Standoff in Santa Fe (3 page)

The five friends continued to drink and talk, Bat filling them in a bit on Ben Conlon.

“He's a gambler, and well traveled,” Bat said. “And I'm talking about overseas—Europe. The Orient. He's traveled and gambled and won. He owns a couple of places in San Francisco. I didn't know he had bought a place here in Santa Fe. I wonder where else he's got his grubby little fingers.”

“Grubby?” Reeves asked.

“Just because he's well traveled doesn't make him a gentleman,” Bat said. “The man's got no manners. I'm tellin' you, this wake is a front for somethin' else. He's got a reason for wantin' to get us all here—lawmen and outlaws.”

“And in between,” Clint said.

“Maybe somebody should talk to him about it,” Reeves suggested.

“Or at least find out when the damn thing is gonna start,” Heck said. “We might all be too drunk to gloat.”

Bat looked at Clint.

“Don't look at me,” he said, “I don't know him.”

“You know everybody.”

“Not this Conlon. You're the guy, Bat.”

“You don't understand,” Bat said. “I dislike this man intensely.”

“Because of the way he dresses?” Luke asked.

“Because of the way he does business,” Bat said. “There's nothing on the up-and-up with him, whether it's business or poker.”

“I tell you what,” Clint said. “I'll go with you to make sure you don't kill him.”

“That'll work,” Bat said. “Let's finish our drinks and then find out where he is.”

*   *   *

It was unusual for a saloon owner's office to be upstairs. Most of them liked to be down on the main floor with their business. This was just another way Conlon was different.

As they went up the stairs, Clint said, “Maybe he likes to look down at his business.”

“Whatever his reason is,” Bat said, “I don't like it.”

They walked to the door and Clint knocked. The door was opened by a man wearing a suit that looked as if it had been slept in. He had a massive head of hair that went in all directions. He was in his mid-forties, and his hair was starting to go gray from black, so it looked a bit salt-and-pepper at the moment.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” he said, “Bat Masterson.”

“Conlon.”

“And who's this with you?”

“Meet my friend, Clint Adams.”

“The Gunsmith,” Conlon said. “I'm honored. Why don't you gents come on in?”

The man stepped back to allow Clint and Bat to enter. The inside looked like a whore's bad dream. Red and blues—red lamps, blue curtains—indicated that Conlon had little or no taste.

Standing in a corner, however, was a woman in a blue dress. She was tall, dark-haired, had a full bosom shown off by the low-cut neckline of her gown.

“Allow me to introduce you to Alicia Simmons,” Conlon said. “Alicia, this is Clint Adams, and that is my old friend Bat Masterson.”

“Your friend?” she said. “That's not the impression I get whenever you speak of him, Ben.”

Conlon laughed.

“A pleasure, ma'am,” Clint said.

“Indeed,” Bat echoed.

“My pleasure, gentlemen,” she said, inclining her head slightly.

“What brings you gents up here?” Conlon asked.

“The wake, Ben,” Bat said. “When do you think it will start? We got folks down there gettin' antsy just bein' around each other.”

“Oh?” Conlon asked. “Who-all is here?”

“Bass Reeves and Heck Thomas are standing at the bar together,” Bat said. “And Luke Short.”

“Wes Hardin and Jim Miller have come in separately,” Clint added.

“Well,” Conlon said, “that does sound like a volatile situation, but I'm afraid the wake will have to be put off until tomorrow.”

“Why?” Bat asked.

Conlon spread his hands and said, “Unforeseen circumstances.”

“Wouldn't it be a nice idea to let people know?” Clint asked.

“Speaking just from a business standpoint,” Conlon said, “that kind of an announcement might cause people to leave, and it's very busy down there.”

“Oh, I get it,” Bat said. “This is simply a chance for you to make more money.”

“It's all about money, Bat,” Conlon said. “You know that.”

“I know that about you, Ben,” Bat said.

Conlon spread his hands and said, “I haven't changed, Bat.”

“No,” Bat said, “I can see that.” He turned and left the room, leaving Clint with Conlon and the lady.

“I assure you,” Conlon said, “there will be a wake tomorrow.”

“Unless,” Clint said, “there are some more unforeseen circumstances, huh?”

“Well . . .” Conlon said.

“Ma'am,” Clint said. “Sorry we didn't have a chance to talk.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” she assured him.

Clint turned and left the room.

“Well,” Alicia Simmons said, “Bat Masterson and the Gunsmith?”

“I told you they'd all be comin' in for this,” Conlon said. “Did you hear what they said about John Wesley Hardin and Killin' Jim Miller?”

“I swear you get more excited about the killers than the lawmen,” she said.

“Well, they are more exciting,” he said, “because there is no telling what they will do.”

“And what do you suppose the others are going to think of the wake being put off until tomorrow?”

“I don't know,” he said, “and I don't care. I just want time to get more of them in here.”

“Expecting anyone in particular?” she asked.

“Well, I wasn't expecting the Gunsmith,” Conlon said, “so we're already ahead of the game. I was kind of hoping for Bat, which we got, and I'd like to see Wyatt Earp walk through those batwing doors.”

“My goodness,” she said, “you
are
aiming high.”

“There's no point in living if you don't aim high,” he told her. “Remember that.”

“I remember everything you tell me, Ben,” she said. “I'm learning a lot.”

“Good,” Conlon said. “Let's keep it that way.”

*   *   *

“What do you think?” Clint asked, finding Bat waiting for him outside the door.

“I told you, he's plannin' somethin',” Bat said. “He's probably waitin' for some trouble to erupt, for the bullets to fly in his place, for maybe Wes Hardin to kill himself a Bat Masterson or a Gunsmith.”

“Well, that's not going to happen,” Clint said, “not with you watching my back and me watching yours.”

“We'll have to warn Bass and Heck,” Bat said, “that this is what Conlon's waiting for.”

“What about Hardin and Miller?”

“You think they'd listen to us?” Bat asked.

“Well,” Clint said, “Miller's bedbug crazy, but Hardin might.”

“You're welcome to try.”

“Thanks,” Clint said. “I'll think about it. Let's go back downstairs.”

Clint and Bat rejoined Bass Reeves, Heck Thomas, and Luke Short at the bar and told them the news.

“Anybody else come in while we were upstairs?” Clint asked.

“Heck thought he recognized somebody, but he said you'd know for sure,” Reeves said.

“Where?” Clint asked.

“See the girl in the blue dress. She's got her hand on his shoulder.”

Clint looked and saw a man he considered a friend.

“That's Elfego Baca,” he said. “He's a hell of a lawman.”

“Yeah,” Bat said, “I've heard stories about him—from you, actually.”

“He's a young legend,” Clint said. “I'll go over and say hello.”

“Tell him what's goin' on,” Bat said. “We'll keep our eyes open for anyone else.”

Clint took his beer with him to Baca's table. The younger man saw him coming and stood up with a big smile.

“Clint,
amigo
,” he said, spreading his arms expansively. The two men embraced. “I assume we are here for the same reason?”

“To pay our respects,” Clint said, “but I have to warn you, there are some large egos and crazy people in the room right now.”

“I assume you are not referring to your friend Bat Masterson.”

“Well, Bat's got an ego, but no, I'm not referring to him,” Clint said.

“Fear not,” Baca said, “I saw both John Wesley Hardin and Jim Miller when I walked in.”

“Keep an eye on them, and on whoever else comes in,” Clint said. “I think the point of this wake is to get us all together and hope that we clash.”

“Lawmen and outlaws in the same space,” Baca said. “Why should they clash, eh?”

“I just wanted to warn you.”

“I appreciate that,” Baca said.

“Come over and meet Bat, Luke, and Bass Reeves later,” Clint said. “You know Heck Thomas, don't you?”

“I believe we met once before,” Baca said. “I will certainly come and meet them. It's very good to see you,
amigo
.”

“You, too,” Clint said. He turned and walked back to the bar.

“You know what?” Heck Thomas said. “I think I'm gonna get out of here and get somethin' to eat. Anybody want to join me?”

“I'll come along,” Bat said.

“Bass and I had steaks before we came in,” Clint said. “I can't eat again until later.”

“Speak for yerself,” the big black lawman said. “I can always eat.”

“Well, okay then,” Clint said. “I'll hold down the fort here.”

“I thought we were gonna watch each other's backs?” Bat asked.

“We are, but we're not joined at the hip,” Clint said. “Besides, Baca's here. Don't worry. Go and eat, and then come back. I'll keep track of the arrivals.”

“All right, then,” Bat said. He looked at Reeves. “You had a steak?”

“Yeah, but not a good one.”

“Okay,” Heck Thomas said, “we'll find someplace else.”

The four men went out the batwing doors. Clint looked down the bar, noticed that John Wesley Hardin and Jim Miller were still maintaining a distance from each other.

Clint called the bartender over and said, “Another beer here.”

“Comin' up.”

*   *   *

Clint was halfway through his fresh beer and no one new had come through the doors. But he did notice someone coming toward him from out of the crowded saloon floor.

“Buy a girl a drink?” Alicia Simmons asked, sidling up next to him.

“What will you have? Champagne?”

“How did you guess?”

“You look like a lady who likes good champagne.” He waved to the bartender, who nodded. In moments he was there with a glass of champagne for Alicia.

“Thank you,” she said, either to Clint, the bartender, or both. “We didn't get a chance to talk before. I thought I'd remedy that by coming down here.”

“What's on your mind?”

“I think you know,” she said. “I think you knew it, like I did, as soon as you came into the room.”

“Are we talking about the same thing?” he asked.

She licked some champagne off her bottom lip and said, “I think we are.”

“What about Mr. Conlon?”

“We're business partners,” she said.

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“Does he know that?”

“He should.”

“Well, then, I only have one thing to say.”

“What?”

“Lead the way.”

Conlon came out of his office, moved to the rail, and looked down at the saloon floor. He watched as Bat Masterson, Bass Reeves, and Heck Thomas left, but he knew they'd be back.

Looking around the room, he located John Wesley Hardin, Killin' Jim Miller, and the young lawman, Elfego Baca. Things were really shaping up even better than he might have thought.

But there was more coming, much, much more.

Then he saw Alicia standing at the bar with Clint Adams, holding a glass of champagne, and he knew what champagne did to her.

He turned and went back into his office, suddenly not so happy . . .

*   *   *

Alicia took Clint's hand and with her other hand picked up the bottle of champagne. She led him through the saloon and up the stairs. They walked by the door to Conlon's office, passed a couple more doors before she opened one, and they went inside. She turned and came into his arms for a hungry kiss.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Champagne does something to me.”

“Something good, if you ask me.”

She danced away from him, found two glasses, filled them with champagne, and handed him one.

“Is it really this wake that brought you to Santa Fe?” she asked.

“What else could it be?” he asked, sipping the champagne.

She shrugged, drank some champagne, licked her lips. He put his glass down, stepped to her, and pulled her close. He tasted the champagne from her lips.

“Mmm,” he said, “I like the champagne better that way.”

“Then you'll love this,” she said.

She stepped back, set her glass aside, reached behind her to undo something, and the dress fell to her waist. Her breasts were high and firm, like ripe peaches. She picked up her glass and poured the contents over her breasts. The champagne rolled down to her nipples. Where it dropped off.

“You're right,” he said.

He stepped forward and stooped—but not much, because she was tall—to lick the champagne first from her nipples, and then the slopes of her breasts.

She cradled his head there as he lingered over her nipples, sucking and biting them. He reached for her dress and pulled it the rest of the way down so she could step out of it. Then she reached for his belt—first the gun belt, which he hung on her bedpost, and then the belt of his pants.

It was a comedy of errors as they tried to get his pants off over his boots, so he took the boots off first and tossed them aside. Finally, his pants were off and she was on her knees in front of him. She grabbed the bottle of champagne, poured some on his thickening penis, then began to lick it off avidly before taking him fully into her mouth and sucking him with abandon. She moaned as she sucked him, slid her hands around to clutch at his buttocks, digging her nails into his flesh. He knew there'd be marks left there when they were done.

He pulled his shirt off, then wrapped his hands in her hair as she continued to work on his cock with her mouth. She wet him thoroughly with her saliva, then washed him off with champagne, only to lick that off again. By the time she was done, his penis was red and raging.

He reached down to put his hands beneath her arms and lifted her up. He felt the slight stubble there, which he found excited him.

He kissed her and backed her up to the bed. When the backs of her thighs struck the mattress, she fell on it, with him on top of her.

He kissed her all over, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, even under her arms, where he rubbed his face in that dark stubble. Even the smell of her armpits excited him.

Her breasts just filled his hands as he worked farther down her body with his mouth. By the time he nestled his face between her legs, he was reaching up to palm her breasts and use his thumbs on her nipples.

When he flicked his tongue out at her, she gasped and went as taut as a bow.

*   *   *

Conlon knew that Alicia had Clint Adams in her room with her. It was obvious what they were doing. She was curious about Adams, about what really brought him here, and wanted to find out, but he didn't think she had to sleep with him to do it.

He was angry, but had to control himself. After all, she was just a woman, and he had plenty of women working for him in the saloon. Any one of them would have been happy to come to his bed. Of course, the problem was none of them could hold a candle to Alicia. They didn't have her class, her looks—her body—or her intelligence.

So he poured himself a drink, sat behind his desk, and tried not to imagine what they were doing in her room down the hall.