TOPEKA WAS SITUATED ON the banks of the Kansas River. It lay some fifty miles west of the Missouri border, and it was there that Clint began his search. He rode into town on the first day of June.
Laid out in 1854, Topeka was the original Free State settlement. Sentiment against slavery was strong, and the Free Staters soon turned the area into a hotbed of abolitionist supporters. The climate gave rise to such men as John Brown, who four years later led the first guerrilla raid into Missouri and liberated eleven slaves. A year later, in 1859, Brown sealed his own doom by leading the raid on Harpers Ferry, Virginia.
When Kansas entered the Union in 1861, Topeka became the state capital. By then a major trade route, it was the original site of the Oregon Trail ferry crossing. Thousands of westward-bound settlers poured through the town on their way to the Promised Land. A short distance outside town was the juncture with the Santa Fe Trail, which branched off southwesterly toward New Mexico Territory.
The bloodbath of the Civil War somewhat tempered abolitionist sentiment. Kansas was still antislavery in mood, but defeat of the Confederacy had cooled the hatred of past years. By 1865 Topeka was a thriving farm community, as well as a railroad terminus. While animosity still lingered along the Missouri border, most people felt it was time to heal old wounds. Few men admitted to having ridden with the Jay-hawkers on their infamous guerrilla raids.
Clint thought of Topeka as a starting point. He was a tyro manhunter, with no experience in tracking cutthroats and murderers. So he began where the abolitionist movement had been centered during the war. A guerrilla leader such as Jack Quintin would be known there, and remembered. Someone, Clint told himself, might very well provide information as to the former Jay hawker’s whereabouts. Or, with luck, the hunt could end in Topeka itself. Quintin could easily have taken sanctuary among wartime comrades.
Unversed in the subtleties of detective work, Clint took the direct approach. He toured the town’s saloons, casually striking up conversations with patrons and bartenders. One way or another, he managed to introduce the subject of the Jay-hawkers and Jack Quintin. He was looking for a reaction, some tipoff that Quintin was known to the speaker. It occurred to him that he might encounter hostility or run into trouble with a former guerrilla. Yet the risk seemed unavoidable, one of the hazards of the hunt. He had to start somewhere.
Shortly, he discovered that the Jayhawkers were something of a sore point. People in Topeka seemed hesitant to discuss the subject, as though they wanted to forget the years of border strife. Guerrillas were no longer considered admirable, and most men became evasive when the topic was raised. Toward the end of the day, Clint began having second thoughts about his approach. Even when he offered to buy a round of drinks, no one seemed inclined to talk. It was as if Jayhawkers had become a dirty word.
Then, not long after sundown, he stumbled across a loquacious drunk. The man was a barfly, apparently a permanent resident in one of the town’s seedier dives. His brother had ridden with the Jayhawkers, only to be killed a few months before the war ended. A few drinks unlocked his tongue even further and put him in a bragging mood. He heard things, he informed Clint slyly, for there were men in Topeka who had served with his brother. None of them spoke openly about their guerrilla days, but they talked freely among themselves. Jack Quintin was one of the names most frequently mentioned.
At the close of the war, the drunk revealed, the Jayhawkers had scattered to the four winds. Some Kansans were already branding them robbers and murderers, common outlaws. There was talk of bringing them to justice, since they had operated independently of Union forces. With time, however, the authorities lost interest in pursuing the matter. Former guerrillas still laid low, but they were no longer hiding out. Only recently word had surfaced about their leader, Jack Quintin. His hangout these days was thought to be Fort Riley.
Several drinks elicited little more information. The barfly had told all he knew, and most of it secondhand hearsay. Still, it was the only lead Clint had uncovered, and it had the ring of truth. A man on the run would logically head for unsettled areas, the Western plains. Once there, he might very well stay until all threat of prosecution had passed. Or he might find reason to stay there forever. Men like Quintin were misfits in normal times and civilized places. The lawless frontier was more their natural element.
From Topeka, Clint followed the Santa Fe Trail westward. Two days later he sighted Fort Riley, where the river made a slow dogleg to the south. Established in 1853, the cavalry post provided protection from Indian attacks for settlers and trade caravans. Not far from the garrison, the small town of Junction City stood framed against the endless plains. A night spent in the local saloons uncovered still another lead. Quintin had been there and gone, departing almost a month ago. The grapevine had it that he’d drifted on down to Fort Larned.
Well over a hundred miles to the southwest, Fort Larned was an isolated frontier outpost. Built with a view to permanence, it was constructed of stone a short distance from the muddy waters of the Arkansas River. In recent years, it had served as a base for army campaigns against the Cheyenne, as well as the Kiowa and Comanche. Trade caravans, bound for New Mexico Territory, plied the Santa Fe Trail during good weather. But ordinary travelers were scarce, and few settlers had dared venture so far west. Hostile Plains tribes made life on the frontier a chancy proposition.
On June 8, Clint rode into Fort Larned. Dusk was settling as he approached the squalid collection of buildings outside the garrison. For the most part, the log structures appeared to be saloons and dance halls, catering to the gamier tastes of soldiers. There were no hotels, but Clint found a ramshackle livery stable on the outskirts of town. For four bits a night, he made arrangements to stall the dun gelding. The livery owner agreed to let him sleep in the loft at no extra charge.
By the time he emerged onto the street, night had fallen. Stars were scattered like flecks of ice through a sky of purest indigo, and a pale moon bathed the fort in a spectral glow. Walking downstreet, he entered a saloon that was lighted by lanterns hung from the rafters. There were two soldiers at the bar and a civilian seated alone at one of the tables. A slatternly-looking woman stood by a door at the rear, which apparently led to the backroom cribs. She gave him a bored once-over as he moved to the bar.
The barkeep was bald as a billiard ball and smelled rank as bear grease. He ambled forward, nodding indifferently.
“What’ll it be?”
“Any chance of getting a meal?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, if you’re not too particular. I could have the girl rustle you up a steak.”
Clint smiled. “She cooks, too?”
“In between times,” the barkeep said amiably. “When she’s not workin’ the back room.”
“Maybe I ought to have a drink beforehand. How are you fixed for bourbon?”
“Friend, it all comes outta the same barrel.”
After he was served, Clint sampled the snake-head whiskey and smacked his lips. “Got a bite, doesn’t it?”
The bartender chortled softly. “Soldiers would drink horse piss if it was laced with alcohol.”
Clint hooked an elbow over the rough plank counter. “Guess you know everybody around these parts.”
“What makes you ask?”
“I’m looking for a friend. Last I heard, he was headed for Fort Larned. Figured to sign on as a scout.”
“Your friend got a name?”
“Quintin.” Clint paused, took another swig of whiskey. “Jack Quintin.”
The barkeep gave him a fish-eyed look. “If I was you, I wouldn’t say that name too loud. Not around the soldier boys, anyways.”
“Yeah?” Clint lowered his voice. “Why’s that?”
“Your friend’s got a price on his head. The army wants him on a charge of horse stealin’.”
“No joke!” Clint sounded surprised. “How’d he get mixed up in a thing like that?”
“Search me,” the barkeep said. “But he’s a goner if the army lays hands on him.”
“Any idea where he headed?”
“Don’t wanna know. I try to tend to my own knittin’.”
“How about somebody else? I’d hate like hell to lose track of him altogether.”
“You might talk with Hobart.”
“Who?”
The barkeep nodded across the room. “Joe Hobart. He’s a gamblin’ man. Him and Quintin used to share a bottle pretty regular.”
Clint turned and casually inspected the lone civilian. Hobart was a lean, rawboned man with a hooked nose and a downturned mouth. He sat with a bottle and glass, dealing solitaire. His hands worked the cards with effortless grace.
“Much obliged,” Clint said to the barkeep. “Guess it never hurts to ask.” He crossed the room, halting beside the table.
Hobart glanced up from the cards with a thin smile. “ ’Evening, cousin. You look like a man who might enjoy a hand or two of poker.”
“Another time, maybe,” Clint said pleasantly. “I’m looking for a little information right now.”
“What sort of information.”
“A friend of mine, Jack Quintin. The barkeep said you might know where he’s headed.”
Hobart’s eyes hooded and his face went cold. “Why would I know the whereabouts of a horse thief?”
“I understood you and him were drinking buddies.”
“You understood wrong,” Hobart said sullenly. “Suppose you just turn around and go on back to the bar.”
Clint gave him a tight, mirthless smile. “Why get your nose out of joint? I’m just trying to locate a friend.”
“Friend, hell!” Hobart grated. “You got the smell of a lawdog, mister. And I’m not especially fond of the breed.”
“How about Jayhawkers?” Clint’s voice was edged. “Way you talk, you might’ve rode with Quintin during the war.”
Hobart fixed him with a corrosive glare. “Walk away and leave me be. I’ve done said all I’m gonna say.”
Clint made a snap decision. To press the issue now would get him nowhere. Instead, he would wait until later, when the saloon closed. Then, outside in the dark, he would manage to take Hobart prisoner. Any man could be made to talk, and he felt certain the gambler was no exception. All it required was the proper form of persuasion.
“Have it your own way,” he said bluntly. “Lots of people are bound to remember Quintin. I’ll just ask around somewhere else.”
With a curt nod, he turned and walked toward the bar. The bartender looked up, then suddenly stared past him. Something in the man’s eyes alerted him, arid from the direction of the table, he heard the scrape of chair legs. His response was instinctive and fast. He dived headlong to the floor.
A slug whistled overhead and thunked into the bar. Clint rolled sideways, clawing at the flap-top holster, as the report of a gunshot echoed through the saloon. He saw Hobart standing, arm extended, smoke curling from the barrel of a small revolver. As he fumbled with the holster, Hobart fired again, hurrying the shot. Splinters exploded from the floor directly at Clint’s side.
Still on his back, he finally managed to pull the Colt. His arm came level and he sighted quickly over the top of the barrel. He fired even as Hobart was in the act of cocking his own pistol. The gambler’s left eye winked in a spurt of blood. Then the back of his skull blew apart, splattering gore and brain matter across the wall. He dropped to the floor as though his legs had been chopped off.
Clint levered himself to his feet. The two soldiers and the woman were staring at him, watchful and silent. He holstered the Colt and collected his hat off the floor. Finally, he looked around at the bartender.
“You got any law out here?”
“Nothin’ except the army. And they ain’t gonna worry theirselves about a tinhorn gambler.”
“Then I reckon I won’t either.”
The barkeep looked puzzled. “What the hell did you ask him?”
“One question too many.”
Later, stretched out in the livery stable’s hayloft, Clint realized he was at a dead end. All leads had disappeared when he pulled the trigger on the gambler. By now, Jack Quintin could be anywhere. New Mexico Territory was one possibility, and Colorado was another. Still, Quintin seemed to be drifting westward, where there was no law and few lawmen.
From all Clint had heard, the gold fields in Colorado were just such a place. The remote mountain camps were a haven for outlaws of every stripe. No one asked questions or pried into a man’s past. And they cared even less about border raids and Jayhawker guerrillas. It sounded made to order for a man like Jack Quintin.
Early next morning Clint rode west, toward Colorado Territory.