Captain Butler listened to what Clint had to say, sitting stock-still the whole time. When Clint finished, the man shook his head.
“Can’t be done.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our security is too good,” Butler said. “There’s no way anybody can rob us.”
Clint had heard that before from the securest of banks.
“Anyone’s security can be beat, Captain.”
The man firmed his jaw and said, “Not mine.”
“I have information that indicates you’re going to be hit,” Clint reminded him. “Why don’t you show me your security so I can—”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Adams,” Butler said. “I know your reputation, and there’s nothing in it that says you’re a security expert.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“I thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Butler said, “but if someone is going to try to hit us, I welcome the attempt. They’ll have a big surprise coming to them. Good day.”
Clint sat there for a moment, but he recognized that the man had shut down and would not be listening to anything else he had to say on the subject.
He stood up and left without another word.
* * *
Clint made a circuit of the track, trying to figure out what Captain Butler was so proud of. There were guards everywhere, including the area where the bets were made. For the most part, though, Clint thought they looked as bored as the first guard he’d encountered.
There could only be two reasons Butler was so sure his security couldn’t be breached. First, it was so good that Clint couldn’t figure it out, or second . . . like the sheriff, he was also in the pocket of Peter Fontaine.
That had to be it. Fontaine had managed to buy both the local law and the heads of security at the track. The take of this robbery was probably so huge he could afford to buy everybody he needed. In the end, he probably didn’t intend to actually pay any of them, but they were too greedy to realize it.
He was going to have to do this himself, with whatever assistance he could get from John Sun Horse.
* * *
Clint headed back to the saloon. When he walked in, he saw the bartender, John Sun Horse, and five more Indians. Other than that, the saloon was empty.
Clint approached the bartender.
“What’s going on?” Clint asked.
“You tell me,” the bartender said. “Sun Horse walked in here with five of his friends, and the rest of my customers left.”
“Oh, well, that might be my fault. I asked Sun Horse to meet me here with his friends.”
“Well then, could you get them out of here?”
“I could, yes I could,” Clint said, “but first I have to have a meeting with them. So could you please give each of them a drink? One drink.”
“I ain’t servin’ no Indian any whiskey,” the man said.
“Okay then, bring them each a beer, please, at that back table. And one for me. That’s seven beers.”
“Well, only because I ain’t got anybody else in here buyin’ drinks.”
“Fine,” Clint said, “whatever the reason is, bring them over to that table.”
Clint left the bar and walked over to where Sun Horse was sitting with his friends.
“Sun Horse,” Clint said.
“Mr. Gunsmith.”
“So . . . these are your men?”
“These are the men you asked me to find,” Sun Horse said.
Clint looked at the five Cherokee. Two of them were sixty if they were day, only it was hard to tell with Cherokee. They could have been eighty. The others were certainly over fifty.
“Each of these men can handle a gun,” Sun Horse said.
Clint looked at the men and said, “I don’t see any guns.”
“Oh, I did not say they owned guns, I said they can handle one,” Sun Horse said. “You will have to buy them guns. And I mean rifles. They cannot handle revolvers.”
“Well . . . all right,” Clint said as the bartender came over with the beers. The eyes of each Cherokee lit up and they made a grab for a mug each.
“Hold on now,” Clint said, “before you drink any of that.”
They all stopped, including Sun Horse.
“I’ll buy a rifle for each of you,” Clint said, “and tell you what to do, but you have to agree that until you’re finished working for me, this will be the last drink you have.”
They all looked at Sun Horse.
“And after?” he asked Clint.
“I’ll buy each man a bottle of whiskey.”
“And the rifles?” Sun Horse asked.
“You will be able to keep the rifles.”
Sun Horse looked at the five Cherokee and spoke to them in their own language.
“They don’t understand English?” he asked.
“They do,” Sun Horse assured him. “They will understand your orders. I just wanted to make sure they understood everything before they all agreed.”
“And?”
Sun Horse raised his mug and said, “We will all be working for you, Mr. Gunsmith.”
“Mr. Gunsmith,” his friends echoed.
Clint picked up his beer and said, “All right, then. Drink your beer and I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do.”