Free Deadman Canyon by Louis Trimble Page B

piano player were on a raised platform at the rear of the room, and she was singing in a thin but pleasant voice.
    Clay’s eyes moved past her to a table where Bick Damson sat with his head down over a plate of food. He looked up suddenly, as if he’d felt Clay’s gaze. Even from where he stood, Clay could see that Damson was drunk and he tensed himself for possible trouble.
    Molly picked up her song again as Damson settled back and returned to his food, ignoring Clay.
    Clay walked quietly to an empty table on his left and sat down. Molly finished her song. Scattered applause sprang up. “Don’t let the faro dealer go to sleep, boys,” she called with forced gaiety. She stepped down from the platform and made her way to Clay.
    “You shouldn’t have come in here,” she said anxiously. “Damson’s drunk and he’s upset about something.”
    “I came for a meal, not a fight,” Clay said. He looked at her closely, noticing the little puckers of worry at the corners of her mouth, the tiredness around her eyes.
    “And to say hello better than I did the other day,” he added.
    Molly glanced toward the stairs by the bar. They were empty and she turned back to Clay. “Kemp is upstairs,” she said suddenly. “He — he wouldn’t like my talking to you.”
    “How much does it matter what Vanner likes or doesn’t like?” Clay demanded.
    “I work for him — in a way,” she said. She added, “It’s the only really good job I ever had in my life.” Her eyes were pleading as she stared down into Clay’s face. Beneath the pleading he saw again the warmth he had noticed the other time they had met.
    “I’m not trying to spoil anything for you, Molly,” Clay said. “Did I ever?”
    “No,” she answered fiercely. “You were about the only person in this town who didn’t though. You were the only person who ever treated me like a human being.”
    “Until Kemp Vanner came along,” Clay said. He saw color flood her cheeks and added, “Just because Vanner and I don’t get along doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends, Molly.”
    She was looking toward the stairs again. She said abruptly, “I’ll get you some dinner, Clay,” and hurried away, holding up the edge of her striking, close-fitting gold gown.
    Clay watched her go and then looked toward the end of the bar. Vanner was coming down the stairs, moving in that neat, graceful way of his. He showed no sign of being aware of Clay’s presence, but when he reached the foot of the stairs, he stopped Molly and spoke to her briefly. Then he came directly to Clay’s table.
    Clay turned his eyes toward Damson’s table. He was gone. Clay decided that Damson must have left while he talked to Molly. Uneasiness stirred inside of Clay. That wasn’t like Damson — to walk out on a chance for a fight.
    He pushed the thought of Damson aside as Vanner came quietly up to the table. Vanner pulled out a chair and sat down without being invited. He said pleasantly, “Your dinner will be along presently.”
    Underneath the pleasantness, Clay sensed coldness. He studied the smaller man, noting again the empty features, the deliberate, meaningless smile, the ice lying in the dark eyes.
    Vanner said, “I hear you claim you caught the mysterious sniper.” His voice was light.
    “News travels fast,” Clay said dryly. “Did you also hear I think you hired Coniff?”
    Vanner shook his head easily. “I hadn’t heard,” he answered. “But I’m not surprised.” His voice tightened almost imperceptibly. “Don’t make the mistake of confusing issues, Belden. Mr. Damson doesn’t want you around, but that doesn’t mean he’s trying to kill you.” Vanner’s smile was touched with contempt. “When he gets ready to run you out of the valley, he’ll do it his way. With his fists.”
    Clay’s uneasiness increased. Vanner was being too obvious. There was something behind these words, something more than just the bare threat against Clay himself.
    “He sent his hired