SALOONS THROUGHOUT THE SPORTING district were still crowded. Several establishments offered free lunch with beer or spirits, and the noontime rush generally lasted into early afternoon. Today’s crowds were even larger than normal.
News of the gunfight had spread to every corner of Denver. Clerks and workingmen, as well as the sporting crowd, were drawn by some ghoulish preoccupation with violent death. Yet talk in the saloons centered more on the victors than the dead men. Losers were seldom accorded celebrity.
Shortly after one o’clock saloons began emptying of workingmen. As Clint crossed the line into the sporting district, word rushed ahead of him along Blake Street. While his brothers shared the limelight, his notoriety now bordered on legend. No one doubted that Denver’s roughhewn marshal had carried the fight to the Quintin gang. That he had emerged from the shootout unscathed merely added to his already formidable reputation.
Few of the men on Blake Street took exception to Clint’s motives. It was widely known that he’d braced Quintin last night in the Progressive Club. Hardly anyone was unaware that the former guerrilla had been accused of murdering the Brannocks’ parents. Nor were they unmindful of the rumor that the Bella Union had been torched by the gang. A rough code governed such matters, and most men considered the Brannocks entirely within their rights. By frontier standards, Jack Quintin had gotten no less than he deserved.
The barroom in the Progressive Club was packed. When Clint stepped through the door, a sudden hush swept over the crowd. As he moved toward the staircase, a path opened before him. Several men spoke to him, and one old-timer, somewhat ossified with liquor, pounded him heartily on the back. He accepted their congratulations without comment, never breaking stride. A buzz of conversation erupted as he mounted the stairs.
On the upper landing, Clint turned down a short hallway. Ahead he saw Hank Newcomb posted outside a closed door. Unlike many of Case’s hooligans, Newcomb’s reputation deserved respect. Clint reminded himself that the man was quick with his fists and even quicker with a gun. As he approached, Newcomb seemed to bristle like an evil-eyed watchdog. Clint decided to play by his own rules.
“I don’t want any trouble, Newcomb.”
“Suits me,” Newcomb rumbled. “Just turn around and head back the way you come.”
“Now, look,” Clint said amiably, “no need for us to butt heads. Why not tell your boss I’d like a word with him?”
“Gawddammit, hold’er right where you are!”
Another step brought Clint to within striking distance. Still smiling pleasantly, his hand seemed to move not at all. The Colt appeared out of nowhere and he laid the barrel upside Newcomb’s head. The squat gunman went down like he’d been poleaxed. He was out cold.
Clint threw open the door. Ed Case looked up from his desk and his face went ashen. He sat perfectly still as Clint reached back and grabbed Newcomb by the collar. One eye on Case, with the Colt held loosely at his side, Clint dragged the gunman into the office. He dumped Newcomb on the floor and relieved him of his pistol. Holstering the Colt, he kicked the door shut and walked forward. He idly waved Newcomb’s pistol at Case.
“You carry a gun?”
“No.”
“Maybe you’ve got one in your desk drawer?”
Case blinked. He spread his hands on the desktop. “I wouldn’t be dumb enough to try.”
“Go ahead,” Clint said easily. “I’d just as soon kill you as not.”
A startled expression crossed Case’s features. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“All depends.”
“On what?”
“How you cooperate,” Clint told him. “Just for example, Quintin burned down the Bella Union, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Acting on your orders, right?”
“You’ll never prove that.”
Clint slowly cocked the pistol. He leaned across the desk and hooked the front sight into Case’s left nostril. “Here’s your judge and jury. Got anything to say before I pronounce sentence?”
“All right,” Case said hoarsely. “It’s like you said. I ordered it.”
“And you were acting on Hughes’ orders, weren’t you?”
Case nodded, a slightly dazed look in his eyes. “What do you want, Brannock?”
“How about a full confession . . . in writing?”
“Go to hell,” Case croaked. “I’d sooner you shoot me than get myself hung.”
“Don’t blame you,” Clint said without surprise. “I’d feel pretty much the same way myself.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“How about a cash settlement?”
“You burned Earl out,” Clint observed. “I figure fifty thousand ought to square things.”
“Fifty thousand!” Case bleated. “For a pile of burnt lumber?”
A wintry smile lighted Clint’s eyes. “Call it a good-will payment.”
“It’s robbery! I won’t pay it, by God!”
“Yeah, you will.” Clint rumpled his nose with the gun muzzle. “Especially when you consider the alternative.”
A few minutes later Clint walked out of the Progressive Club. His coat pockets as well as his hip pockets were stuffed with wads of greenbacks. Still, all things considered, he thought Ed Case had gotten the better of the bargain. Fifty thousand was a cheap price to go on living.
Uptown, he turned into city hall. He marched through the door of the mayor’s office with a broad grin. Amos Stodt sat bolt upright in his chair. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a fish cork, but he seemed unable to speak. Clint unpinned his marshal’s badge and tossed it on the desk.
“No need to fire me, Mr. Mayor. I quit.”
“Y—you!” Stodt stammered. “You and your brothers broke the law. I’ve a good mind to press charges.”
“Be my guest.” Clint’s grin widened. “Before you do, though, I’d suggest you have a talk with Ed Case.”
Stodt’s voice was guarded. “What’s Case got to do with it?”
“Few minutes ago, he gave me a full confession. Told me how you and Hughes were behind the whole thing. Guess he wanted to purge himself of guilt.”
“I don’t believe you,” Stodt said. “Besides, that wouldn’t hold water in court anyway. You’re bluffing.”
“Never bluff,” Clint said in dead earnest. “Case spilled his guts like it was Judgment Day. You and Hughes ought to be more picky about your friends.”
Stodt went white around the mouth. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Want you to carry a message to Hughes.”
“A message?”
“Virgil’s leaving Denver. Tell Hughes to let him go in peace. No more trouble.”
“That sounds vaguely like a threat.”
“Nothing vague about it.” Clint’s voice suddenly turned abrasive. “Unless Hughes behaves himself, I’ll kill him.”
“Kill him?” Stodt repeated weakly.
“Deader’n a doornail.”
Stodt appeared on the verge of saying something more. He sputtered, swallowing the words, and abruptly changed his mind. Clint waited a moment, watching him with a look of amused contempt. Then he turned and walked out of the office.
On the street, he could scarcely constrain himself from laughing. His revelation about Ed Case would reach Hughes within the hour. By nightfall, the whole bunch of them would be at one another’s throats. He thought it was poetic justice. Fitting as hell!
Outside the Overland station he ran into Ben Holladay. The stage-line owner greeted him with a warm handshake and a sly, furtive look. His eyes contained a devilish glint.
“By the Christ!” he said expansively. “When you come unwound, you go whole hog. I heard the bastards was shot to pieces.”
Clint shrugged. “Let’s just say Quintin’s luck ran out.”
“Luck, hell!” Holladay roared. “Way I got the story, you forced ’em to fight. No goddamn choice.”
“Well, nobody ever accused me of halfway measures.”
“Clint, you’re a man after my own heart. And there’s not a helluva lot more like us around these parts. How’d you like to come to work for the Overland?”
“Funny you’d ask,” Clint said, somewhat taken aback. “I just now turned in my badge. What did you have in mind?”
“Stage robbers,” Holladay said with a wolfish grin. “I got the sonsabitches runnin’ out of my ears! You could be my ace troubleshooter.”
“Sounds like a polite way of saying ’hired killer.’ “
“Not by a damnsight,” Holladay objected. “You’d be in charge of security for the whole line. Hell, I’d even give you a title. How’s Special Agent strike you?”
“Not so fast,” Clint said. “Are you talking about Colorado Territory or what?”
“I’m talkin’ five thousand miles of stage line. Colorado, Montana, Oregon, the whole shebang! You wouldn’t hardly have time to take a leak.”
Clint liked the sound of it. “What would a job like that pay?”
“Dollar a mile,” Holladay said magnanimously. “Five thousand a year and a bonus every time you bury one of the bastards. What d’you think of that?”
Clint laughed. “I think you just hired yourself a Special Agent.”
“God’s blood! Let’s have a drink on it.”
An hour later they parted outside Murphy’s Saloon. Holladay shook his hand with an ore-crusher grip and left him on the street corner. Somewhat bedazzled by his own good fortune, Clint saw no reason to end the celebration. He rounded the corner and walked toward the Row.
Belle’s parlor house wasn’t yet open for business. The maid admitted him only after he’d pounded on the door several times. He was shown into the parlor and asked to wait. A couple of girls wandered in from the kitchen, still attired in negligees and housecoats. They looked at him with open curiosity, which left no doubt that the gunfight had been a topic of conversation around the breakfast table. He took a seat on one of the sofas as they disappeared up the stairs.
Summoned by the maid, Belle bustled into the parlor a moment later. She threw him a quick, enigmatic glance as she crossed the room and seated herself beside him on the sofa. She touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” Clint said, mocking her concerned look. “Why, were you worried?”
“Who, me?” she said innocently. “What’s to worry about?”
“Well, a feller could always hope.”
“Oh, I suppose I had a twinge or two. But then I heard you’d come through it alive.”
Clint smiled. “Good news travels fast.”
She mimicked his cocksure expression. “You look awfully pleased with yourself.”
“Hell, yes,” Clint said with a chuckle. “I killed Jack Quintin and lived to tell about it. I’ve got reason to be pleased.”
“What about Ed Case? Will you have trouble with him?”
Clint burst out laughing. He briefly recounted his conversation with the vice lord. Then, as a capper to the story, he pulled a wad of bills from his coat pocket. Her eyes got big and round, and her mouth dropped open. She stared at him as though he were a magician who had just performed some staggering sleight of hand.
“Good God!” she said softly. “You actually took him for fifty thousand?”
“Squared the account,” Clint replied genially. “He shouldn’t have burned down the Bella Union.”
“Will that end it, though? Case has been known to hold a grudge.”
“I suspect I made a believer of him. One more go-round and it’s his ticket that’ll get punched. I guaranteed him of that.”
She was silent a moment. “How are your brothers? I heard the doc had his hands full.”
Clint waved the thought aside. “They’ll pull through just fine. Wild horses couldn’t keep ’em down for long.”
“Will Earl rebuild the Bella Union?”
“I tend to doubt it.”
Clint went on to tell her that Virgil was leaving Denver. He then expressed the belief that Earl wouldn’t be far behind. After the dust settled, he noted, Ed Case would still control the sporting district. Earl would likely look for greener pastures.
She searched his face. “How about you?”
“Well, I’ve quit my job as marshal. Figured I’d beat city hall to the punch.”
“So you’re leaving, too.”
“Not exactly,” Clint said, watching her reaction. “I’ve signed on with Ben Holladay. You’re looking at the Over-land’s new Special Agent.”
Her laugh was a delicious sound. “You mean you’re staying in Denver?”
Clint nodded. “I’ll be headquartered here. Holladay wants me to act as troubleshooter for the whole line.”
“One of these days,” she said with a warm, beguiling grin, “I’ll have to thank Mr. Holladay personally. He’s a regular Saint Nick.”
Holding her gaze, Clint silently congratulated himself. He preferred women of zest and laughter and earthy physical appetites. She was just such a woman, and he felt himself fortunate that the attraction was mutual. All in all, it was a day to be marked by celebration.
“Matter of fact,” he said at length, “that’s why I dropped by. Thought we could celebrate my new job.”
Something mischievous sparkled in her eyes. She looked him up and down. “You know something, lover?”
“What’s that?”
“You look plumb tuckered out.”
“I don’t recollect ever being that tired.”
“Oh, no?” she insisted. “How long’s it been since you slept?”
Clint’s eyes suddenly felt gritty. Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t been to bed since night before last. Almost unwittingly his mouth opened in a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. He covered it with a sheepish grin.
“You might have a point. I doubt I’m just exactly up to snuff.”
She patted his hand. “Why don’t you stretch out in my room for a while? I could wake you . . . later.”
“Sounds promising,” Clint said slowly. “What’ve you got in mind?”
Her lips curved in a teasing smile. “I’ll think of something.”
She led him upstairs. In her room, she helped him undress and then tucked him into bed. He was asleep when his head hit the pillow.