Unbound by Law

by J. R. Roberts

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Mister, ya—ya can’t let them shoot me. T-that’d be murder.”

  “You were waiting to murder me.”

  “Yeah, but . . . we was gettin’ paid!”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “that explains it. Come on.” He pushed the man toward the back door. “You yell before I open the door and I’ll kill you myself. At least this way you’ve got a chance to survive. As soon as I open the door, you can yell your heart out, duck, whatever you want.”

  “Y-yeah, okay.”

  Clint walked him to the back door, pressed his gun against the man’s lower back.

  “Get ready,” he whispered.

  He lashed out with his right foot, driving his heel into the door just beneath the doorknob. Wood splintered, the door slammed open, and he pushed the man through the doorway.

  “No, wait, wait!” the man started to yell. “It’s me!”

  The first two shots lit up the room, showing Clint where the shooters were. He waited for the third and fourth shots, and followed each of those with one of his own.

  And then it was quiet.

  FORTY-THREE

  As promised, the sheriff and his deputies came running at the sound of shots. What they found were two dead men—Pratt and Sinclair—one wounded—Davey Wilkes—and one man who had come through unscathed—Danny Wilkes—except for a bump on his head.

  Clint had lighted a lamp in the office and made the Wilkes boys sit together, with their hands tied behind them. Davey had taken a bullet in the shoulder, but Clint figured he’d live.

  When the sheriff arrived, he left his deputies outside. He checked the two dead men when he came in.

  “Dead center, once each,” he said.

  “He used me as a shield!” Davey complained.

  “Shut up,” Clint said. “You were here to kill me—you and your cousin.”

  “That true?” Glenister asked the wounded man.

  Davey didn’t answer until Clint nudged him from behind—in the injured shoulder.

  “Ow! Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Pratt.”

  “And who was he workin’ for?” Glenister asked.

  “I dunno.”

  Clint nudged him again.

  “Ow! He never told us!”

  “He’s tellin’ the truth,” Danny said.

  Glenister looked at Clint.

  “Looks like you left the wrong two alive.”

  “There’s still Devlin,” Clint said. “He’s out there, somewhere.”

  “What about Cantrell?” Clint asked.

  “What about him?”

  “When he finds out what happened here, maybe he’ll talk.”

  “When he comes in tomorrow and find a mess here?” the sheriff asked.

  “I was thinking of riding out there tonight and telling him.”

  “Catch him off guard, huh?”

  Clint nodded.

  “Well, let me get these two in a cell and we’ll mount up.”

  “My cousin needs a doctor,” Danny complained.

  “Yeah, he’ll get one at the jail,” Glenister said. “Come on, you two. Let’s go.”

  Clint walked over to the jail with them, had some coffee while Glenister and one of his deputies locked the cousins up. The other deputy went for the doctor.

  After that, they left the deputies at the office and went to the stable to saddle their horses.

  Glenister groaned loudly as he climbed into the saddle. Clint thought it should have been his mare who did the groaning.

  “You got that telegram with you? About the poison?” he asked Clint.

  “Oh, yeah,” Clint said, touching his pocket.

  “How do you think Cantrell will react?”

  “Maybe by surprising him we can get an honest reaction out of him . . . for a change.”

  They rode out of the livery and headed out of town.

  “You know the way, right?” Clint asked. “It’s pretty dark, even with the moon.”

  “Don’t worry,” Glenister said. “Most of the way will be on the main road.”

  They rode out side by side, both hoping tonight would bring the whole matter to an end. Glenister wanted the town—the whole county—to be rid of Harry Cantrell. Clint just wanted to finally find justice for those poor dead families.

  FORTY-FOUR

  When Clint and Glenister rode up to the house on the Cantrell ranch, they noticed something going on in the barn.

  “What’s that?” the lawman asked.

  “Want to take a look?”

  “Why not?”

  They redirected their horses and rode over to the barn. They dismounted, walked to the barn door. There was a lot of light inside, and a circle of ranch hands standing around something.

  “What’s goin’ on, boy?” Glenister asked.

  They all turned to look, saw the light reflecting off the sheriff’s badge. Clint stood to the sheriff’s left, ready to back any play.

  The men all looked confused, but backed away so the sheriff could see what they were looking at.

  “Boys,” the lawman said, “that looks an awful lot like a dead body.”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Looks like a dead body to me,” Clint said.

  It was a man, lying on his back in the dirt, his chest and crotch bloody.

  “You boys wanna tell me what happened here?” Glenister asked.

  Once they had the story, Glenister warned the men not to move the body. In fact, he assigned two men to stand watch over it. One of them was the foreman, Andy Parker.

  “Look, Sheriff,” he said, “the boss said this guy broke into the house—”

  “Just stay here, Andy,” Glenister said. “And don’t let anybody move this body. We’ll go and talk to your boss.”

  “Okay,” Parker said to the men, “you heard the sheriff. Everybody out.”

  Clint and the sheriff left with the other men, walked their horses over to the house.

  “What do you think happened here?” Glenister asked Clint.

  “From the stories I’ve heard about Cantrell’s wife?” Clint said. “It could be true, but it still gives us something to pressure him with.”

  “True.” Glenister nodded. “Still, it’s unusual for Cantrell to do his own gunplay, in any situation.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Cantrell shot the man.”

  “Did you notice what I noticed about him?” the lawman asked.

  “You mean the fact that he was naked?”

  Glenister nodded.

  “Whatever Mrs. Cantrell was doin’ with him, I don’t think she shot him.”

  They walked up the front steps of the house, tried the front door and, finding it locked, decided to knock. In the end, Glenister ended up pounding on it before it opened. Cantrell glared at them. His hair was a mess, and he was wearing a blue robe.

  Harry Cantrell looked out at them and asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Clint was pleased to think he saw a look of disappointment on the man’s face.

  “Pratt’s dead, Cantrell,” Clint said. “And the Wilkes cousins gave you up.”

  “Who? What are you talking about, Adams?”

  “We need to come in, Mr. Cantrell,” Glenister said.

  “I’ll have your job for harassing me, Sheriff.”

  “Yeah, you can have it, if you want it,” Glenister said, “but we’re comin’ in.”

  The lawman moved his bulk forward and Cantrell had to move or be bowled over. Clint followed.

  “I demand to know why you’re here,” Cantrell said.

  “We got the word from Santa Fe on the poison, Cantrell,” the sheriff said.

  “That again?”

  “Somebody put poison in those people’s food,” Glenister said.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because they showed up with a deed to land you wanted, Cantrell,” Clint said. “And they probably wouldn’t sell, because it was going to be their home.�
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  “And where would I get pois—”

  “Come on,” Clint said. “You own a ranch. You really think we won’t find some poison out here, maybe used to get rid of critters?”

  “And you probably own a couple of other businesses where poison is on the premises,” Glenister said.

  “You have no proof,” Cantrell said, “no proof at all.”

  “We told you,” Clint said, “the Wilkes cousins—”

  “I have no idea who those people are.”

  “Eddie Pratt, a man named Sinclair, and the Wilkes cousins were waitin’ to bushwhack Adams at your office.”

  “If somebody broke into my office, that’s not my fault,” Cantrell said.

  Clint was disappointed. Cantrell was holding fast. Time to try another tact.

  “Where’s your wife, Cantrell?” Clint asked. “We’d like to ask her a few questions.”

  “My wife?” Cantrell asked. “She’s, uh, sleeping.”

  “Would you like to explain to us,” Glenister said, “why there’s a dead man in your barn?”

  “A naked dead man,” Clint pointed out.

  Clint thought he saw a muscle jump in Cantrell’s jaw. He also saw something on the sleeve of Cantrell’s robe. It looked a lot like blood.

  “What?”

  “Your men say you shot him when you found him in your house,” Glenister said.

  “Oh, that’s, uh, that’s right. He broke in.”

  “What was he doin’ naked?” the sheriff asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cantrell said. “Maybe he was crazy.”

  “If he was naked, he didn’t have a gun,” Glenister said. “So why did you shoot him?”

  “He was attacking my wife,” Cantrell said. “I’m afraid I didn’t think. I just grabbed my gun and shot him.”

  “All the more reason we should talk to your wife,” Clint said.

  “I told you—”

  “I smell coffee,” Clint said. “You smell coffee, Sheriff?”

  “Come to think of it,” the lawman said, “I do.”

  “I made some,” Cantrell said.

  “Let’s have a look in the kitchen,” Clint suggested.

  “No!” Cantrell said. “Uh, look . . .” He ran his hand through his hair. “Let me get dressed and I’ll go out to the barn with you—”

  “You can do that,” Clint said, “but I think we should take a look in the kitchen, first.”

  “Damn it, Adams!”

  “Where is it? This way?”

  Clint started through the dining room, followed by the sheriff. Cantrell ran ahead of them stood in the way of the kitchen door.

  “How’d you get that blood on your sleeve, Cantrell?” Clint asked.

  “Wha—” The man looked down at his sleeve, and Clint pushed past him into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Cantrell was sitting at the kitchen table—or rather, slumped over it. Her robe had fallen open, revealing her naked body. Her fair skin was covered with blood, which was dripping from the chair and pooling on the floor around her. There was a bloody knife on the kitchen table.

  “Oh, boy,” Glenister said.

  Cantrell stood in the doorway, looking defeated.

  “We may never be able to prove you poisoned those people, Cantrell,” Clint said, “but this . . .” He looked at the sheriff. “. . . looks open-and-shut to me.”

  “You don’t understand,” Cantrell said. “She was wicked, evil. Look at her! She was horrible . . . and I couldn’t . . . couldn’t resist her!”

  “Seems like you had control of everything in your life,” Clint said, “except for your wife.”

  “Exactly,” Cantrell said, “why I had to kill her.”

  Clint raised his eyebrows and looked at Sheriff Glenister, who nodded and took out his wrist irons.

  Watch for

  THE DEADLY CHEST

  353rd novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove

  Coming in May!