Clint Adams the Gunsmith 15

by JR Roberts

  Cal handed it to Molly, who draped it over her shoulders. It effectively covered her shoulders and cleavage.

  “Is that better?” Clint asked.

  “How does it look?” she asked.

  “It’s not an exact match of the green, but it will do,” Clint said. “You look lovely.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Farrell said.

  Cal had gone back behind the desk, but was staring at Molly, so he seemed to agree.

  “Shall we go?” Clint asked.

  “Where exactly?” she asked.

  “Portsmouth Square,” he said. “The Alhambra, Parker House, the Bella Union, the Empire, the Arcade, as many of the others as we can get to in one night.”

  “One night,” Molly said.

  “And then it’s back to work,” Clint said. “Agreed?”

  She smiled at him and said, “Agreed.”

  He put his arm out and she took it.

  “I have a hansom cab waiting for you out front,” Farrell said.

  “But … I thought it was only blocks away,” she said.

  “It is,” Farrell said, “but a woman who looks the way you do should arrive in Portsmouth Square in style, don’t you think?”

  “I think so, too,” Clint said.

  They walked out the door arm in arm.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Clint took Molly to several of the gambling palaces and they ended up at the Alhambra. She had never gambled before so he showed her how to play blackjack and faro and roulette.

  She decided she liked roulette so Clint gave her some money to play with. She clapped happily when she played a number and it came up. She then kept playing the number over and over and eventually lost all the money she had won when the number hit.

  “Do you want to play some more?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He took her to a table and they ordered drinks from a beautiful saloon girl.

  “So that’s gambling?” she asked.

  “That’s gambling,” he said, nodding, “but that’s bad gambling.”

  “Bad?”

  “You could have walked away from the table ahead, but you decided to keep playing until you had lost all the money you won.”

  “And I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You definitely shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  “What should I have done?”

  “You should have kept winning.”

  She frowned at him.

  “What am I supposed to feel, now that I’ve gambled?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, “if you enjoyed it, you should feel … elated.”

  “And if I didn’t enjoy it?”

  “Then you’d feel … empty.”

  She paused for a moment, then said, “Well, when my number came up on the wheel, I felt elated, but when I lost back all the money I had won, I felt … empty.”

  “And what do you feel now?”

  She pulled her shawl closer and said, “Cold.”

  “Maybe we should call it a night.”

  She looked around at the other women in the room, most of whom were wearing gowns similar to hers, some more expensive, some even more revealing.

  “They don’t seem to mind walking around … uncovered.”

  When she looked at him, he was staring at her.

  “All right,” she said, “so I’m a little less … experienced than I claim to be.”

  “How long have you been with the Secret Service?” he asked.

  “Eight months.”

  “And in that time you’ve worked with Jim?”

  “Several times.”

  “Then you’ve learned a lot.”

  “I haven’t learned to … dress right, or act right in certain situations.”

  “You will.”

  “But there are certain situations I do know how to act right in,” she said, staring at him suggestively.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’ve noticed.”

  “Why don’t we go back to the room?” she suggested.

  “Sure,” Clint said, “why don’t we?”

  He paid for the drinks and they got up and headed for the door. On the way Clint thought he saw a man he knew going out the door ahead of them.

  “Come on,” he said, “hurry.”

  “Clint—” she said, but he pulled her along.

  They hurried out the front door, where he saw the man get into a cab. He grabbed the doorman and asked him to get them a cab, fast.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “The man who got into that cab,” he said, pointing. “I know him.”

  “From where?”

  The doorman came back and said he had a cab for them. “Come on!”

  He pulled Molly to the cab, where they got in and he told the driver to go.

  “Where?” the man asked.

  “Follow that cab.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that just left.”

  The driver flicked the reins at his horse and it went off at a trot.

  “Which way did he go?” the driver asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “He went straight, I guess.”

  “I see a cab ahead,” the driver said, “but I don’t know if it’s the one you want.”

  “Well, just keep going and let’s find out,” Clint said.

  “It’s dark,” the driver said, “but I’ll try to stay with him.”

  “I’ll pay you well if you do.”

  That made the man flick his reins with that much more sharpness.

  Molly, sitting across from him, sat forward and slapped him on the leg.

  “Will you tell me who we’re chasing?”

  “That soldier,” Clint said, snapping his fingers.

  “Which soldier?”

  “Uh … Private Collins,” Clint said, “the soldier who was with Tate when we saw him on the train.”

  “That man is Collins?” she said. “Then that means Colonel Tate is in town?”

  “I don’t know what it means,” Clint said, “but I intend to find out.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  They followed the cab ahead of them for street after street until Clint finally decided they should just stop him.

  “How do I do that?” the driver asked.

  “Get ahead of him,” Clint said. “Tell him to pull over. Don’t you know who he is? He’s another driver, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is,” the driver called over his shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean I know him.”

  “Don’t you both pick up fares in front of the hotels?” Clint asked.

  “Yes, we do, but that’s not one of the cabs from the Square.”

  “What?”

  “I know the names of the other drivers.”

  “That’s not the cab that was just ahead of you in front of the Alhambra?”

  “No, sir, it ain’t. I’d recognize it if it was.”

  “Then where’s that one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you know who drives it?”

  “Sure,” the man said, “that’s Andy’s cab.”

  “And that’s not Andy’s cab,” Clint said, pointing.

  “No, it ain’t,” the man said. “That’s what I’m telling’ you!”

  “Can you pass him?”

  “Can I?” the guy said. “I got the best horse in San Francisco.”

  “Well, pull him over anyway,” Clint said. “We might as well have a look.”

  “It’s gonna cost you extra.”

  “No problem.”

  The driver nodded and snapped his reins so that his horse accelerated. They eventually passed the other cab, then pulled in front of it, forcing the driver to rein in his horse.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” the man shouted. “You Portsmouth Square cabs think you own the streets!”

  “Relax,” the driver said. “My fare just wants to take a look at yours.”

  Clint got out of the cab, followed b
y Molly, moving as quickly as she could in her gown. They ran to the other cab and looked in.

  “What’s going on?” the fare asked. He was a small man of about sixty. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “It’s not him,” Clint said when Molly had caught up. They turned and walked back to their cab.

  “Is that it?” the other driver asked. “Can I go now?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “go.”

  As the other cab pulled away, Clint’s driver, a young man in his late twenties, said, “Where to now, boss?”

  “Take us to the Farrell House Hotel. You know where that is?”

  “Sure,” the man said, “that’s Duke’s place. Hop in.”

  The cab dropped them in front of the Farrell House. Clint paid the cab driver, and gave him extra for his trouble. “Thanks, mister.”

  “Hold on a second,” Clint said as the man started to drive away. Molly waited in the doorway.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your buddy Andy?”

  “What about him?”

  “I’d like to find out where he took his fare tonight.”

  “Which fare?”

  “The one he just took,” Clint said. “Can you get him to come and see me tomorrow?”

  “Are you the police?” the man asked.

  “No, I’m not,” Clint said. “What’s your name?”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul, I’ll pay Andy to come see me, and I’ll pay you to get him to come and see me.”

  Clint took a few dollars out and handed them to Paul. “When?”

  “Tomorrow, in the morning. You guys can both eat breakfast here, on me.”

  “Are you friends with Duke?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “he’ll vouch for me. My name’s Clint Adams.”

  The name hit home. He could see it in Paul’s face, although the younger man tried not to let it show.

  “Okay, Mr. Adams,” Paul said. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Nine, okay?”

  “Nine,” Paul said, “sharp.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  In their room the mood was pensive.

  “This is why I hate getting involved with the Secret Service, or the government, or politics,” Clint said.

  “Why?” Molly queried.

  “Because somebody’s always doing something underhanded, or just flat-out lying.”

  “Collins?”

  “Tate,” Clint said. “If Collins is here, Tate knows about it. And Tate himself might be here as well.”

  “But why? Why would he come if he asked you to come?” Molly asked.

  “That’s what I want to know,” he said. “And if I find out he is here, I’m out.”

  “What?”

  “Gone,” Clint said. “I’ll leave town immediately.”

  “You don’t care about the senator, or whether or not he’s Wirz?”

  “He’s not Wirz, all right?” Clint said. “Henry Wirz is dead. He was hanged. Executed. Period. Tate used that bull about him still being alive just to get me here, and I don’t like it.”

  “What about Jim West?” Molly asked. “Is he lying? Or doing something underhanded?”

  “No,” Clint said. “He simply sent me a telegram on behalf of Colonel Tate. Tate’s the one playing games.”

  “What if you do leave San Francisco, and Atwater kills Senator Winston—whether he turns out to be Wirz or not? How would you feel then?”

  “I’ll feel bad,” Clint said, “but it won’t be my fault. I’ll live with it.”

  She had hung her gown up and was lying in bed with the sheet pulled up to her neck. The way the sheet lay on her body made it plain she was naked.

  Clint turned to look at her, wearing only his underwear.

  “If you leave, you know I’ll have to stay,” she said. “I’ll have to try and stop Atwater—and whoever’s helping him—by myself.”

  “If Tate’s here, all you have to do is make him bring some more men in,” Clint said.

  “If he was going to bring in more men, he would have by now.”

  “And how do we know he hasn’t?” Clint demanded. “Collins is here. Probably Tate. And who else?”

  “So then why did he want you here?”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Clint said, sitting on the bed. “He needs a scapegoat.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “but I’ve got that scapegoat feeling.”

  “But … he’s your friend.”

  “I told you before, I knew the young Lieutenant Tate,” Clint said. “We weren’t friends, but I knew him. This Colonel Tate, him I don’t know, and don’t trust.”

  “Yes,” she said, “you told me before you don’t trust him.”

  “Even less now.”

  “What about me?” she asked. “Do you trust me yet?”

  He put his hand on her leg and said, “Yes, I trust you.”

  That delighted her. She tossed off the sheet and threw her arms around him from behind, crushing her breasts into his back. She kissed his neck.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “And I won’t leave you alone here,” he said. “I’m just talking because I’m mad. There’s no way I’d leave you to handle this alone.”

  She kissed his neck and said, “I know.”

  They got beneath the sheet, rubbed up close together, and let nature take its course.

  When Molly was asleep, Clint got out of bed and went into the other room. He poured himself a brandy from the decanter and sat in one of the armchairs. He was still angry at Tate, but what if Collins was in San Francisco on his own? What if Collins was the wild card in this deck? What if he was the one who killed Gates?

  But why?

  It didn’t make sense, unless Collins wasn’t a soldier. And if he wasn’t a soldier, that meant Tate wasn’t one either.

  The news he’d gotten about Tate was that the man had finished his assent through the ranks. Maybe Tate wasn’t happy about that.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Clint and Molly were downstairs in the dining room when Paul the driver came in with his friend Andy in tow. Andy was even younger than Paul, probably mid-twenties.

  “Clint Adams,” Paul said. “This is Andy. He picked up that fella you were talkin’ about last night, outside the Alhambra.”

  “Skinny little fella in a suit that was too big for him?” Andy asked.

  “That’s him,” Clint said. “Sit down, boys. Have some breakfast.”

  They ordered steak and eggs all around. Molly poured coffee for the two boys.

  “This is Miss O’Henry,” Clint said.

  “Ma’am,” Andy said. Paul also nodded.

  “Had you seen that man before last night?” Clint asked Andy.

  “No, sir.”

  “And did you see him arrive at the Alhambra?”

  “No, sir.”

  Clint looked at Paul.

  “I didn’t drive him there, and I never seen him—still ain’t You described him to me.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Where did you take him, Andy?”

  “To a street corner.”

  “Just a corner? No building? Hotel, or anything?” Clint asked.

  “No, sir,” Andy said. “He told me to take him to the corner of Market and Drumm Streets.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Down near Pier One,” Paul said.

  “What else is there?”

  Andy shrugged. “Just buildings.”

  “Did you see anyone else when you dropped him off?” Clint asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Did he say anything else to you?”

  “No, sir,” Andy said, “just tol’ me where to take him.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Let’s have our breakfast and then you can drive me down there, too.”

  “Sure thing,” Andy said. His eyes widened—as did Paul’s—when the waiter brought huge plates of steak and eggs.

  Andy drove Clint and Molly to Market and
Drumm Streets, where he said he’d dropped off the man Clint believed to be Collins.

  Clint paid Andy and said, “Thanks, kid.”

  “Do you want me to stay and wait for you?” Andy asked. “It ain’t no problem.”

  “That’s okay, Andy,” Clint said. “We’ll be fine. Thanks.”

  “Sure thing,” Andy said. “Ma’am.”

  Molly gave him a smile.

  They watched as Andy drove away and then Molly turned to Clint and said, “Where to?”

  Clint pointed and said, “The water.”

  They walked down to the end of Pier One without seeing anything interesting. Men were loading and unloading freight from ships, paused to give Molly and Clint a long look—probably just Molly, who was wearing trousers so she could keep her Colt tucked into her belt.

  “Where could he have gone?” Molly asked.

  “Anywhere,” Clint said. “He might even have simply caught a second cab and had it take him to a hotel.”

  “To avoid being followed?”

  Clint nodded.

  “And it’s possible it wasn’t him, right?”

  “Possible,” Clint said, “but I’m pretty sure it was.”

  “What if it is him, but Colonel Tate doesn’t know he’s here?”

  “I thought about that,” Clint said. “Collins could be acting on his own.”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Come on, we’ll walk around a bit, and then I’m going to send a telegram.”

  “To who?”

  “The colonel,” Clint said. “On the off chance he doesn’t know his private is in San Francisco, I’m going to tell him.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The area was mostly warehouses, and Clint knew that Private Collins could be in any one of them, or not. They could walk around and ask if anyone had seen the man, but Collins was ordinary-looking, and most of the men they saw in the area were working.

  However, there was one place they might ask some questions.

  “Let’s try that saloon over there before we leave the area,” Clint said. “Are you up for it?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked.

  “This is going to be a real working man’s saloon, Molly,” Clint said. “Dockworkers aren’t used to seeing women in their bars.”