The Counterfeit Gunsmith

by J. R. Roberts

  “What if you sent a telegram to Washington and asked for another man?”

  “That’d be admitting I couldn’t handle it myself,” Pike said. “I’ve been building a reputation for too long to ruin it now. I’d never get another assignment. I’ll be assisting others—West, O’Grady—for the rest of my life.”

  “I understand.”

  “This is pretty good,” Pike said of the sandwich. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Down the street from my hotel.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Mayflower.”

  Pike’s eyebrows went up. “I’m staying in a flophouse down by the docks,” he said. “Part of my cover.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to do that.”

  “No,” Pike said, “it’s already established who you are, and where you’re staying. I don’t think the counterfeiting ring members would ever expect that you’re looking for them.”

  “And for that reason,” Clint said, “you think I have a good chance of finding them.”

  “Exactly.” Pike swallowed what he was chewing, stared longingly at the last bite in his hand. “That is, if you agree to work with me.”

  Clint studied Pike while the man ate the last bite, then sighed and said, “All right, tell me everything you know—and don’t leave anything out.”

  EIGHT

  Pike told Clint the names of the two men who had left him for dead. Clint was surprised that he knew one of them.

  “You know him?” Pike asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Pike said. “But . . . you don’t want to give yourself away too soon.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said, “I won’t. Now, where do I find this paymaster?”

  “Tom Colby has a store on Washington Street,” Pike said. “I don’t know how you can get in there—”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “I can tell you he drinks at a place called the Royale Saloon.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I can use that.”

  “Do you need to see one of the bills?” Pike asked.

  “That would probably help me in identifying them when I see them,” Clint said. “You don’t have one here, do you?”

  “No,” Pike said, “you’ll have to go to my hotel to see them. I’ve got a few bills hidden there. I’ll tell you where . . .”

  * * *

  Clint left the hospital shaking his head. He’d first met Jeremy Pike through his friend Jim West a few years before. Since then he’d run into the man once or twice, worked with him one other time. He liked him, considered him a friend, but not one of his good friends. That title was saved for men like West and Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson.

  But Pike had asked him for his help, and Clint didn’t feel he could turn the man down. Especially since Pike was in no condition to finish the assignment himself. And it was, after all, for the government.

  So his time in Saint Louis to play poker and just relax was over.

  He caught a cab and had it take him right to Pike’s hotel, down by the docks. He was able to bypass the front desk because Pike had given him the room key.

  The hotel was the perfect example of a flophouse. It was on the verge of falling down, perhaps held up only by the horrible smell.

  He made his way to the second floor and found room nine. Looking both ways in the hall, he used the key and let himself in.

  He didn’t know if Pike was a slob, or if the condition of the room was also part of his cover. Knowing the man, he figured it was the latter, because Pike—under normal circumstances—was a pretty spiffy dresser.

  He closed the door behind him and looked around. Pike told him he had hidden some bills behind a drawer in the beat-up dresser by the window. He went to the dresser, pulled out the first and second drawers. When he pulled the bottom drawer all the way out, he found an envelope behind it. He left the drawer on the floor and took three bills out of the envelope. He examined all three, holding them up to the sunlight. They were very, very good. In the end he put two back, reinserted the drawer, and stuck the third into his pocket. He thought he might be able to press it into service as his bona fides if the need arose.

  For a moment he considered sitting down, but he didn’t want to risk catching anything. He was about to leave when there was a knock at the door.

  He hesitated, then decided to do what came naturally when someone knocked on a door.

  He opened it.

  NINE

  “Are you Jones?”

  The person asking him the question was a girl—a young woman, actually. She appeared to be in her twenties, was tall with long black hair, and was wearing a jacket and trousers that had seen better days but were, at least, clean. She was better than the hotel they were standing in.

  “Well?” she asked.

  She was also wearing a gun on her hip, worn like she knew how to use it.

  “If I am,” he said, “are you going to shoot me?”

  “Why would I shoot you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just not used to seeing a girl wear a gun.”

  “I’ve got to protect myself.”

  “This is Saint Louis,” he said, “not the Wild West.”

  “Believe me,” she said, “there’s a lot in this town I need protection from. But no, I’m not gonna shoot you.”

  “Then I’m Jones.”

  “I may not shoot you,” she said, “but I might kick you in the ass!”

  Clint wondered if this was someone Pike should have told him about. Then again, she wouldn’t be asking him if he was “Jones” if she knew Pike.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” she asked. “I’m your contact.”

  “Do you have a name?” he asked. “Or is that your name? Contact?”

  “’Course I got a name, ya damned fool!” she said. “It’s Isabel.”

  “Isabel?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing,” Clint said, “it just doesn’t, uh, seem to suit you.”

  “Well,” she said, “most of my friends just call me Izzy.”

  “Izzy,” Clint said. “Yeah, that fits better. Do you want to come in, Izzy?”

  “God, no,” she said, peering past him. “This place is a dump.”

  “Yeah, it is,” he said. “I’m going to move soon.”

  “Let’s go somewhere else and talk,” she suggested.

  “Okay,” he said, “but you pick it.”

  “I know a place,” she said. “It’s near here. Come on, you can follow me.”

  He stepped out into the hall, closed the door, and locked it.

  She laughed.

  “What?”

  “That ain’t gonna stop anybody who wants to get in.”

  “Doesn’t matter, really,” he said. “There’s nothing in there to steal.”

  She nodded, then led the way along the hall and downstairs to the lobby.

  * * *

  Izzy took Clint to a nearby saloon, not a particularly high-class establishment but several steps up from the Blue Owl down on the docks.

  They went right to the bar and the girl ordered two beers.

  “Izzy,” the beefy bartender said, “I thought I tol’ you not to come in here, girl.”

  “Hey, Bronco,” she said, “it ain’t like I’m unaccompanied, is it? My friend, here, would like a beer.”

  Bronco looked at Clint, who just stared back at the man. Eventually the bartender got the message and drew two mugs of beer for them.

  “Come on,” Izzy said, grabbing both beers and leading the way to a table in the back. The small saloon was about half full, and all the men looked after Izzy as she went by.

  She set the beers down on either side of the table and sat down. Clint s
at across from her, put his left hand around the mug.

  “Want to tell me what we’re doing here?” he asked.

  “You was waitin’ for a contact, right?” she asked. “Well, I’m it.”

  Clint stared at the girl, wondering what was going on. Was this on the level, or was she trying to horn in on something, like drinking in the saloon when the bartender warned her to stay away?

  “What is it I need a contact for?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” she demanded.

  Clint sat back and sipped his beer, continuing to regard the girl, who started to squirm.

  “You don’t know a thing, do you?” he asked.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “You’re bluffing,” he said. “You’re trying to get something out of me for nothing.”

  “Hey,” she said, “I don’t gotta put up with—I’m just tryin’ ta help.”

  “Yeah, but help who?” he asked.

  “Look, how would I know your name is Jones?”

  “I registered at my hotel as Jones.”

  “Then how would I know you need a contact?”

  “Like I said,” Clint said, “you’re bluffing. Maybe you heard me saying something in another saloon. Who the hell are you?”

  Suddenly she stiffened, and he thought she was a split second from drawing her gun.

  “Don’t think about it,” he said. “I’d kill you before you drew.”

  She pulled her right hand away from her gun like it burned.

  “Put that hand on your beer.”

  She wrapped her right hand around the mug.

  “Now tell me what this is about.”

  “I’m—I’m—” She paused to sip the beer, wetting her lips. “I’m just tryin’ ta make some money. You got somethin’ goin’, and I thought I could get in on it.”

  “What do you bring to the table?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why would I need you?”

  “I know my way around,” she said.

  “The docks?”

  “The docks, the county, the city,” she said. “I know Saint Louis—and I know the underbelly.”

  He smiled, almost laughed.

  “What do you know about the underbelly of anything?” he asked.

  She frowned, almost pouted.

  “I know how things work.”

  “Why don’t I ask that bartender if you know how things work?” he asked.

  “Don’t!” she snapped.

  “Why? What would he tell me?”

  She tightened her lips.

  “What’s he to you?”

  Grudgingly, she said, “He’s my uncle.”

  “Ah . . .”

  She looked over at the bar, where the bartender was glowering over at them.

  “Doesn’t look like he likes me,” Clint said.

  “Look, Mr. Jones—”

  “Thanks for the beer, Izzy,” he said, standing up.

  “Wait!”

  “Izzy,” he said, “you shouldn’t walk around wearing that gun.”

  “I can use it,” she insisted. “If you need help, just let me know. You can ask for me here.”

  Clint nodded, headed for the door, but detoured to the bar first.

  “She really your niece?” he asked Bronco.

  “She is.”

  “She’s looking for trouble.”

  “You’re tellin’ me.”

  “She knows how to use that gun?”

  “Oh, she can shoot,” Bronco said. “She’s just got no sense.”

  “Then maybe you ought to give her some.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried,” Bronco said. “What’s your interest?”

  “None,” Clint said. “She said she had something for me, but she doesn’t.”

  “She’s pretty young, you know.”

  “I told you,” Clint said, “I’m not interested.”

  Bronco stood up straight and said, “Why not? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Is there a woman in her life?” Clint asked. “Mother? Aunt?”

  “No,” Bronco said, “no woman.”

  “There should be,” Clint said. “Somebody needs to get through to her before she finds trouble.”

  The bartender seemed to deflate.

  “I’ll try.”

  “I need to pay for those beers.”

  “No,” the bartender said. “On the house.”

  Clint nodded, and walked to the batwing doors.

  TEN

  Clint left the small saloon and went back to his own hotel. Normally, he would have been at the Blue Owl, playing poker. Perhaps not doing that was not a good idea. He needed to maintain a low profile, especially now that he was working for the government—sort of.

  He wanted to talk to Pike again about the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket, but he decided to do that in the morning. So after just a short time in his room, he left and headed for the Blue Owl.

  * * *

  The game was ongoing as he entered, the gambler Henry Crane still in place. The other seats had been taken over by different men. Clint approached and sat down in the empty chair.

  “Thought I was saving that chair in vain,” Crane said. “Welcome back.”

  “What, no Denim?” Clint asked as the men finished their hand. “You manage to bust Jack out?”

  “I think he just went to get some more money,” Crane said, raking in his pot. “You got here just in time to deal.”

  Clint gathered up the cards and shuffled. He’d been hoping to find Denim there. But if he was any judge of men—and he thought he was—the man would be back to play.

  “Coming out,” he said. “Five-card stud.”

  * * *

  As he’d expected, Jack Denim showed up about two hours later. By then, two of the other chairs had emptied, so Denim took one of them.

  “Got some more money?” Crane asked him.

  “I got plenty of money, don’t you worry,” Denim said. He pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket, some of them hundreds.

  Hundreds.

  Clint looked at them lying on the table, and couldn’t tell if they were real or not. But Denim was one of the names Pike had given him. Denim and another man had beaten and shot him, and left Pike for dead. Now here he was with a bunch of hundred-dollar bills.

  Clint was just going to have to win some of those bills from him, and then take them to Pike. The Secret Service man would know if they were real or not.

  “Okay,” Crane said, “ante up, boys.”

  ELEVEN

  “Buy you a beer?” Crane asked.

  The game was over for the night. They hadn’t cleaned Denim out, but Clint had managed to get a few of his hundred-dollar bills.

  “Sure, why not?”

  They went to the bar. The place had pretty much emptied out, except for a couple of drunks at tables finishing up their last drinks.

  “Two beers,” Crane said to the bartender.

  “Closin’ up,” the man said, giving them their beers. “Soon as those two are done.”

  “Fine,” Crane said.

  “So how much longer do you intend to stay in Saint Louis?” Clint asked.

  Crane shrugged, said, “Oh, I don’t know. I’m doing okay here.”

  “You’re picking up pennies here at the Blue Owl,” Clint said. “There are other saloons with bigger games.”

  Crane sipped his beer.

  “What is it?” Clint asked. “Are you hiding out?”

  “Actually,” Crane said, “yeah.”

  “From the law?”

  “Oh, no,” Crane said, “nothing like that.”

  Clint waited, but when Crane didn’t say anything else, he said, “Look, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”


  “No, it’s okay,” Crane said. “I didn’t expect to run into anyone like you here.”

  “Like me?”

  “I mean, somebody who knows the game,” Crane said. “Actually knows how it’s played.”

  “You’re a good poker player,” Clint said. “You must have played against good players before.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Crane said. “In fact, I was in a big game a couple of months ago. In Denver.”

  “With who?”

  “Among others, Bat Masterson, Luke Short, coupla fellas named Brady and Brett. A few others.”

  “And what happened?”

  Crane looked chagrined.

  “They cleaned me out,” he said. “Taught me a lesson, I’m afraid.”

  “So you just build yourself another stake and try again,” Clint said.

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to do.”

  “Here?”

  Crane smiled.

  “I’m startin’ small,” he said.

  “You sure are,” Clint said. “Seems to me your skills are sharp.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “You have doubts?”

  “I did,” Crane said, “after that game. They sent me away with my tail between my legs, and two bits for a beer. That was hard to take.”

  “Consider the men you were playing against,” Clint said. “I’ve lost to them myself . . . plenty of times.”

  “Time to go, gents,” the bartender said.

  The two drunks had finished their drinks and were shuffling toward the door.

  “Okay,” Crane said. He and Clint tossed off the remainder of their beers.

  Outside Crane asked, “How much longer will you be in Saint Louis?”

  “A few days, at least.”

  “And you’ll play?”

  “When I can.”

  “Good,” Crane said. “At least I’ll have you to hone my skills against.”

  “Which way are you going?” Clint asked.

  “My rooming house is that way,” Crane said, pointing.

  “So’s my hotel.”

  They started walking together.

  “How much do you know about Jack Denim?” Clint asked. Both Crane and Denim were already in the game when Clint first arrived.