The club looked like it used to be a hotel.
They stepped to the front door, but found their way blocked by a beefy man, who folded his arms. Clint noticed that he wasn’t armed.
“This is a private club.”
“I need to speak to one of your members,” Clint said. “Avery Kendall. Is he inside?”
“I ain’t seen him this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know what Mr. Kendall looks like,” the man said. “He’s our richest member.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “then I guess we’d better go over and check his office.”
“If he ain’t here,” the man said, “he’s probably over there.”
“Could he be eating somewhere?”
“He only eats here.”
“Okay, then,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
They turned to leave, and then Clint turned back.
“How do you stop somebody from getting in if they really want to get in, and they have a gun?”
The man smiled.
“I make ’em eat it.”
• • •
Mahoney led Clint to a large brick building.
• • •
“This looks like City Hall,” Clint commented.
“Nope,” Mahoney said, “just Mr. Kendall’s building. It’s the newest structure in town.”
“Impressive.”
“He has lots of money,” Mahoney said. “Lots.”
“And I assume he does business outside of Hutchinson? And outside of Kansas?”
“Oh, yes,” Mahoney said. “His holdings are far-reaching.”
They stepped to the door and tried the handle. It opened, and no one was there to block their way.
They found themselves in an entry hall, with doors all around them.
“Why all the offices?” Clint asked.
Mahoney shrugged.
“All I know is Kendall’s is upstairs in the front, where he can see the street.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “upstairs it is.”
They went up, turned, and saw a door that said AVERY KENDALL on it. That was all, just his name.
They stepped to the door, looked at each other, and knocked.
“Do you know him?” Clint asked quickly.
“We’ve met, but I don’t know if he’ll remember.”
A man’s voice yelled, “Come!”
Clint opened the door and they stepped in.
“Mahoney, isn’t it?” the man behind the desk asked. “Who’s your friend? Oh, wait a minute, don’t tell. The Gunsmith, right? Clint Adams?”
Kendall was a tall, gray-haired man in an expensive suit, sitting behind an equally expensive desk.
“You’re well informed,” Clint said.
“You bet I am,” Kendall said, “but him I know from the salt mine. I heard you were in town, heard you were friends with Ben Blanchard. If I can’t put two and two together by now, I don’t deserve to be as rich as I am. Come in, sit down. Can I offer you a drink? Some brandy?”
“Not for me,” Mahoney said.
“None for me either,” Clint said.
“Suit yourselves,” Kendall said. “If I can’t give you a drink, then what can I do for you?”
“You can answer a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Two of your men.”
“My men?”
“They work at your ranch.”
“Oh,” he said, “well, Kitty runs the ranch. Have you been out there?”
“We have,” Clint said. “She told us she fired them.”
“Well then, she did,” Kendall said. “That’s why I employ her, to do the hiring and firing—and she’s good at it.”
“We understand that,” Clint said. “But . . . did you know the two men?”
“I don’t even know what two men you’re talking about.”
“Nick Cordell and Wes Underwood,” Clint said.
“Still don’t know them,” Kendall said. “What did they do?”
“You know what they did,” Mahoney said. “They sabotaged our number one shaft, like you told them to.”
“That’s quite an accusation, Mr. Mahoney,” Kendall said calmly. “Why don’t you take it to the sheriff?”
“You know why,” Mahoney said. “The sheriff is firmly in your pocket.”
“Then go to the mayor, if that’s what you think.”
“There’s room in your pocket for him, too,” Mahoney said.
Kendall looked at Clint.
“If you listen to Mr. Mahoney,” he said, “you would think I had everybody in my pockets. That would give me very big pockets.”
“Deep,” Clint said.
“Excuse me?”
“What he’s saying is you have deep pockets.”
“If that’s a reference to my money,” the man said, “I have worked very hard to have deep pockets. I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“We’re not asking you to,” Clint said. “We’re just asking you—telling you—go keep the money in your pockets when it comes to the King Street Mine.”
“Or what, Mr. Adams?” Kendall asked. “You’ll shoot me down in the street? I’m afraid the days of solving your problems that way are gone. The Old West is dead, sir. And you are an anachronism.”
“Talk about an anachronism,” Clint said. “How about the rich man in town who tries to own everything?”
Kendall smiled and said, “Money never gets old, Mr. Adams.”
“Maybe not,” Clint said, “but you’ll find it hard to spend in prison.”
“Or dead,” Mahoney added.
Clint gave him an annoyed look.
“I think it’s time for you both to leave,” Kendall said.
“You may have sent those two men away, Mr. Kendall,” Clint said, “but I’m going to find them, and they’ll testify that you paid them to sabotage the mine.”
“I wish you good luck with that, Mr. Adams,” Kendall said.
“Come on,” Clint said to Mahoney.