Crossing the Line

by J. R. Roberts

  “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 j
udge, 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.”

  “How does it feel to stand up for yourself?”

  “Good. Real frightening, but real good.”

  “I’m glad,” Clint told him. “Just don’t make a habit out of it. If George has any more friends or decides to take another run at you when this blows over, just meet him head-on and he’ll back down.”

  “You think I may have to kill him?” Carl asked.

  “I doubt it’ll come to that. He’s hurt and has his back against a wall. All he’s got left is a bunch of tough talk and hot air.”

  “So . . . what now?”

  Clint nodded toward the Emporium, which was nearly filled up as if it was just another night of drinking and gambling. “Now I go in and finish playing while you go back to work.”

  About twenty paces away from the Emporium’s front door, Carl stopped. He looked at the wide entrance, up at the weathered sign, and then up a bit farther to the sky overhead. He sighed and almost looked ready to drop back into his familiar slouch. “There’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  “What?” Clint asked.

  “For all of this. There’s gonna be hell to pay and I’ll be the one who’ll have to pay it.”

  As much as Clint wanted to get back inside, he wasn’t about to leave Carl behind in such a state. “Everyone knows George brought this on. He’s even pissed off Mister Pace, and I don’t think that’s a man anyone should cross. George has dug a deep enough hole for himself that he shouldn’t waste more time bothering you.”

  “I’m not exactly thinking about him,” Carl explained.

  “I’m talking about the folks who don’t like the notion of someone like me taking a stand against anyone.”

  “It wasn’t just you,” Clint told him. “Both Les and I stood with you. It’s over. Unless you start anything else, it’ll stay over. You’re not about to go around shooting this town full of holes, are you?”

  Carl smirked at that. “No.”

  “Then sit back and let George dig himself into a deeper hole. The more he talks, the worse he’ll make it for himself. An idiot like that doesn’t need any help where that sort of thing is concerned.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  When they got back inside Pace’s, Clint and Carl were already old news. The tournament was rolling again and gamblers were in the heat of their own private battles. Clint sat back down at his table and Carl sat down at his.

  The tournament lasted until a little past one that morning and ended with a hand between Clint and a local man who’d proven to be one of the luckiest men in town. His luck ran out when Clint called a bluff and took every last chip he had.

  “We’re rich,” Delilah said as she rushed up behind Clint’s chair to wrap her arms around him. “Time for you to get your prize.”

  “I think Mister Pace needs to collect the money before handing it—”

  Pulling Clint from his chair, she dragged him toward a back room and said, “I’ve got my own prize in mind.”

  “Hey!” Mack shouted.

  It took every bit of strength Clint had to plant his feet and break Delilah’s momentum. “What is it, Mack? Aren’t you happy with third place?”

  “To hell with third place. I want another crack at you, and I don’t mean in one of these penny ante tournaments. I hold a real game, and the next one’s to be held in a month or so. Come back if you want to play for some real stakes.”

  Delilah tugged impatiently at Clint’s arm and even let out a few anxious groans while attempting to drag him toward the back room. He wouldn’t be able to hold his ground much longer. Considering how excited Delilah was, Clint didn’t want to put her off for long.

  “What kind of stakes are we talking about?” Clint asked.

  “Let’s just say your winning here wouldn’t even be enough to buy you a seat.”

  “A lot of gamblers know about your game?”

  “Enough to make a few players damn rich,” Mack said.

  Clint nodded and allowed himself to be pulled away. “Count me in,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  The Emporium was alive with music, loud complaints from tournament losers, and boisterous stories from the men who’d come close to winning. The winner of the big game remained out of sight for a while, listening to some throaty groans that weren’t very loud but were spoken directly into his ear. When Clint and Delilah finally emerged from the back room, she was tousled and he looked as if he’d gotten his prize several times over.

  TWENTY-TWO

  FIVE WEEKS LATER

  When Clint had left Trickle Creek, it was the afternoon following the tournament and the whole town was still buzzing about all that had gone on during the game. The streets were crowded and spirits were high. Clint’s pockets were padded with a few extra dollars and Eclipse was trotting upon a new set of shoes.

  When he returned, things couldn’t have looked more different.

  Not only were the streets empty, but the air was stagnant and thick. Some of that could have been explained by the time of day or heat of the season. But those things couldn’t explain the discomfort Clint felt as he rode down the street. A few faces looked out through some nearby windows, but seemed more like shadows passing over solid rock.

  The town was more than just quiet.

  It felt dead.

  There were no banners or stagecoaches lining the streets, but that wasn’t a surprise since there wasn’t a poker tournament going on. The game that had brought Clint back to Trickle Creek was a private affair. Still, he thought he might see more folks out and about doing their normal business.

  When he did spot a local who met his eyes, Clint tipped his hat.

  That local promptly averted her gaze and turned away.

  He couldn’t see any lawmen around, which wasn’t much different than the last time. He’d heard the sheriff’s name mentioned once or twice, but never did lay eyes on the man.

  Just a little over a month had passed, but Clint couldn’t help feeling like it had been longer. Every inch of Trickle Creek felt dried up and barren. By the time he got to Pace’s Emporium, Clint would have welcomed the sound of George’s whining voice if only to break up the monotony.

  Inside, Pace’s was a bit on the empty side, but otherwise fairly close to how he’d left it.
Mr. Pace was seated at a small table in the corner farthest from the door, and Les stood directly beside him. Only a few card tables were in use and one of them was for a game of solitaire. One faro game was being run, but not by Delilah. Since she wasn’t at her table, neither was Carl.

  “Well, look who’s back,” the bartender said. “Spend your winnings so soon?”

  “No. I thought I’d come back to build them up a bit more, though. Where’s Mack holding his game?”

  “Hell if I know. Ask him yourself when he stops by. That’s been closer to eight or nine o’clock. Care for a drink in the meantime?”

  “Not yet. When’s Delilah coming in?”

  The bartender looked at Clint blankly.

  “Delilah,” Clint repeated. “You know. The tall beauty who runs the faro game?”

  “Yeah. I know who you’re talking about.”

  “Well, where is she?”

  After steeling himself a bit, the bartender told him, “She’s gone. We buried her not long after you left.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint was lunging across the bar to grab hold of the tender’s shirt before he knew what he was doing. “What did you say about Delilah?” he snarled.

  “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “No,” Clint replied. “Why don’t you tell me.”

  Judging by the look on his face, the bartender was reluctant to deliver that bad news again after the way Clint had reacted to it the first time. Unable or unwilling to form the words, the barkeep merely opened and shut his mouth like a trout that had accidentally flopped into a boat.

  Just as he was coming to his senses, Clint felt a heavy hand settle onto the back of his neck. The thick, meaty fingers didn’t cut off his air, but they flexed as if to let Clint know they could do so without any trouble whatsoever.

  “What’s the matter, Clint?” Les asked as he tightened his grip just a bit. “Did you just hear some bad news?”

  While Les might not have threatened him directly, Clint got the other man’s intent well enough. If he didn’t quiet down quickly, Les would be forced to quiet Clint down himself. Letting go of the barkeep, Clint retreated to his own side of the bar. Pulling out of Les’s grasp, he turned to the guard and said, “I think you know damn well what I just heard. Is it true?”