Tobacco smoke and gloom were thick in the air of Ace Beauford’s private office behind the Silver King Saloon as Holly Doone opened the door to Paddy Clancy’s knock.
“What’s wrong?” Clancy demanded. “What’d you send for me for?”
“Good morning, Clancy,” Beauford said, underlining the greeting.
The huge Irishman flushed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “’Mornin’, Ace. ’Mornin’ to you, too, Holly.”
“Howdy, Clancy boy,” drawled Holly Doone, Ace Beauford’s gunfighter-bodyguard. He was a hawk-faced young killer with a bright banner of yellow hair, a natural quick grace and the reputation of being the quickest hand with a six-gun in town. “Drink?”
“Give him one,” Beauford instructed. “I think he might need it.”
Clancy didn’t like the sound of that. He accepted a large whisky from Doone, leaned his powerful back against the wall while the gunslinger refilled Beauford’s glass, and waited.
Beauford wasn’t a man to be hurried. Swirling the whisky in his glass, he took a sip, then spun his swivel chair to peer through the spy slot in the wall that commanded a full view of the bar-room. There were more customers than usual for this time of day due to the fact that Spargo had a lot to talk about today.
The chair creaked as he turned to Clancy. Beauford was something of a mystery man to most of Spargo, despite the fact that he’d been operating the town’s biggest saloon for almost a year. A lot of rumors were spread about him, but nobody seemed quite sure if he were sinner or saint. About all they were unanimous about, was that he was well-heeled and not a man to cross.
“We’re in trouble,” Beauford said in a flat voice.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Strike-breaker trouble.”
“Strike-breakers!” Clancy made it sound like a curse. It was a word that had been circulating in strike-torn Spargo so long that most believed it to be just a rumor put about by Kingston to frighten the men back to work. “You’ve heard somethin’ definite?” Clancy asked.
“Yes. Kingston is going to bring cheap Mexican labor up from Granite.” Beauford paused for emphasis. “Dollar-a-day labor.”
“A dollar-a-day! I can’t be for believin’ it, Ace!”
“You can take it for fact.”
“You mean you heard it from …?”
“Mrs. Kingston, yes.”
“Why, the dirty, treacherous divil!” Mottled marks showed on Clancy’s angry face. “He’s had this in mind right along—that’s why he wouldn’t even talk about re-timberin’ the Motherlode.”
“I’d say that’d be exactly right.”
“Well, I’ll be bunched and banjaxed.” Clancy took two strides across the room, two back, then halted before the desk. “What’ll we be doin’ now, Ace? We can’t let ’im bring ’em in.”
Every mining man in Spargo would have been surprised to hear Paddy Clancy deferring to Ace Beauford. Not two-fisted Clancy who sought or accepted guidance from no man. But then, nobody but the three men in the room and Rhea Kingston knew how it was with Paddy Clancy and Ace Beauford.
It had begun several months ago when Beauford, already involved with Foley Kingston’s bored wife, had first recognized the possibilities of the worsening relationship between Kingston, with his profit-at-any-price policy, and the unhappy miners who were doing the hard work and the dying for him. Encouraged by Rhea, whose boredom with her husband had become outright hatred, he had set out to acquire both Kingston’s wife and wealth. The best way to achieve his twin goals would be to help fan the flames of dissent in Spargo and aim for Foley Kingston’s financial ruin ... and then, when the time was right, the death of Kingston.
That was where Clancy fitted in. Adverse to hard work and ambitious to control men and affairs, Clancy was the perfect tool to help Beauford gain his ends. Clancy was sometimes violent and unpredictable, but it was through him that Beauford had begun the strike, and it was through Clancy’s standing among the miners that Beauford, with the help of his own money, had been able to keep it going.
Until a week back, Beauford had been content to sit back and wait. There was a good chance that Kingston would be killed in a clash with the miners. If not, then Beauford would arrange an assassination. He’d hoped for the former, for after Kingston’s death he planned to marry Rhea and take over the Motherlode and he didn’t want any taint of suspicion concerning Kingston’s demise connected with him if it could be helped. Once he was at the helm, Clancy would get the men back to work as mines manager, and Beauford would grow rich.
That was how it had been unfolding. But the first cloud appeared with the report that Kingston was importing a fast gun. Young Tommy Murphy had pestered them to let him make a try for Benedict’s scalp and Beauford and Clancy had finally agreed to an ambush. But it hadn’t worked out that way and Brazos and Benedict loomed to create a large problem indeed—a problem compounded by Kingston’s plan to bring in cheap labor.
But Ace Beauford wasn’t about to fold. He was a good enough gambler to grow rich from the profession, and he had put too much in this pot to drop out of the game. He was ready, if needs be, to shoot for the limit, winner take all.
He said, “It’s pretty simple to figure out how Kingston’s mind has been working. He wanted to bring the strike-breakers in all along, but he didn’t dare to because he knew the miners would go loco. So he brought Benedict and Brazos in and now he figures he can do what he likes. Not bad planning ...”
“So we’ll crown Kingston a genius,” Clancy snorted, unable to hold back his sarcasm and mounting frustration. “Now what?”
Beauford was about to reply when one of his dealers hurriedly entered the office to tell him that Duke Benedict’s partner, big Brazos, was outside in the bar.
Swiftly, Beauford and Clancy crowded to the spy hole, with Holly Doone trying to peer between their heads. It wasn’t difficult to pick Brazos out—his size and his purple shirt and the big dog standing beside him at the bar made him the Silver King’s most conspicuous customer by a street.
“Look at him, will ye?” Clancy said venomously, unconsciously rubbing his bruised jaw. “He thinks he owns the place ... sure, just look at the way he’s standin’ there with—”
“I don’t see Benedict,” Beauford interrupted, his gaze sweeping the bar-room.
“And ye likely won’t, for I seen the fop makin’ tracks for Kingston Hill when I was on me way here,” Clancy said.
Beauford turned from the slot and Clancy and Doone saw that the hooded black eyes were suddenly bright with purpose.
“We mightn’t ever see them separated again,” the saloonkeeper said, “so we’ve got to make the most of this.”
“You mean—?” Clancy began eagerly.
“I mean we get him out of the way,” Beauford snapped. “Now.” He shook his head as Doone eagerly fingered his gun. “No. If we shoot him down cold, Benedict might start cutting loose and we’re not ready for him just yet.”
“But, Judas, Ace,” protested Doone who’d been straining at the leash to take a crack at Benedict and Brazos from the start, “I could take that big jackass left-handed. I could—”
“I said no.” Beauford turned his black eyes to Clancy who was smacking his fist into his palm. The murderous eagerness in the giant’s eyes was a little frightening to see. “I think there’s a better way ... a surer way ...”
“Name your poison, mister.”
“Rye whisky,” Brazos said.
“One rye whisky comin’ up.”
“And a dish of beer.”
Turning away to get the whisky, barmaid Rosie Clinton blinked and turned back to the big man in the faded purple shirt.
“A dish of beer you said, mister?”
Brazos grinned. “Not for me. For him.”
Rosie, a sturdy, good-natured woman of forty, leant over the bar and then pulled back quickly when she saw Bullpup staring at her with thirsty yellow eyes.
“It’s all right, ma’am,” Brazos assured her. “He’s harmless.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Rosie said and went off to fill the unusual order. Returning with the whisky and the dish of beer, she watched curiously as Brazos set the dish on the floor and Bullpup commenced to lap into the beer with a hearty smacking of the tongue.
“Say, he really goes for that stuff, doesn’t he?”
“At drinkin’ or eatin’ he’s a natcherl champeen,” Brazos announced proudly.
“Does he get drunk?”
“Only on the fourth of July and his birthday.”
Rosie didn’t know whether he was pulling her leg or not. She studied Brazos for a moment as he stood leaning against the bar sipping his whisky, then said. “You’re one of them fellers that Foley Kingston brought in, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, ma’am.” Brazos tipped his hat. “Hank Brazos is the name.”
Rosie Clinton nodded soberly and looked around her. Two minutes before Brazos came in, the bar-room of the Silver King had been filled with talk and noise. Now it was quiet with just about every eye in the place fixed heavily on the big Texan.
She said quietly, “I suppose you know most of the miners from the Motherlode hang out here, big boy?”
“Guessed it, ma’am,” admitted Brazos, who’d seen little but blue denim since entering the saloon. “Anythin’ special about that?”
Rosie, who had a soft heart, nodded. “Reckon so, big boy. I guess it wouldn’t come as any surprise that you aren’t exactly the most popular fellow around town with the miners. Just between you and me I think I’d be doing my drinking somewhere else.”
“Why, thank you kindly for your advice, ma’am, but I reckon I’m comfortable here.”
Studying him, Rosie wondered for a moment if he understood her warning. Then she saw the twinkling confidence in the blue eyes and realized that he just wasn’t the type to scare easily. Taking a good second look at his wide shoulders, she understood why.
A customer called the barmaid away and Brazos pulled out his Bull Durham and commenced to build a cigarette. Facing the batwings, he’d just set the cigarette alight and was picking up his glass when somebody bumped him from behind, spilling his whisky. Brazos straightened. Standing before him, massive and scowling, was Paddy Clancy.
“Faith now and it’s a careless man you are with your elbows in a bar-room, Mr. Gunfighter,” the Irishman said. “You’re like to knock the wind out of a man throwin’ your arms about that way.”
Sensing the threat in the man’s voice, Bullpup bared his teeth but Brazos ordered him to sit. Looking past Clancy’s massive shoulders, Brazos saw Ace Beauford and his gunfighter, Holly Doone, leaning against the bar ten feet away. Brazos felt the hair on the back of his neck rise at the smell of trouble.
“I’m waitin’, lad,” Clancy told him.
“For what?”
“Why, for you to be sayin’ as how you’re sorry for bumpin’ me in the stomach, o’ course.”
Hank Brazos had been in too many bar-room brawls not to realize that Paddy Clancy was bracing him. And the crowd knew it, too, for now the Silver King Saloon was almost totally silent and every eye was on the two big men at the bar.
Brazos smiled easily and said, “I don’t reckon as how I’ll be apologizin’, seein’ as it was you that bumped me, Clancy. But just to show you there’s no hard feelings, why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”
Paddy Clancy’s eyes glittered as he mistook the other’s attitude for lack of nerve.
“You’ll have to be excusin’ me, for it’s never been me habit to share a glass with dirty butcherin’ gunfighters.” Clancy smiled mockingly. “You can understand how I feel, can’t you, lad?”
Brazos could feel his patience wearing thin, but he managed to keep a rein on his rising annoyance. There were times when he would gladly walk five miles for the prospect of a good drag out brawl. But that wasn’t the case here. There was more than enough trouble in Spargo without him tangling pointlessly with big Paddy Clancy. So he scratched his navel, glanced at the batwings, sighed, drained his glass and straightened.
“Let’s go, Bullpup.”
“What’s this?” Clancy growled as Brazos turned to leave. “We haven’t finished our little bit of business, gunfighter.”
“No business to finish as far as I’m concerned.”
“What’s the matter, Brazos? No guts?”
Brazos froze. He turned slowly, blue eyes like chips of steel. “I reckon I’ll be askin’ you to take that back, Clancy.”
Delighted with the response his insult had brought, Clancy stood with his feet wide apart, massive hands hooked in his three-inch-wide leather belt.
“Oh, I’m a frightened lad and no mistake.” His face turned scornful. “Gunfighters! I never seen one yet that was a man. Back home in old Ireland, the only feller you’ll ever see carryin’ a gun is some underfed little imitation of a man that don’t have the stomach to fight fair. I guess that’s how it is with you, gunfighter, big as you are.”
Brazos glanced at the batwings. He knew he could still walk out on this. But, looking back at Clancy and the silent, expectant crowd, he realized that if he backed down to Clancy now, there was no telling where it would end. So far he and Benedict had managed to keep on top of the game here in Spargo, but that could fall apart quickly if they were to lose their hard-won respect. Were he to back away, others might interpret it as a sign of weakness and it would only be a matter of time before somebody else tried to take him down another peg. With the odds so heavily stacked against them in Spargo, that wasn’t something they could allow to happen.
Brazos came slowly back to Clancy, weighing him up with an expert eye. It wouldn’t be easy, he calculated—then suddenly he wasn’t thinking of anything as Clancy laughed and spat in his face.
Brazos’ blurring right fist caught the giant square on the jaw and sent him staggering. For a moment astonishment showed on Clancy’s rugged visage. He’d felt the enormous power behind that punch. Then with the excited shouting of the crowd in his ears, Clancy cocked his fists professionally, stepped in lightly with a left to Brazos’ ribs, then caught him hard on the shoulder with a booming right that almost knocked him off his feet.
The Silver King was a silent arena as the combatants circled each other warily. Brazos’ blue eyes were no longer lazy, and Clancy was grinning behind his fists.
Suddenly Brazos attacked. Moving swiftly he slid away from a left and went through Clancy’s guard to connect with a whistling straight right to the nose that drew crimson. He followed with a booming left rip to the ribs that made a sound like an Apache war drum, then he ducked low as Clancy roared and swiped a wicked hook at his head.
The hook missed but a ripping uppercut that seemed to come from nowhere didn’t. Brazos found himself staggering back, his vision clouded. Ducking instinctively, he felt another blow whistle past his ear. He shook his head desperately to clear it and then, as Clancy came in again, he grabbed the Irishman and clinched.
“Ah, beginnin’ to feel the weight of Clancy’s fists already are ye, gunfighter?” Clancy mocked.
With a burst of power, Brazos broke away, punched both fists hard to the face, then switched his attack to the mid-section and sledged in three quick rips.
“You can’t be hurtin’ me there,” Clancy boasted, then sent Brazos back ten feet with a straight left that had the kick of a pile-driver.
Shaking his head, Brazos came back into it and for a brutal minute they stood toe-to-toe slugging it out with the excited roar of the spectators threatening to lift the Silver King’s roof. Both men were bleeding as first one, then the other, seemed to get the upper hand. Brazos was incredibly strong, but it seemed to the experts in the crowd, including Beauford and Holly Doone, that Clancy was surely getting on top.
It was beginning to seem that way to Brazos, too. He’d never encountered a man of Clancy’s strength. He seemed almost to enjoy the crash of knuckles against his big head and rock-like body, and his blows seemed to be picking up power as he went along.
“Ah, you poor fool, Brazos!” Clancy panted gleefully as a sledging right to the mid-section had Brazos hanging on again. “You weren’t for knowin’ that I’m goin’ to kill you, were you?”
The threat penetrated Brazos’ numbed senses. Staring at Clancy from behind the protection of his fists as he backed away, he realized that the man meant what he said. This wasn’t just a test of strength—Clancy was trying to kill him!
The awareness that he was fighting for his life and not just a victory sent a fierce flood of strength surging through Brazos’ battered body. Feigning weakness, he half stumbled as the bullocking Clancy caught him with a glancing left. Clancy swallowed the bait and dropped his guard as he attempted to cripple Brazos with a kick. Brazos dodged the boot and came back in like an express train, butting to the jaw with his head, punching to the heart and kneeing to the groin all in one smashing assault.
Clancy looked hurt for the first time in the fight, pain and astonishment showing clearly in his face. Snarling, he threw himself at Brazos and wrapped a headlock around his neck, trying to reef him off his feet. When that failed he threw him on a table, smashing it to fragments. Snatching up a broken table leg, he swiped at Brazos’ head as he bounced to his feet. Ducking, Brazos dived low, seized the giant’s legs and heaved. The saloon shook to its foundations as Clancy crashed down. A lashing boot caught Brazos square in the guts as he made to leap on his downed opponent. He staggered back, tripping over the broken table. Clancy got half erect and dived at him, but Brazos swung up both feet to catch him in the belly. Clancy roared wildly as he flew through the window, hit the porch with a mighty crash and rolled into the street. Dazedly, he struggled to his feet as Brazos came lunging through the batwings with a mass of excited spectators behind him.
It wasn’t over yet.