Free The Hunt for Clint Adams by J. Roberts Page A

location?”
    â€œThe Wellington Hotel,” Clint said.
    â€œWellington.” Roper sounded surprised.
    â€œYou know it?”
    â€œOpen two years ago, owned by a man named Harry Orchid.”
    â€œOrchid? That a real name?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œSome kind of flower, isn’t it?”
    â€œFancy one,” Roper said. “People grow them, and collect them.”
    â€œCollect flowers?”
    Roper laughed.
    â€œBetter than collecting bullets.”
    â€œYou have a point.”
    â€œI hear Tarver got out,” Toper said. “Think he’s behind the shooting?”
    â€œWhen Tarver comes for me, it’ll be head-on,” Clint said.
    â€œMaybe he’s . . .”
    â€œHe’s what?”
    Roper shrugged. “Maybe he’s trying to soften you up.”
    Clint thought about that. Send two men to shoot at him and miss? But why shoot Mulligan? What would be the point of that?
    â€œI’m hungry,” Roper said.
    â€œMe, too.”
    They finished their beers and went in to have supper.

TWENTY-THREE
    The poker game was the next evening. Clint came out of the Denver House and had the doorman hail him one of Mr. Joseph Hansom’s cabs.
    â€œYou know where the Wellington Hotel is?” he asked the driver.
    â€œSure do. New place. Real nice. But ain’t you stayin’ here?”
    â€œJust drive,” Clint said.
    It was a short ride before the driver pulled up in front of the Wellington. It may have been a new place, but the building was old. Someone had bought and renovated it, and opened the Wellington Hotel. It looked to have four floors. The building had apparently once been the home of some kind of warehouse.
    He paid the driver and walked to the front door. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with his “invitation,” so he decided to show it to the doorman.
    â€œYes, sir,” the doorman said. “See the desk clerk.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Clint entered the hotel and walked across the lobby, which was a combination of old and new: old wood walls and high ceilings buffed to a sheen and well-cared for, and new floors and furniture.
    He presented himself to the desk clerk.
    â€œHelp you, sir?”
    Clint showed him the playing card.
    â€œRight, sir, second floor, room two-oh-one. Just show the card to get in.”
    â€œThank you.”
    He was about to go up the stairs when he noticed that whoever had renovated the building had installed an Otis elevator. He’d only been in an elevator in New York, and hadn’t liked it much, so he went up the stairs.
    He walked to the door of room 201 and knocked. A big man in a suit with a bulge under his arm answered the door and stared expressionlessly at him. “Yes?”
    Again, Clint produced the card. The man stuck his hand in his own pocket and came out with what appeared to be the other half. He held the two halves together and regarded them critically. Finally satisfied that they were indeed two halves of the same card—and not just two halves of an ace of hearts—he said, “Come in, sir. I’ll need to pat you down.”
    â€œNo,” Clint said as the man went ahead and started.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œI have a gun, and I intend to keep it.”
    â€œMay I see it?”
    Clint took his Colt New Line from the small of his back and held it flat in his palm for the man to look at. He tried not to wear his gun belt on the streets of Denver, which was rapidly becoming one of the major cities in the United States. Located in the West, but not the Old West.
    â€œSir, I’m afraid you’ll have to give up the gun in order to play.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” Clint said. “Then I won’t play.”
    Apparently having one of their players leave was not an option.
    â€œJust a minute, sir, please.”
    They were standing in a small hall. The bouncer—or whatever he was called—went into the