrs. Denham said, “your guest has arrived.”
“Thank you, Shannon.”
“I’ll have your waiter come right over.”
Shannon Denham actually held Clint’s chair for him, then went off to find their waiter.
He stared across the table at the woman who looked nothing like “Lizzie.”
“So I guess your name’s not Lizzie,” he said.
“No.”
“And you don’t work with or for Jeremy Pike.”
A small smile touched her mouth and she said, “No.”
“Then I suppose you’ve invited me here to tell me the truth?”
She didn’t answer right away.
“Or some version of the truth,” he added.
She smiled fully now.
“All right,” she said. “First, my name is Elizabeth Livingston.”
“So your name really is Lizzie Livingston?”
“My friends call me Beth.”
“Well,” Clint said, “that sounds a little better.”
Her auburn hair was expertly piled atop her head, revealing a long, graceful neck. She was wearing a red gown, which showed just a shadowy hint of her cleavage—enough to interest any man. She did not resemble in the least the “whore” Lizzie. She had makeup on, but nothing like the heavy face paint she’d worn as Lizzie.
“You clean up pretty well,” she said. “I see you bought new clothes.”
“I didn’t know I’d be eating in a place like this, though,” he said, “or I would have bought a new suit.”
“You look fine,” she said, “and the meal is on me.”
“How did Mrs. Denham find you?” he asked. “You don’t much match the description I gave her.”
“Shannon and I are friends.”
“But you didn’t tell her who I was?”
“Not until she asked,” Beth said. “I thought it would be . . . fun. I see you got in with your gun still on.”
“Yes.”
A waiter came over and said, “I’m Albert, ma’am. May I take your order?” He was a small, sparse-haired man with a white shirt and black bow tie.
“May I?” she asked, looking at Clint.
“Please,” he said. “I assume you’ve been here before.”
“Well,” she said, “you look like a steak man, so the gentleman will have a steak dinner, and I will have the roast chicken.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And two beers,” she said.
The waiter nodded and said, “Right away.”
“So I assume you’ve seen Pike and he’s told you he doesn’t know me,” she said.
“Oh, yes.”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t want to say he lied to you. Maybe if you were able to describe me in a different way, he would have guessed.”
“So you two do know each other?”
“I would say we’re kind of rivals.”
“Wait,” Clint said, “he works for the government. Do you also work for the government, but in another branch?”
“Let’s just say that very often, our interests . . . intersect.”
“So I’m not getting the whole truth out of you tonight,” Clint said.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “I suppose I’ll have to take what I can get.”
The waiter returned with two mugs of ice-cold beer.
“Cheers,” she said. They clinked glasses and drank. “Why don’t we eat dinner, and then we can talk over dessert.”
“That works for me . . . Beth.”
* * *
The steak dinner was excellent. The meat itself was cooked perfectly, with plenty of blood on the plate. The potatoes, onions, and carrots were all steamed to perfection.
Beth had an entire roast chicken on her plate, and attacked it and the vegetables with the same gusto she’d exhibited in his room.
When both of their plates were decimated, the waiter came over and cleared the table.
“Mr. Adams will have some peach pie,” she told him, “and I’ll have cherry. And coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And make the coffee very strong.”
“As you wish, ma’am.”
He walked away, and Clint and Beth regarded each other across the table.
“How did you know I like peach pie?”
“I did my research.”
“Before or after we spent the night together?”
She just smiled.
TWENTY-TWO
The waiter brought the pie and the coffee, and it was just as good as the rest of the meal.
“So tell me,” Clint said around his last bite of pie, “why did you choose to come clean with me tonight . . . sort of?”
“Well, you’ve talked with Pike,” she said, “and you’ve talked with Henry Frick and some of his colleagues. I guess I figured you’ve been lied to enough.”
“And, of course,” he said, “you’re not going to lie to me.”
“Not anymore,” she said.
Clint had the feeling it wasn’t going to be any less either.
“I saw that you took a ride today.”
If she actually “saw” him ride out that afternoon, he was impressed because he hadn’t seen her.
“My horse needed to stretch his legs.”
“And that’s all?” she asked. “You didn’t ride out to take a look at the dam?”
If she’d followed him out to the dam, he was now annoyed with himself. But she could have been guessing.
“Why would I do that?” he asked. “I don’t know anything about dams.”
She abruptly changed the subject.
“Do you know a man named Dash Charles?”
“Dash?”
“Believe it or not,” she said, “his mother and father named him Dashmore.”
“Sounds like somebody who would be in a foul mood a lot,” he commented.
“Not quite,” she said. “He’s an engineer, but he’s also
quite good with a gun.”
“He’s multitalented, then.”
“Oh yes,” she said, and he had the feeling she wasn’t referring to either of the talents she’d already mentioned.
“So I guess you’re going to tell me he’s working as an engineer for the club?”
“Exactly.”
“And the gun?”
“He’ll use that, too, if he has to. He also has two men working with him.”
Three men, he thought. Like the three men he’d seen out at the dam.
“Do you know who they are?”
“Locals,” she said. “Not much talent between them. Dale and Conlin.”
He nodded.
“Did you see them out there today? While you were stretching your horse’s legs?”
He realized that he was getting nothing out of Beth Livingston, maybe not even her real name. She had invited him here to pump him for what he knew.
“Not me,” he said. “It was just me and my horse out there.”
“I see.”
“Beth,” Clint said, “I enjoyed this meal, but if you’ve got nothing else to give me, I’m going to head back to my hotel.”
“Clint,” she asked, “didn’t our night together mean anything to you?”
“What do you want from me, Beth?” he asked.
“I want to know what Jeremy Pike is doing in Pittsburgh,” she admitted.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Like I said,” she answered, “we’re rivals.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said—mainly because he himself wasn’t sure what Jeremy was doing in Pittsburgh.
“Clint—”
“Beth,” he said, standing up, “good night, and thank you.”
“Won’t you even walk me back to my hotel?”
“I’ll bet you have transportation.”
“Then I’ll take you back to your hotel.”
“I can walk.”
“But . . . I could stay the night?”
“I’m a little tired,” he said.
She looked frustrated with him.
“Don’t be a sonofabitch, Clint Adams!”
“Beth—or whatever your real name is—it was a lovely meal. Thank you so much.”
He headed for the door, feeling very satisfied with himself. He’d enjoyed his time with her in bed, and wouldn’t have minded another go-round—but not tonight. On this night it was more satisfying to leave her there, feeling frustrated.
The South Fork Showdown Page 6
