Baldwin had never seen Kettleman. For that matter he had never seen Jay Gould or Commodore Vanderbilt, either. He had seen Harriman, a shrewd young man who would go far, and he knew Jim Fisk.
There was time. He was only forty years old and tremendously strong. In the twenty years since he had been a shoulder-striker for Tom Poole he had come a long way. The rest of them: Where were they? Dead or booze hounds, running games, or tending bar.
Jim Flint came into the room and sat down opposite Baldwin. His face was badly discolored and Baldwin heard murmurs. Not a soul among the twenty or so in the dining room did not know about that beating and how it had come about.
He felt his face growing red and it angered him. What did that fool Flint mean, coming into a hotel dining room? Porter Baldwin felt a slow anger growing within him. Buckdun was the only answer to this man.
Flint looked over at him and smiled a taunting smile.
“Hello, Port,” he said. “Some day you must try hitting me when my back is not turned.”
“I don’t brawl.”
“I think you’re yellow, Port. You hire your fighting done. But you know something, Port? I think you should go back to New York. If you don’t go now, you may never make it.”
Port Baldwin’s appetite was gone, and there seemed to be a chill in the room. It was strange he had not noticed it before.
Chapter 8
Flint did not finish his meal. Brief as was the exchange with Port Baldwin, it left him restless and irritable. He was aware that his whole manner had reverted to what it might have been had he remained in the West.
Outside the night was cool and the stars were out. He glanced to right and left along the street, feeling the old wariness returning.
During the years he had traveled with the first Flint, he had never been without this wariness, although he was never allowed in the vicinity of a killing, nor told exactly what his benefactor was doing. Always, he was left in some lonely spot to care for the horses. It was a good thing to have fresh horses where a man knew they would be.
He felt better after he had eaten. The pains did not bother him so much. Perhaps this was the onset of that feeling of well-being he had been told to expect when the end was drawing near.
He did not feel like a dying man. His mind accepted the verdict, but the blood in his veins flowed as always, and the night wind tasted as good. It was only when the pains came, and the retching, only when he found the blood on his lips that he could believe it with his body as well.
He crossed the walk and stepped into the saddle, turning downstreet. As he did so a man moved from the shadows not far away and started up the back stairs of the hotel. Flint recognized the tall, lean man from the train and, from talk he had overheard, he figured this would be Buckdun.
On impulse Flint turned his mare sharply and walked her to the foot of the stairs.
“Buckdun!”
The man turned warily. Dimly visible in the faint light from the hotel windows, he peered at Flint from under his hatbrim. Flint knew that his own face was equally invisible, although he sat plainly in the light from the front window of the hotel.
“Buckdun, leave the Kaybar alone. I am telling you now. I will not tell you again.”
Buckdun was a man who killed for money, and carefully, with no desire to risk himself. “I don’t know as I’ve heard of the Kaybar,” Buckdun replied. “Who might you be?”
“I am Flint.”
That name would mean more to Buckdun than the others, for he would know the legend and much of the fact around that name.
“I’d say you were a mite young. Seems to me Flint would be — well, maybe sixty years old now.”
“Maybe.” Flint turned his mare. “I think we understand each other, Buckdun. This is no challenge, just a piece of advice. I doubt if either of us really wants to fight the other.”
He walked the mare down the street and out of town.
Buckdun stood on the shadowed stairs and watched him go. How old had Flint been? The trail crew of the Three-X were supposed to have killed him in the fight at The Crossing, years ago. But no body ever was found. When the lights went on Flint was gone as well as the kid.
This might not be the original Flint, but if a man prepared for the worst he saved himself a lot of trouble.
When Buckdun shot Ed Flynn, he had him dead to rights till Flynn’s horse started acting up. It was the first time Buckdun had failed to make a kill. He was not a superstitious man, but there might be a sign in that failure. He had better leave Kaybar alone.
Buckdun went up the stairs to one of the hotel rooms. For an instant he stood inside the door, listening. He was sitting on the bed in the dark when Baldwin came in.
“You sent for me?” Buckdun said.
Baldwin took out a cigar, then offered one to Buck-dun, who accepted it. “We have to move faster. I want Tom Nugent.”
“All right.”
“And I want a Kaybar rider. Choose your own. I want to scare that girl out of there.”
“No.”
Baldwin looked at him past the glow of a match.
“I’ve been warned off Kaybar by a man who seems to be interested there.”
“Flint? What does it matter? He isn’t important.”
“Now, that’s a question. Mr. Baldwin, there was a man in my business named Flint. That was some years back. That man was a marvel, Mr. Baldwin. Every job was clean and smooth.”
“He’s dead?”
Briefly, Buckdun outlined the events at The Crossing. “This might be the same man. If he is, and if he starts gunning, he could be a trouble.”
“Are you afraid?” Baldwin’s tone was sarcastic.
“I am a businessman, Mr. Baldwin, in a business where I cannot do a good job if I have to worry about my back. Whether there is any connection with the old Flint or not, this one is unpredictable, as you have reason to know.”
“All right, leave him to me.”
“Sure.” Buckdun got to his feet. “Mr. Baldwin, I’d lay off the Kaybar if I were you. He might start hunting, and you’d be a sitting duck.”
Baldwin started to make an angry reply, but Buckdun interrupted. “You have been standing in front of a lighted window for several minutes. If I had been hunting you, you’d be dead. I take a professional interest, and you ain’t used to a rifle country, Mr. Baldwin.”
“You take care of Nugent,” Baldwin replied sharply. “I will take care of myself.”
“All right. But you better pay me for that Flynn job, and my advance on Nugent”
“You don’t trust me?”
“This ain’t a trusting business, Mr. Baldwin. You don’t trust nobody. Especially if they stand in front of windows. I won’t get far, Mr. Baldwin, with a claim against your estate.”
Buckdun stepped out of the door when his money was paid, closing it so softly there was no sound. Baldwin listened for footsteps, but heard nothing. Taking off his coat and loosening his stiff collar, Baldwin propped a couple of pillows behind him and sat on the bed to think. Flint worried him. Buckdun’s odd manner worried him still more, but stirred his impatience, also.
Flint turned the mare out to pasture. The big red horse was feeding close by. Flint held out sugar to him but the red horse would not take it from his fingers, although he accepted it from the flat rock within a yard of Flint.
The second piece the stallion took from his fingers, after stretching his nose toward the sugar several times. Later that afternoon Flint managed to get a hand on the stallion’s shoulder, talking to him gently. Still later he rubbed his back and scratched under his mane. Proximity and sugar were slowly winning him over.
That night Flint slept a sound sleep for the first time in months, and awakened thinking of Nancy Kerrigan and their long talks during his stay at the ranch.
He shaved, dressed in fresh clothing, and considered the situation. The thing to do was break Port Baldwin from the New York end. He thought for a minute, weighing possible allies in New York, the voting power of his stock, and other factors.
He saddled the mare, taking time out to pet the stallion, and even to pull himself half on to the red horse’s back. The stallion side-stepped a little, but seemed more concerned with getting more sugar than with objecting to the handling. He was quite sure he could ride the red stallion when he wanted to.