“Kids?”
Clint nodded.
“That’s bad business, killin’ kids.”
“That the kind of thing you think he could do?” Clint asked.
“If they was in his way,” Jenkins said, “he’d kill his own ma and pa—if they was still alive.”
“Does he have any family?” Clint asked.
“Just a wife.”
“What’s she like?”
“From what I hear, she’s got the appetite of a whore,” Jenkins said. “That might make some men happy, but she also looks like an old whore.”
“That’s the word going around?” Clint asked.
“On her, yeah.”
“Does the man have regular guns he employs?”
“He needs a gun, he gets the best available,” Jenkins said. “Whoever’s around. If he knew you was around, he’d probably try to hire you.”
“Too late for that,” Clint said. “I’m pretty sure he already knows I’m coming.”
“If that’s the case,” Jenkins said, “you better watch your back.”
TWENTY-ONE
Cantrell looked up when his office door opened and Eddie Pratt entered, followed by Johnny Devlin.
“Here he is, Mr. Cantrell,” Devlin said.
“I can see that, Johnny. Have a seat, Eddie. I may have a job for you that you’ll find very interesting.”
“I hope you ain’t gonna ask me to satisfy your wife,” Pratt said. “I don’t think I’m up to it.”
Devlin snickered and Cantrell said, “Get out, Devlin!” “Yes, sir.”
Cantrell looked at Pratt. The gunman was in his thirties, tall and rangy and, as usual, abrasive.
“Why do you insist on talking about my wife like that?” he demanded.
“She’s a damn slut,” Pratt said. “Everybody in town knows that. Want me to kill ’er for you?”
Cantrell stared at Pratt for a few moments, then grinned and said, “Don’t tempt me. Get yourself a drink and sit down.”
“Naw,” Pratt said, “all you got is that brandy swill. I’ll sit, though.” And he did. “What’s on your mind?”
“How’d you like to enhance your reputation?” Cantrell asked.
“I wouldn’t,” Pratt said.
“Why not?”
“Because I ain’t got one, you know that,” Pratt said. “I try to keep a low profile. I do my job, and get paid. I don’t wanna make a big name for myself.”
“Okay, then,” Cantrell said, “how’d you like to make three times your normal fee?”
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“You got a bad one on your hands, Cantrell, or you wouldn’t be offerin’ me that much money.”
Cantrell didn’t respond.
“Okay, so who is it?” Pratt asked.
“The Gunsmith.”
Pratt looked surprised.
“Clint Adams is in town?”
“That’s right.”
“Lookin’ for you.”
“Right.”
“What’s it about?”
“Those settlers.”
“That was a bad business,” Pratt said. “I knew that wasn’t a good idea.”
“I had no choice,” Cantrell said. “They had legal deeds. They had to go.”
“Well,” Pratt said, “I don’t want any part of Clint Adams. Not for five times the price. Not if you want me to take him face to face.”
“What if I said you could take him any way you want?” Cantrell asked.
“Well,” Pratt said, “that would be different. When do you want it done?”
“Next couple of days,” Cantrell said. “I don’t want him killed the day he arrives, asking about me.”
“That makes sense,” Pratt said. “I’ll need some help, though.”
“Three times as much for them, too?” Cantrell asked, standing up and turning to his safe.
“No,” Pratt said, “regular price for them.”
Cantrell nodded, knelt in front of his safe, and opened it.
“Five times the price for me,” Pratt said.
Cantrell paused, then said over his shoulder, “Four?”
“Okay,” Pratt said, “but only because you’re a good customer.”
Cantrell took out the money, stuffed it into an envelope, and handed it to Pratt.
“Can I use Devlin?” he asked.
“The man’s an idiot,” Cantrell said, seating himself again.
“Then he’ll come cheap,” Pratt said. “I won’t give him anything important to do.”
“Very well,” Cantrell said. “He’s yours. Tell him I said so.”
Pratt grinned, stowed the envelope inside his jacket, and headed for the door.
“Pratt.”
The gunman turned.
“You’d really do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill my wife?”
“Sure.”
Cantrell sat back, considering the offer.
Pratt opened the door, then turned and looked back at Cantrell. “For five times the price,” he said, and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him.
TWENTY-TWO
Clint was meeting a lot of new lawmen lately.
Glenister turned out to be a man who looked too big to ever get into the saddle again. He had his boots off and was rubbing his feet when Clint entered. There were holes in his socks.
“Sorry,” he said. “Not a dignified way for you to find the sheriff, eh?” He laughed.
“Hey, when your feet hurt you’ve got to rub them, right?”
“Just give me a minute to get these boots back on,” Glenister said, struggling with them. “Ah, hell, you might as well tell me who you are and what you want while I’m doin’ this.”
“My name’s Clint Adams,” he said. “And I’m looking for a killer.”
“In my town?”
“I hope so,” Clint said. “I’ve been to Hondo, Roswell, and now here.”
Glenister got his boots on and straightened up, sweating from the effort.
“I need a beer,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go to the saloon and you can tell me all about why the Gunsmith is lookin’ for a killer in my town.”
The sheriff took Clint to a saloon called the Three-Leaf Clover. Business was slow at that time of day and they stood at the bar with cold beers in their hands.
“Okay,” Glenister said. “Tell me.”
Clint laid it out for the lawman, right up to his suspicion that Harry Cantrell had something to do with it.
“Sheriff Scott in Hondo tells me that you are your own man,” Clint finished, “and that I don’t have to worry about you running to him to tell him about me.”
“I won’t have to,” Glenister said. “He probably knows by now. He’s got enough eyes and ears in this town without me.”
“I see.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“Talk to him.”
“Confront him?”
“Not exactly,” Clint said. “First I’ll just ask him if he knows the families. See how he reacts.”
“Badly,” Glenister said. “He’ll react badly.”
“Well, I’d expect that,” Clint said. “And once I do accuse him . . .”
“If he did it,” Glenister said, “he’ll try to kill you. If he didn’t do it . . . well, he may still try to have you killed.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“I’ve got four deputies, Adams,” Glenister said. “If you do find a murderer in this town—whether it’s Cantrell or somebody else—we’re at your disposal.”
“I appreciate that, Sheriff.”
“When are you gonna see Cantrell?”
“As soon as I finish this beer,” Clint said. “Can you direct me to his office?”
“I’ll point the way,” the lawman said.
The door to Cantrell’s office opened again a half-hour later. This time a man he’d never seen before entered. He assumed it was Clint Adams.
“Mr.
Cantrell?”
“That’s right,” Cantrell said. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Clint Adams.”
“Should that mean something—Oh, wait. I know. The Gunsmith, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, come in,” Cantrell said. “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind. Can I offer you some brandy?”
“No, I’m fine.” Clint sat across from the man.
“What brings you to Carrizozo, Mr. Adams?” Cantrell asked. “Or, more to the point, what brings you to me?”
“Actually,” Clint said, “murder.”
“Murder?” Cantrell looked confused. “Has someone I know been murdered?”
“You know a family named Eckert?”
“Eckert.” Cantrell seemed to think. “Doesn’t ring a bell with me.”
“Six adults, five children.”
“Was this Mr. Eckert killed?”
“They were all killed,” Clint told him.
“All?”
“That’s right.”
“Even the children?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes, it is,” Clint agreed.
“But why does this bring you to me?” Cantrell asked.
Clint grinned and said, “That is the question, isn’t it?”
TWENTY-THREE
“Are you going to answer it?”
“I found these families dead on the trail,” Clint said, “in camp. I backtracked and followed their tracks to Roswell.”
“Why did you do that?” Cantrell asked. “Are you a lawman?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’m a responsible man. I found them, so I want to find out who killed them.”
“And did you find out?”
“No,” Clint said, “but I did discover that they had talked to a man named Sutcliffe—and to you.”
“Did they?” Cantrell said. “I’ll have to check with Grant to find out what it was about.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I don’t have a very good memory—”
“I thought you needed to, in order to be a good businessman.”
“—about some things,” Cantrell finished.
“Not people?”
“Important people, yes.”
“Will you remember me, after today?” Clint asked.
“Should I?”
“Oh yes,” Clint said, “I think you should, Mr. Cantrell. I definitely think you should.” He stood up.
“We’ll be talking again.”
“Anything I can do to help,” Cantrell said. He stood and extended his hand. Clint ignored it, turned, and walked to the door.
“I’ll be calling on you, Mr. Cantrell.”
“I’ll be waiting, Mr. Adams.”
They sized each other up again, and then Clint left.
Cantrell sat back in his chair, uncomfortably. He was glad he had already sent for Eddie Pratt.
“So I’m supposed to work for you?” Devlin asked Pratt.
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Cantrell says so?”
“You can check with him if you want,” Pratt said. He put some money on the table. It was nothing to him, but a lot to Johnny Devlin.
“No,” Devlin said, “that’s okay. Whaddaya want me to do, Eddie?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Pratt said, “but for now you can get us a couple of beers.”
“Sure.”
Devlin stood up and waited. Apparently, he didn’t want to use his newfound fortune to pay for the beer. Pratt gave him some more money.
As Devlin went to the bar, Pratt looked around the saloon. The place catered mostly to locals, of the type he was looking for: men who would do anything for money. But he didn’t just need greedy men, he needed men with a talent for violence.
Devlin came back with the beers.
“Johnny, do you know Elton Brand?”
“Yeah, I know Elton.”
“Can you find him?”
“Sure. Are you gonna hire him?”
“I am.”
“You can get somebody in here a lot cheaper,” Devlin pointed out.
“I may just do that,” Pratt said, “but I’ll also need Brand.”
“Okay.” Devlin took two swallows of beer.
“Now, Johnny,” Pratt said. “Go and find Elton now.”
Devlin stared down at his beer, quickly took two more swallows, then said, “Sure,” and hurried for the door.
Pratt sat back with his beer and continued to look over the local talent.
Clint left Cantrell’s office and walked back toward the sheriff’s office. The lawman was standing out in front, watching him approach.
“Had your meetin’?” Glenister asked.
“I have.”
“How did it go?”
“I think we both understood each other.”
“If he understood you,” Glenister said, “then he’s probably gonna try to kill you.”
“Tell me something, Sheriff.”
“If I can.”
“Why would a successful man like Harry Cantrell want to kill six adults and five children?”
Glenister rubbed his jowls. “I can only think of one reason.”
“And what’s that?”
“Profit.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Now all I have to do is find out how he profits from their death.”
TWENTY-FOUR
As Clint was about to walk away the sheriff asked, “Think it would help you to talk to another partner of Cantrell’s?”
“I think that would help a lot,” Clint said, “but why would one of his other partners talk to me?”
“Because this one became partners against her will.”
“A woman?”
Glenister nodded. “And a widow. When her husband died, she discovered that he had become partners with Cantrell. So, if she wanted to stay in business, she had to stay partners with him.”
“And you think she’ll talk to me?”
“Oh yeah,” Glenister said, “she’ll talk to you.”
“Okay, then.”
“Her name’s Lisa Mason,” the Sheriff said.
“What’s her business? Saloon? Hotel?”
“Mercantile,” Glenister said, “and Gun Shop.”
“Gun Shop?”
“Her husband was a gunsmith.”
Clint tried the mercantile first, was told by the clerk behind the counter that Mrs. Mason was at the “Gun Shop.”
“Used to be called the Gunsmith Shop, but she changed it after her Mister died,” the man said. “She ain’t no gunsmith.”
“I see,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
He got directions from the man and walked over to the Gun Shop.
The Gun Shop was off the main street, a large store with two windows filled with guns. On closer inspection, Clint saw that one window had new guns, and the other some recycled weapons.
As he entered the store the top of the door struck a small bell, sending out a warning tinkle.
“I’m in the back!” a woman’s voice shouted. “Look around.”
He did. Most of the guns in the place were under glass, but there were a few retooled old rifles that were available to be hefted and aimed. He was doing so when she came out.
She was a tall woman with red hair piled atop her head, some tendrils of which had come loose and were hanging down in her face. Her solid body was packed into a man’s shirt and some jeans. She had pale skin which, upon closer look, had a spray of just visible freckles across the bridge of her nose, and cheeks—along with a smear of gun oil. Her eyes were green and curious and she regarded him. She was a mature woman, probably close to forty.
“Help ya?” she asked.
“I was hoping to talk to you,” he said. “The sheriff told me we might help each other.”
“And did he say how?” she asked. He noticed her hands were dirty with dust and gun oil.
“Maybe I should
introduce myself first,” he suggested.
“Why don’t you tell me what it’s about first, and then we’ll see if an introduction is necessary,” she countered.
“Harry Cantrell.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You work for him?”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to try to prove he’s a murderer.”
“Flip that OPEN sign in the window around to the CLOSED side, and let’s talk,” she said.
TWENTY-FIVE
“Shall I introduce myself?” he asked.
“Not that it matters,” she said. “If you’re tryin’ to put Cantrell away, I’m your girl.”
“My name’s Clint Adams.”
Her mouth fell open, but then she recovered and closed it. She also tried to tuck those tendrils of hair back up, but they wouldn’t stay.
“I’m, uh, a mess,” she stammered, “I, um, was in the back—”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Mason.”
“My husband would be thrilled to know you’re in his shop.”
“It’s an interesting-looking place. Lots of wall space—”
“I always asked him why he didn’t put some guns on the walls!” she said. “He always liked to keep the guns under glass.”
“Keeps them cleaner,” Clint said.
“I suppose. I put those rifles out, but I figure anybody who buys a gun is going to clean it anyway. Am I right?”
“They should,” Clint said, “that doesn’t mean they do.”
She was still standing in the middle of the store, fussing with her hair.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“No,” she said, annoyed, “I’m making myself uncomfortable. Why don’t you come to the back with me? I can offer you a drink.”
“Thanks.”
He followed her through a doorway, watching the way her buttocks moved in her jeans.
“That’s storage,” she said, pointing. “That’s where I was when you came in. I have an office in here, though.”
They went through another door, into a small room with a desk and a couple of chairs.
“I have some whiskey,” she said, seating herself behind a desk and producing a bottle and two glasses.
“That’s fine,” he said.
She poured a couple of fingers into the two glasses and handed him one.
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