The Gunsmith 385

by J. R. Roberts

  “I told you it’d be interestin’,” Barry said.

  Stubbs looked at Steve and asked, “Where are the boys?”

  “Whorehouse.”

  “And what were these two fellas talkin’ about before they left?”

  “Going to the whorehouse,” Steve said. “In fact, they asked me where it was.”

  Stubbs drank his whiskey down and said, “Perfect.”

  * * *

  Kane was in a room at the whorehouse with a little blonde, while O’Brien had picked out an Irish-looking girl who said he could call her Sinead. She had long brown hair, long legs, and pert little tits.

  Kane had the blonde on her belly, was rubbing his long, skinny dick on her ass cheeks, when the door slammed open.

  “What the—” he said, looking over his shoulder. Three men entered the room, guns drawn.

  “This is what we do to cheaters in Waco,” one of them said.

  He grabbed Kane by his long hair and pulled him off the bed, dragging him to the floor.

  “What the hell—” he started, but that’s as far as he got before they cut his throat.

  * * *

  In a room down the hall, O’Brien didn’t hear the ruckus. He was too busy watching the Irish-looking girl. She was undressing in slow motion, first uncovering her hard, brown nipples, and then the big bush between her legs. That done, she ran her hands over her own body, sliding one hand down between her legs.

  O’Brien had a raging erection when the door to the room slammed open.

  “Hey, what do you think—”

  Three men entered, guns in their hands. One of them already had blood on him as he drew a knife.

  O’Brien made a grab for his gun, but it was too far away.

  “This is what happens to cheaters,” the man with the knife said.

  O’Brien felt a hand beneath his chin, and then intense pain before . . .

  * * *

  In still another room Tracy Hastings heard the activity, got off the bed, and opened the door to his room only slightly. He saw three men in the hall, one of them covered with blood. He waited until they had gone down the steps before he opened the door and ran down the hall, naked. He looked into the room with the open door, saw a frightened girl on the bed, and Irish O’Brien on the floor with his throat cut.

  “What happened?” he asked the girl.

  She stared at him and said, “I don’t know nothin’!”

  He moved farther down the hall, found another open door. Another girl, this one blond, was on the bed with her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. On the floor Kane lay in a pool of blood, a great, yawning wound where his throat used to be.

  “Jesus,” he said. He looked at the girl. “What the hell happened in here?”

  “T-They just came in and . . . and killed him,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she said.

  “You didn’t recognize them?”

  The girl stared at him for a moment, then lifted her chin and said, “I don’t know nothin’.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint and Travis rode into Waco in the afternoon. Clint had decided to stop first at the sheriff’s office. Travis had no objection.

  They reined in and tied their horses in front, knocked on the door, and entered.

  A man was coming out of the cell block carrying a tray. He stopped and looked at them.

  “Feeding time at the zoo,” he said. “Lunch.”

  “Are you the sheriff?” Clint asked.

  “I am. Sheriff Mike Dalman.” He was gray-haired, solidly built, in his fifties. “What can I do for you?” He put the tray down on his desk, hung the cell keys on a wooden peg. His gun was also hanging there.

  “My name’s Clint Adams,” Clint said. “This is my partner, Travis.”

  “Adams?” the sheriff said. “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right,” Travis said.

  “What are you doin’ in Waco?”

  “We tracked four men here,” Clint said.

  “Tracked? Are you lawmen? Or bounty hunters?”

  “Neither,” Clint said. “They shot and robbed a friend of mine in Labyrinth, Texas.”

  “Labyrinth? Where’s that?”

  “South Texas.”

  “He dead?”

  “Not when I left.”

  “If he’s dead, it’s murder.”

  “I know that.”

  “You know the names of the men you’re trackin’?” Dalman asked.

  Over breakfast Davis had given them the names of the men riding with Tom Barry.

  “Tracy Hastings, Irish O’Brien, and Zeke Kane. They’re riding with a man named Tom Barry.”

  “O’Brien and Kane, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about them anymore,” Dalman said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Who killed ’em?” Travis asked.

  The sheriff jerked his thumb back into the cells and said, “The fellas I got locked up in there.”

  “Why?” Clint asked. “What happened?”

  “Well, I’ve got a fella named Stubbs in there who thinks that O’Brien and Kane were cheating him at cards.”

  “They were playin’ cards?” Travis asked.

  “No, they were standin’ behind him at the bar, signaling to someone what his cards were. He didn’t take kindly to that, so he and two of his compadres cut their throats.”

  “In the saloon?” Travis asked.

  “No, the whorehouse,” Dalman said. “I arrested them for murder.”

  “Why did they think O’Brien and Kane were cheating?” Clint asked.

  “Apparently, that’s what Stubbs was told.”

  “By who?”

  “A fella named Tom Barry.”

  “Barry gave up his own men?” Travis asked.

  “He’s down to one,” Clint said. “He’s only got Hastings to get rid of and then he can keep the money for himself.”

  “Typical,” the sheriff said. “Thieves fallin’ out.”

  “Can I talk to the prisoners?” Clint asked.

  “Sure, I don’t see why not,” Dalman said. “Go ahead in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Leave your guns with me,” Dalman said.

  Travis started to take his off, but Clint said, “I can’t give up my gun, Sheriff. You understand. I’ll stay away from the bars.”

  Dalman frowned, then said, “Yeah, okay.”

  Travis took his hands away from his gun belt, and followed Clint into the cell block.

  There were three men, each in a cell, all three lying on their cots.

  “Hello, gents,” Clint said. “I hear you fellas took care of some card cheats.”

  One man lifted his head to look at him. The others remained as they were, one on his side, the other on his back with his arm across his eyes.

  “What’s it to you?” the man asked.

  “Which one are you?” Clint asked.

  “Stubbs.”

  “Ah, the card player.”

  “I play, yeah. What of it?”

  “I understand how mad a cheater can make you, Drew, but cutting their throats was not the way to go.”

  Stubbs stuck his prominent chin out and said, “I got mad.”

  “Or somebody got you mad,” Clint said.

  Stubbs didn’t say anything.

  “Seems a fella named Barry got you all riled up,” Clint said.

  “So?”

  “So I’m looking for Tom Barry.”

  “Well, you better find him before I do,” Drew Stubbs growled.

  “That looks pretty likely,” Clint said. “I’m out here
and you’re in there.”

  Stubbs stuck his chin out again.

  “When I track him down,” Clint said, “I can give him your best.”

  “Before you do what?”

  “Kill him.”

  Stubbs rubbed his jaw now and said, “That don’t sound too bad. Whataya need from me?”

  “Anything you can give us,” Clint said. “Something he said, maybe.”

  “He just told me the names of the men who were cheating me,” Stubbs said.

  “And you believed him?”

  “Why not?” Stubbs demanded. “I was losing while they were there, and I started to win after they left. What would you think?”

  “That my luck had changed, period. Nobody’s fault,” Clint said. “But hey, that’s just me. Did he tell you who they were passing signals to?” Clint asked.

  Stubbs looked uncomfortable with that question.

  “Um, no, he didn’t.”

  “Because really, that’s the person who was cheating you, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “So Barry was probably lying to you.”

  Stubbs frowned.

  “You mean . . . they wasn’t really cheatin’, after all?” he asked.

  “No, maybe they weren’t.”

  “So I killed two innocent men?”

  “Well, they weren’t innocent,” Clint said. “In fact, there might even be a reward—but you’d have to get out jail to collect it.”

  “Can you get me out?” he asked, tightening his hands on the bars.

  “Hey,” one of the other men said, “us, too.”

  “Sorry,” Clint said, “there’s nothing I can do to get any of you out. You’re going to have to stand trial. But like I said, I can give Barry your best.”

  “Even if I can’t help you?” Stubbs said. “I don’t know nothin’.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll do it anyway.”

  “Then do me a real favor, mister.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you catch up to the sonofabitch,” Stubbs said, “give him my worst.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  When they came out of the cell block, the sheriff asked, “Find out anything?” He was seated behind his desk.

  “No, nothing,” Clint said, “but thanks for letting us talk to them.”

  “No problem.”

  “Sheriff, did you have any dealings with Tom Barry, or the other man?”

  “No, by the time Stubbs told me who sent him after the two dead men, your man Barry was gone, and the other fella with him.”

  “I see.”

  “Sorry you didn’t learn more,” Dalman said.

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “You leavin’ town now?”

  “Right now,” Clint said. “You won’t get any trouble from me.”

  “Appreciate that,” the sheriff said.

  They stepped outside and Travis asked, “You believe ’im?”

  “Who? Stubbs, or the sheriff?”

  “Both.”

  “Yeah, I believe them,” Clint said. “Barry just found himself a hothead to take care of his problem for him.”

  “And the sheriff?”

  “He’s got three killers in his jail,” Clint said. “I don’t see that he has any reason to lie.”

  “Then we’re out of Waco?”

  Clint nodded.

  “We’re out of here.”

  * * *

  Tom Barry and Tracy Hastings had left Waco the night before, in the wake of the killings. They had gone a good ten miles in the dark, and then made camp.

  Hastings slept with one eye open. He knew Barry had to have something to do with the killing of Kane and O’Brien; he just didn’t know what. As far as he knew, Barry was not acquainted with the men who did the killings.

  By morning they had switched places, with Hastings on watch. Briefly he considered trying to kill Barry in his sleep, but there was always the chance the other man was also sleeping with one eye open. There was also the chance that Barry might decide to split the money with Hastings and maintain their partnership. After all, they had known each other a lot longer than either of them had known the other men.

  But in all that time they’d known each other, Tom Barry had never revealed a soft spot for anyone or anything other than his own pocket.

  Hastings smelled the coffee, went over, and nudged Barry with his toe.

  “Coffee’s ready,” he said.

  Barry coughed, spat, rolled over, and got to his feet slowly.

  “Gimme a cup!” he growled. He hawked and spat again.

  Hastings poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him.

  “Seems to me,” he said to Barry, “it’s time to split the money.”

  “That how it seems to you, Tracy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whatsamatta, you don’t trust me no more?”

  “The question should be, did I ever trust you, Tom?” Hastings said.

  Tom Barry lowered the coffee cup and stared at the other man, who did not back down from his gaze, as other men had in the past.

  “Tracy,” he said, “we gotta stick together. We still don’t know if anybody’s on our trail. If there is, we’re better off watchin’ each other’s back. Let’s just give it a little more time. Whataya say?”

  Hastings studied Barry for a moment, then gave in.

  “Yeah, okay, Tom,” he said. “Just a little longer.”

  THIRTY

  Clint and Travis left Waco, found the point where Tom Barry and Tracy Hastings had camped.

  “They didn’t get very far,” Travis said.

  “Seems to me they left at night,” Clint said. “They probably just picked their way this far in the darkness and decided to camp rather than risk one of their horses breaking a leg.”

  “Probably.”

  Travis held his hand over the dead fire.

  “Cold,” he said. “They’re still half a day ahead, maybe more.”

  “Heading for Fort Worth.”

  Travis stood up.

  “We should’ve left sooner.”

  “We only took time for a meal and a telegram,” Clint said. “I needed to find out if Rick was still hanging in there.”

  And he was. The doctor had replied almost instantly to his telegram that Rick Hartman was still alive.

  “Come on,” Clint said. “If you’re impatient, we should probably start moving a little faster.” He mounted up. “Now we’ll find out how well your roan can keep up.”

  * * *

  By midday Travis’s roan was winded from trying to keep up with Clint.

  “You want to outrun me? Go ahead, but my horse needs a rest.” Travis dismounted.

  “No problem,” Clint said. “We’ll take a short rest.” He also dismounted.

  Travis walked his roan to a nearby stream, and Clint followed. They allowed the horses to drink while they also drank from their canteens, and refilled them.

  “You can go on ahead of me, you know,” Travis said. “I mean, if that was what you wanted to do. There’s only two of them left. The odds have gotten a lot better.”

  “Hey,” Clint said, “you’ve come this far with me. Besides, if I did ride on ahead, you’d just keep trailing me, right? Like you’ve been doing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There you go,” Clint said. “So just take a breath, and then we’ll be on our way again.”

  Clint went to work checking the cinch on Eclipse’s saddle, and keeping the horse from drinking too much water.

  Travis was checking each of his horse’s hooves for debris that might injure or hinder the animal. Clint did the same.

  “You know,” Travis said, “if this takes much longer, it
seems like Tom Barry will take care of all the other men for us. We’ll only have him to deal with.”

  “If we catch him,” Clint said. “If he gets to Fort Worth, he could be gone.”

  “Would you keep searching for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “No matter where you had to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He shot a friend of mine.”

  “So you’re takin’ it personally?”

  “You bet,” Clint said. “I don’t have that many good friends that I can let it go.”

  “Then we better push on to Fort Worth,” Travis said, “and stop tracking him.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “he’s going in that direction, but what if he’s not actually going there? If we just ride straight there, we might lose him.”

  “So you believe we should just keep on his trail?” Travis asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “for now. It won’t be that much farther. And if he veers off and goes someplace else, we’ll know.”

  Okay, then.” Travis mounted his roan, watched while Clint mounted Eclipse. “You know, there’s another option.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Push the horses, try to ride him down. Instead of following him to Fort Worth, or wherever he’s going, catch up to him before he reaches his goal.”

  Clint gave the suggestion some thought.

  “What are you thinkin’?” Travis asked.

  “Let’s ride,” Clint said. “I’ll tell you along the way.”

  * * *

  “I’ve been thinking,” Clint said, “about five men hitting a saloon.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “Why do it?”

  “For the money.”

  “If you want money, you hit a bank, not a saloon,” Clint said.

  “You think there was another reason?”

  “Must be.”

  “And you want to find out what it is.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you think somebody sent them after your friend?” Travis asked. “That they were supposed to kill him?”

  “That’s what I want to find out.”

  “So that’s why we’re followin’ him and not tryin’ to ride him down.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, thanks for tellin’ me.”

  “I’ve been busy convincing myself,” Clint said, “so I suppose we’ll see when we get where we’re all going.”