The Counterfeit Gunsmith

by J. R. Roberts

  Clint helped the man pull on his boots. Pike stood up, then turned to the bed and took the Colt New Line from beneath the pillow and tucked it into his belt.

  “How does it look out front?” he asked.

  “Clear,” Clint said, “but I think we’ll go out the back anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  “Edward,” Clint said, then louder, “Edward!”

  “Yes?”

  “Come on, we’re going.”

  “What about the man outside the door?” Pike asked.

  “We told him we’re taking you to a meeting, and we’ll be back.”

  “And he believed that?”

  “So far,” Clint said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The three men left the room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Clint left Pike and Donnelly inside the back door of the hospital.

  “I’m going to get a cab,” he said. “Pike, you’ll have to bring him out when I get back.”

  Pike looked at Donnelly, who still hadn’t managed to come around.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Clint went outside, but had to go to the front of the hospital in order to find a cab. He caught one letting some people off, then recognized the driver as one he had used before.

  “Hey,” the driver said. “Visiting a friend again? Relative?”

  “Can you keep quiet?” Clint asked.

  “What?”

  “For money?”

  “Mister,” the driver said, “I can do anything for money.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, climbing into the back of the cab, “drive around to the back.”

  “The back of the hospital?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hold on.”

  * * *

  When they got around to the back, Clint said to the driver, “What’s your name?”

  “Danny.”

  He handed him a dollar and said, “Wait here, Danny, and there’ll be more.”

  “I’ll be right here, mister.”

  Clint got out of the cab and went to the back door. It was locked, so he banged on it. Pike opened it.

  “Ready to go?” Clint asked,

  “I guess so.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Donnelly is just not coming around,” Pike said.

  “Well, let’s just take him someplace where we can work on him,” Clint said.

  Pike reached out and grabbed the front of Edward Donnelly’s shirt, practically dragged him out of the building and into the cab.

  “Where to?” Danny asked.

  Clint looked at Pike.

  “My hotel?” Clint asked.

  Pike shook his head. “My hotel.”

  “Really?”

  “They’ll know where you’re staying,” Pike said, “and we can’t go where he lives.”

  “Okay.” He told Danny to take them to Pike’s hotel, down near the docks.

  “Down there? Really?” Danny asked. “I try to avoid that area.”

  “We’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Hang on.”

  * * *

  In front of the hotel, Clint paid the driver, who offered to wait.

  “I don’t know when we’ll be back out,” Clint said.

  “From the looks of the place, it should be pretty soon,” Danny said.

  Clint thought a moment, then said, “Okay, yeah, wait here.”

  Danny smiled and saluted.

  * * *

  Pike let them into his room, which, if anything, smelled even worse than before. Donnelly didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ll open a window,” Pike said.

  The window overlooked an alley, so Clint doubted that would help—but it couldn’t make things worse.

  Donnelly sat down on the bed.

  “Have you got any whiskey around?” Clint asked. “He needs a drink.”

  “I’ve got a bottle in the top drawer,” Pike said. He went to the chest and got it, passed it to Clint.

  “Here, Edward,” Clint said, handing the bottle to the detective, “have a drink.”

  Donnelly took a big swig from it, then started coughing and choking.

  “Another one,” Clint insisted.

  Donnelly took another drink, kept it down more easily.

  “Come on, Edward,” Clint said. “We need you.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Donnelly said. “Okay, I’m all right.”

  “Have you ever shot anyone?” Pike asked, easing himself down on the bed, wincing, holding his arm stiffly.

  “No,” Donnelly said.

  “Well, that might have to change, too,” the Secret Service man said.

  “But . . . other lawmen?” Donnelly said. “I have to shoot other lawmen?”

  “It may come to that,” Clint said, “since they did try to shoot you.”

  “Yeah,” Donnelly said, “they did, didn’t they?” He looked at Clint and Pike. “So what do we do now?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “I think,” Clint said, “that Edward should tell us as much as he knows about what’s going on in his department,” Clint said. “And then Pike, you should tell Edward everything you know.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything,” Clint said, nodding, “about who you are and why you’re here.”

  “Counterfeiting,” Donnelly said, “right? That’s what it’s about?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve heard talk,” Donnelly said. “I overheard my chief talking to some of the other policemen about it.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “That everybody would get a piece of the pie,” Donnelly said, “as long as they cooperated.”

  “And they didn’t approach you?” Pike asked.

  “No,” Donnelly said, “they know I’m honest . . . more or less.”

  “Start from the beginning, Edward,” Clint said. “We’ll listen.”

  Donnelly started talking . . .

  * * *

  “So you’ve taken money,” Pike said, “but just so you can stay on the inside.”

  “Yes,” Donnelly said.

  “So the Saint Louis Police know about the counterfeiting.”

  “Yes.”

  “And haven’t done anything about it.”

  “No.”

  “And, in fact,” Clint said, “they might be helping.”

  “Exactly,” Donnelly said. “So now you know what I know. What about you?”

  “I’m Secret Service, sent here to track down whoever’s running the counterfeiting ring,” Pike said, “and whoever the counterfeiter is.”

  “And do you have any clues?”

  “Tom Colby.”

  “Colby’s involved?”

  “It seems likely,” Pike said.

  “He’s also likely to be the next mayor of Saint Louis,” Donnelly said.

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “I’m going to get a look at Colby tonight,” Clint said. “Maybe I’ll arrange to meet him.”

  “And you’ve got those three who are planning to kill you,” Pike said. “You need someone to watch your back. Preferably someone who knows how to use a gun.”

  “I know how to use a gun!” Donnelly snapped. “I—I just have never been shot at before.”

  “Sorry,” Pike said. “That wasn’t a criticism of you. I just want Clint to be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Clint said. “It’s possible Aurora lied to me about that.”

  “Aurora?” Donnelly said. “Aurora Lane, who owns the Lulu Belle?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “she told me she heard three men in her place planning to kill me.”

  “I wouldn’t believe everything she says,” Donnelly warne
d. “I’m pretty sure the chief is taking money from her, too.”

  “Do you think she’s involved with the counterfeiting?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t know,” Donnelly said. “I haven’t heard anything about that specifically.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “right now she’s going to help me meet Colby. And I’ll check out the three men, too, see if they’re really after me.”

  “Are you going to ask them?” Pike asked.

  “You know,” Clint said, “maybe that’s just what I’ll do.”

  * * *

  Roburt found Denim in the Blue Owl Saloon, standing at the bar.

  “Not playing poker?”

  Denim looked at him.

  “The game will start a little later on,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be watching the hospital.”

  “Somethin’ happened.”

  “What?”

  “I dunno,” Roburt said. “There was a lot of shootin’ around the corner. I didn’t know what to do, so I got the hell out of there.”

  “Because there was shootin’ around the corner?” Denim asked. “Jesus, Roburt—”

  “Look, you left me there alone,” Roburt said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Well, great,” Denim said. “Now we’ll have to go back there and hope that Jones didn’t leave while we were gone.”

  “Why would he leave?”

  “I don’t know!” Denim said. “He can’t stay in the hospital forever. Come on! We gotta make sure—but if he is gone, you’re gonna tell Colby about it, not me!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint left Pike and Donnelly at Pike’s hotel, warning them that if they left the building to get something to eat, they shouldn’t go far.

  “You’re probably safer around the docks than anyplace else right now.”

  “If we go out to get something to eat, we’ll bring it back here,” Pike said.

  “You should probably stay inside,” Donnelly said. “You should still be in the hospital. I can get us something to eat.”

  “You fellas work it out between yourselves,” Clint said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “I hope you come back with some information,” Pike said. “If the police know I’m Secret Service, they’ll be looking for both me and Donnelly. We’re going to have to bring them down.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Clint said.

  “And don’t get killed!” Pike snapped as he left the room.

  * * *

  Clint had the waiting Danny take him to the Lulu Belle, where he dismissed him.

  “Sure you don’t want me to wait again?” Danny obviously thought he’d found himself as cash cow.

  “No, that’s okay,” Clint said. “I may be here awhile.”

  Danny nodded and drove off.

  As Clint entered the Lulu Belle, he felt the heat from the crush of bodies. He could hear the sounds of dice rolling, the roulette ball bouncing on the wheel, the wheel of fortune turning, and chips landing on chips as they were tossed into a pot.

  He walked to the bar and managed to carve out a space for his body. He caught Blake the bartender’s eye and waved him over.

  “Beer,” he said.

  “Comin’ up,” Blake said.

  Clint looked up and down the bar. None of the men drinking there paid any attention to him. He looked over his shoulder, trying to see the table the three men were supposed to be sitting at, but he couldn’t see it through the crowd.

  “Here ya go,” Blake said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you looking for Aurora?”

  Clint sipped and said, “Eventually.”

  “I’ll send word that you’re here.”

  “Thanks.”

  True to her word, the saloon girls were passing him by, practically without a glance. She must have told them what he looked like and to avoid him. Either that or the bartender had pointed him out.

  He thought about his poker game at the Blue Owl with Crane and Jack Denim. He was going to have to put in an appearance there, so nobody would wonder why he was missing. Either that or take Jack Denim out of the play. He didn’t want to do that, however, without finding the second man, the one Denim was working with. Pike had said his name was Roburt. He had to get one of them to tell him who they were working for.

  He turned and observed the room. He wondered if Colby was there somewhere. Maybe playing poker or blackjack or roulette.

  He’d seen many men at the farm equipment store. Maybe one of them had been Colby—but he didn’t see any faces that he found familiar.

  He turned back to the bar and leaned over his beer.

  After a few moments, the smell of perfume cut through the scent of smoke and sweat and beer. He turned to see Aurora smiling at him.

  “You made it.”

  “I’m over an hour late.”

  “But you made it.”

  “Are they here?”

  She nodded. “At the same table.”

  “And Colby?”

  “He’s here, too,” she said. “Playing blackjack.”

  Clint frowned. Perhaps if he had been there earlier, he could have dealt with the three men without Colby being present. If he tried now, there might be a ruckus, and that would alert Colby to his presence.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “First,” Clint said, “I want to see Colby. I’ll worry about the other three later.”

  “Then come with me,” Aurora said, sliding her arm through his. “We’ll walk around.”

  “Let me get another beer,” Clint said, “for appearance’ sake.”

  Aurora signaled to Blake to bring Clint a full mug of beer. Once he had it, she said, “Let’s walk.”

  * * *

  They walked around the saloon floor for a few minutes, trying not to attract anyone’s attention, before she finally stopped and, with a nod of her head, said, “He’s over here. At the blackjack table.”

  He looked. There were four men playing blackjack, their backs to him. They were in the middle of a hand, and as he watched, all four men busted out.

  “Which seat?”

  “The one on the end,” she said. “He always plays on the end.”

  “He’s at the mercy of everybody else’s draw that way,” Clint said, shaking his head. “He should be sitting in the first chair.”

  “You obviously know the game.”

  “I prefer playing poker, myself,” Clint said, “but yes, I know it.”

  “Well, I’ve tried to tell him the same thing,” she said helplessly, “but he’s got it in his head that it’s his lucky seat.”

  “Well,” he said, “that’s the one thing that trumps logic in a gambler.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Superstition.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Clint asked Aurora to leave him alone for a few moments, so he could observe Colby without being noticed.

  “I’ll see you later,” she said, and moved away into the crowd.

  Clint used the next fifteen minutes or so to watch Colby, who seemed to play blackjack purely by instinct rather than logic. He didn’t let what the players before him drew affect his actions. He also seemed to be in control of his emotions. By watching his face, you would never be able to tell if he had won or lost a hand. It told Clint a lot about the man himself.

  Colby was in his forties, a wide-shouldered man who would probably be six feet when he stood up.

  After a while, Clint felt he needed to move on, so as not to attract attention. So he continued to move about the room until he was able to see the table with the three men Aurora had told him about.

  They looked like trail bums, all in their thirties, all wearing six-guns and holsters, all drinking beer. They were loud, wh
ich explained how Aurora might have been able to overhear them. But wouldn’t they have seen her standing close by them? She was a beautiful woman. It would be hard for her to go unnoticed by three young men.

  From where he stood, though, he could hear the men bragging to each other about their sexual conquests. Wouldn’t others have heard them talking about killing the Gunsmith?

  By a stroke of luck, at that moment two men stood up and left their table, which was very near to the table where the three men were slapping each other on the backs. Clint moved quickly and sat down.

  “A drink, handsome?” a saloon girl asked. Even if instructed to leave him alone, the girls still had to do their job.

  “A beer.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  He didn’t know if any of the men knew what he looked like. It would be interesting if they did. However, they were still too busy bragging about themselves to look over at him.

  The saloon girl brought him his beer, and as she passed the other table, one of the men reached out and grabbed her around the waist.

  “Hey, girlie,” he said, “why don’t you take us all upstairs and tell us who’s the best, huh?”

  “Let go!” she snapped. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “That’s what we’re tellin’ ya,” one of the others said, “we want ya to work—on us.”

  “I’m not a whore!” she said.

  “Who ya kiddin’?” the third man said. “All you girls are whores.”

  Even though the first man still had her by the waist, she reached out and slapped the third man in the face. His face immediately turned red—both from the slap and from anger. He stood and grabbed her wrist.

  “You’re hurting me!” she cried.

  “I’ll do worse than that—” he said, raising his other hand to strike her. But by then Clint was there. When he saw that there was no security coming to her aid, he moved.

  He caught the man’s upraised hand and said, “Not today, friend.”

  The man yanked his arm from Clint’s grasp. Clint ignored him and looked at the first man.

  “Let her go.”

  “I’ll let her go,” the man said, releasing her, “but only so I can kill you.”

  The girl staggered back as he released her.