“They still there?” Angel asked.
“They are.”
Clint turned, saw that Angel was seated at a table, drinking coffee.
“Any more of that?”
“Help yourself,” Angel said. “The waiter brought it just before he ran out.”
Clint poured himself a cup, then sat across from Angel.
“The fella across the street is named Big Ed Callahan,” Clint said. “That name ring a bell for you?”
“Callahan? No.”
“Never?”
“I said no,” Angel replied. “Why?”
“I asked him why he wanted to kill you.”
“And?”
“He said I should ask you.”
Angel frowned.
“That’s strange.”
“I didn’t get the names of any of the other men, but I don’t think that matters,” Clint said. “Callahan’s the boss.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well,” Angel said, “I guess I should go and find out who he is and why he wants to kill me.”
“I’ll go with you,” Clint said. “I already told you the reason why.”
“I won’t try to talk you out of it.”
“You any good with that hogleg on your hip?”
“I can hit what I shoot at,” Angel said. “How do you want to play this?”
“Straight up,” Clint said.
“How’s that?”
“We walk out there and face them,” Clint said. “I told them who I am. Maybe a couple of them will take the opportunity to walk away.”
“You think so?”
“Depends on whether or not they believed me,” Clint said, “and how afraid of their boss they are.”
“Let’s give them a few minutes to think, then,” Angel said.
“Finish our coffee,” Clint said.
* * *
“Boss?” Hunt asked.
“What?” Callahan said.
“You think he was tellin’ the truth?”
“About what, Hunt?”
“About bein’ the Gunsmith.”
“What the hell would the Gunsmith be doin’ with Tom Angel?” Callahan asked.
“I don’t know,” Angel said, “but what if it is really him?”
“I don’t care,” Callahan said. “I’m not going to let that change my plans.”
“But, Ed, the men are kinda nervous.”
“They should be,” Callahan said. “It’ll keep them on their toes.”
“But…what do I tell them?”
“Tell them when Angel and the other fella—whoever he is—step out the door to spread out and put some distance between themselves.”
“So we’re gonna do this here?” Hunt asked.
“We’re gonna do this here and now, Hunt,” Callahan said. “Here and now. I want Tom Angel dead, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, boss.”
“Then get them ready.”
* * *
Hunt walked to the other men and told them what the boss had said.
“This is crazy,” one of them said. “What if that really is the Gunsmith?”
“If it is,” Hunt said, “we’re all gonna earn the money Big Ed is payin’ us, and we’re gonna make big names for ourselves.”
“Unless we’re dead,” the other man said.
“Then let’s just make sure we ain’t,” Hunt said. “As soon as they come out the door, start shootin’.”
NINE
“All right,” Clint said, looking out the window, “they’re still out there.”
“How do they look?”
“Nervous,” Clint said, “all but the boss. He’s older, more experienced.”
Angel came up next to Clint and looked out.
“How do you think they’re gonna play it?” he asked.
“If they do what their boss says, he’ll probably have them spread out, make some room between them. It’s safer than bunching up.”
“And if they don’t listen to him?”
“Then they’ll probably open fire as soon as they see us step outside.”
“What do we do then?”
“Same thing they should be doing,” Clint said. “Put some space between ourselves, and take cover.”
“How do we divide them up?” Angel asked.
“I’ll take Callahan, the boss,” Clint said, “and the two to his right.”
“So the three on the left are mine.”
“Right.”
“That’s if they stand and shoot it out with us,” Angel said.
“If it breaks down, and they start shooting as soon as we walk through the door, then it’s every man for himself,” Clint said. “Just start shooting.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You nervous?” Clint asked.
“Would you be disappointed if I said yes?”
“No,” Clint said. “If you didn’t say yes, I’d say you were lying.”
“Then I’m nervous.”
“Good. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
They walked to the doorway.
* * *
“Okay, get ready,” Callahan called out. “They’re comin’ out.”
He stood straight up, instead of leaning against a post. He loosened his gun in his holster. This was finally going to happen. He kind of hoped that the other man actually was Clint Adams. He’d be known as the man who killed the Gunsmith.
He turned and looked at his men. He could see their nerves were on edge.
“First man who turns and runs, I’ll kill myself,” he told them. “Got it?”
“We got it, boss,” Hunt said.
Callahan turned his eyes back to the door of the restaurant.
* * *
Hunt looked at the other men, said, “Spread out, and remember what I said.”
“But the boss said to wait—”
“You wanna wait and give them a chance to kill us first?” Hunt asked. “What if that fella really is the Gunsmith?”
“He’s right,” one of the other men said.
“You all know I’m right,” Hunt said. “Once Angel is dead, Big Ed Callahan ain’t gonna complain about how it got done.”
“Okay,” the man said, and the others nodded.
“So spread out, and get ready,” Hunt said. “As soon as they step out…”
* * *
“They’re already spreading out,” Clint said before they left the restaurant. “Be ready.”
“I’m ready.”
Clint stepped out, and Tom Angel followed a second later.
Clint saw the five men go for their guns immediately, and knew nobody was waiting.
“Draw!” he yelled to Angel.
* * *
Callahan felt the movement around him, knew his men were all going for their guns.
“What are you doin’?” he shouted, “What the hell are ya doin’?”
Their guns came out, and he knew they weren’t stopping, and he didn’t have any choice but to go with it. He could skin them alive when it was over.
“Make sure Angel is dead!” he shouted, drawing his own gun. “Angel’s the one that’s got to die first.”
But at that moment, the five men didn’t care who died first or last. As long as it wasn’t them.
TEN
Clint dove to his right, firing at the same time, and firing accurately. His first shot hit Callahan in the shoulder, spinning him around and dumping him on his ass. His second shot hit one of the other men in the chest, killing him instantly. When Clint hit the ground, he rolled, came up between a couple of barrels, and used them as cover.
* * *
Angel dove to the right, hit the ground behind a horse trough, then peeked over it and fired twice. He missed once, but killed a man with his second shot. With Callahan down but only wounded, that left four men.
* * *
From his ass, Callahan saw Angel behind the horse trough. He only ha
d eyes for him, didn’t care where Adams was or what he was doing. Angel had to die, no matter what the cost.
He struggled to his feet, started across the street toward Angel.
* * *
Clint fired two more shots from behind the barrels, saw another man spin to the ground. He was aware of Angel firing to his left, but had no idea how accurate he was being.
There were three assailants left, including the wounded leader. The other two, seeing that their number had been cut in half, decided to run. That left only Callahan, who was staggering across the street toward Angel.
Clint stood up.
* * *
Callahan, unaware of the fact that his men were deserting him, continued across the street, firing at Angel. When the hammer kept falling on empty chambers, he simply continued to come, pulling the trigger over and over…
* * *
Angel, aware that Callahan was now out of bullets, stood up from behind the horse trough as the man continued to advance on him with his empty gun.
* * *
Clint, sure that Angel would not fire at the now unarmed man, began to eject his spent shells and replace them with live ones. When he was done, he figured they’d be able to question the man and find out why he was so eager to kill Angel.
Then he saw Angel pull the trigger…
* * *
Angel pointed his gun at Big Ed Callahan, thought about it for just a second, then pulled the trigger. He shot Callahan through the chest. The man staggered, blinked, and fell onto his face in the dirt…
* * *
As Big Ed fell into the street, Clint holstered his gun and said, “Jesus!”
* * *
Angel turned on Clint, his gun ready.
“Whoa!” Clint said, putting his hands up. “It’s all over. The ones who aren’t dead lit out.”
Angel didn’t respond.
“Why did you kill Callahan?” Clint asked. “We could have asked him some questions. Besides, he was out of bullets—”
Clint stopped when the blood began to leak from the corner of Angel’s mouth. As the man fell toward him, the gun dropping from his hand, Clint caught him and lowered him gently to the ground.
He turned him over and looked for the wound, found it in Angel’s abdomen. One of the first shots fired must have struck him.
“Tom, I’m sorry—” he started, but Angel grabbed hold of his arm and gripped it tightly.
“It’s okay,” he said, “you were right about not runnin’.”
“Tell me…who should I contact? Where’s your family?”
Angel opened his mouth as if to answer, but just then a great gout of blood erupted from his mouth, soaking the front of his shirt. He shuddered, and died.
From behind him, Clint heard somebody say, “You’re in a lot of trouble, mister.”
ELEVEN
“I told your friend to stay out of trouble,” Sheriff Hastings said to Clint.
“And we had every intention of doing that, Sheriff.”
“I don’t call killing four men staying out of trouble, do you?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Clint said, “but they didn’t leave us much of a choice. And can I point out that my friend is also dead?”
“Just what was this all about anyway?”
“I have no idea,” Clint said. He was sitting across the desk from the seated sheriff. The lawman had tried to take his gun, but Clint had refused to give it up. When he identified himself, the sheriff stopped trying to take it from him. “All I know is they tried to bushwhack him outside of town, and then came into town and tried to kill him again.”
“And you killed them instead.”
“I killed two of them. Tom killed two of them. The other two ran. But one of them killed him. I hope I don’t have to keep pointing that out.”
“No,” the lawman said. “I know what happened out there.”
“So now what?”
“I guess there’s no reason for you to stay in town any longer,” the sheriff said.
“That’s not quite true.”
“Why? What’s to keep you here?”
“Well, for one thing, I want to try and find out who those six men were, and why they wanted to kill Tom Angel. And second, I need to find out where Angel was from, so I can tell his family that he’s dead.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
“By looking through all their belongings.”
“Well,” Hastings said, “all that stuff is over at the undertaker’s, with the bodies.”
“I’ll go there, then,” Clint said, rising to his feet.
“Okay,” the sheriff said, “I suppose you can have a look.” He stood up. “I’ll take you over there.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
“You can thank me by leavin’ my town as soon as you find out what you’re lookin’ for.”
“Believe me,” Clint said, “it’ll be my pleasure to do just that.”
* * *
The undertaker was named Grimes, a nondescript-looking man in his forties, with a sad face and only a few hairs on a freckled dome.
“The bodies are back there,” he said, pointing to one room, “and their belongings are there,” he added, pointing to another.
“I don’t need to see the bodies,” Clint said. “Just their belongings.”
Grimes looked at Hastings.
“It’s okay, Ben,” the lawman said.
Grimes shrugged and motioned Clint to go ahead.
Clint went into the back room, which seemed to be for storage. Weapons and saddlebags were piled in a corner. He went over, knelt down, and began going through saddlebags. He found shirts—clean and dirty—tobacco, beef jerky, bullets, a Bible, and some letters. When he was finished, he left the room, taking all the letters with him.
“Find anything?”
“Letters,” Clint said. “I’ll have to read them to find out who’s they are, and where they’re from.”
“When will you do that?” Hastings asked.
“Tonight, in my room,” Clint said. “If I learn what I want, I’ll be leaving town tomorrow morning.”
“Well then,” Hastings said, “let’s hope you find out what you want.”
“Agreed.”
* * *
Clint left the undertaker’s with the sheriff, and they split up from there. The lawman went back to his office, while Clint went to a saloon to have a drink in Tom Angel’s memory.
Rather than wait until he got to his room, Clint took his beer to a back table and spread the letters out on the table. There were half a dozen, but they’d belonged to three of the men. Four letters were written to Callahan, apparently from his wife. She professed her love for him, told him that she missed him, but knew that he was doing what he had to do.
The fifth letter came from the saddlebags of a man named Kenneth Hunt. It was addressed to “Kenneth” but the letter began “Dear Kenny.” It was from a girl, who said she was waiting for him, but knew he was doing what had to be done.
The letters were all sent to different towns, addressed to General Delivery.
None of the letters said why they were doing what they were doing.
The last letter had been written to Tom Angel.
TWELVE
Clint read the letter. As with the others, it was also written by a woman. It said:
Dear Tom,
It’s been several months since you left and I haven’t heard from you. I’m hoping this letter will find you alive and well. Actually, I’m just hoping it will find you. I miss you so much, my love.
Things have been crazy here since you left, and I know Mrs. Callahan has heard from Big Ed a few times. That’s how I know you’re not dead.
Please know that I love you, and I hope that things can be cleared up before anyone else dies. Please write me and let me know how you are. I’ll always love you.
All My Love, Claire.
The letter had been mailed from a town called Black Rock, Missouri.
Cl
int had been to Missouri many times—Saint Louis, Saint Joseph, a few other places—but had never heard of a place called Black Rock. At least, not in Missouri.
* * *
Clint reread the letters in his room that night, but didn’t find out anything more. It was as if the letter writers were careful not to give away any information. He still had no idea who Callahan was, and why he’d wanted to kill Tom Angel.
Clint had breakfast before leaving town to head for Missouri. Over steak and eggs he realized that Tom Angel had been lying to him all along. Tom knew who Callahan was, and why he was after him. For some reason he hadn’t wanted to tell Clint what it was all about. Maybe he thought if Clint knew, he wouldn’t help him. Could it have been something that terrible?
Clint had a couple of reasons to go to Black Rock, Missouri. One was to tell Angel’s family—or at least, Claire—what had happened to him. But the second reason was the more important to him.
Five men had died, and he’d killed two of them, but he didn’t know why. Whenever he killed anyone, he had to know the reason. Otherwise it was for nothing, and that wasn’t something he could accept.
When men died, there should be a reason—and a damned good one.
* * *
As Clint came out of the hotel, carrying his rifle and saddlebags, he saw Sheriff Hastings approaching.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” he said. “Come to see me off?”
“Let’s just say I wanted to make sure you got away safely.”
“Might as well walk me to the stable, then.”
They headed that way, side by side.
“Did you find out anythin’ from those letters?” Hastings asked.
“A little bit,” Clint said. “I didn’t get any reasons, but I found out where I have to go.”
The sheriff didn’t ask where. It didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was that Clint was leaving.
At the livery the sheriff stood aside and watched as Clint saddled Eclipse.
“What should I do with your friend’s horse?” he asked.
“Sell it,” Clint said. “The saddle, too. Use the money to pay for his burial.”
“Okay. I’ll see he gets a good send-off.”
“Just put him in the ground, Sheriff.”
“And the others?”
“I’m not concerned with them,” Clint said. “They were trying to kill me. If you’ve got a boot hill, stick them there. You want to toss them into a mass grave together? Be my guest. Let them go to kingdom come together, the way they came to town and died.”
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