After Clint left Eclipse at the livery, satisfied as to the horse’s perfect condition, he went to the Drinkwater for a beer. Buck was alone.
“Beer,” Buck said, putting a frosty mug down in front of him.
“Thanks.”
“When are you and the girl leavin’?”
Clint stared at the man.
“Ah, hell, don’t tell me,” Buck said, with a wave. “Just be careful.”
“Of what?”
“Everythin’,” Buck said. “Everybody.”
“Buck,” Clint said, “you hear everything that goes on in this place, don’t you?”
“Pretty much.”
“So you know things.”
“I don’t know nothin’, Mr. Adams,” Buck said. “Yeah, I hear some things, but I can’t put them all together. I mean, not ever.”
“You ever hear Restin talk about his daughter?”
“Sure,” the bartender said, “he says he loves her and wants the best for her. To him that means sendin’ her to school in Sacramento.”
“Does he think somebody might be trying to keep her from getting there?”
“I don’t think so,” Buck said, “but then he’s hirin’ the Gunsmith to take her there, so what’s that mean to you?”
“Something I don’t like, Buck,” Clint said. “Something I don’t like.”
Clint went back to his hotel. As he entered, the clerk started waving again.
“You better calm down, friend,” Clint said, approaching the desk. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”
“Sorry, sir, but she’s been sittin’ there, waitin’ for you for a couple of hours.”
“She?”
The man inclined his head. Clint turned to look, expecting to see Beth. Instead, seated on a sofa in the lobby was Terry Restin.
Vance Restin came charging out of his house, yelled out Ray Owens’ name.
Owens came running out of the livery up to the house and stopped in front of his boss.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Restin?”
“Have you seen Terry?”
“Ain’t she in the house?”
“If she was in the house would I be asking you if you had seen her?”
“No, sir,” Owens said, “I ain’t seen her.”
“Is her horse in the barn?”
“I, uh, didn’t notice. I was lookin’ in on that new foal—” the foreman tried to explain.
“Never mind that,” Restin said, cutting him off. “Go and check!”
“And if it’s not there?”
“Then saddle mine,” Restin instructed. “I have an idea where she might be.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Owens went back to the barn, Restin didn’t wait. He went back into the house.
“Terry,” Clint said to her, “what are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About what my father has hired you to do,” she said. “Let’s go to your room.”
“Oh no,” he said, “I’m not taking you to my room.”
“Why not?”
“Because a Restin has already gotten me thrown into jail for something I didn’t do.”
She firmed her jaw and asked, “Do you really think I’d cry rape?”
“I don’t know what you would or wouldn’t do to avoid going to Sacramento,” he told her. “If you really want to talk to me, let’s go someplace else.”
“The Drinkwater, then.”
“I’m not taking you to a saloo—”
“Relax,” she said. “My father owns it. I go there all the time. There’s never anybody there.”
“Well,” he said, after a moment, “okay, but I’m not buying you a drink.”
“Let’s just go,” she said. “I can buy my own damned drinks.”