Vance Restin looked up when his houseman brought another man into his office.
“Mr. Peterson, sir,” the houseman said.
“Thank you, Everett. You can go.”
Everett, tall, grey-haired, remarkably fit for a man in his 60’s, backed out of the room and left.
“Sit down, Peterson,” Restin said.
Peterson sat. He wasn’t Restin’s foreman, but he was in charge of gunmen he hired.
“Did the message get delivered?”
“It did,” Peterson said, “right to the clerk at Adams’ hotel. Do you really think he’ll come?”
“He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong today,” Restin said. “His curiosity will bring him here.”
“And then?”
“You and your men will be ready.”
“We’re gonna kill him here?”
“That’s not the plan,” Restin said, “but I want you to be ready.”
Before he could go any further someone else entered the room.
“Daddy!” Terry Restin said, peevishly. “How dare you—”
“Terry!” he roared. “How many times have I told you not to come bursting into my office?”
The pretty blonde put her hands on her hips and glared at her father.
“You can’t scare me by yelling, Daddy. I don’t work for you, you know.”
Restin sighed, looked at Petersen and said, “You can go. I’ll talk to you and your men tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peterson stood up and left.
“Close the door,” Restin told his daughter.
“There’s nobody else in the house!” she said.
“Everett is here.”
“And you think you have secrets from him?” she asked, but she closed the door.
“Just sit down,” Restin said. “Tell me what’s on your mind … this time?”
“You know what’s on my mind,” she said. “I’m not going to Sacramento.”
“Yes, you are,” he said. “That’s where you’ll get the best education.”
“I’m twenty years old, Daddy,” she said. “I should be getting married, not going to college.”
“After you’ve graduated you can marry anybody you want,” he said. “Until then, any man who goes near you will have to deal with me.”
She folded her arms and said, “I’m not going. You can’t make me.”
“I not only can make you,” Restin said, “I’m going to have somebody take you.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
“One of your hired guns?”
“I said you’ll see. Now why don’t you go and do something with your hair or your nails? I have work to do.”
“Daddy,” she said, standing up, “you might send me there, or have somebody try to take me there, but I won’t stay there.”
“You’ll stay,” Restin said, “or you’ll find your pockets empty, little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl!”
“You’re my little girl,” he said, “until you graduate from college. Now go!”
She glared at him for a moment, then opened the door and stormed out, slamming it behind her.
When Dave Peterson entered the bunkhouse his three partners looked up from their card game at one end of the room. At the other end the ranch hands ignored—or tried to ignore—Peterson and his gunnies. They did not approve of having to share their bunkhouse with the gunnies.
“Wanna sit in?” Hank Spenser asked him.
“Naw,” Peterson said, but he did sit down with them. “Just talked to the boss.”
“And?” Ted Banks said.
“He says Adams should be here tomorrow.”
“We don’t wanna kill Adams here,” Stan Rhodes said. “Nobody’d see it. We wanna kill him in town.” The other men nodded their agreement.
“We do what we get paid to do,” Peterson reminded them.
“So we gotta kill him here?” Rhodes asked.
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Peterson said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You sure you don’t wanna sit in here?” Spenser asked.
Peterson looked at the table, saw that most of the pennies were in front of Spenser.
“Yeah,” he said, “okay.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and came out with a handful of change. “Deal me in.”