“You been trackin’ me all this time?”
“That’s right.”
“All these days? Because of the town’s bank?”
“Billy Dixon is my friend, and my boss,” Kelly said.
“The town sheriff has a boss?”
“I’m also the foreman of the Dixon ranch.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“You should know,” Kelly said. “You left four dead men there—one of your own.”
“That place?” Wycliffe asked. “Look, I’ve got a lot of money in these saddlebags. I’ll pay you—”
“No.”
“You ain’t heard how much—”
“No.”
“Then what . . . you’re gonna take me back?”
“Or kill you here.”
“You can do that . . . alone?”
“I ain’t alone,” Kelly said. “I got the Gunsmith with me.”
Wycliffe froze.
“Where is he?”
“Behind you.”
Wycliffe’s eyes flicked about in his head. He flexed his hand on his gun.
“You’re lyin’.”
“Try me,” Sheriff Kelly said.
“I’ll kill you,” Wycliffe said. “You’re no gunman.”
“Go ahead, kill me,” Kelly said. “You’ll be dead one second after you pull the trigger.”
Wycliffe thought the proposition over. Kelly could see the man’s shoulders slump as he made up his mind.
“Dump the shells,” Kelly said.
Wycliffe opened the cylinder, dumped all the bullets onto the ground.
“Now toss the gun into the fire.”
“What?”
“Do it!”
Wycliffe frowned, then dropped his gun into the fire.
Kelly drew his gun and approached the man.
“Stand up, hands behind your back.”
Wycliffe obeyed. Kelly stuck his gun in his belt, tied the man’s hands, then slid his gun out again. Wycliffe took the opportunity to turn around and look.
“Where’s Adams?”
“He’ll be along.”
Wycliffe turned on Kelly.
“You bluffed me?”
Kelly grinned. “You said I’m no gunman,” he told Wycliffe. “I guess that means you’re no poker player.”
Clint walked into camp minutes later, leading both their horses.
“Where’s Garver?” Kelly asked.
“He’ll be coming down at first light,” Clint said, accepting a cup of coffee from Kelly. “Then we’ll settle it.”
“He’s gonna come down willingly?” Kelly asked.
“Rather than have us chase him down eventually,” Clint said. “Besides, the rest of the money’s down here. He’ll try to figure out a way to escape with all of it.”
Wycliffe shook his head and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Clint asked.
“Garver’s already miles away from here. You’ll never catch him.”
“You don’t know him as well as you think you do,” Clint said.
“I know him real well,” Wycliffe said. “I knew he’d want all the money for himself. I knew he’d follow me and wait for a chance to take it.”
“You were right that far,” Clint said. “But trust me, he’s not going anywhere.”
“He’s not gonna take on both of you,” Wycliffe said.
He looked down at the pan on the fire. The beans had congealed.
“Kelly,” Clint said, “you want to make a new batch of beans?”
“Sure, why not?” Kelly said. “A man’s gotta eat, right?”
FORTY-FOUR
Wycliffe fell asleep, with his hands still tied behind him. His gun was still in the fire, the wooden grips burned away, the metal red-hot.
Clint and Kelly sat by the fire with coffee cups in their hands.
“You think he’s really gonna come down?” Kelly asked.
“I think so, yeah,” Clint said. “He knows we know what he did. If he runs, we’ll chase him, and catch him.”
Kelly pulled Wycliffe’s saddlebags to him and looked inside.
“With a saddlebag like this, I might take the chance,” he said. “Maybe he will, too.”
“The chance he’ll take,” Clint said, “is that, somehow, he’ll come out of this with all the money.”
“And how’s he gonna do that?” Kelly asked, setting the saddlebags aside.
“Beats me,” Clint said. “I guess we’re gonna find out.”
Garver sighted down the barrel of his rifle at the camp. At the first sign of light he’d take his shot. He’d have them before they knew what hit them, and then the money would be his.
He waited.
At first light Clint and Kelly saddled the horses. They wanted to be ready to ride out as soon as possible.
“He should be down any minute,” Clint said. “We’ll get this done with and head back.”
Clint looked up at the hill where he’d left Garver, saw the glint of the sun off something shiny.
“Down,” he said to Kelly.
Garver started to squeeze the trigger, sighting on the Gunsmith first, but he stopped when he felt something hard press against the back of his head.
“Put rifle down,” Red Joe said, “and stand up.”
“Now wait—” Garver said.
“You stand up now,” Red Joe said, “and we walk to camp.”
Garver looked at the three Indian braves and knew his chance had passed. He looked down at the money.
“My saddlebags—” he said.
“He takes,” Red Joe said, indicating one of the other braves. “We go . . . now.”
“What the—” Kelly said.
Clint looked and saw the three Quapaw braves leading Garver down the hill. One was holding the saddlebags of money, the other his rifle.
“Guess there’s been a change of plans,” Clint said to Garver.
Garver looked down at the trussed-up Wycliffe.
“Sorry you didn’t get the chance to plug me and take all the money, partner,” Wycliffe said.
Garver didn’t answer.
“Time to head back,” Clint said.
“No,” Garver said. “I want it to end here.”
“If it ends here,” Clint said, “it ends badly.”
“If I go back, it ends at the end of a rope,” Garver said.
Clint looked at Wycliffe.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’ll go back.”
Clint looked at Kelly, who shrugged. Then he looked at Red Joe.
“All right,” Clint said, “give him back his gun.”
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Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) Page 11