“Fontaine is a gambler,” Hackett said. “And I don’t just mean that he plays poker or bets on horses. He gambles with his whole life. And the chances he takes always pay off.”
“So he’s a businessman.”
“Yes,” Hackett said, “but he takes that to the next level.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“He’ll do anything to make money.”
“Anything?”
“I mean anything.”
“So why would he have a man watching me?” Clint asked. “It was more likely he was watching Whirlwind.”
“Is that what Sun Horse found out for you?”
“He tracked the man to the Fontaine ranch.”
“Did you talk to Fontaine?”
“No,” Clint said, “I wanted to get your take on him first.”
“My take,” Hackett said, “is that he’s always up to something.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
As Clint walked to the door, Hackett asked, “You gonna go and talk to him now?”
“No,” Clint said. “I’m going back to the Canby place first.”
“Good,” Hackett said. “Talk to Ben about Fontaine.”
“Are they friends?”
“They are definitely not friends,” the sheriff said.
“I see.”
“And be careful if you go to Fontaine’s place,” Hackett said. “Watch your back. Fontaine employs men who are good with a gun.”
“Anybody in particular?” Clint asked.
“Fella named Blacker.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s his biggest asset,” Hackett said. “Nobody’s ever heard of him.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks for the information.”
“But do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“Try not to kill anybody in my town,” Hackett said. “At least, not until after the Derby.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
* * *
Blacker entered Peter Fontaine’s office. His boss looked up.
“What have you got?”
“Word from town.”
“About what?”
“Adams tracked me from the Canby place to here.”
“Well, how did that happen?” Fontaine asked. “I thought you hid your trail. I thought you were good at this.”
“I did, and I am,” Fontaine said, “but he hired John Sun Horse.”
“That drunken Indian?”
“That drunken Indian is the best tracker I know of,” Blacker said.
“And how did Adams know to hire him?”
“He must have been recommended to him.”
“By who?”
Blacker shrugged.
“Could have been anybody in town who knew enough to do it,” he said. “Maybe the sheriff.”
“All right,” Fontaine said. He sat back in his chair. “All right,” he said again. “So I should be expecting a visit from Clint Adams.”
“Probably.”
“When that happens,” Fontaine said, “I want you around.”
“It’s either gonna happen today or tomorrow,” Blacker told him.
“Then get yourself a bunk in the bunkhouse,” Fontaine said.
“Not without bein’ on the payroll.”
“I pay you a lot as it is,” Fontaine said.
“A little more never hurt.”
“Okay,” Fontaine said. “You’re on the payroll. Tell Quincy to give you a bunk.”
“Okay,” Blacker said. “Boss.”
Fontaine waited for Blacker to leave, then stood up, walked to a sidebar, and poured himself a whiskey. Clint Adams was a famous man. There had to be some way for Fontaine to use that fame to make himself some money. If there was a way, he’d find it, because that was what Pete Fontaine did.
He took any situation, and made money from it.