“What about Stephanie and the other one, Tony? You’re the same age, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Brown said, “but other side of the tracks, you know?”
“Ah.”
Mary reappeared, carrying a tray with two slices of pie and two cups of coffee.
“There you go,” she said, setting them down.
“Have a seat, Mary,” the sheriff said. “Come on, you’re not that busy.”
She looked around, saw she had no excuse not to, so she sat down with them.
Clint tried a bite of the pie. Brown was right, she was a good baker. The crust was light and flaky, and the apples were sweet.
“Mary,” Brown said, “we’re looking for Andy and his friends.”
“Andy has lots of friends,” she said. “Which ones?” Clint could see that Mary Choate had been a good-looking woman in her day. In fact, if she did something to fix herself up, she still wouldn’t be bad.
“You know which ones,” Brown said, “because he only has two—Stephanie Kitten and Tony Black.”
“Those two,” Mary said.
“What’s wrong with them?” Clint asked.
“They boss him around, tell him what to do.”
“And he does it?”
“He’s smitten with that girl,” Mary said. “Always has been. And who can blame him? She’s a pretty one.”
“And Tony?”
“Handsome lad,” she said. “If I was a few years younger . . .”
“Have you seen them?” Brown asked. “Lately?”
“They eat here once in a while,” she said, which, Clint noticed, didn’t really answer the question.
“Eat here today?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “They must have found someplace else.”
“Have you noticed anything different about Stephanie these days?” Brown asked.
“Different? Like what?”
“The way she smells maybe?” Clint asked.
“Kinda sweet, is that what you mean?” she asked. “I think she’s got a new soap.”
“That’s what I mean,” Clint said. He ate the last hunk of pie. Brown had had a few bites, left the rest, but they both finished their coffee, which was good and strong,
“Why are you lookin’ for them?” she asked. “And my boy?”
“I just need to ask them some questions,” the sheriff said.
“Got themselves into some trouble?”
“Maybe.”
“Kids,” she said, shaking her head.
“Mrs. Choate,” Clint said, “if you don’t mind my saying, you must have been very young when you had Andy.”
She smiled. It made her look pretty.
“I was sixteen,” she said. “Andy’s twenty-six now.”
“Younger than Stephanie and Tony?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “They’re in their thirties. About fifteen years younger than me, but to me, they’re still kids.” She fixed Clint with an interested stare and asked, “And how old are you, handsome?”
“Time for us to go, Mary,” Brown said, standing up.
She and Clint also stood.
“I don’t suppose I can ask you not to tell Andy we were looking for him.”
“Why not?” she asked. “I’ll just tell him to stop by the jail.”
“And he will?” Clint asked.
“Of course,” she said. “I’m sure he’d like to help.”
“Yeah,” Brown said, “I’m sure he will.”
“What do I owe you for the pie, ma’am?” Clint asked. “It was very good.”
“It’s on the house, handsome,” she said. “Come back sometime without the law. Maybe we can get better acquainted.”
“Good night, Mrs. Choate,” Clint said.
“Mary,” she said. “You can just call me Mary.”
Clint smiled, and he and Brown left.
* * *
Mary Choate waited a few moments, to make sure the sheriff and Clint Adams were really gone, and then went back into the kitchen.
“Ma—” Andy said.
She slapped him and his head rocked back from the force of the blow.
“What did you and your friends do now, Andy?” she asked. “Why is the law after you?”
“I don’t know, Ma!” he said, holding his cheek. “Honest.”
“Don’t lie to me, Andy.”
“I ain’t, Ma.”
“Right,” she said. “If that girl told you to blow your own head off, you’d do it.”
“Ma—”
“Never mind,” She said. “Whatever you three idiots did, you better tell those two to lay low.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And,” she said, putting her hand on her son’s shoulder, “you tell that Tony Black if he wants to lay low with me, he’s welcome.”
“Aw, Ma—”
“I know, I know,” she said, “he’s sweet on Steph, too. But maybe he just needs an older woman to show him how to handle her.”
“Aw, Ma . . .” Andy Choate said, looking sick to his stomach.
“Never mind,” she said. “Just get out of here, find them, and warn them.”
“Yes, Ma.”
He started toward the doorway to the dining room and she said, “No, damn it, go out the back!”
THIRTY-FIVE
“She’s gonna go right to her son,” Brown said as they walked away.
“I know,” Clint said. “And then he’ll go right to his friends.”
“They might leave town.”
“Thereby admitting their guilt,” Clint said. “Then you’d have to form a posse and go after them.”
“The judge wouldn’t like that.”
“Can he stop you?”
“Not right away,” Brown said, “but eventually he can take my badge.”
“He’d have to go to the mayor and the town council for that, right?”
“Right.”
“Well,” Clint said, “if he hired the killers, and we prove it, he won’t be able to do that.”
“But if he didn’t hire them, and we prove that the boy is innocent, he might still come after me,” Brown said. “He wants to put Big Al’s son on trial.”
“Well,” Clint said, “Andy and his friends aren’t gone yet.”
“No, they’re not.”
“You know anybody else you can trust other than your deputy?” Clint asked.
“To tell you the truth,” the lawman answered, “I don’t even know that I can trust him.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “then I can only think of one other person we can trust not to be working with either the judge or Daniel Thayer.”
“Who’s that?”
Clint looked at the sheriff and said, “Big Al Henry.”
* * *
Clint and Sheriff Brown decided that Andy Choate, Stephanie Kitten, and Tony Black were not going to leave town at night.
“Besides,” Clint said, “they haven’t been hired to run. I think whoever hired them would send them after me before he’d let them leave town.”
“So you think they’ll come for you tomorrow?”
“Who knows?” Clint said. “But we’ll probably find out . . . tomorrow.”
So the sheriff went back to his office, while Clint went to have a talk with Big Al . . .
* * *
At the hotel he found Big Al Henry in his suite. The man poured them some brandy and they sat and talked.
“Seems you’ve gotten a lot of work done in a short time,” Big Al said.
“Not so short,” Clint said. “It’s been a long day.” Clint sipped his drink.
“What have you found?”
“A sweet-smelling assassin,” Clint said.
“What?”
“A lady with a gun?”
“And two friends.”
“Wait,” Big Al, “it sounds like you’re talking about Stephanie Kitten.”
“Come on, now,” Clint said, “is that really her name?”
“Her father was Tom Kitten,” Big Al said. “He worked for me a long time ago.”
“Tell me you parted on good terms.”
“Not at all,” Big Al said. “I fired him, had him arrested . . . and he hung himself in his cell.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Twenty years.”
“And she’d hold a grudge that long?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Is she a killer?”
“Before now,” Big Al said, “I would’ve said no.”
“Who would she go to work for?” Clint asked. “Thayer or the judge?”
“Whichever paid her the most money,” Big Al said, “and offered her a better way to get revenge on me.”
“By setting your son up for a murder charge.”
Big Al shrugged.
“Okay,” Clint said, “she’s the leader, right?”
“Yeah,” Big Al said, “the other two are probably Tony Black and Andy Choate.”
“They are.”
“How do you know?”
“We talked to Choate’s mother.”
“We?”
“Me and the sheriff.”
“And what did Mary say?”
“You know her?”
“At one time we were very close,” Henry said. “Don’t let the way she looks when she’s at work fool you. She was a beautiful woman, and still can be. What’d she say?”
“That her son and Black were sweet on Stephanie.”
“Most men are,” Big Al said. “She’s a formidable woman.”
“Can she use that gun?”
“Very well.”
“But she hasn’t killed anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Clint said. “I prefer to know whether or not I’m dealing with someone experienced.”
“Well,” he said, “if she killed Ed Collins, then she’s experienced.”
“Not at facing a man with a gun.”
THIRTY-SIX
Clint left Big Al’s hotel and went back to his own. He went to his room, set a few booby traps at the door and windows to warn him if someone tried to get in. Only then did he take off his boots . . .
* * *
In another part of town, Andy Choate told Stephanie Kitten and Tony Black about Clint and the sheriff visiting his mother.
“What did she tell them?” Stephanie asked.
“You know Ma,” Andy said. “She didn’t tell them nothin’.”
“I know your ma,” Stephanie said. “She told them somethin’.”
“She told them that you had me and Tony under your control,” Andy said.
“What?” Tony asked.
“Well,” Stephanie said with a grin, “she got that much right.”
“So what do we do?” Andy asked. “Get out of town?”
“No,” Stephanie said, “that’s not an option. Thayer paid us to get rid of Adams. Once he’s dead, the judge can try little Jason. And then my pa can rest easy.”
“Will that satisfy you?” Tony asked.
“Maybe,” Stephanie said. “Maybe not.” She looked at her two friends. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
* * *
Clint was starting to get sleepy when there was a knock on his door. He expected it to be Letty, but took his gun to the door anyway.
He cracked open the door, was surprised to see Mary Choate standing in the hall.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“It’s late . . .”
“Oh, don’t be a fraidy cat,” she said. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Clint shrugged, opened the door, checked the hall as she slid past him. She smelled of her restaurant and of sweat—although Clint never minded the smell of a woman’s own perspiration. Hers was earthy, and not sour at all.
She turned to face him as he closed the door. She was wearing a simple cotton dress, and while she was in her forties and had some thickening to her hips and waist, the dress molded itself to her and showed that she was still an extremely attractive woman with full breasts and a handsome face.
“Are you gonna shoot me?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but he walked to the bed post and holstered the gun.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Choate?”
“Oh, no, no, dumpling, don’t call me that,” she said. “Just call me Mary.”
“All right, Mary.”
“I’m worried about my son,” she said. “I’m thinkin’ those two friends of his might get him killed. In fact, I’m worried you might kill him.”
“That’s not my goal, Mary,” Clint said. “I’m going to do my best not to kill any of them.”
“Oh, that girl,” Mary said, “she’ll make you kill her, or kill you. I don’t know about Tony. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, but under the influence of that girl, who knows?”
“So are you here to give me more information?”
“Not really,” she said. “In fact, I’m not sure why I’m here. I’m thinkin’ maybe I want you to take me to bed.”
His jaw dropped. Suddenly he wondered what he would do if there was another knock on the door and it was Letty.
“Mary—”
“I know I’m Andy’s mother, but I’m not too old,” she said.
“I don’t think you’re too old at all—”
“Good,” she said.
Much as Letty had done, Mary shucked her clothes, only it was easier for her. She was only wearing a dress. She seemed to shrug her shoulders, and the dress was on the floor.
He was right. She had full, round breasts with dark nipples, was a little thick in the waist and hips, but all that meant was that she was a woman, with a woman’s body.
She came toward him and he annoyed himself by taking a step back.
“Mary—”
“Oh, dumpling,” she said, “come on, you’ve done this before. And it’s been a while for me, so let’s just do this. I know I probably should’ve taken a bath—”
“Never mind,” he said, taking two steps forward to counteract the one step back, and reaching for her, “you don’t need a bath . . .”
There was a lot of instruction during his time with Letty, but with Mary Choate, none of that was necessary. She was experienced, and knew what she liked.
She practically stripped Clint’s clothes off and pushed him down on the bed. She attacked his hard cock, stroking it with both hands, then sucking it avidly until he almost exploded into her mouth—but she stopped him.
“Mmm, not yet, lamb chop,” she said. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
“Come up here,” he said, pulling her up so that she was lying on top of him. He kissed her, and her tongue darted into his mouth. She slid up so that she was sitting with his cock trapped between them. She rubbed her pubic bush over him, and through it, he could feel how wet she was.
“Mmm, here I come, potpie,” she said—and he didn’t find her food endearments annoying at all. Not at that moment anyway.
She lifted her hips and then came down on him, engulfing her in the hot steaming depths of her pussy, and then started riding him.
Clint wasn’t worried about Letty showing up anymore.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“Why don’t we just go to his room,” Tony Black suggested, “and kill him.”
“Tonight?” Andy said. They were sitti
ng in Scott’s Saloon with a beer in front of each of them.
“Yeah, why not?” Tony asked. “Let’s get it out of the way while we can.”
“No,” Stephanie said.
Both men looked at her.
“What?” Andy asked.
“No,” she said, “we’re not gonna sneak into his hotel and bushwhack him.”
“Why not?” Tony asked.
“Because he deserves better than that,” she said. “And I wanna kill him in the street, fair and square.”
“That’s crazy,” Black said. “Andy, tell ’er she’s crazy.”
Andy looked from Tony to Stephanie and back again, wondering if he should speak up or keep quiet.
“Never mind, Andy,” Stephanie said, saving him the trouble of deciding. “We’re not doin’ it that way.”
“I ain’t about to face the Gunsmith in the street, Steph,” Tony said.
“You won’t have to,” Stephanie said. “I’ll do that.”
“Steph, that’s crazy!” Tony said.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be in the street, but you boys will be there—somewhere.”
“So . . . we are gonna bushwhack him?” Andy asked.
“We’re gonna do what we have to do to get the job done,” Stephanie said.
Tony Black sat back in his chair and heaved a sign of relief.
“You scared me,” he said. “I thought you really meant to face him fair.”
Stephanie reached out and ruffled Tony’s hair. He was handsome, all right, but they had grown up together, and to her, he was more like a brother.
“I ain’t totally crazy, Tony,” she told him.
She looked at Andy, who seemed far away.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Ah,” he said, “when my ma was talkin’ to Adams and the sheriff, I got the feelin’ . . . well, the way she was talkin’ to him . . .”
“Your mom’s a real slut, Andy,” Stephanie said. “Are you thinkin’ she wasn’t gonna ride the Gunsmith’s bronc?”
“Don’t say that!”
“Hell,” Tony said, laughing, “maybe she’s up there right now, ridin’ his—”
“I can’t punch Steph, Tony, but I’ll punch you if’n you don’t stop talking about my mama like that.”
“Hey,” Tony said, “I’m not the one who said she’s a slut.”
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