THIRTY-FIVE
Clint nursed his second beer. He figured if he waited for Penny to come back, he might get some information from her about Robinson. The more information he had, the better informed he was, the better his decisions might be.
But what decisions did he have to make? He was only waiting for Crapface to heal so that they could ride out, and head for the Texas panhandle to hunt the last of the buffalo.
What did he care who ended up sheriff? Which town ended up the county seat? It didn’t matter to him one way or the other. Except for the fact that he disliked both the colonel and would-be Sheriff Cross.
Maybe there was something he could do before he left to make their lives a little more difficult. Crapface wouldn’t like it, but it would give Clint some pleasure.
He turned as a woman came through the tent flap. It was Penny.
* * *
Penny had disappeared for about half an hour, then returned, wearing a different dress, looking as if she was fresh from a bath—which she probably was.
She talked to some of the men in the place, gracing them with smiles as she passed, and joined Clint at the bar.
“A glass of whiskey, Brent,” she said.
“Comin’ up.”
“It’ll be on Mr. Adams here.”
“My pleasure,” Clint said.
“Were you waiting for me?” she asked. The smile she gave him was genuine, not the one she flashed at the men on the floor.
“Of course I was,” he said. “I came in here looking for you.”
“Liar,” she said. “But I like it.”
She touched his arm as Brent brought a shot glass of whiskey and set it in front of her.
“To your health,” she said, lifting her glass.
“To your beauty,” he said.
They drank.
“Why were you looking for me?” she asked.
“I wanted to see you,” he said. “Do I need another reason?”
“Of course you do,” she said. “You’re a man, aren’t you?”
“Well, all right,” he said. “Let’s sit down.”
He took his beer and she left her empty glass on the bar. They went to a table in a corner. He wasn’t very comfortable sitting anywhere in the saloon, since the walls were made of canvas, but he put that aside for the moment.
“I’ll be leaving in a day or two,” he said, “but I don’t like what I’m leaving behind.”
“Me? Then take me with you,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“To hunt buffalo.”
“Oh, pooh,” she said. “I’ll stay here. What is it you don’t like about Woodsdale?”
“Well, for one thing, the man it’s named after.”
“The colonel?” she asked. “Well, that’s nothing new. Nobody around here likes the colonel.”
“I also don’t like his choice for sheriff, John Cross.”
“Why not? Seems to me he’ll be a fine sheriff.”
“I thought you’d be casting your vote for Sam Robinson,” Clint said.
“Sam? But why—oh, I see,” she said. “Brent told you where I was.”
“He did.”
“Well, just because Sam’s a customer of mine doesn’t mean I think he’d make a good sheriff.”
“So you don’t think he would?”
“Oh, I suppose he’d be all right,” she said, “but he’s a hotel owner. A politician. I don’t even know if he can handle a gun.”
“And Cross can.”
“Yes.”
“Is Cross one of your customers?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “He hasn’t used any of the girls. I think Mr. Cross is a one-woman man. I suppose he’s to be admired for that.”
“So you think he’ll be elected?”
“With the colonel behind him? I don’t think anyone has any doubt.”
Clint sipped his beer.
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “You’ll be leaving in a day or two.”
“That’s true,” he said. “And I don’t live here, so why should I care?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because he tried to buy me,” he said.
THIRTY-SIX
Joyce Woods decided she had to get out of the house and warn Clint. It was what she should have done in the first place.
She left her room, made her way to the back of the house, and out the back door. She forgot her shawl, and was wearing only a simple cotton dress.
She was able to make her way quickly to the rear of the hotel, where she found the door unlocked. The desk clerk was dozing off as she entered the lobby.
“Hey!” she said, startling him.
“What can I do for ya, ma’am?”
“Is Clint Adams in his room?”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“Well, where is he?”
“Last I seen, he was sittin’ out front with that other fella.”
“His friend?”
“That’s right.”
She turned and rushed to the front door. She saw two chairs, one empty, the other occupied by Clint’s friend, who was sitting with his rifle across his legs.
“Where’s Clint?” she asked.
Crapface looked up at her, a surprised look on his face.
“Where did you come from?” he asked.
“I cut through the hotel,” she said. “I don’t want my father to see me here.”
“You’re Miss Woods?”
“That’s right. The desk clerk told me Clint was sitting out here.”
“Well, he was out here, but he went into town,” Crapface said.
“Alone?”
“There’s only him and me,” he said, “so yeah, he’s alone. Why?”
She hesitated, then said, “I heard my father and John Cross talking about killing Clint.”
“What for?”
“Well, he won’t work for my father, so he doesn’t want him working against him.”
“He ain’t gonna do neither, and I ain’t gonna either,” Crapface told her. “We’re gonna be leavin’ town soon.”
“I’m afraid they’ll kill him before that,” she said. “He has to be warned.”
“He ain’t an easy man to kill, girl,” Crapface said, “but I’ll warn him.”
“Now?”
“As soon as I see ’im.”
She looked off down the street into town.
“Maybe I should go find him.”
“I think you outta cut back through the hotel and get on back to your house, missy,” Crapface said. “I’ll get word to him.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m real sure.”
She studied him critically.
“Are you sure you can walk?”
“I can walk,” Crapface said. “And I can shoot. Don’t you worry about Clint. Long as I’m around, nobody’s killin’ Clint Adams.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am,” he said. “Now you git before your pa starts lookin’ for ya.”
Reluctantly, she moved back into the hotel, and was gone.
She entered the house through the back door and made her way back to her room. Sitting on the bed, she clasped her hands together in her lap. After a few minutes she was thinking she couldn’t just sit there and wait. She had to do something, no matter what Clint’s friend said.
Something.
Colonel Woods heard Joyce come back into the house. He knew she had left, and he knew where she’d gone. She was warning Clint Adams. Well, that was okay with him. He was going to use that warning to his advantage.
Once he was sure she was back in her room, he strapped on his gun and left the house himself, through the front door.
Cross waited across the way from the saloon tent for Adams to come out, but as time started to pass, he wondered if Adams was in there for the rest of the day. Whiskey and girls were in there, and those things kept men like Clint Adams busy.
Maybe he had time to collect a little help.
Clint had a third beer, thought about bringing another one to Crapface, then decided to have another one himself.
Penny came over from time to time to hip-bump him as the place got busier and busier.
“Are you gettin’ drunk?” she asked at one point.
“No,” he said, “I’m just doing some thinking.”
Later Brent came over and asked, “Want another one?”
“No.”
The bartender looked at his half-filled mug and asked, “Freshen that one up?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’ve got enough here to keep me thinking.”
“Still about the colonel? And Cross?”
“Yup.”
“Why would you even care?” Brent asked. “You ain’t gonna live here.”
“No, but some people are,” Clint said. “They deserve good law.”
“Good law?” Brent asked.
“That’s right.”
“Is there such a thing?”
Clint finished his beer and said, “There used to be.”
Crapface went into the hotel lobby after Joyce had left, and he approached the desk.
“How do I get to the roof?”
John Cross could not recruit the wrong men for the job he had in mind. He couldn’t afford to have this come back to haunt him after he was elected sheriff.
“So let me get this straight,” one of the three men with him asked. They were in a small tent with a short bar and a few tables. The speaker was Al Carvey. The other two men were Ed Gentry and Lou Dale.
“If you were sheriff, we’d be deputies right now?” Carvey asked.
“That’s right.”
“So when you get to be sheriff,” Dale asked, “we’ll get to be deputies?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how things go this time.”
“And how do you want things to go, Mr. Cross?” Gentry asked.
“My way, Gentry,” Cross said. “I always want things to go my way.”
Gentry, Carvey, and Dale entered the saloon while Clint was working on his last beer. They spotted him immediately from Cross’s description and approached the bar. Two them stood on Clint’s left, and the other—Gentry—on his right.
Clint was aware that he was being hemmed in, looked at all three men. They pretended not to see him as they crowded him.
“Gents,” Brent said, “there’s plenty of room for everyone.”
“Shut up and get us three beers,” Carvey said.
Brent looked at Clint, who just nodded.
“Hey, mister,” Carvey said, “how about givin’ us some room?”
“Like the bartender said, friend, lots of room for everybody.”
“Then why you takin’ up my room… friend?” Gentry asked.
Clint knew what was going on. He moved a bit to his right to give Gentry room, thereby making contact with the other man, Carvey.
“Hey,” Carvey said, “a little room here. You made me bump into my friend.”
The third man leaned forward and looked at Clint.
Brent came along with three beers and put one in front of each man. As the three of them started to drink, they reacted as if someone had bumped into their elbows, spilling beer down the fronts of their shirts and onto the bar and the floor.
“Hey!” Carvey cried. “Goddamn it!”
“You fellas are a little clumsy, aren’t you?” Clint asked.
The three of them put their beers down and stepped back, turning slightly to face Clint.
“Mister, you owe us three beers,” Carvey said.
“Fine,” Clint said. “Brent, give my three friends a fresh beer.”
“Naw, naw,” Carvey said, “you ain’t gettin’ off that easy. You been gettin’ in our way since we got here. I think we should all step outside.”
“For what?” Clint asked. “There’s plenty of room in here.”
“In here somebody innocent could get hurt,” Dale said.
“Outside somebody innocent could get hurt, too,” Clint said. “Me.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Colonel Woods spotted John Cross standing across from the large saloon tent and approached him.
“John.”
Cross took his eyes off the tent for a split second, then went right back.
“Colonel.”
“What’s going on?”
“Clint Adams is in there,” Cross said. “He has been for a while.”
“Drinking?”
“I assume so.”
“And you’re waiting for him to come out?”
“I’m taking steps to bring him out.”
“How?”
“I sent three men in after him.”
“Who?”
Cross told him.
“Who are they?”
“They’ll probably be my deputies,” Cross said, “if they live that long.”
Woods joined Cross in watching the tent.
Crapface had excellent eyesight.
The saloon tent was out of his view when he was on the ground, but from the roof he was able to see it. He was also able to see the two men—Cross and Woods—across from the tent.
He sighted down the barrel of his Sharps. It was a couple of hundred yards easily. He could see the tent, but not the entrance itself. If he was going to be helpful, they were going to have to try to kill Clint on the street.
He was starting to think he should have just followed Clint, but getting to the roof had taken a lot out of him. He didn’t know if he could walk two hundred yards.
He rested the barrel of the Sharps on the edge of the roof and waited.
“Okay, then,” Clint said. “Outside.”
“Let’s go,” Gentry said.
“After my beer,” Clint said. “You guys want fresh ones?”
“No,” Carvey said.
“We’ll be waitin’ outside,” Gentry said.
“I’ll see you there, boys,” Clint said.
The three men left.
“You really goin’ out there?” Brent asked.
“I guess so.”
“You could go out the back.”
“And go where?”
“Three against one ain’t so good odds,” the bartender said.
“I’ve faced worse.”
“Why were they pushin’ you?” Brent asked.
“Some men are like that when they recognize me,” Clint said.
“Helluva way to live.”
“Tell me about it.”
Clint finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar.
“See you later,” he said.
“I hope so,” Brent said.
Clint smiled at him, turned, and headed for the street.
When the three men exited, Woods asked Cross, “What are they doing?”
“Wait,” Cross said.
Carvey looked over at Cross and nodded his head.
“They’re waiting for him,” Cross said. “He’s coming out.”
“Are you going to join them?”
“That depends on how they do,” Cross said. “If they kill him, I’ll take over, take the credit.”
“And if he kills them?”
“Then I’ll kill him,” Cross said. “From here.”
“That’ll work,” Woods said.
Crapface couldn’t see what was happening right in front of the tent, but from the reactions of the two men, he assumed someone had come out. He decided to keep an eye on them until he could see someone else.
There wasn’t much else he could do.
Clint stopped just in front of the tent flap. The last thing he wanted to do was kill anyone else before he left Woodsdale. But it didn’t seem like these three wanted to give him a choice.
He stepped through the flap. He saw the three men waiting, then beyond them saw Cross and the colonel.
And he understood.
THIRTY-NINE
Cross had set him up, and he was going t
o watch, along with the colonel.
The three men saw him come out, stiffened, then spread their feet for balance.
“About time,” Carvey said.
“Is this what you fellas really want to do?” Clint asked.
“Hey,” Dale said, “you were the clumsy one.”
“Come on,” Clint said, “we all know what this is about. Do you really want to take part in this while they just watch?”
Two of the men stared at him, but one did turn and look over at Cross and Woods before he caught himself.
Clint looked at Cross, went eye to eye with him, then looked at Woods. Both men had enough nerve to watch and catch his eye, but apparently not enough to join in.
He turned his attention back to the three men.
“Kind of silly to die over some spilled beer, don’t you think?” Clint asked them.
* * *
Dale was the man who had turned and looked over at Cross. He wondered when the future sheriff was going to come over and back their play, like he said he would. But he quickly looked back at the Gunsmith. He wondered if the man was as good as his reputation.
“What’s going on?” Woods asked.
“He’s talking to them,” Cross said. “He’s trying to talk them out of this.”
“Why?” Woods asked. “He’s a gunman. Why would he talk to them?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to kill them.”
“That’s crazy,” Woods said. “He’s the Gunsmith. That’s what he does. He kills people.”
“Well, let’s give them some time,” Cross said. “It’ll happen.”
“Are you sure?” Woods asked. “Maybe you should go over there and help them.”
“I know what I’m doing, Colonel,” Cross said. “Let’s just let it play out.”
Carvey licked his lips, stole a glance at Gentry, who was supposed to call the play. Cross said not to worry, he’d back the play, but they should watch Gentry for the first move.
This was going to make them all big names.
Gentry swallowed. Cross had assured him that Clint Adams was past it, that he was no longer the Gunsmith his legend said he was. But the man standing in front of him looked calm, and confident.
Where was Cross? When was he going to step in?
* * *
Cross was watching the action intently. He had two plans. Gentry, Carvey, and Dale killed Adams, and he stepped in and took most of the credit. Or Adams killed them, and he killed Adams. That’s how he planned it. Now it was time to see how it played, if Colonel Woods would just shut up and let it happen.
The Last Buffalo Hunt Page 9