Thousand Mile Case (9781101619520)

by Roberts, J. R.

  He opened his mouth to protest but she opened her mouth and took half his cock into it. He gasped while she wet him, then started to bob up and down on him, sucking him noisily.

  He was never as happy as he was when he was fucking the boss’s wife, but he sure wished she’d let him help her with other parts of her life.

  * * *

  Clint watched the tall lawman stride away, then turned and walked down the street to the dress shop. But he’d waited too long, and when he tried the door, it was locked. He peered inside, didn’t see anyone, but knocked on the door anyway.

  The store had probably only just closed. If Claire didn’t live upstairs, she was probably on the street going home, or having supper somewhere. He should have asked Bodie what she looked like, but maybe the lawman wouldn’t have told him.

  On the other side of the dress shop was the general store.

  Clint walked over there, saw that the front door was still open. He went inside.

  Sam, the irate man wearing the apron, was behind the counter, writing something down.

  “Still open?” Clint asked.

  “Just barely,” Sam said. “Just ain’t had time to close the door yet.” He looked up. “What can I—say, didn’t I see you in the saloon?”

  “You did. I talked to the sheriff after you did.”

  “Did you get any satisfaction?” the man asked. “Because I sure didn’t.”

  “That’s funny,” Clint said. “I was told that everyone liked Sheriff Bodie. In fact, it seems like everybody in town likes everybody else.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s what they’d like you to think,” Sam said. But at that moment he suddenly looked as if he realized he’d said something wrong. “Wait a minute, who are you?”

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  “Adams,” Sam said. “Clint Adams? You mean…the Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  The color drained from the man’s face and he looked frightened for his life.

  “Oh, uh, wait,” he said, “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’…I love this town. Tell ’em I like everybody!”

  “Take it easy,” Clint said. “Nobody sent me here. I came here on my own. I only just got into town.”

  “W-Well,” Sam said, “whataya want?”

  “I wanted to ask you about the woman who runs the dress shop next to you.”

  “Claire?” he asked with relief. “You want to ask me about Claire?” The color flooded back into his face.

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I’d like to talk to her, and her shop is closed.”

  “She—She must’ve just closed,” Sam said. “Normally I’d be closed by this time, too.”

  “Can you tell me where to find her?” Clint asked. “Where she lives?”

  “Well…I don’t know if I should tell you where she lives, since you’re a stranger,” Sam said. Now that he seemed convinced that Clint wasn’t going to kill him, he had a lot more confidence. “Why don’t you wait until she opens in the morning?”

  “I’d really like to see her today,” Clint said. “Can you tell me where she eats?”

  “Ah, yes,” Sam said, “She does stop to eat on her way home, usually at the small place a few blocks away called Jenny’s Café.”

  “Which way?”

  “Go out and to the right. She’s probably still there eating because she closes up the same time every night.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Oh, uh, she’s really pretty, kinda young, with straight, long dark hair and a great smile.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Clint started to leave, then stopped. He turned, and as he did, Sam seemed startled, and jumped back a step.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Huh? Sure.”

  “What was it you were complaining to the sheriff about?”

  “Complaining?” Sam asked. “I wasn’t complaining. The sheriff and I were just, uh, kiddin’ around. We do that a lot.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, knowing the man was lying and still scared. “Thanks.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Adams,” Sam said. “Sure thing.”

  Clint left, feeling bad for having frightened the man.

  * * *

  After Clint Adams left, Sam Barrett rushed to the door, closed it, and locked it, then pressed his back to it and breathed a sigh of relief. He might have just literally dodged a bullet. Even if the Gunsmith was not there to kill him, he had learned his lesson. He was going to keep his big mouth shut from now on.

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint walked a few blocks and came to the café with jenny’s over the door. As he entered, he saw that the place was small, and crowded. It was obviously a very popular restaurant in town.

  He looked around the room, saw more than one pretty young woman, but only one of them had long, straight dark hair, and was sitting alone. He felt sure this was Tom Angel’s Claire.

  Now he had to decide if he wanted to tell her Angel was dead while she was eating her dinner in a room crowded with people. He decided the answer was no. There were bound to be tears and why should he hit her with that kind of news, and embarrass her at the same time?

  “Sir?” a waiter said. “If you’ll wait a few minutes, I can seat you.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll try again later. But it smells great in here.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the man said, and hurried to help some of his diners.

  Clint turned to leave, but at that moment a woman in her thirties came out of the kitchen and looked right at him. Their eyes met. She was attractive in a very earthy way, and held his eyes boldly for a few seconds before looking away. She walked across the room to join Claire at her table.

  Clint stepped outside.

  * * *

  Claire Collins ate her beef stew slowly, without tasting it very much. Jenny Pool, who owned and operated Jenny’s, came over and sat with her. She was an older woman who had taken Claire under her wing when she first arrived in town several years before.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Jenny asked.

  “Is it obvious?” Claire asked.

  “Yes,” Jenny said. “You’re very down.”

  “I know,” Claire said. “I just…I’m just waiting for Tom to come back.”

  “Oh, honey,” Jenny said, putting her hand on Claire’s, “do you really think he will?”

  “With Mr. Callahan after him, I’m afraid not,” Claire said, “but I still keep looking down the street for him to come riding back.”

  “I guess I don’t blame you, honey,” Jenny said, patting the girl’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “The food is great, as usual.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jenny said. “Hey, did you see the man who came in a few minutes ago?”

  “No,” Claire said. “What about him?”

  “Well, he’s a stranger in town, I could tell that.”

  “And?”

  “And he wasn’t exactly handsome, but he was very…he had a presence, you know?”

  “So you liked what you saw, huh?”

  “Well,” Jenny said, “we sort of looked at each other. I think we had a connection.”

  Claire looked around.

  “So where is he?”

  “He left,” Jenny said.

  “But why?”

  “Well, we’re kind of busy,” she said. “But he spoke briefly to Al, so maybe I’ll find out what he said.”

  “Call Al over,” Claire said excitedly, “and let’s find out.”

  Jenny grinned at her friend and said, “Okay.”

  She waved the waiter over.

  EIGHTEEN

  Clint found himself a spot across the street in front of another store that had already closed, and waited. Having decided to let the girl eat in peace, he now had to decide whether he should approach her on the street, or follow her home and then knock on her door. Stopping her on the street might frighten her, and he’d already scared enough people that day.

&
nbsp; He leaned against a post and folded his arms, eyes on the front of the café. He found himself thinking about the woman whose eyes he had met, wondering if she was Jenny.

  * * *

  “He didn’t say much,” Al, the waiter, told the two women.

  “Well, tell us what he did say,” Jenny said.

  “I told him I could seat him if he waited,” Al said. “He said it smelled great in here, but he couldn’t wait. He said he’d come back later.”

  “Okay, Al,” Jenny said. “Thanks.”

  Al had been working for Jenny for a year. He was in his fifties, and tried to advise her on her business and her life.

  “Don’t either one of you think about getting involved with him,” he advised now.

  “Why not?” Jenny asked.

  “He’s a gunman.”

  “How can you tell that?” Claire asked.

  “Because I’ve seen his type come and go,” Al said. “You can tell by the way he wears his gun.”

  “Okay, Al,” Jenny said. “Thanks.”

  He went to take care of his diners.

  “Do you think he’s right?” Claire asked. “The man is a gunman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would a gunman be in Black Rock?” the younger woman asked. “And why would he come in here?”

  “Maybe he came here to eat,” Jenny said. “What he’s doing in town, I don’t know.”

  “I just hope—”

  “What?”

  “If he is a gunman,” Claire said, “I hope he’s not here about Tom.”

  Jenny didn’t have an answer for that, so she just took her friend’s hand.

  * * *

  Clint pushed away from the post when he saw Claire come walking out of the restaurant. He started across the street, but stopped when he saw Jenny standing in the doorway. She was watching him, and would know if he started following Claire. While he meant her no harm, following her might alarm the other woman.

  Instead of following Claire, he decided to cross the street and talk to Jenny—if that’s who she was.

  “Are you Jenny?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” she said. “You weren’t looking for a table when you came in, were you?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “I was looking for a girl named Claire. Was that her who just left?”

  “Yes, it was. What do you want with her?”

  “I have some bad news for her,” Clint said, “but maybe I should talk to you first. Are you her friend?”

  “I’m her best friend,” Jenny said. Her arms had been folded beneath her full breasts, but now she dropped them to her sides. Is this about Tom?”

  “Tom Angel, yes, ma’am.”

  “Why don’t you come in?” she asked. “I’ll give you some coffee and we can talk.”

  NINETEEN

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Jenny asked a few moments later. They each had a cup of coffee in front of them.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay,” she said, “you’ve got to stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ What’s your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “Al was right,” she said, more to herself, but he heard her.

  “What?”

  “Oh, my waiter, Al,” she said. “He told us you were a gunman.”

  “I’m not a gunman.”

  “You’re the Gunsmith, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But not a gunman?”

  “No.”

  “But your reputation—”

  “You can’t believe everything you hear, or read,” he said. “Call me Clint. What should I call you?”

  “Just call me Jenny.”

  “All right, Jenny,” Clint said.

  “So tell me,” she said. “How did you know Tom Angel? How did he die?”

  “He was shot.”

  “By Ed Callahan?”

  “Or one of his men. He had five with him.”

  “And where are they?”

  “Three of them are dead. The other two ran off.”

  Jenny sat back in her chair. They were seated at the same table Claire had been sitting at. The look on her face was one of shock.

  “Did you know Callahan?” Clint asked.

  “Everybody around here knew Big Ed.”

  “But did you know him personally?”

  “He ate here occasionally, and we spoke. But I can’t say that I knew him very well.”

  “How about his men?”

  “Some of them have eaten here, too, but—”

  “His wife?”

  “I’ve never met her. You haven’t told me how you knew Tom.”

  “Well…I was with him when he was shot. In fact, they were shooting at me, too.”

  “This sounds like a good story,” she said. “How about a beer?”

  “That sounds great.”

  * * *

  Over a beer, and while the restaurant emptied out, Clint told her about how he had come upon Angel being shot at, and about what happened later in Tucson.

  “That’s a wild story,” she said.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, no, I do believe you,” she said. “Why would you lie?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Clint said. “Jenny, can you tell me why Ed Callahan was so anxious to kill Tom Angel?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I have no idea.”

  “But somebody in town knows, right?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Maybe the sheriff?”

  “Or Callahan’s wife?” he asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “What about Claire?”

  “I don’t think she’d know,” Jenny said.

  “How close was she to Tom?”

  “Very close,” Jenny said. “She was in love with him.”

  “Was he in love with her?”

  Jenny frowned, then said, “I suppose so.”

  “You suppose so?”

  “Well, she confides in me, but she’s never told me that he said that.”

  “I found a letter on him, from her,” Clint said. “That’s how I tracked him down to here.”

  “He carried her letter?”

  I nodded.

  “Then he must have loved her,” she said. “That’s going to make the news harder for her to take.”

  “I’m going to have to tell her,” Clint said. “Can you tell me where she lives?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” she said. “I’ll take you there.”

  “If you just give me directions—”

  “If you tell her the man she loves is dead,” Jenny said, “she’s gonna need a friend, don’t you think?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Let me just tell the cook I’m going,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She got up and hurried to the kitchen, while Clint remained seated and finished his beer. It would be a good idea to have her along when he gave Claire the news. He wasn’t all that comfortable with weeping women.

  TWENTY

  Claire lived in a small house situated in an area among other, larger houses.

  “She owns her own house?” he asked.

  “Actually,” Jenny said, “she rents it. It’s just a two-room shack, really, that one of the other home owners fixed up to rent.”

  They approached the front door and Jenny knocked. When the door opened, Claire was obviously surprised to see Jenny in Clint’s company.

  “Jenny.”

  “Claire, can we come in?”

  Claire looked past Jenny at Clint.

  “This is Clint Adams,” Jenny said. “He wants to talk to you…about Tom.”

  “Tom?” Claire said. “Is he all right?”

  “Claire,” Jenny said, “let us come in.”

  Claire stepped aside and allowed them to enter.

  The inside was clean, sparsely furnished.

  “Please,” Claire said, “sit down.”

  Jenny sat on a small divan, while Clint sat on an
armchair. Claire remained standing.

  “Claire,” Jenny said, “you better sit down.”

  “Oh, God,” Claire said, and lowered herself into the other armchair.

  “Claire,” Clint said, because he didn’t know her last name, “I’m sorry, but Tom Angel is dead.”

  A tear fell from one eye. She sat very still.

  “H-How?”

  Clint told her how he’d met Angel, and how he ended up being shot.

  “Mr. Callahan and his men?” she asked.

  “Callahan and three of his men are dead,” Clint said. “Tom and I killed them.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Claire,” Clint said, “do you know why Ed Callahan was so eager to kill Tom that he’d chase him a thousand miles with five men?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “You must know something,” he said. “How did you know how to get a letter to him?”

  “My letter?” she said. “He got my letter?”

  “He did,” Clint said. “That’s how I found you.”

  “Where is it?” she demanded. “Where’s my letter?”

  Clint took the folded letter from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She clutched it to her chest.

  “Claire,” Clint said, “I killed two men trying to help Tom. I’d like to find out why.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t help you.”

  “But you must—”

  “Please!” she said stridently. “Please leave before I embarrass myself in front of you.”

  Clint looked at Jenny, who nodded at him. He decided to leave the girl to her grief, and return another time to question her further.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, standing and heading for the door.

  “Claire,” Jenny said, “do you want me to stay?”

  “N-No,” Claire said, “I’ll be fine. I—I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Jenny.”

  “All right,” Jenny said.

  She followed Clint to the door. They went outside and pulled the door closed behind them.

  Outside, Clint said, “She must know something.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe she knows something and doesn’t know it.”

  “Well,” Jenny said, “we won’t find out tonight.”

  “Maybe I can talk to her again tomorrow,” he said.

  “Come on,” she said, “I’ll walk you back to town.”