Cross Draw

by J. R. Roberts

  In the end, he decided his responsibility was to his town, not to Clint Adams. Big Rock had survived the presence of Clint Adams and remained a small, quiet town, and he was going to have to be satisfied with that.

  If the big fella left town the next day and caught up to Clint Adams, it would be out of the jurisdiction of Sheriff Cal Evans. There was nothing he could do about it.

  He wondered how the big man had heard about Adams. Who had let the word out?

  Dillon decided to make one more stop in the morning before leaving town and tracking Adams. He didn’t bother looking for Raymond or Quentin. Let them find him. He had breakfast in his hotel dining room, then headed for the doctor’s office.

  When the big man entered his office, Doc Jacobs looked him up and down. For a man his size, the sawbones thought he looked extraordinarily healthy.

  “Can I help you, my friend?”

  “I think so,” Dillon said. “You had a patient a few days ago. Clint Adams? I’d like to know what his condition was when he came to you, and what it was when he left town.”

  “I don’t discuss my patients with strangers,” Jacobs said. “In fact, I don’t discuss them with anyone, so I’m afraid I can’t help you, after all.”

  “No,” Dillon said, “I think you can. Or maybe I should say, I think you better.”

  “Now, see here—”

  The big man closed on him with surprising speed and grabbed him by the throat with unsurprising strength. His powerful hand quickly cut off the doctor’s air supply.

  “Lemme explain somethin’ to you, Doc,” Dillon said. “You don’t wanna make me mad. Bad things happen when I get mad. You understand?”

  The doctor couldn’t speak, so he nodded his head as best he could.

  “Now I’m gonna let you go, and you’re gonna answer my questions. Understand?”

  He nodded again and the big man released the hold.

  “Now, tell me about the injury to Clint Adams.”

  Doc Jacobs cleared his throat a few times before speaking. “A wagon came down on his right arm, puncturing it,” he said. “I stitched and bandaged it.”

  “That it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “How bad was the injury?”

  “It was a deep puncture.”

  “You’re tiptoin’ around, Doc,” Dillon said. “I can feel myself gettin’ mad again. How bad was the injury?”

  “He could not use his right hand,” the doc said.

  “There you go,” Dillon said. “How long is that condition gonna last?”

  “There’s no way of knowing.”

  “Could it be permanent?”

  “There’s no way of—it could be,” the doc said as Dillon started to reach out for him.

  “Could be?”

  “It’s . . . likely.”

  “There you are,” Dillon said. “See, I ain’t mad anymore.”

  “How could it benefit you to kill a one-armed man?” the doctor asked.

  “It would benefit me to kill the Gunsmith if he had no hands,” Dillon said. “The newspapers will say ‘Dillon Outdraws the Gunsmith, or ‘Dillon Kills Gunsmith.’ They won’t say how many arms he had, Doctor.”

  “So it’s about reputation?”

  “It’s all about reputation, Doc,” Dillon said. He turned to leave, then turned back. “If I find out you sent a telegram and warned Adams, I’ll come back.”

  “If you’re alive.”

  “I believe what you told me about Adams’s arm,” Dillon said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be alive.”

  Dillon left to go in search of his two partners. Time to hit the trail.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The doctor waited until Dillon was gone fifteen minutes, then left his office and hurried to the jail. He was out of breath by the time he entered. Evans looked up in surprise.

  “Who’s chasin’ you, Doc?”

  “I did somethin’ terrible,” the Doc said, “because I am a coward.”

  “Settle down, Doc,” Evans said. “Have a seat.”

  The lawman took a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer, poured some into a coffee cup, and handed it to the doctor, who downed it.

  “Now tell me what you did.”

  Evans listened intently while the doctor told him of the big man’s visit.

  “Well, Doc,” he said, when the sawbones was done, “I met the man you’re talkin’ about, so I can’t say I blame you.”

  “B-but, we’ve got to warn Adams.”

  “How do we do that?” Evans asked. “We don’t know where he and those women went.”

  “Can’t you figure it out?”

  “I don’t even know what direction they went when they left town.”

  Jacobs’s shoulders slumped and he said, “What have I done?”

  “Doc,” Evans said, “Adams is gonna have to face this kind of situation sooner or later. If this man—”

  “Dillon,” Jacobs said. “He said his name was Dillon.”

  “If this man Dillon kills the Gunsmith, you can bet we’ll hear about it.”

  “And if Adams kills him?”

  “We won’t hear a word,” Evans said. “That’s the way it is with reputation. No one notices the dead man who didn’t have one.”

  “Ridiculous,” Evans said. “Men are killed for the most ludicrous reasons.”

  “Maybe Adams can take this man left-handed, like he did here in town.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “And maybe by the time Dillon finds him, he’ll be able to use his right hand again.”

  “I doubt it,” Jacobs said. “Even if he does get the use of his hand back, it’ll be months before he can draw a gun effectively.”

  “Then all Dillon has to do is catch up to him,” Evans said. “Maybe he’s a lousy tracker.”

  “Adams told me he expected to die from a bullet,” Jacobs said. “That just might be a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  Sheriff Evans wasn’t sure what that was, but it didn’t sound good.

  Dillon found Raymond sitting with Quentin in the saloon that served warm beer. They were working on a bottle of whiskey.

  “Want some breakfast?” Quentin asked.

  “I ate,” Dillon said. “Come on, it’s time to get goin’.”

  “We know where Adams went?” Raymond asked.

  “No, but we’ll track him,” Dillon said.

  “You found out somethin’ that makes you happy. Didn’t you?” Quentin asked.

  Dillon grinned and said, “Come on. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  In the morning, Clint watched as the ladies broke camp. They moved well, each knowing what her job was. Even Abigail performed her assigned tasks, even if it was grudgingly.

  He did what he could to help, like kicking the fire to death. He tried to help hitch the team up, but Rosemary and Jenny wouldn’t hear of it and shooed him away.

  When he tried to help replenish one of the water barrels from a nearby stream, Delilah and Morgan stopped him.

  Finally, in the end, they all piled into the wagon, with Rosemary once again holding the reins, and Abigail next to her. It was clear Abigail did not want to be in the confines of the rear of the wagon with him, and that suited him as well.

  Morgan handed him the pillow once again before they started, and he accepted it with a smile and a muttered “Thank you.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Clint was about ready to ask if he could move outside to sit beside Rosemary when the wagon stopped.

  “Why are we stopping,” Jenny said, and then raised her voice to ask again, “Why are we stopping?”

  “Shh,” Clint said.

  He moved to the front of the wagon to peer out. He was able to see from between Rosemary and Abigail.

  There were three riders, all men, blocking their way.

  “Hola, señora,” one of the riders said.

  He seemed to be the only one who was Mexican. The other two looked like gringos.

  “Wh
at’s going on?” Jenny asked in a low voice.

  “Looks like three men stopped us,” Clint said.

  “What do they want?” Morgan asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Just keep quiet and hand me that rifle.”

  Clint accepted the rifle, then went back to peering out the front.

  Rosemary reined in the horses even while Abigail was saying into her ear, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

  “I don’t have a choice,” Rosemary hissed back. “I can’t go around them.”

  The three riders were spread out across the road. The man in the center wore a wide sombrero and a bandolier across his chest. The other two men were Americans.

  “Hola, señora,” the man in the center said again.

  “Hello,” Rosemary called back. “You—uh, you’re blocking the road.”

  “Sí, señora,” the man said, “unfortunately, I am.”

  “Can you let us by, please?”

  “Of course, of course,” the man said. “But first . . . what are you carrying in the wagon?”

  “Just . . . personal things,” she said.

  “Ah, but personal things . . . of value?” the man asked.

  “Nothing of value to you, certainly,” she said.

  “Ah, señora,” he said, “I am afraid we will have to look for ourselves, eh?”

  “Tell him no,” Clint said to Rosemary from right behind her. “Tell him there’s a man with a rifle back here, pointing it at him.”

  “I—I think you should know there’s a man in the back of the wagon with a rifle pointed at you.”

  She noticed the two men flanking the Mexican stiffen. The Mexican, however, remained relaxed.

  “That is very interesting, señora,” he said. “Why is the man in the wagon hiding behind your skirts?”

  “He’s not hiding,” she said. “He was resting back there.”

  “Well, tell him to come out,” the Mexican said, waving his arm. “We would like to meet him.”

  “Just tell him to move on, Rosemary,” Clint said. “Tell him we don’t have time for him.”

  Rosemary relayed the message, which the Mexican didn’t like.

  “I do not believe you, señora,” he said. “There is no man in the wagon. I think you should—”

  All three men flinched when the shot came. So did Rosemary and Abigail. The sombrero flew off the Mexican’s head, eluding his hand as he grabbed for it.

  “Hijo de un cabron,” he swore.

  “Is that proof enough for you?” she asked.

  “Sí señora,” he said, “it is.”

  “Then move aside and let us go.”

  The Mexican waved to the other two men, and they all moved aside. He and one man moved to their left, while the other man moved to his right.

  “Tell him no matter what happens, no matter who gets shot, he’ll be the first to die.”

  Rosemary repeated the word to the Mexican, who nodded.

  Rosemary started the wagon forward and was aware of the stares of the three men as they rode by them.

  Clint took the rifle and moved to the back of the wagon. This time, he allowed the barrel of the rifle to show out the back of the wagon.

  They went about a mile before Rosemary reined the team in again.

  “Now why are we stopping?” Jenny called out.

  Rosemary stuck her head in the wagon and said, “My hands are shaking, that’s why. I need a few minutes.”

  The women piled out of the wagon, followed by Clint, who remained ready to pull his gun from his holster in case the three men followed them.

  Abigail came rushing around the wagon, shouting at Clint.

  “Are you crazy? You could have got us killed.”

  “Those three men were going to kill you, Abigail,” Clint said.

  “How do you know that?” she asked. “They could have wanted anything. Directions.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Abigail,” Jenny said. “Clint saved our lives.”

  “At the very least,” Morgan said, “he saved us from being raped.”

  “And how could you fire that shot between us?” Abigail went on. “You could have hurt one of us.”

  “Abigail,” Rosemary said, “just shut up.”

  “No!” she shouted. “You’re always telling me to shut up. Well, I won’t.”

  Now Rosemary got in Abigail’s face and shouted back, something she had never done before. “If you won’t shut up,” she said, “then get your stuff out of the wagon and we’ll leave you here!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Try me, Abigail.”

  Abigail stared at Rosemary, who refused to avert her eyes, then turned and walked away.

  Rosemary turned to Clint.

  “Are we safe?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I think they’ll follow us and wait for their chance.”

  “Like when?” she asked.

  “When we amp,” Clint said.

  “So what do we do?” Jenny asked.

  “One of two things,” he said. “We can keep going, make camp when it gets dark, and wait for them to come in.”

  “Or?” Morgan asked.

  “I can try to double-back behind them and take them.”

  “You mean kill them?” Rosemary asked.

  “If I have to.”

  “Why would you have to kill them?” Delilah asked. “I mean, I just want to know why you can’t just scare them away.”

  “I would only kill them if they wouldn’t scare off,” Clint said.

  “Why would they come after us?” Morgan asked.

  “They might think you’re hiding something of value in the wagon,” Clint said. “Plus, we embarrassed them. They’ll want revenge for that.”

  “Well,” Rosemary said, “you can’t go after them alone. Not with one arm. So we’ll have to keep going and then camp and wait for them.”

  “Everyone will have to do their part,” Clint said.

  “That’s what we always do,” Rosemary said.

  “Okay, then,” Clint said, “let’s go.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The three men sat their horses and watched the wagon roll away. The Mexican, Jose Mendez—“Joe” to the other two—saw the rifle barrel sticking out the back.

  “We gonna let them get away with that?” Dee Cain asked.

  “No, we are not,” Mendez said. “Get my sombrero, Stretch.”

  Stretch Conroy knew Mendez asked him to get the hat because with his long reach, he’d be able to pick it up off the ground without dismounting. He rode over and plucked the hat from the ground and brought it back to Mendez.

  “Gracias,” the Mexican said.

  “Should we get ahead and take ’em?” Dee asked.

  “No,” Mendez said. “We will allow them to camp and settle in. Then we will go in and take them.”

  “I hope there’s more women in the back of that wagon,” Stretch said.

  “Me, too,” Dee said, “but that one handlin’ the team would do for me. The other one was too old.”

  “Do not worry, amigos,” Mendez said. “We will find out what is in the back of that wagon. I guarantee it.”

  Clint rode the rest of the day looking out the back of the wagon. Jenny rode up front with Rosemary, and they were keeping a watch on either side. Jenny had the rifle across her lap, although if there was any shooting to be done, Rosemary would be the one to do it.

  They managed to get through the day without the Mexican and his men coming back. When they stopped to make camp, the girls went through their paces while Clint and Rosemary stood guard.

  “You don’t think we’re safe now?” she asked him.

  “No, Rosemary,” he said, “men like that don’t give up.”

  “So what are they? Highwaymen?”

  “That’s much too fancy a word for what they are,” he replied. “They’re just thieves.”

  “And killers?”

  “When they have to be.”

  “T
hey’d kill for money?”

  “And for a lot less.”

  She looked down at the rifle in her hands.

  “I don’t know if I could kill anyone, Clint.”

  “You could,” he said, “if someone was trying to kill you, or one of your friends, or family.”

  “Or you?”

  “Well,” he said, “maybe not me.”

  “Yes, Clint,” she said, “you.”

  “Well,” he said, “hopefully it won’t come to that. Um, who’s making the coffee?”

  “Jenny.”

  “Can she make coffee?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I better go and help her,” he said. “Keep an eye out. Also an ear.”

  “But what if I don’t see or hear anything?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “They’ll wait until we’re encamped before they try anything. But pay attention to Eclipse. He’ll tell you if anyone’s approaching.”

  He went to the fire to help Jenny make the coffee.

  “They’re bein’ followed by somebody else,” Quentin said. He was kneeling on the ground, eyeing some tracks.

  “Who?” Raymond asked.

  “I’m a good tracker, but I ain’t that good,” Quentin said.

  “Never mind,” Dillon said. “How many of them are there?”

  “Three,” Quentin said. “That explains what we saw farther back. The wagon tracks coming up on the three riders. They must have tried to rob the wagon.” He stood up.

  “And they were stopped by the Gunsmith?” Dillon asked.

  “Without anybody gettin’ killed?” Raymond asked.

  “Who knows?” Quentin asked. “Maybe the women fought them off.”

  “Again . . . without anybody gettin’ killed?” Raymond asked.

  “Whatever happened,” Quentin said, “they must be followin’ them to make another try.”

  “When they camp,” Dillon said. “That’s what I’d do.”

  Quentin mounted up. “So what do we do?”

  “Let’s keep ridin’,” Dillon said, “and see what happens.”