The wind rushed around the building, howling angrily under the eaves. The racket would cover any other sound short of a gunshot at pointblank range. It was not surprising to Six, then, that he had no inkling of anyone else’s presence in the room until he chanced to look around and saw Amy Preston standing by the banister, halfway down the big staircase across the room. Apparently the girl had just seen him. He couldn’t tell whether she was happy or simply surprised to see him. She came down the stairs and walked forward, and Six said, “I didn’t expect to see you in town.”

  “I came in after Sammy,” she said, and let it stay that way, as if it were an explanation of everything.

  Six said gently, “Maybe what he needs is a little less nursemaiding, Amy.”

  She stirred with brief anger. “If I hadn’t come when I did, he might have been killed. He was trying to draw his gun against that gunfighter across the street when I went in.”

  Six’s eyebrows went up. “January?”

  “Is that his name? The gambler, the thin one.”

  Six nodded. He was reaching for his coat. Amy said, “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to January. We’ve got enough trouble without him adding to it.”

  Amy said, “To be honest about it, Marshal, I don’t think it was his fault.”

  A high voice bellowed across the room: “Oh, wasn’t it?” Sammy Preston was up at the head of the stairs, looking down at them. He came down slowly, unsteady on his pins.

  Six could tell that Sammy was not altogether sober. Sammy reached the ground and came forward, working his face up into an angry scowl. He said belligerently, “I caught January cheating and called him for it. That Goddamn Keene kicked my gun out of my hand and gave January a chance to draw on me. I’d have had him dead to rights, otherwise.”

  Six shook his head. “The day hasn’t come when you could outdraw Will January, Sammy.”

  “You think so? Then maybe you don’t know how fast I can pull iron. I’m better than you may think, Marshal.” Sammy grinned recklessly. “You want to try me?”

  “Never mind,” Six murmured, frowning. He had other things on his mind than Sammy Preston’s wounded vanity. He said, “I don’t get a very clear picture of what happened over there, but I’ve got a feeling you’re lucky to be alive at all, Sammy.”

  “That’s the truth, Marshal,” said Amy. She was glaring at her brother.

  Six asked, “Do you have any proof he was cheating? Did anyone else see it? Did anyone agree with you that he’d been cheating?”

  “Aagh,” Sammy said in disgust. “They were all too scared of the big bad man. What would you expect them to do? They kept their chicken-livered mouths shut.”

  Six said mildly, “I’ve known January off and on a good many years. I’ve heard him accused of a lot of things, but never card-cheating.”

  “I can’t help that. He cold-decked me. It had to be—he suckered me into raising the limit and then let me dump five or six hundred dollars into the play, when he knew all along his hand was just one notch better than mine.”

  Six said, “That doesn’t prove a thing.” He had his coat closed up and began to pull on his gloves. “Was Dominguez there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing much.”

  Six nodded. He glanced at Amy and returned his attention to Sammy. “My advice to you is to stay here in the hotel until the storm passes on. Keep sober and stay out of January’s way.” He swung toward the door.

  Sammy shouted after him, “Are you going to arrest that cheating son of a bitch?”

  “Maybe,” Six said, and put his shoulder against the door to heave it open.

  Outside, he couldn’t see a thing. The sawblades of the wind cut against him viciously. The wind traveled down the trough of the street and he judged its angle carefully, quartered into it with his left shoulder and moved sideways, like a crab, across the invisible street, hoping to strike the saloon. Whips of wind drove hard pellets of frigid snow down under his collar, working their damp freezing way down along his back and his chest. The storm boiled and swirled and suddenly he had the awful feeling that the wind had shifted, that it was moving him around in an endless circle in the center of the intersection. He had to fight down blind panic and keep his shoulder steady against the wind, using the direction of the storm as a guide. He walked a long time into the storm and was ready to try a new direction when something struck his shin cruelly and tripped him. He had walked into the edge of the boardwalk; he sprawled across it, fought his way upright, and reached for the wall. Turning to his right, he felt his way along the wall to the corner of the building, where the Drover’s Rest had its door.

  He wheeled inside and took a deep breath of warm air; his eyes, watering from the cold outside, took a moment to focus. He swept the room with a quick glance. Dominguez and Hal Craycroft were at the far end of the bar, near the big stove. January was at the poker table with Keene and three others. They were all looking up, startled by Six’s entrance.

  Six took his time: he needed a few minutes to thaw out. He hung up his coat, undid the scarf-bound hat and hung that on a peg, dropped his gloves on a small table, and walked to the stove. For awhile he stood facing the stove, warming his hands over it, giving the appearance of a very idle man. Finally he looked toward Dominguez and made a small signal with his head, and Dominguez came over to him. Six said in a low tone, “What happened between January and Sammy Preston?”

  Dominguez grinned. “You never miss much, do you?”

  “I don’t get paid to miss things. What happened?”

  “The kid accused January of cold-decking him.”

  “Was January cheating?”

  “Who knows? I kind of doubt it.”

  “So do I. Go on.”

  “The kid’s got a loose tongue. He’d been using it on January for an hour or more. When he accused January of cheating I reckon January figured he’d taken enough lip from Sammy. He hauled Sammy out of his chair and gave him a tough little speech. Then he dumped Sammy on the floor and Sammy went for his gun. January was drawn and cocked before the kid got his gun halfway out of the holster, but then Keene stepped into January’s line of fire and kicked the gun out of Sammy’s hand. Sammy went for his other gun and then his sister came in and yelled at him, and I guess Sammy was just sober enough to see by then that January had the drop on him. So there wasn’t any shooting. It all happened pretty fast and I ain’t no lightning-draw artist, but if January’d killed the kid or the other way around, I’d have put the winner under arrest.”

  “Or you’d have tried.”

  “Yeah.” Dominguez scraped a hand across his round massive jaw. The sound was abrasive, like sandpaper on wood.

  Dominguez said, “If January’d killed the kid he’d have had a clear-cut case of self defense. But I reckon we’d have had to arrest him anyway and hold him for the inquest.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, as it turned out nobody got hurt. Amy dragged Sammy out of here before he could start more trouble. January told the boys, there, that if they were afraid he was cheating he’d quit the game, but Keene said he was satisfied January was playing straight cards, and the rest of them went along with him. To be honest about it, I think January’s bendin’ over backwards to be fair to everybody.”

  “Maybe,” Six said. “But if that’s the case he’s changed his spots. When I knew him back along the trail, he was as arrogant as they come. He’d fight at the drop of a hat, and sometimes when he didn’t have an excuse he’d drop the hat himself.”

  “You sure we’re talking about the same fellow?”

  Six nodded and finally turned away from the stove. He went toward the card table and saw that not a single motion he made was missed by January’s alert attention.

  January said with exact courtesy, “Jeremy.” He inclined his head an inch.

  Six said, “I understand you had a chance to shoot Sammy Preston and get away with it.” He added bluntly: “Why’d you pass up the chance, Will?”

  January smiled slightly. “Would it have made you happier if I’d killed him?”

  “All right,” Six said. “I’ll try another question. You asked me if I was bounty-hunting. What bounty’s on your head?”

  “Utah,” January said without hesitation. “Three thousand dollars, dead or alive. But Fremont refused to extradite me from Arizona. That answer your question?”

  “Why did the governor refuse extradition?”

  January had thrown his hand in; the others were in the midst of a game but play was suspended and they were all watching January. January said, “I killed a fellow in some jerk-town north of Lee’s Ferry and the sheriff decided it was murder. The gent I killed was a Jack-Mormon horse thief. He was trying to ride off on my horse and I shot him off the saddle.”

  Six said, “That still doesn’t tell me why Governor Fremont refused extradition.”

  “Well,” January said, “It’s not easy to figure out, but it’s something like this. When the fellow stole my horse I yelled at him and warned him to stop. He kept on going so I shot him. Ordinarily it’s no crime to shoot somebody who’s committing a felony, and horse-stealing’s a felony. But you get a bunch of people together with common interests and they stick together. Lutherans stick together, Mexicans stick together, Jews stick together, Catholics stick together. Mormons stick together too, and Utah’s a Mormon state. The gent I shot was a Mormon. I’m not a Mormon. You begin to see what I’m driving at?”

  “Not entirely,” Six said.

  “The sheriff was a Mormon. I kind of suspect he wasn’t much of a Mormon. I’d seen him drunk a couple of times and I understand if you wanted to get out of his jail all you had to do was pass him a few dollars—if you were a Mormon.”

  Keene said in a level voice, “If you’re trying to blame it on the Latter Day Saints, I won’t buy it, January. I’m a Mormon myself.”

  “In a saloon, drinking beer and playing cards?” January laughed at him. “In Utah they’d kick you out of the Church.”

  “Maybe I don’t practice a lot of what I should,” Keene said. “But I don’t see blaming the Church of the Latter Day Saints for framing you. They’re good people, not cheap crooks.”

  January shrugged. “Put enough people together and you’re bound to turn up one or two rotten eggs among them. I’ve got no quarrel with the Mormon church. My argument’s with one crooked sheriff who put a bounty on my head, that’s all. You asked the question, Jeremy, and I answered it. Fair enough?”

  Six considered him. He had the feeling January’s story was true. What bothered him was the fact that January had told it to him. In the old days, January would have preferred a fight to a talk. And now Six wondered: Has he really mellowed that much, or is he hiding something?

  But he had no time to think about it. The door rammed open and wind shrieked through the room. Three lamps went out near the door; a man stumbled in, followed by two others. Craycroft yelled angrily, “Shut that damned door, you fools!” and ran forward in the bar trough toward the door. He rushed behind the last of the three men and struggled to get the door closed.

  The three men were coated with frost. They looked half dead on their feet. And when they exposed their faces Six recognized them instantly.

  It was Jack Lime and two of his men: Peso and Quirt Ross.

  Six faced them flat-footedly; Dominguez, near the stove, had a hand on his gun. Jack Lime’s voice came out hoarse and husky: “A little chilly out there, boys, in case you ain’t checked recently.” He laughed while he moved on wood-numb legs toward the stove.

  January had pushed his chair back to free his hands and now he sat with the chair tipped back on its hind legs, watching with mild interest.

  Six didn’t say anything right away. He just watched the three toughs go over to the stove and fumble clumsily with their gloves and coats. When they removed those garments, Six saw that all three of them were armed with revolvers.

  Lime put his face quite close to the stove and laughed. “Man, that stings.” He stood up and turned around, putting his hands behind him toward the stove.

  Six said without a great deal of emotion, “Did you boys come to town to fight or to get locked up?”

  Lime grinned at him and removed his hat. His blond hair was matted with dampness. His face seemed open and boyish except for the olive-black eyes. He said, “Well, the fact is, neither.”

  Six said, “Did you think I was fooling when I posted you out of town? I’ve still got an active warrant out for all four of you.”

  Dominguez spoke up: he was near the toughs, near the stove. “Which brings up a fine point. Where’s Orozco? I only count three of them here.”

  “Very quick thinking,” Jack Lime said, laughing at Dominguez. Then he turned a mock-pleading face toward Six. “Now, Marshal, you wouldn’t throw three fine upstandin’ gents into that cold, cold jail on a day like this, would you?”

  Six said, “It might be easier just to handcuff you to the banister in back here.”

  Lime said, “In other words you figure to arrest us?”

  “That’s it.”

  Lime slowly lifted both hands until they were above his shoulders. “Go right ahead,” he said mildly. “We ain’t going to fight you, Marshal. But before you handcuff us to anything there’s just one little thing maybe you’d like to know. Like your deputy said, there’s one of us ain’t here. That’s Orozco. Well, I’d kind of like you to know just where Orozco is, Marshal, just so you don’t get confused about it. Orozco’s over across town keeping your lady friend company. Miss Clarissa Vane, ain’t that right?” Lime’s grin turned wicked. “And if we don’t check in with Orozco every few hours, there ain’t no telling what he might take it in his head to do. Orozco don’t talk much but he’s pretty eloquent with a knife.”

  Six’s jaw shelved forward and lay in a long, hard line. His eyes glittered. Lime said, “In case you want me to spell it out for you, we’re holding the lady hostage. Anything happens to us, your friend Clarissa gets carved up. Understand me, Marshal? You just play along and leave us the key to the city, and the lady won’t get hurt.”

  Chapter Six

  Peso turned away from the stove. Warmed up and brought back to life, Peso now turned his hot hungry glance against the marshal and peeled his lips back in a soft, cruel smile. Peso walked up to stand by Jack Lime and said, “I wish the pleasure.”

  “Not now,” Lime said, not looking at him. “Plenty of time later, Peso. Right now we leave the marshal alone, because he’s our safe-conduct ticket.” Lime grinned. “Well, Marshal—what about it?”

  Quirt Ross came to flank Lime on the other side. Quirt was turned to face Dominguez: the three toughs had the whole room covered, but no one had drawn a gun. Peso was fingering the hilt of a knife in his belt.

  Six didn’t say anything. His cold triangular eyes moved unhurriedly from Quirt Ross to Lime to Peso, and back to Lime. Quirt Ross looked around and one of his eyebrows shot up: he said, “Howdy, now—that’s Will January sittin’ there. What do you know?”

  January dipped his head and said very drily, “Gentlemen.” He seemed abstractedly amused by the scene, but then Quirt Ross said:

  “January’s got three thousand dollars on his head up in Utah—dead or alive. How about that, now, Jack?”

  January said, “I’ve got no interest in your hostage or your game here, friend, so don’t make the mistake of thinking that would make me hesitate. Pull a gun on me and I’ll down at least two of you, possibly all three before you wink a bullet in me. Think about that while you’re thinking about three thousand dollars. You can’t do much with a bounty when you’re dead.”

  Jack Lime said easily, “That’s true enough.” He grinned. “But how do I know you’re as fast as you claim to be?”

  “There’s one way to find out,” January murmured, not stirring. His hands both lay against his gunbelt, inches from his guns. His half-hooded eyes stared without malice at Jack Lime.

  Quirt Ross said carefully, “He’s fast enough, Jack. I seen him down Chuck White in Tuolumne. Chuck never got his gun clear of leather.”

  Six’s teeth were grinding together. There were quiet crystals of agony in his eyes. January was staring at Lime: January had the attention of the three toughs. It was then that Jeremy Six drew his six-gun and leveled it on the three toughs.

  He said:

  “I’ll take your guns. You’re under arrest.”

  Not speaking, Dominguez backed the play by drawing his gun. Dominguez cocked the revolver and Quirt Ross looked slowly around toward him.

  Jack Lime said in a gust of breath: “You stupid damned fool!”

  “Your guns,” Six said in a dead-flat tone of voice.

  Lime shouted, “Do you know what will happen to that girl?”

  Six said, “I’m the law. This is the badge talking, Lime. Drop your gunbelts or so help me God I’ll shoot the three of you in your tracks.”

  Will January was looking at Six with unconcealed admiration. “Guts,” was January’s one-word comment.

  Keene, the rancher, was frowning and moving forward toward Six. “Wait a minute, Jeremy. You’re not the only one worried about Clarissa’s skin. Maybe you ought to—”

  “Shut up,” Six said savagely. His eyes were pinned against Lime and his thumb eared back the hammer of his revolver; his left hand curled around to draw the backhanded revolver at his waist and he cocked the second gun as well, training it on Peso.

  Jack Lime’s eyes grew wide. “All right, all right.” He unbuckled his belt. The gun butt clattered when it hit the floor. Quirt Ross dropped his gun at his feet. Peso’s narrowed eyes glittered fiercely and he seemed half-willing to draw against Six’s two leveled guns when Dominguez took two steps and rammed his pistol harshly into Peso’s back. Peso stiffened and unhooked his gunbelt. Dominguez took it away from him and backed up.

  Dominguez drawled, “Ain’t much point trying to hike them down to the jail. They’d likely bust loose in the storm.”