by JR Roberts
Under the noses of the Secret Service, and Clint Adams.
“Sir?” one of the Secret Servicemen said to him.
“Yes?”
The three men reached him, encircled him.
“Secret Service, sir,” the man said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for your name, and your gun.”
“My name is Clint Adams,” he said, “and I’m not giving you my gun.”
The three men tensed.
“Sir, don’t cause trouble.”
“Believe me,” Clint said, “I’m not here to cause trouble. Look, I’m here with a member of your service to stop an assassin.”
“Sir?”
“Do any of you know Molly O’Henry?”
The three men exchanged a glance.
“A girl?” one of them said.
“You have female members,” Clint said.
“Sir,” the first man said, “please don’t try to—”
“Do any of you know Jim West?”
That name gave them pause.
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“Well, I’m a friend of his. In case you didn’t hear me, my name is Clint Adams.”
He looked at the three men. Their faces were blank, but then there was a flicker in the eyes of one, the spokesman. “Clint Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
“Sir,” the man said, “you can keep your gun, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with us.”
“Are we going to talk to your boss?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then lead on,” Clint said. “I want to distract you as little as possible.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
They took Clint to a small room off the main station. A man in his forties with slicked-back black hair looked up from a table, where Clint could see he had a map of the station and platform.
“What’s going on?” the man asked. “You belong out there.”
“This man looked suspicious, sir. So we asked him who he was.”
“And?”
“He’s the Gunsmith, sir.”
The man stood up straight and studied Clint.
“All right,” he said finally. “You stay, the rest of you back outside.”
The spokesman stayed, the other two left.
“I assume you’re the agent in charge?” Clint asked. “That’s right, Steve Ames. Do you have any identification on you, Mr. Adams? I mean, to prove you are who you say you are?”
“We’re wasting time,” Clint said. “No, I don’t carry anything like that. If Jim West was here, he could vouch for me.”
“West?”
“We’re friends.”
“I’d heard that,” Ames said.
“I’m in San Francisco because Jim West asked me to come. It’s a long story and we don’t have time to go into it right now. There are two men in town planning to kill the senator.”
“Is that right?”
“One is a man named Dorence Atwater, the other a man I know as Collins, but who goes by the name ‘Poca Muerte.’ ”
“Little Death,” Ames said. “I’ve heard of him. He’s a killer for hire.”
“And he’s been hired,” Clint said.
“Adams, why didn’t you present yourself to me when you got here?”
“For this very reason,” Clint said. “I was afraid we’d end up in a small room wasting time rather than outside, getting into position to protect the senator.”
“What do you know about the senator?”
“Nothing,” Clint said. “I’m completely disinterested in him, except for the fact that I know there are two men who want to kill him.”
Ames studied Clint for a few moments, then said, “Okay. What do they look like?”
Clint described them. Ames looked at his agent. “Lockwood, get those descriptions to everyone.
“You have another agent in the station. Her name is Molly O’Henry.”
Ames frowned.
“We don’t have an agent named Molly O’Henry.”
It was Clint’s turn to frown.
“Are you sure? She’s fairly new—”
“I know the names of every Secret Service agent, Mr. Adams,” Ames said. “I’m in line to soon become assistant director. Believe me, we don’t have a Molly O’Henry.”
Clint stared at the man, then said, “Damn.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
It was clear to Clint now.
Molly O’Henry’s position had never been confirmed by anyone. Not by Jim West, not by ex-Colonel Tate. Clint had never even seen the telegram she supposedly received from Jim West.
He’d been duped, and he felt ridiculous for it.
Ames asked him to point out Molly. They went out to the station and she was nowhere in sight.
“So we have three potential assassins?” Ames asked. “One you brought here yourself?”
Clint couldn’t find the words to explain how he felt about that, and Ames didn’t give him the time.
“Never mind,” Ames said. “You’re here, and I’m going to put you to good use. If you see any of those three, you sound off and let my men know. But if it’s you who isn’t who you claim to be, God help you.”
“Believe me,” Clint said, “I wouldn’t admit to being made a fool of if I didn’t have to.”
Ames gave him a hard look, and then walked away.
Clint couldn’t figure out where Molly had gotten to. And he didn’t understand what the point of sticking with him was when her ultimate goal was to kill the senator. He couldn’t see what she had gained by attaching herself to him. It was general knowledge the senator was coming into San Francisco. She knew it, Tate knew it, Atwater knew it, and Collins knew it. With that many people wanting him dead, Clint figured the senator—whether or not he was Henry Wirz—was as good as dead.
He heard the train whistle.
Atwater heard the train whistle. It blew once. Then twice. And then again as it got closer. That was his signal to move. He touched the gun in his belt, then approached the door to the station and entered.
Clint saw Atwater as soon as he entered the station. He had one hand down on his belt. Clint figured he had a gun there.
He looked around, saw that at least two Secret Servicemen had also spotted Atwater as a suspicious person.
The train whistled again as it pulled into the station.
“Gun!” one of the Secret Servicemen shouted.
Atwater heard the shout and panicked. He drew the gun from his belt as the train came into the station.
The Secret Service opened fire. Atwater was hit by so many bullets he danced in place for a few seconds before he crumpled to the floor.
All the Secret Servicemen in the station ran for the body and Clint knew immediately.
“It’s a diversion!” he shouted. “A diversion.”
They couldn’t hear him as the train was screeching to a halt. Clint turned, saw Ames running, and stepped in front of him.
“What the—”
“It’s a diversion!” Clint said. “We’ve got to go out on the platform.”
Ames stared past Clint, then at Clint, at the look in his eyes.
“Okay, come on!” Ames said.
He and Clint ran outside as the train finally came to a halt.
“Which car? Which car?” Clint shouted.
“Come on,” Ames said.
He followed Ames down the platform as people started to step off the train. At the end, the last passenger car, a small crowd had gathered, probably mostly newspapermen. Clint knew either Collins or Molly was in that crowd. Most likely Collins. He had probably been one of the men on the platform that Clint hadn’t recognized.
“Get out of the way!” Ames shouted, pushing through the crowd.
Clint shoved through behind him. A couple of men came off the train and pushed people away from it as a third man appeared.
The senator.
C
lint looked around frantically. Collins could have been any of these people, with a gun held down low until he needed it. The only thing Clint could do was get to the senator.
As the senator’s Secret Service contingent was pushing people away, Clint ducked down low and rolled beneath the train, coming out the other side. Then he got on the train and rushed through, coming up behind the senator.
“Wha—” the man said as Clint grabbed him by the collar.
He pulled the senator back into the train and took his place. Now he could clearly see all the men crowded around the door, including Ames, who was still trying to fight his way through.
And there he was. Collins. Wearing a hat pulled low and a bulky coat. Clint had seen him on the platform and not recognized him.
“What’s the meaning of thi—” the senator complained, coming out next to Clint.
“Senator—” Clint said, but Collins was raising his gun.
Clint drew and fired into the crowd. The bullet hit Collins in the left shoulder, but he had his gun in his right hand. Everybody on the platform hit the ground but Ames, two other Secret Servicemen who were out of position … and Collins.
Collins brought the gun up again. This time Ames and Clint fired at the same time. They both hit their target and Collins went down. Everybody else stayed on their bellies as the two out-of-position agents came rushing over.
“Stay alert!” Ames shouted, pointing at them. “There’s one more somewhere.”
Clint stepped down from the railroad car, gun still in his hand.
“Move!” he said to the others, all still lying on the platform. “Get away.”
They moved, some of them getting up and running, others scrambling away on their bellies. Clint leaned over Collins, kicking his gun away.
“Dead?” Ames asked, coming up alongside him.
“Yes.”
Ames looked up at the railroad car.
“Senator? Are you all right?”
“Yes, ah think so,” Senator Winston said. “A-Ah believe that man saved mah life.”
The senator had a heavy Southern accent.
Clint took a deep breath, looked up from Collins’s body, and took his first look at Senator Henry Winston.
He stared a good long time, just to make sure.
He’d never seen the man before in his life.
Chapter Sixty-Five
They brought both bodies into the small room Ames had been using, and closed the door. The senator was escorted to a cab and taken to a hotel, where he’d be safe.
Clint had gotten a good look at the man and was thoroughly convinced he was not Henry Wirz. That meant he had no further interest in the man. The only connection any of this had to Andersonville was Tate and Atwater, and the fact that Tate tried to use Clint.
“All I can think,” Clint told Ames, “is that Tate planned to pin the senator’s murder on me.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “I don’t know anything for sure, and with both Tate and Collins dead, I’ll never know.”
“What about the woman?”
“It makes me feel even more like a fool,” Clint said, “but I think she probably is Poca Muerte.”
“Poca,” Ames said. “That’s feminine, right? Poco would be a man?”
“That’s what I mean by more of a fool,” Clint said.
“Look,” Ames said, “I’m going to ask you not to leave town until I get a telegram from my boss, or from Jim West.”
“Sure,” Clint said, “sure. I’m at the Farrell House Hotel.”
“Okay,” Ames said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Clint nodded, started away.
“Hey!” Ames called.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks,” Ames said. “Without your help, this might have turned out worse.”
“That’s nice of you,” Clint said, “but without me, this might not have happened at all.”
Clint was going to go back to the Farrell House, but he decided to first go to the Bucket of Blood on the Barbary Coast and pick up his saddlebags and rifle. As far as he was concerned, his part was done. The safety of the senator was up to others.
He went up the stairs and walked down the hall to Rooms 6 and 7. He still had both keys in his pocket. He thought he remembered leaving the gear in 6, so he went in there first. He was right the first time. He grabbed the saddlebag and rifle and left, going back down to the lobby.
The clerk was the same one who had been there when they left.
“Here are the keys to six and seven,” Clint said. “I’ll pay my bill now.”
“You will?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Well … ain’t the lady still up there in seven?”
“What?”
“I mean, you can pay for six, but if she’s still using seven—”
Clint dropped his saddlebags and rifle on the desk and ran back up the stairs. When he got to the top, he moved more slowly down the hall. When he reached the door to Room 7, he listened, thought he heard movement inside.
“I know you’re out there, Clint,” Molly said.
“Molly?” he said. “Is that even your name?”
“It’s as good a name as any,” she called out.
“Come on out, Molly. It’s all over. Atwater’s dead, Collins is dead. The senator is safe. And the Secret Service knows about you.”
“What about the senator?” she asked. “Is he Wirz?”
“Wirz is dead, Molly,” Clint said. “I got a good long look at Winston. Wirz is dead.”
“That’s good,” she yelled. “I’m glad.”
“Come on out, Molly.”
“What for?” she asked.” Are you gonna take me in? For what?”
“Who killed Gates?” I asked.
“You saw Collins kill Tate,” she said. “He must’ve killed Gates.”
“And you haven’t killed anybody?”
“Not this time,” she said.
Clint remained quiet for a few moments, then asked the question he wanted to ask.
“Molly, are you Poca Muerte?”
Silence, then she said, “That’s a stupid name, but it’s as good as any, too.”
“And were you hired to kill the senator?”
“Why does that matter now?” she asked. “It’s all over. And it was all about politics, so it made no sense to me.”
“Why’d you come back here?”
“I knew you’d come back for your gear,” she said, “and I wanted to know. I wanted to know if Winston was Wirz. For your sake, I was hoping he wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if he was Wirz,” she said, “you would have killed him.”
Clint wanted to protest, but found he couldn’t, because he didn’t know what would have happened if he’d looked up at Senator Winston and seen the face of Henry Wirz.
“Molly?”
No answer.
“Molly?”
He remembered that the room she was in had access from the window. He kicked the door open and rushed in, but it was empty, and the window was open.
He wondered if he’d seen the end of Poca Muerte, or Molly, or whoever she really was.
The Gunsmith Series by J. R. Roberts
From Piccadilly Publishing
The Lincoln Ransom
New Mexico Powder Keg
Kidnap a Gunsmith
Lawman’s Sunset
Three Rings of Trouble
Blood Coast
The Put-Up Job
The Dodge City Inheritance
The Gold of Point Pinos
Shot in the Back
Silent Assassin
Grizzly Hunt
Silent Assassin
Dakota Kill
Demon’s Curse
Death of a Gandy Dancer
The Funeral of Doc Holliday
The Tomb of Joaquin
Ace High
The Art of the Gun
The Devil’s Payload
&nbs
p; The Widow’s Web
Calamitytown
Deadly Ambush
Son of a Legend
The Hanging Woman
The Law and Miss Jones
Branded Woman
Hellcat in Chains
A Place Called Exile
The Deadly Monument
Gunsmith Giants by J. R. Roberts
From Piccadilly Publishing
Trouble in Tombstone
The Life and Times of Clint Adams
Showdown in Little Misery
Death in Dodge City
Barnum and Bullets
Tales from the White Elephant Saloon
The Marshal of Kingdom
The Ghost of Billy the Kid
Little Sureshot and the Wild West Show
Dead Weight
Red Mountain
The Knights of Misery
The Marshal from Paris
Lincoln’s Revenge
Andersonville Vengeance
About the Author
J. R. Roberts is otherwise known as Robert J. Randisi, an American author who writes in the detective and Western genres. He has authored more than 550 published books and has edited more than 30 anthologies of short stories. Booklist magazine said he "may be the last of the pulp writers."
He co-founded and edited Mystery Scene magazine and co-founded the American Crime Writers League. He founded The Private Eye Writers of America in 1981, where he created the Shamus Award.
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