Ace in the Hole (14 page)

Clint dealt the first hand and won a small pot. He also won a glare from Micah McCall, and wondered if he was going to have trouble with the man.

“For the money we're playing for,” the man complained as the deal passed to him, “we should have a dealer.”

“I don't mind dealing my own games,” Charlotte said. “Mixes things up.”

“Five-card stud,” McCall said, and dealt the hand out.

With Kent gone—lying dead on the floor of his hotel room in Gardner, a town Calhoun would never return to—they had six men: Calhoun, Coffin and the four men who had come to town with Kent. Those four men were not at all curious about where Kent was. They still looked at him as a lawman, and as far as they were concerned, it was good riddance.

The six men rode out to the Double-D Ranch and, in the dark, were able to slip through the sparse security patrols John Deal had arranged.

“He's bound to have better security than this at the house, though,” Calhoun said to Coffin.

They were riding together, ahead of the other four men.

“That'll be for you and me to handle,” Coffin said. “We can let those four take care of whatever foot patrol they have outside the house, then we slip in and take care of the inside.”

“We'll have to let them in,” Calhoun said. “We don't know how many guns are gonna actually be in the room with the cardplayers, but we have to take care of Clint Adams first.”

They knew they would have to search the house for the room where the game was being played, unless they could get somebody to tell them.

“That shouldn't be too hard,” Coffin said. “If we kill one man in front of another, then that one should talk.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Calhoun said.

“You were tellin' that sheriff we were gonna wear masks,” Coffin said. “What was that about?”

“I didn't want him backin' out until I was ready to get rid of him,” Calhoun said.

“So no masks?”

“No masks.”

“That means we're gonna do some killin',” Coffin said.

“We're gonna do some killin'.”

“How much?”

Calhoun looked at his partner and said, “Everybody in or around that house.”

Not to mention, they both thought, the four men riding behind them. Calhoun and Coffin were determined to be the only men walking away when it was all over.

The first hour was a feeling-out period. The only man Clint ever played against before was Dick Clark. He had never played against Charlotte when she was Lottie Deno. He didn't know if Dick Clark had.

The Frenchman was just plain bad. He had a habit of clearing his throat when he had a good hand. Clint didn't know why the Swedish banker had chosen this man to represent his hundred thousand.

Red Conrad played his cards close to the vest in a very tight game. Clint knew that when the man raised, he had something.

Micah McCall was aggressive, which made him hard to read. He pretty much bet the same way whether he had something or not.

Dick Clark was, of course, a brilliant poker player.

Clint didn't know what Charlotte had been doing since her days as Lottie Deno, but it didn't seem to have affected her play.

After the first hour Clint was slightly ahead. He had raised on three hands and had taken them all down. He had made folds on good hands twice, once to Dick Clark's full house and once to Charlotte's flush. Five good hands out of six played the first time around the table, and he had won three of them.

“You're a lucky man,” Micah McCall said to Clint as they started the second time around the table.

“Luck's got nothing to do with it,” Clint said. “It's all skill.” He wanted to get under the man's skin.

He thought he was succeeding.

Dave Coffin snuck behind one of the guards. One arm snaked around the man's neck, and before he could make a sound, a knife was thrust into his back. The man bucked and shuddered. Coffin lowered him to the ground gently and released him when he knew he was dead.

On the other side of the house Calhoun had his arm around the neck of a guard. He and Coffin had agreed that they should probably be the ones to take out the guards. The other four men were just guns at the end of an arm. They were for show. They didn't want to have to depend on them for anything fancy.

He tightened his arm and asked in the man's ear, “How many guards inside?”

“Two.”

“Where?”

“Downstairs.”

“What floor is the game being played on?”

“We don't know,” the guard said. “They didn't tell—”

Calhoun snapped the man's neck and lowered the body to the ground, then he waved for the four other men to join him. They were all hiding near the barn, and came running at the same moment Coffin came around from the side of the house.

“See anybody else?” Calhoun asked him.

“No, just those two.”

“You can tell this jasper has never hosted a high-stakes poker game before,” Calhoun said. “His security is a joke.”

“Good for us,” Coffin said.

‘Very good for us,” Calhoun said. “According to this one there are two guards inside the house, both on the first floor.”

“Let's go, then.” Coffin turned to the other men. “No shootin' unless we say, got it?”

“We got it,” one of them said.

Coffin didn't know his name, but it didn't matter. As far as he was concerned, they were faceless and nameless. And soon to be dead.

During the second hour everyone was deeply into the game, especially the spectators.

Arliss Morgan was very nervous, even though Clint was doing well. He leaned forward on every hand, holding his breath until the last card was dealt and the last bet was made. Arne Blom had quickly decided his man was overmatched and could only rely on luck. The Frenchman himself remained arrogant, but he was either posturing or clueless.

Conrad and McCall were losing. Conrad seemed unconcerned; McCall was growing more agitated. Clint knew Conrad had given up his gun. He assumed McCall had, too, since he saw no telltale bulge—unless the man had an expert tailor.

As far as Clint knew or could tell, he and Johnny Conrad were the only ones in the room who were armed.

Unless Mrs. Pyatt, still standing behind the bar, had a gun.

Downstairs, Calhoun, Coffin and their men had rounded up every member of the staff and gathered them in the kitchen. On the floor were the two guards, both dead.

“What the hell do they need all these people for?” Coffin asked, looking around the kitchen at the men and women who worked for John Deal.

“Cooking, cleaning,” Calhoun said, “whatever else a rich man wants done.” He thought that once he got away from here with his money, maybe he'd have a house like this, with people working for him.

Coffin pointed to one of the dead guards.

“He said the game's on the third floor. That's the top.”

“What do we do with all these people?” one of Calhoun's men asked.

“Tie 'em up for now,” Calhoun said. “We don't want to risk them makin' any noise.” He turned to Coffin, and they both turned their backs as he said, “We can finish them later.”

Coffin nodded and turned back.

“'Course, any of you wanna scream, we'll just shoot the bunch of you and deal with it.”

“Ain't nobody goin' ta scream,” one of the black hostages said.

“Lookit this,” Coffin said. “Four women and two black men. Don't you fellas know you was freed by the war?”

“We's freemen, suh,” one of them said. “We gets paid.”

“Not enough, I'll bet,” Calhoun said.

“No, suh,” the other one said, “not hardly enuff.”

While Clint was sitting out a hand, he noticed Mrs. Pyatt call John Deal over to the bar. They put their heads together and she spoke urgently. He nodded and moved away. Clint stood up and walked over to the man.

“What's wrong?”

“Somebody was supposed to have brought up sandwiches a while ago,” he said. “Mrs. Pyatt wanted to go find out why they haven't done so, but I told her to stay put, I'd go.”

“Is your staff usually prompt?”

“Very. This is unusual. Somebody's going to get fired. One or the other of my security men was also to have checked in with me every hour. We're into hour two, and I haven't seen any of them. Yes, someone is going to get fired.”

He started to turn away, but Clint grabbed his arm.

“Tell me your security setup.”

Deal outlined it briefly, inside and out, and Clint realized how woefully inadequate it was. He should have asked before.

“Stay here,” he said. “I'll go and check.”

“You think something may be wrong?” Deal asked.

“You tell me,” Clint said. “Your house staff and security have failed to do their job. Why would that be?”

“Oh, dear,” John Deal said. “I had assumed they were simply inept.”

“Well,” Clint said, “that could be. It could also be that they're all dead.”

“But…this is a private game.” Deal sounded puzzled. “I kept it all very hush-hush.”

“How many people work in the house?”

“Seven.”

“That, and the security men you brought in—somebody had to have talked.” Clint was thinking about Arliss Morgan's young wife.

“How many guns are in this room?” Clint asked.

“Just you and Mr. Conrad, the younger.”

“That's what I thought. Stay in this room, and keep everyone else in.”

Clint waved his hand at Johnny, got his attention and called him over.

“You and me are going to check the house.”

“Somethin' wrong?”

“Maybe. We're the only ones with guns.”

Johnny turned to look at his brother, who was concentrating on his cards.

“Let's go,” Johnny said.

As he opened the door, Clint heard Micah McCall ask, “Now where's he goin'?…”

Clint and Johnny Conrad slipped out of the room and into the hall, moving as silently as possible. Clint signaled for Johnny to go to the back stairs while Clint would check the front. Johnny nodded. They separated, both with their guns in hand. Clint watched as Johnny reached the end of the hall and started down.

There was no way to see down to the first floor, and even from the top of the stairs Clint would not be able to see much of the second. He cursed inwardly. He should have told Johnny not to go down, just to wait. If there was somebody in the house with the intention of taking down the game, they'd have to come up. All Clint and Johnny had to do was wait. Of course, there were the lives of the staff and the guards to consider. By going down, they might end up saving lives.

And, of course, there was always the possibility John Deal's staff actually
was
inept.

Clint decided to chance it and go down the stairs to the second floor. No one could get past him, and if Johnny got into trouble, he'd be able to hear it. As quickly as the younger man had been moving, he was probably already down one level.

Clint started moving toward the head of the stairs…

Calhoun, Coffin and the other four had made it as far as the second floor. They could see the stairs leading up to the third. They did not see, nor did they know, that there was another staircase in the back.

“There might be anther stairway in a house this size,” Calhoun said.

“What does that matter?” Coffin asked. “Here's the stairs. The directions we got to the room are from this staircase. Let's just go up and do this.”

“Okay,” Calhoun said. “You four go up first. When you get to the top, wait.”

None of the four men cared who went up first. The staircase was wide enough for them to go two or three abreast, so they went three with the fourth man behind them. Calhoun and Coffin brought up the rear, coming side by side.

None of them had their guns out.

Johnny Conrad made it to the second floor quickly and without incident. He hadn't taken the time to think about it that Clint had. He'd gone straight down, and now he had a decision. Keep going down to the first, or check out the rest of the second? He decided to go down to the first, and he did so as fast and quietly as he could. When he got there, he discovered he was in the kitchen. And when he saw the assemblage of people lying on the floor, good and hogtied, he turned and ran back up, yelling, “Somebody's in the house! Adams!”

Clint was being infinitely more deliberate than Johnny Conrad was. He was moving slowly, making his way to the head of the stairs. As he reached there and started down, he saw three men abreast starting up. He stopped short. They hadn't seen him yet, but all they had to do was look up. He had started to back up when he heard Johnny shouting something. He couldn't make it out, but the other men heard it as well. They looked up, and froze.

Calhoun heard the shouting and knew, somehow, the people in the kitchen had been discovered.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted to the men ahead of him. He had not yet seen Clint Adams.

Clint had no choice. He drew and fired in one swift motion. The three-man plateau below him all went for guns, but they were slow, and they were getting in one another's way. It took three shots from Clint's gun to stop them all.

As the three men came tumbling back down the stairs, they knocked the fourth man down. Coffin leaped back, avoiding the spill, and Calhoun was behind him.

“Damn it!” Calhoun said. “There's got to be another stairway. Hold him!” he shouted.

Coffin turned, but Calhoun was already running to the other end of the floor. Coffin grabbed the fourth man and pulled him to his feet, firing blindly up the stairs as he did.

Calhoun was only thinking about the money on the floor above him. He reached the back stairway and saw a man running up ahead of him. He had no qualms about shooting a man in the back, and that's what he did.

Johnny Conrad had no idea what had happened to him. He'd never been shot before. Something slammed into his back and then he was falling, tumbling back down the stairs, his gun flying from his hand…

Clint ducked the shots coming from the bottom of the stairs. The shot from the back stairs had blended in. He didn't know how many more men were there, but his best play now was to stay on the third floor and let them come to him.

Suddenly, it got quiet, and a voice called from downstairs.

“Adams? Is that you? Clint Adams? You ain't got a chance. We got a dozen men in the house.”

Clint knew that was a lie, but he still didn't know how many men there were.

“Come on down, Adams,” the voice said. “Come on down and we'll talk. We'll cut you in.”

Clint froze at the top of the stairs, waiting.

Calhoun reached the third floor and slowed himself down. He didn't want to run headlong into anything. He stuck his head around so he could look down the hall, saw a man standing at the top of the stairs and assumed it had to be Clint Adams. If he'd been looking for a reputation, he would have shot the man, but Adams was staring down and Calhoun could hear Coffin talking to him. Firing a shot would alert the man to his presence. If he moved quickly and quietly enough, he could get to the room with the money.

He stepped into the hall and started down it as fast as he could without attracting Clint Adams's attention.

Inside the room all the players and spectators had frozen and were now simply listening for the shots.

“Somebody go out there and help them!” Charlotte Thurmond shouted.

“Mrs. Thurmond,” Micah McCall said, “thanks to Mr. Deal, we have no guns. We'd just get in the way.”

Charlotte glared at Dick Clark.

“Well,” he said, standing, “I guess we should try to do something.”

He caught some movement from the corner of his eyes and saw Mrs. Pyatt waving to him from the bar.

Clint decided to try something else. If he could get to the back stairs and down to the second floor, he could come up behind the gunmen—however many of them were left.

As he turned to move up the hallway, he saw a man in front of the door to the game. He had a gun in one hand and the doorknob in another.

“Hold it!”

If that man got inside the room, he'd have a host of hostages.

Clint brought his gun around to fire, and as he did two men appeared at the bottom of the stairs…

Coffin heard Clint Adams shout, figured Calhoun had gotten around behind him.

“Take him! Take him!” he shouted to the one man he had left.

They both mounted the stairs and aimed their guns at Clint.

Again, Clint had no choice. If he fired at the man in the hall, the two on the stairs would kill him.

“Damn it!”

He turned his gun to the stairs and he and the two men there all fired at the same time, only the men fired once each and Clint fired twice. He felt something lick at his left arm, but he stood fast and put a bullet into each man's chest, then ran down the hall.

Calhoun entered the room without a shot from Clint Adams. The first thing he saw was the green felt table filled with chips. He looked around, didn't see a gun pointed at him.

“Where's the money?” he demanded.

“My good man—” Deal started.

Calhoun turned on him and decided to make him the example for the rest. Before he could fire, there was a shot and something stung him in the side of the neck. The strength went out of his arm and he groped for his gun as his mouth filled with blood.

At that moment Clint rushed in, just in time to see Calhoun fall.