* * *
Clint had just left the restaurant when Winston, the doorman, called out, “Sir?”
“I don’t need a cab,” he told the big man. “I’ll walk.”
“It’s not that, sir,” Winston said. “Mrs. Denham would like a moment of your time, if you’re willing.”
“Sure,” Clint said after only the briefest consideration, “why not?”
TWENTY-THREE
Instead of taking him back into the building, Winston walked Clint down the street to another door and held it open for him. As Clint entered, he found himself in another dining room, this one empty except for Shannon Denham, who was seated at a table.
“Mr. Adams,” she said, “thank you for agreeing to see me. Brandy?”
Why was everybody in Pittsburgh offering him brandy?
“Sure.”
She had a decanter and two snifters on the table before her. She poured some into both.
“Join me?” she asked.
He walked to the table and sat down. She pushed one of the snifters across to him.
“Let me get right to the point,” she said.
“That would be refreshing.”
“I want to be the first woman to join the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I’d like you to help me.”
“What makes you think I can do that?”
“Well . . . you’re the Gunsmith. They’d love to have you as a member.”
“Do you think so?”
“Haven’t you been out there?” she asked. “Haven’t you been invited?”
“I have not.” He sipped the brandy. He supposed it was good, but he still preferred beer.
“You haven’t been out there, or haven’t been invited?” she asked.
“What’s the difference?” Clint asked. “I can’t help you, Mrs. Denham.”
“Shannon,” she said. “Just call me Shannon. Can I ask you something else?”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you and Beth . . . a couple?”
“No,” he said.
“You answered very quickly.”
“I’ve only known her a few days.”
“I see.”
“Is there anything else?”
“You keep staring at me.”
“Well,” he said, “you’re very beautiful.”
“Why . . . thank you.”
He stood up, and she followed.
“I invite you to eat here again, Mr. Adams, anytime you like.”
“The food was excellent,” Clint said. “Your prices are a bit high, though.”
“That’s not a problem,” she said. “You would dine as my guest. Anytime.”
“I appreciate that,” Clint said, “but as I said, I really can’t do anything for you regarding the hunting club.”
“Oh, I understand,” she said, “but somebody in this town has to break up that boys’ club. You see, I have the wealth to match up with some of them. And the position. I’m just the wrong . . . sex.”
“It seems to me even if you did become a member, they wouldn’t treat you very well. Why would you want to subject yourself to that?”
“Because it has to be done, Mr. Adams,” she said. “It simply has to be done. Would you like me to have Winston get you a cab?”
“No, thanks,” Clint said. “I walked here, and I can walk back. Thanks for the drink.”
“Good night, Mr. Adams.”
“Clint,” he said, “Just call me Clint . . . Shannon.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The next day Jeremy Pike was standing outside Solomon’s Saloon when Clint arrived.
“Clint,” he said, shaking hands, “good to see you. There’s a place down the street.”
“Lead the way.” As they walked, Clint said, “I had an interesting dinner last night.”
“Oh? Where?”
“A place called the Keystone.”
“Ouch,” Pike said. “That’s expensive. Who was footing the bill for that?”
“A woman named Beth Livingston.”
Pike stopped short and looked at him.
“Beth?”
“Yep.”
“She’s here in Pittsburgh?”
“Not only that,” Clint said. “She was Lizzie.”
“The whore?”
Clint nodded.
“I knew she was a bitch, but not a whore.” Pike shook his head. “Come on.”
* * *
Pike took Clint to a small café on a street corner, many, many levels beneath the Keystone.
“Not fancy,” Pike said, “but the food’s good.”
They went inside and got a table easily, since the place was empty.
They both ordered bowls of beef stew for lunch, and mugs of beer.
“Okay,” Clint said, “tell me about Beth Livingston.”
“She used to be with the Secret Service.”
“Used to be?”
“She left after a few years, frustrated that she wasn’t being given important assignments.”
“So what did she do?”
“She tried to join the Pinkertons, but they wouldn’t have her.”
“And?”
“She struck out on her own.”
“So she’s a private detective?”
“Not exactly,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“She doesn’t have a license, but from time to time she does that kind of work.”
“And the other times?”
“She tries to horn in on Secret Service business.”
“And that’s what she’s doing now.”
“Is she?”
“Well, she’s been trying to get information out of me, while she has nothing to give me.”
“You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”
“No,” Clint said, “not a thing.”
The waiter brought their bowls, and a basket of biscuits.
“But I met another interesting woman.”
“Who’s that?”
“Shannon Denham.”
“Again,” Pike said, “who’s that?”
“She owns the Keystone,” Clint said. “And she asked me to help her break the ban on women joining the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club.”
“What?”
“She said that someone has to do it.”
“Why would she think you can help her?”
“Because I have a reputation,” Clint said. “She thinks they’ll ask me to join.”
“And she’s right, isn’t she?” Pike asked. “Have they asked?”
“Not yet.”
“All right,” Pike said, “let’s move on. Did you ride out to the dam?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I saw three other men out there, examining a portion of the dam.”
“Who were they?”
“From what Beth told me, one of them was probably a man named Dash Charles.”
“Charles,” Pike said. “He’s an odd one.”
“What’s so odd?”
“He’s educated as an engineer, but he also makes his way with a gun. He’s probably working for the club in one capacity or the other.”
“Or both. Anyway, I took a look at portions of the dam, didn’t know what I was looking at until I looked at the same section I saw him looking at.”
“And?”
“It needs work.”
“Plugging?”
“Shoring up,” Clint said. “The expensive kind, I’m sure. And it’s up to the club to see it gets done. If that dam goes, everything in its path will be destroyed.”
“Jesus,” Pike said, “Johnstown would be right in that p
ath.”
TWENTY-FIVE
They finished their stew, nursed another beer each.
“So?” Clint said. “Is this what you wanted? Information about the dam?”
“Not sure,” Pike said. “Could be.”
“You know, I asked Beth why she chose last night to reveal herself to me,” Clint said. “Do you know what she said?”
“What?”
“She thought I’d been lied to enough by everyone I’ve been talking to.”
“Including me?”
“That was the insinuation.”
“I haven’t lied about anything, Clint,” Pike said. “I just don’t know what we’ve got. Will you be going to the club again?”
“The only reason I’d have to do that would be if I was going to apply for membership.”
“Or if they were going to invite you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think they will?”
“Probably.”
“Good—uh, but will you go?”
“I don’t know, Jeremy.”
“What do you mean?” Pike asked.
“I’m still operating in the dark, Jeremy,” Clint said. “I don’t like operating in the dark.”
“And yet you have been doing quite well.”
“Have I?”
“The club members like you, they’re probably going to ask you to join, and you’ve seen the dam.”
“I’m confused about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Why would they ask me to join?” Clint said. “I don’t live here—in Pittsburgh, or in South Fork.”
“A lot of them don’t either,” Pike said, “but that’s apparently okay. As long as you have the money for membership, you don’t need to live near here. They’re all rich men. They can get here anytime they want to.”
“Well, I’m not rich.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Pike said. “If you’re invited, you don’t have to pay.”
“If I accept.”
“True.”
“And you want me to.”
“Please.”
Clint sat back and took a deep breath.
“This is crazy. I usually like to know what I’m doing, and why . . . but okay. If they invite me, I’ll accept.”
“Thank you,” Pike said, “and once you’re a member, you’ll be able to get an even closer look at what’s going on up there.”
“Whatever it is,” Clint said.
“I’ll pay the check,” Pike said.
* * *
They stepped outside and stopped.
“Now what?” Clint asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when do we meet again?”
“I guess when you have something to tell me.”
“Or,” Clint said, “when you have something to tell me, right?”
Pike didn’t answer.
“I mean,” Clint said, “you are working while you’re here, right? You’re not just sitting around waiting for me to find something . . . are you?”
“No, of course not. You’re right. If I find out something, I’ll get in touch.”
“And how do I get in touch with you?”
“Solomon’s,” Pike said. “Leave word there, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Pike—”
“Just work on this a little longer for me, Clint,” Pike said. “I know we’re close.”
Pike turned and walked away as Clint said to himself, “But close to what?”
TWENTY-SIX
“Clint Adams,” the well-dressed man said.
“What?” Dash Charles asked.
“It had to be Clint Adams,” the man said, “the man you said was watching you.”
“Clint Adams is here? In Pittsburgh?”
“Yes,” the other man said. “Henry Frick brought him to the club.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not your business,” the man said. “The dam is your business. What have you found out?”
“Wait a minute,” Charles said. “Go back to Clint Adams. Why did Frick bring him to the club?”
“He wants us to vote him in as a member.”
“And are you going to?”
“I don’t know,” the man said. “That’s not important. The dam is important.”
“The dam needs to be repaired,” Charles said, “in more than one place.”
“Can it be done cheaply?”
“I don’t know,” Charles replied. “I’m still thinking about that.”
He looked around. They were meeting in the same low-rent saloon, but today they and the bartender were the only ones there.
“You better find a way to fix it, then,” the man said. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“Well, if Clint Adams is here, that changes things.”
“Why? How?”
“Because of my other profession. The one where I use my gun. That puts me right on a collision course with him.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“Yes, it does. He has one of the biggest reputations in the West with a gun. Maybe the biggest. You know what that means?”
“This is not the Wild West, Charles,” the man said. “This is Pittsburgh. This is a civilized city.”
“Is it? Have you read the papers lately?” Charles asked. “Three people have been killed in the past few days. How damn civilized is that?”
“Dash—”
“If I kill Clint Adams,” Dash Charles said, “I won’t need your money anymore.”
* * *
When Clint got back to his hotel, he found a man waiting for him in the lobby. He was tall, with brown hair going gray at the temples, wearing a three-piece suit that had seen better days. Clint also noticed that beneath the suit was a gun in a shoulder holster.
“Mr. Adams?” the man said.
Clint looked at the desk clerk, figuring he had somehow given the man a sign when he entered the lobby. Steve, the clerk, looked away.
“That’s right.”
“Sir, my name is William J. Kane,” the man said. He had a bushy brown mustache and bright blue eyes. He appeared to be in his early thirties. He did not offer to shake hands.
“And?”
“Lieutenant William J. Kane,” the man said, “Pittsburgh Police Department.”
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Clint folded his arms across his chest.
Kane’s eyes went to the gun on Clint’s hip. Clint had left the Colt New Line in his room that morning.
“Sir, I’ll need to take your gun.”
“You’re here to take my gun?” Clint became aware of similarly suited men on either side of him in the lobby. They hadn’t made a move toward him . . . yet. Kane and the other men were all wearing bowler hats that matched their suits.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“We can’t permit you to keep walking our streets wearing a gun, sir.”
“I haven’t broken any laws that I know of.”
“Well, you did recently enter an establishment that required you to give up your firearm, and you did not comply.”
“I had permission from the owner.”
“Is that a fact?” Kane asked. “Well, we can check that out. But for now, I need your gun.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I do,” Kane said. “But we can’t be making exceptions for every Western gunman who comes to town.”
“If I give up my gun, I could be dead in a matter of minutes.”
“Oh, I think you’re exaggerating, sir. I don’t think there are men in Pittsburgh just waiting for you to be disarmed so they can kill you.”
“Why am I not as sure about that as you are?�
�
“Sir, your gun.”
“I’m not giving it up.”
“Then we will have to take it.” Kane made a hand signal and the other policemen—three of them—moved closer. “If you fail to comply, I’ll have to arrest you and put you in a cell.”
“And I’ll probably be safer there,” Clint said.
“Then sir,” Kane said, “I regret to inform you that you are under arrest.”
The other policemen took out their guns, and Clint raised his arms.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clint sat in a jail cell for three hours—without his gun—before a policeman came to his cell door.
“You have a visitor,” the man said.
“Who?”
He didn’t answer. He just stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Another man appeared and entered.
“Clint.”
“Henry.”
“Don’t stand,” Frick said, raising his hand. Clint had no intention of rising. The policeman closed and locked the cell door behind them.
“May I sit?”
“Help yourself.”
Frick sat on the cot next to him.
“I just got word that you’d been arrested.”
“From who?”
“The clerk at the hotel.”
“He’s the one who pointed me out to the police.”
“He had no choice.”
“I suppose not. Can you get me out of here?”
“Maybe,” Frick said. “You haven’t broken any serious laws that I know of.”
“None at all.”
“But it seems there have been some murders in Pittsburgh over the past three days.”
“And? What’s that got to do with me?”
“The police just want to question you about them.”
“They think I did these killings?”
“Well,” Frick said, “they’ve only happened since you came to town.”
“Coincidence.” Clint hated that word.
“Undoubtedly,” Frick said, “but I told them you’d answer their questions.”
“Sure, why not? And then I go free?”
“Yes.”
“And get my gun back?”
The South Fork Showdown Page 7
