The Two-Gun Kid

by J. R. Roberts

  Heston looked at Zack and nodded.

  “Okay,” Zack said. “Randle, you and Stride go down and check.”

  “What if they’re still there?” he asked, alarmed.

  “Even if they stayed, they ain’t gonna still be there,” Zack said.

  “So why are we goin’ down?” Stride asked.

  “Find out if they were there, and if they said where they were goin’,” Zack said. “That’s it.”

  “But . . . Adams could still be there,” Stride said.

  Zack heard his cousin sigh.

  “If he’s still there,” Zack said, “he doesn’t know you. Don’t do anythin’, just catch up to us and let us know.”

  “Where will you be?” Stride asked.

  “We’ll be followin’ the tracks from the cold camp,” Zack said.

  “Take the others with you if you’re worried,” Heston said, speaking for the first time. “You can all catch up later.”

  The men all exchanged glances, then shrugged. Better a whorehouse than the Gunsmith.

  Heston and Zack watched as the four men rode down toward Ely. Zack looked at Darby Heston, whose eyes were boring holes into the backs of the men. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his cousin had drawn his gun and mowed the men down, but he didn’t.

  “Don’t worry, Zack,” Heston said, as if reading his cousin’s mind, “I’m not gonna waste my time killin’ them.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “Yes, you did,” Heston said, cutting him off. “Besides, they’ll probably never be able to find us again. You ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  They turned their horses and rode away from Ely.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Okay, stop,” Clint said, holding his hand out.

  “What?”

  “This is the place,” Clint said. “See this stand of trees? I’m going go wait here. You keep riding, and take my horse.”

  “But . . . where do I go?”

  “Just go,” Clint said. “It doesn’t matter where, because I’ll stop them here.”

  Clint dismounted and handed Eclipse’s reins to Roscoe.

  “Don’t try to ride him or touch him, Bookbinder,” he said. “He’ll bite your hand off.”

  Roscoe accepted the reins and said, “How will I know when to come back?”

  “You’ll hear two shots.”

  “What if they kill you?”

  “They won’t,” Clint said. “But if you hear more than two shots, you don’t have to come back. Just drop Eclipse’s reins so he comes for me, and keep going.”

  “You mean . . . abandon you?”

  “If you want to.”

  “No,” Roscoe said, “I’ll come back, no matter how many shots I hear.”

  Clint smiled and said, “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

  Hector was looking down at the ground, following the trail. Lee was following behind, but his eyes were going everywhere. He saw the stand of trees they were approaching, but the thought of danger never occurred to him. After all, they were the pursuers.

  “Hold it there, gents.”

  Both men froze. Hector looked up and saw Clint step from the trees.

  “Both of you drop your guns.”

  Hector obeyed immediately. Lee hesitated. Clint fired two shots, one past each man—although they were really for Roscoe’s benefit.

  “Drop it, friend,” Clint told Lee. “Don’t make a mistake.”

  Lee removed his gun from his holster and dropped it to the ground.

  “Now the rifles.”

  This time it was Hector who hesitated, but in the end he slid the rifle from his scabbard and dropped it. Lee was sliding his rifle out when they all heard the approach of horses. Clint knew it was Roscoe, but Lee thought it was Zack and the others and made a fatal mistake. He tried to bring the rifle around to bear on Clint, but Clint fired before he could complete the maneuver. Lee’s body was knocked from the saddle, and struck the ground with a thud.

  Roscoe came riding into view, leading Eclipse. Clint covered the Mexican.

  “You want to make a mistake, too?”

  “No, señor.” The man raised his hands.

  Roscoe came riding up and dismounted. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. You know that man?”

  Roscoe walked over to the dead man and took a look.

  “I think he was one of the men in the saloon that was raggin’ me,” he said.

  “That’s what I thought. Do you know him?”

  Roscoe looked up at the Mexican. “I think I’ve seen him around town.”

  “Get down off your horse,” Clint told Hector.

  The Mexican complied.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hector Belasco Velez y Ramirez,” the man said proudly.

  “Goddamn Mexicans got the longest names I ever heard,” Roscoe said.

  “Hector,” Clint said.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Why were you and your friend following us?”

  Hector turned and looked at the fallen man.

  “He was not my friend.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “partner, compadre, whatever. Why were you following us?”

  “We were not,” Hector said. “We were simply going in the same direction as you and . . . and your friend.”

  “You made a cold camp outside of Ely last night,” Clint said.

  “We did?”

  “You were watching us, waiting.”

  “Señor—”

  “If you’re going to keep lying to me, I might as well put a bullet into you right now.”

  Hector smiled. Clint could see by the man’s eyes that he was older than he looked.

  “You would not do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I know your reputation,” Hector said. “But I have not ever heard you called a cold-blooded killer. You kill men with guns in their hands.”

  “Pick up your gun then.”

  “I think not.”

  “The fact that you know my reputation means you know who I am,” Clint said. “That means you were following us.”

  “Or it means I recognize you, señor,” Hector said. “After all, you are a famous man.”

  “Maybe not that famous.”

  “Famous and modest.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me who sent you to follow us?”

  Hector didn’t reply.

  “Let me get it out of him,” Roscoe said. “Let me kill him.”

  “What do you think, Hector?” Clint asked. “Think this kid would shoot you in cold blood?”

  Hector looked over at Roscoe, who looked eager for the chance.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint decided to sit Hector down for a talk.

  “You want me to make camp?” Roscoe asked.

  “No camp,” Clint said. “We’re going to keep moving, but move that body into the trees so it’s out of sight.”

  Roscoe swallowed. “Move the body?”

  “Come on, boy,” Clint said, “you’re going to ruin your image in front of this man, and I need him to believe that you’d kill him if I told you to.”

  “Well . . . I would,” Roscoe said.

  “Okay, Bookbinder,” Clint said, “then move that body, and those two horses.”

  “Okay.”

  As Roscoe tried to get the dead body up onto the man’s horse, Clint walked over to where Hector was sitting, now with his hands tied behind him.

  “Are you going to threaten to shoot me now that my hands are bound?” Hector asked.

  “No, you were right, Hector,” Clint said. “I don’t shoot unarmed men, but I can’t say the same for my friend over there.”

  “He is young,” Hector said. “He has killed no one.”

  “Oh, that much is true,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t try to fool you. He hasn’t killed anybody—but he’s eager to get started. He really wants that first notch on his gun. And it’s up to me to decide if that’s going
to be you.”

  “You are trying to frighten me.”

  “I sure am,” Clint said. “How else am I going to get you to talk?”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Clint noticed that as the man spoke he was looking back at the trail, the way he and the dead man had come.

  “Obviously, you’re expecting someone to come along,” Clint said. “Were you trailing us just to keep us spotted for someone else?”

  Hector stubbornly set his jaw.

  “What’s in this for you, Hector?” Clint asked. “There’s no money. There’s no price on either of our heads.”

  Roscoe came out from the clump of trees, hands on his guns.

  “I get to kill him yet?” he asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “but we’re getting closer.”

  “Aw, stand him up and give him his gun back,” Roscoe said.

  “You don’t want me to leave his hands tied?” Clint asked.

  “That ain’t fair,” Roscoe said. “I’ll kill ’im fair and square. Give ’im his gun.”

  He drew both his guns, twirled them, and returned them to his holsters. The move surprised Clint. He hadn’t seen the boy do that before.

  “Roscoe, take a walk back a ways and check our back trail,” Clint said. He could see the puzzled look on the boy’s face, and headed him off before he could ask a question and betray his ignorance. “See if you can spot anyone, or any telltale dust clouds.”

  “Oh, okay,” Roscoe said. “Then when I come back I can kill him?”

  “Probably,” Clint said. “Because I’m starting to think he’s not going to talk.”

  Roscoe started walking and Clint turned back to Hector.

  “You know what? Don’t talk. I’ve got it figured anyway.”

  “You do?”

  “That dead man was in the saloon, ragging on the kid. He had a partner with him. I stopped them. I figure I embarrassed them and now they’re out for revenge, only they can’t do it alone. So you and him were dogging our trail, waiting for his buddy to show up with some help.”

  Hector stared at Clint.

  “The only thing I wanted from you,” Clint said, “was for you to tell me who the help was, or how many there are, but that’s okay. It doesn’t matter now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because however many there are, or whoever it is, my actions will be the same.”

  “And what will they be?”

  Clint smiled. “You don’t need to know that.”

  “Well, then,” Hector said, “you might as well cut me loose and let me go, Señor Adams.”

  “Oh, I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll just go and rejoin your friends, tell them that I killed that fella, and add your gun to theirs. I would be foolish to let you go. In fact, I’d be a damned fool to let you live.”

  For the first time the Mexican looked doubtful about the prospect of coming out of this alive.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Roscoe returned from checking their back trail, and Clint moved to meet him. He didn’t want Hector to hear what they were saying.

  “Anything?” Clint asked.

  “I didn’t see anybody,” Roscoe said, “not even a puff of dust. Maybe you were wrong.”

  “Oh, they’re coming, all right,” Clint said.

  “Did he talk?”

  “No,” Clint said, “it’s not what he said, it’s the look on his face.”

  “Are you always right?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but I am this time.”

  “So what do we do?” Roscoe asked. “Kill him?”

  “We should,” Clint said. “Do you want to do it?”

  Roscoe shifted his feet uncomfortably. “You mean just outright? Like that?”

  “We can leave him tied or, like you said, stand him up and give him his gun. You ready for that?”

  Roscoe studied Clint for a few seconds, then said suddenly, “You want me to say no, don’t you?”

  “Why do I want you to say no?”

  “Because that will mean I’ve learned somethin’.”

  “Right.”

  “And that my attitude has changed.”

  “Right again.”

  “So what do we do with him?”

  “Well, I don’t want him to let his friends know that we know they’re coming,” Clint said. “And I don’t want him adding his gun to theirs.”

  “So if we don’t kill him, what do we do?”

  “We only have one other choice,” Clint said. “We’ll have to take him with us.”

  “The trail changes here,” Heston said to Zack.

  “How?”

  “More horses,” Heston said. “There are four horses now.”

  “So they caught up to Adams and the kid?” Zack asked.

  Darby Heston looked at his cousin.

  “More likely Adams let them catch up,” Heston said. “Look, four horses, but only three move off.”

  “Where’s the fourth?”

  Heston pointed. “In those trees.”

  Zack stared.

  “Well?” Heston asked.

  “You want me to go in there?”

  “It’s just a stand of trees,” Heston said. “You want me to hold your hand?”

  Heston had dismounted to examine the ground. Now Zack dismounted and walked toward the trees. He turned, looked at Heston over his shoulder, then drew his gun and walked into the trees.

  Heston waited, watching the trail both behind and ahead. Moments later Zack reappeared, leading a horse with a man slung over the saddle.

  “Who is it?” Heston asked.

  “It’s Lee,” Zack said. “He’s been shot.”

  Blood had dripped down the saddle, but had long since stopped yet had not dried.

  “They’re not that far ahead,” Heston said.

  “What about Lee?” Zack asked.

  “Leave him,” Heston said.

  “We ain’t gonna bury him?”

  “No,” Heston said. “We don’t have time. Besides, there’s a big cat around here somewhere. We might as well leave him to keep it busy. You want to take the time to bury him and let Adams get farther ahead?”

  “No.”

  “Then take what we need from him and his horse and let’s get going.”

  They rode with Clint in front, the bound Hector between them, and Roscoe taking up the rear, watching their back trail.

  “If you go any faster, I will fall off my horse,” Hector warned Clint.

  “If you fall, I’ll leave you on the ground,” Clint said, “still bound.”

  “You wouldn’t,” the Mexican said. “My friends would catch up and release me.”

  “If they get to you before some critter does,” Clint said. “I saw big cat tracks farther back.”

  Hector looked down at the ground. “Big cat?”

  “Yeah,” Roscoe lied, “I saw that, too.” He didn’t know if Clint had actually seen the tracks, but he decided to back him up.

  “You want to take your chances with a cougar?” Clint asked Hector. “Or with us?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Aren’t we takin’ a chance makin’ camp?” Roscoe asked Clint later that evening as the sun was going down.

  “I don’t think so,” Clint said.

  “Why not?”

  “I think whoever’s on our trail wants to kill me where people can witness it,” Clint said. “What’s the point of killing the Gunsmith if you don’t get credit for it?”

  “So he won’t try to ambush you?”

  “If that was the case, this one and his partner would have tried it,” Clint said.

  He pointed to Hector, who was still tied and sitting on the ground.

  “Señor Adams is right,” the Mexican said.

  They both looked at him.

  “Now you decide to talk?” Roscoe asked.

  Hector gave a fatalistic shrug of the shoulders.

  “It does not matter now,” he s
aid. “What will happen is fated to happen. Nothing I say can change that.”

  “So who’s on our trail, Hector?” Clint asked.

  Hector looked at Clint and shook his head. “Oh, that I won’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” Roscoe asked. “I thought you said nothing you do can change what’s gonna happen.”

  Hector remained silent.

  “He knows that if he tells me who’s coming, I’ll recognize the name,” Clint said. “If I recognize the name, I’ll be ready.”

  “You would do well to listen to him, boy,” Hector said. “He is a wise man.”

  “Bookbinder, see to the horses,” Clint said. “I’ll get the coffee and beans going.”

  “Are we gonna feed him?” Roscoe asked.

  “Of course,” Clint said. “I don’t let a man go hungry.”

  He built a fire and got the meal going while Roscoe took care of the three horses. When Roscoe came walking over, Clint handed him a plate of beans.

  “Cut him loose and let him eat.”

  “You givin’ him a fork?”

  “Let him eat with a wooden spoon,” Clint said.

  Roscoe took the beans, set them down, untied Hector’s hands, and then handed him the tin plate with the wooden spoon. Hector put the plate down on the ground between his legs and rubbed his wrists.

  “Can I have some coffee?” he asked. “Por favor?”

  “Sure,” Clint said. He poured a cup and held it out to Roscoe, who took it over to the Mexican.

  “Gracias.”

  Roscoe returned to the fire and accepted his own meal of beans and coffee from Clint. The three men ate.

  Heston and Zack didn’t bother with a cold camp. They made a fire and a hot meal of their own.

  “If Adams wants to follow the scent of bacon, that’s fine with me,” Heston said.

  “But we have to do this where people can see, Darby,” Zack said.

  “Don’t worry,” Heston said. “He won’t come. He’ll stay ahead of us, and wait for us to catch up.”

  “You think he knows we’re comin’ for him?”

  “He knows somebody’s comin’ for him,” Heston said. “How much he knows depends on what your friend Lee told him, or the Mexican.”

  “I don’t know what Lee told him,” Zack said. “He probably got himself killed before he could say anything. But Hector won’t tell him a thing.”