Unbound by Law

by J. R. Roberts

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t hired to kill anybody,” Devlin said. “That’s not what I do.”

  “What do you do, Johnny?”

  “I run errands.”

  “For who?”

  “For Mr. Sutcliffe and Mr. Cantrell.”

  “Well,” Pratt said, “that’s what this is. An errand for them.”

  “But . . . I ain’t never killed nobody.”

  Pratt slapped him on the back. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  They remained in the red-light district, went from saloon to whorehouse and back again until Pratt found the three men he’d hired—two of them were in a saloon, drinking together and arguing, while the third was in a fleabag whorehouse pounding away at a pimply two-dollar whore.

  To the two guys in the saloon, Pratt said, “Stay here. We’re gonna look for Sinclair and come back.”

  Davey and Danny Wilkes could have been brothers, but they were cousins, both in their late twenties.

  “Okay,” Davey said.

  “And don’t get drunk!” Pratt said.

  “Okay,” Danny said.

  As soon as Pratt and Devlin left, the cousins ordered a bottle of whiskey.

  At the whorehouse, Pratt asked for Sinclair and was told he was with Simone.

  “What room?” he asked.

  “Um, five, but he ain’t do—”

  “Maybe,” Pratt said to Devlin, “we can get to him before his dick falls off from some disease.”

  “Hey—” the madam said, but they brushed past her and went upstairs.

  When they got to room five, Pratt slammed the door open so hard that Sinclair jumped off the whore he was fucking. He was tall, very thin, and had a huge penis. The whore was also long and skinny . . . and ugly. It was hard to tell her pimples from her breasts.

  “Jesus, man—” Sinclair said.

  “Get dressed!” Pratt said. “If you want to get paid.”

  “Can’t I finish here?”

  “No,” Pratt said. “We probably saved you from gettin’ a disease. We’ll wait downstairs.” Pratt took a look at the skinny whore. She had a wide, thin-lipped mouth and long, stringy black hair and seemed to be in her forties. “If you paid two dollars, you’re gettin’ gypped.”

  Pratt and Devlin left, with Devlin feeling sick, either from seeing the ugly whore, or Sinclair’s huge dick.

  After they were gone, Sinclair looked down at his raging erection.

  “Simone, over here, quick!”

  “But—”

  “Hurry.”

  The skinny whore got off the bed and went over to him. He forced her to her knees and said, “Open your mouth!”

  “But—”

  “If you wanna get paid!” he shouted.

  She opened her mouth.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After sending a telegram to Hondo, Clint went to the Three-Leaf Clover saloon for a cold beer. It was midday, so there were only a few other men there, lingering over drinks. Clint chose to stand at the bar.

  His telegram had asked Sheriff Scott in Hondo to check and see if anyone in the dead Eckert family had filed a deed for property in the Hondo area. He then checked in Carrizozo and found that there had been no deed filed by them.

  He lingered over his beer, wondering what he could do next. He had no proof, no evidence that Harry Cantrell had poisoned the Eckert family, or had them poisoned, but he felt sure he had done it. But sure enough to take the law into his own hands?

  Probably not.

  Unless somebody had forced the issue.

  Maybe all he had to do was wait for Cantrell to send Pratt after him.

  Pratt told Devlin to take Sinclair back to the saloon where they’d left the Wilkes brothers.

  “I’m gonna talk to Cantrell and then meet you all over there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t let them get drunk!” Pratt said. “We might have to do this today.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  They split up, and Pratt headed for Cantrell’s office.

  Pratt walked into Cantrell’s office while the businessman was talking to two men. His boss gave him a warning shake of the head. Pratt went and looked out the window until Cantrell had completed his business.

  “I’ll get right back to you with the final numbers,” Cantrell said, as he walked the two men to the door, “but I think we’re going to be able to do business.”

  After he ushered the two businessmen out the door, he locked it and turned to Pratt.

  “Is it done?” he asked.

  “You said you didn’t want it done too soon,” Pratt said, “but I thought you ought to know . . .”

  “You think he’d do it?” Cantrell asked after Pratt had related his conversation with Clint Adams.

  “Kill you?”

  “Of course kill me, what else are we talkin’ about?” Cantrell demanded.

  “Sure, he could do it,” Pratt said.

  “But will he?”

  “If he can’t find the proof he wants,” Pratt said, “I think he might.”

  “Then you have to do it,” Cantrell said, “and soon.”

  “You don’t want to talk to the sheriff first?” Pratt asked.

  “The sheriff in this town is somethin’ I don’t own,” Cantrell said. “The badge actually means somethin’ to the fat bastard.”

  “Well,” Pratt said, “if I have to go up against the law and Clint Adams . . .”

  “What?” Cantrell asked. “More money?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Damn it, Pratt!” Cantrell said. “How about this? If you actually have to kill the sheriff, I’ll pay you extra. How’s that?”

  Pratt sat back in his chair and said, “That’ll work.”

  “Now,” Cantrell said, “on another matter, remember what we were talking about last time . . . about my wife . . .?”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Clint decided that instead of waiting for Cantrell to send Pratt after him, he’d force the businessman’s hand.

  He went from the saloon to the sheriff’s office. Glenister wasn’t there, so he started to walk toward Cantrell’s office. On the way, though, he ran into Glenister.

  “Small town,” he said. “We keep running into each other.”

  “I try to keep an eye on everythin’,” the lawman said.

  “I haven’t seen any of your deputies while I’ve been here,” Clint said.

  “They’re around,” Glenister said. “I tell my boys to keep a low profile. Where are you off to now?”

  “To see Cantrell.”

  “Gonna push ’im?”

  “I thought I’d try a shove,” Clint said.

  “Get him to come after you?”

  “Get him to send Pratt after me,” Clint said. “Had a talk with Pratt.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “We understand each other.”

  “Is that good?” the lawman asked.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “How would you justify that?” Clint asked.

  Glenister shrugged. “Just tryin’ to keep the peace.”

  Clint gave it a moment’s thought, then said, “Why not? Let’s see what happens.”

  As Clint and the sheriff entered Cantrell’s office, the man looked up from his desk and frowned. He opened his top drawer.

  “If you’ve got a gun in that drawer you’re being a little premature, Cantrell.”

  The man froze.

  “Besides,” Clint added, “you’d have to shoot the sheriff, too.”

  “I wouldn’t like that, Mr. Cantrell,” Glenister said.

  “What the hell are you two doing here?” Cantrell demanded. He closed the door slowly. “Sheriff, what are you doing with this man?”

  “I’m just here to make sure he don’t shoot you,” the sheriff said.

  “Or you me,” Clint said.

  “Have your say, Adams, and get out,” Cantrell said. “I’m a businessman,
and I don’t have time to waste with the likes of you.”

  “I just wanted you to know I talked to your boys,” Clint said.

  “What boys is that?”

  “Devlin and Pratt.”

  “Devlin works for my partner Sutcliffe,” Cantrell said. “Pratt I employ from time to time.”

  “This being one of those times,” Clint said.

  “Do you purport to know all of my employees now, Adams?”

  “Not all,” Clint said. “Just the one who have been hired to kill me.”

  “And why would I want to kill you?”

  “Because I’ve got you figured out, Cantrell,” Clint said. “I know why you had the Eckert family killed.”

  “Is that the family you say was poisoned?”

  “That’s them.”

  “Wouldn’t I have come up with an easier way to kill them?” the businessman asked. “Why poison?”

  “I don’t know, but that’s one of the things I’m going to find out.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clint and the sheriff left Cantrell’s office, with the lawman shaking his head.

  “If he could’ve killed you with a look, you’d be dead,” Glenister said.

  “You think he’ll come after me?”

  “Somebody will,” the sheriff said. “Probably Pratt.”

  “On Cantrell’s payroll.”

  “If you can avoid killing Pratt, and then get him to admit he was on Cantrell’s payroll, then we’d have something.”

  “It’s not always possible to not kill someone who’s trying to kill you,” Clint said.

  “I’m sure,” Glenister said. “You’ll just have to do what you have to do.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “when he does, I don’t think Pratt will come alone. His job is to kill me, not to kill me in a fair fight.”

  “Well,” the sheriff said, “when I hear the shots I’ll come a-runnin’.”

  “Appreciate that, Sheriff,” Clint said, “but when it happens it’ll probably happen fast.”

  After Clint Adams and Sheriff Glenister left, Cantrell opened his top drawer and took out the gun. He was tempted to run to the door, slam it open, and shoot both of them in the back. He squeezed the gun tightly, not knowing what to do with the urge to shoot somebody.

  He’d already given Pratt the okay to go after Clint Adams. There was no reason for him to look for the man again, or even to be in town when it happened.

  He stood up, tucked the gun into his belt, then buttoned his jacket and left the office.

  Pratt gathered his men at the red-light district saloon. The Wilkeses were still working on their bottle of whiskey.

  “I thought I told you not to let them get drunk,” he said to Devlin.

  “They were drunk when I got here,” Devlin said. “How am I supposed to take the bottle away from them? They’d kill me!”

  Sinclair, who was still upset about being pulled away from his pimply whore, walked to the table where the Wilkes cousins were sitting, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and smashed it on the table. Glass and rotgut flew everywhere.

  “No more drinkin’!” he shouted.

  The two cousins stared up at him.

  “Okay,” Davey said.

  “Sure,” Danny said.

  Sinclair turned to Pratt and spread his arms.

  “I’m gettin’ a beer,” he said.

  “Okay,” Pratt said, when Sinclair returned with his mug, “today’s the day we take Adams.”

  “It’s gettin’ late,” Sinclair said.

  “Yeah, we’re gonna do it after dark.”

  “How?” Davey asked.

  “We’re gonna ambush him.”

  “In the dark?” Danny asked.

  “On the street?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “That ain’t gonna do nothin’ for your reputation,” Davey said to Pratt.

  “Maybe not,” Pratt said, “but it’s gonna be great for my wallet.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint found Lisa at the mercantile.

  “Finish at the Gun Shop?” he asked.

  “Yep,” she said, “I’m just finishing some stuff up here. Can we . . . take up where we left off?”

  “I don’t think so, Lisa.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “Look, if you’re afraid I’m going to get too attached to you, don’t worry. I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s why I know I can tell you. It’s not safe.”

  “Not safe?”

  “Are we alone?”

  “Yes, I sent the clerk home. We can put the CLOSED sign up and—”

  “Let me explain,” he said. He tried.

  “So,” she said, “you’re telling me that you expect somebody to try to kill you in the next few hours?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And this is something you set up?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “And it’s not safe for you to be around.”

  “And how safe is it for you?”

  “Not safe at all,” he said, “but that’s kind of the point.”

  “Can I ask questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is this the only way you think of to get this done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Cantrell going to come after you himself?”

  “Oh, no,” Clint said. “He’ll send somebody.”

  “How many somebodies?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Two that I know of, maybe more. Four. Five.”

  “And do you have any help?”

  “Um, the sheriff said he’ll come running when he hears shots.”

  “That could mean that by the time he gets there, you’re dead.”

  “That’s possible.”

  She looked at him as if he was crazy.

  “And you’re good enough with that gun of yours that facing five men doesn’t worry you?”

  “Well, yes . . . I mean, yeah I’m good with a gun, and yeah it worries me, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “But this is what I do, Lisa,” Clint said. “And since I’m expecting them, I should be in control.”

  “Control?” she asked. “One against five?”

  “Don’t worry about it—”

  “Look,” she said, “I own a gun shop, and I’m pretty good with a gun. I could—”

  “No!”

  “Just to back you up—”

  “I said no,” he said. “Having to worry about you would definitely get me killed. And you!”

  “It was just a thought.”

  “Well, it was a bad one. Just put it out of your mind.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hopefully, this should all be over by this time tomorrow,” he said.

  “Have you gotten word about whether or not it really was poison?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’m sure the doc in Hondo is still waiting for word from Sante Fe.”

  “That’s the part that really puzzles me,” Lisa said. “Why poison them? Why not just shoot them all and be done with it?”

  “Maybe he was hoping people would think they died of a disease,” Clint said. “Then nobody would be looking for a killer.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me.”

  “Guess he was pretty unlucky that you’re the one who found the bodies. Anyone else would probably have just run at the sight of them.”

  “It’s sad,” he said, “but you’re probably right about that. I better get going. They can’t try to kill me if they can’t find me.”

  She walked him to the door.

  “Stay inside,” he said. “And if you hear shooting, don’t come out until it’s all over. Understand?”

  “Of course I understand,” she said. “Don’t come out until you’re dead.”

  She took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly. “Please be careful.”

  “Careful,” he said, “is my middle name.”

  No, she thought as he walked out, stubborn
is!

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Harry Cantrell entered his house and stopped in the entry foyer. The gun was heavy in his belt. He listened, couldn’t hear anything. Either Ava wasn’t home, or for a change she was being quiet.

  Then he heard it: familiar sounds. A man and a woman together. Coming from upstairs.

  He went up, walking quietly along the hall. The sounds—moans, flesh-on-flesh slaps—got louder as he got closer to the bedroom.

  When he got to the door he peered around. There was Ava, naked on the bed, on all fours, a man fucking her from behind.

  “Come on,” she said, “harder, damn it.”

  “I’ll give it to you harder, bitch,” the man grunted.

  Ava’s black hair was stringy with sweat, her body covered with a sheen of perspiration. The room was filled with the smell of her. Cantrell felt himself growing hard.

  He took the gun from his belt, cocked the hammer, and stepped into the room.

  When Clint got to the street, his back started to itch. He had nobody in town he could count on to watch his back, so he was going to have to be extra alert.

  He walked to his hotel, got a chair from inside, brought it out with him, and sat down. It was still a few hours until dark. If he was Eddie Pratt, he’d wait for darkness to fall and then execute an ambush. Since there was no question of Pratt facing him man to man, that seemed to be the best bet.

  Sitting with his back to the hotel’s wall, there wasn’t much chance of an ambush. At least not from behind. But once it got dark, he’d stand up and give Pratt a chance to take his best shot. He’d probably have Johnny Devlin with him, and a few other men. Devlin wasn’t somebody he was going to have to worry about, and the others would probably be cheap gun talent. Pratt was the one he was going to have to watch.

  For now, though, he’d sit back and relax for a while.

  “Did you see him?” Pratt asked.

  Devlin sat opposite Pratt. The others were standing at the bar.

  “He’s sittin’ in front of his hotel.”