Kentucky Showdown by J. R. Roberts Page B

Fontaine asked. “I thought you hid your trail. I thought you were good at this.”
    â€œI did, and I am,” Fontaine said, “but he hired John Sun Horse.”
    â€œThat drunken Indian?”
    â€œThat drunken Indian is the best tracker I know of,” Blacker said.
    â€œAnd how did Adams know to hire him?”
    â€œHe must have been recommended to him.”
    â€œBy who?”
    Blacker shrugged.
    â€œCould have been anybody in town who knew enough to do it,” he said. “Maybe the sheriff.”
    â€œAll right,” Fontaine said. He sat back in his chair. “All right,” he said again. “So I should be expecting a visit from Clint Adams.”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œWhen that happens,” Fontaine said, “I want you around.”
    â€œIt’s either gonna happen today or tomorrow,” Blacker told him.
    â€œThen get yourself a bunk in the bunkhouse,” Fontaine said.
    â€œNot without bein’ on the payroll.”
    â€œI pay you a lot as it is,” Fontaine said.
    â€œA little more never hurt.”
    â€œOkay,” Fontaine said. “You’re on the payroll. Tell Quincy to give you a bunk.”
    â€œOkay,” Blacker said. “Boss.”
    Fontaine waited for Blacker to leave, then stood up, walked to a sidebar, and poured himself a whiskey. Clint Adams was a famous man. There had to be some way for Fontaine to use that fame to make himself some money. If there was a way, he’d find it, because that was what Pete Fontaine did.
    He took any situation, and made money from it.

TWENTY-ONE
    Clint returned to the Canby ranch in time for supper. He entered the house, found Canby sitting alone at the table.
    â€œJust in time,” Canby told him.
    â€œLet me clean up,” Clint said. “I’ll be right back.”
    He went into the kitchen, surprising Elena, who was standing at the stove.
    â€œCan I wash up in here, Elena?”
    â€œYes, sir,” she said. “Go ahead.”
    Clint washed and dried his hands. “That smells great,” he told her.
    â€œIt’s a roast. I’m glad you got back in time,” she said.
    â€œSo am I,” he said, and went back out to the dining room.
    â€œWhere have you been all day?” Canby asked.
    â€œTrying to find the man who was watching us this morning.”
    â€œAnd did you?”
    â€œI think so,” Clint said. “I hired a man named John Sun Horse to track him.”
    â€œSun Horse? The drunken Cherokee?”
    â€œHe never drinks while he’s working.”
    â€œWhat did he find?”
    â€œHe tracked the rider to Peter Fontaine’s doorstep.”
    â€œFontaine?”
    Elena came through the kitchen door carrying the roast, stopped short, apparently when she heard the name. She came forward again, placed the roast on the table, exchanged a look with Canby, and went back to the kitchen.
    â€œWhat was that about?”
    â€œShe worked for Pete Fontaine for a short time.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œShe quit.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œShe never said, but we can assume it was nothing good.”
    â€œWhat’s your relationship with Fontaine?”
    â€œI hate the sonofabitch.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI did business with him once or twice, came out on the short end. He’s ruthless. Will do anything to make money.”
    â€œThat’s what I heard,” Clint said. “So he sent somebody to watch the horse work out.”
    â€œHe’s looking for an edge,” Canby said, taking a piece of roast.
    â€œJust to make a bet?” Clint wondered aloud. “Or for some other reason?”
    â€œLike what?” Canby asked.
    The kitchen door opened again and Elena came out with a platter of vegetables. She set it on the table and returned to the kitchen.
    â€œI don’t know what,” Clint said, adding vegetables to his plate. “I thought you would, since you