As Pogue Quentin stood in the hotel hallway unlocking the door to his hotel room, Emil Sinclair stepped out of the broom closet.
“Sinclair, are you a damn fool? The whole town is looking for you. What are you doing here?” Quentin asked.
“I got to get out of town,” he said.
“Well, you aren’t going to get out of town standing here.”
“I ain’t got no money.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have any money? I gave you three hundred dollars.”
“Jason wanted to hold on to the money until we was done,” Emil said.
“That’s not my problem,” Quentin said. “If I hadn’t given you that money, I would have been able to raise the bid. And if you and your brothers hadn’t been so incompetent, you would have a lot of money now and I would have Prince Henry.”
“You wound up gettin’ both my brothers killed,” Sinclair said.
Quentin shook his head. “That was your bungling.”
“They was killed doin’ somethin’ you wanted done. You owe me.”
Quentin shook his head. “I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
“There’s things I could tell people about you, Quentin, about things we done together down in Texas.”
“So you told me,” Quentin said. “But like I told you, I am a successful rancher, and you are a wanted man. Who is going to believe you?”
“That ain’t right, Quentin. That ain’t no way right. My two brothers got kilt and I damn near did. All I need is a little travelin’ money.”
Quentin opened the door to his room. “Come inside for a moment,” he said. “I don’t want to talk out here.”
Sinclair followed Quentin into his room, then stood to one side as Quentin locked the door behind him.
“I’ll give you one hundred dollars,” Quentin said.
A huge smile spread across Sinclair’s face. “A hunnert dollars? Yes, that’s enough. That’s more than enough.”
“You have to earn it.”
“Earn it? Earn it how?”
“Smoke Jensen bought a bull today.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I want you to find that bull and kill it.”
“Ain’t that supposed to be some champion bull worth a lot of money?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to try and steal it?”
“Now you tell me just how in the hell you are going to steal it,” Quentin replied. “What are you going to do? Drive him down the middle of the street for everyone to see?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess I see what you are talking about,” Sinclair said. “But I don’t understand. Why do you want me to kill the bull?”
“If I can’t have him, then I don’t want anyone to have him,” Quentin replied.
“Where is the bull now?” Sinclair asked.
“I imagine it’s down at the railroad station, waiting to be put on the train. Wherever he is, it’s your job to find him. Find him and kill him.”
“What about Jensen?”
“What about him?”
“You want me to kill him, too?”
“I’m not giving you any more than one hundred dollars,” Quentin said. “At this point, I don’t care what happens to Jensen.”
Sinclair held out his hand. “You just give me the money, Mr. Quentin. I’ll kill the bull for you, and throw in killin’ Jensen for free. I owe the son of a bitch for killin’ my two brothers.”
Quentin gave the one hundred dollars to Sinclair, then opened the door. “Make this the last time we see each other,” Quentin said.
“Don’t worry, it will be. After I take care of business, I’m heading for California.”
As Sinclair started toward the stairs, Billy Ray Quentin was just arriving. He passed Sinclair by without saying a word, but when he got to the room where his father was standing in the open doorway, he gave in to curiosity.
“What was Sinclair doing here?”
“We were taking care of some last-minute business,” Quentin said. “Did you get the train tickets?”
