“That’ll be our ace in the hole.”
“Right.”
“So, the livery first?”
“Yeah,” Reeves said. “Let’s go.”
They walked their mounts to the livery.
As in most places, the liveryman was impressed with Eclipse, but this particular man did not connect the horse to the Gunsmith, which pleased them.
“How long you gonna want to leave these horses here, Deputy?”
“We’re not sure,” Reeves said. “One or two days.”
“Okay. I got room.”
They were about to leave with their rifles and saddlebags when Reeves turned back to the man.
“Did the Buffalo Soldiers leave their horses here?” he asked.
“Yessir,” the man said. “I got them out back on the corral.”
“How many?”
“Six.”
Reeves looked at Clint.
“Six,” he said.
“Six.” Clint nodded.
They headed for the hotel.
They got a room each, again across from each other. Clint left his gear in his room and joined Reeves across the hall. The big black man was looking out the window at the street below.
“Anybody?” Clint asked.
“No,” Reeves said. “We’re not bein’ watched now.”
Reeves turned from the window.
“I’m startin’ to get a bad feelin’,” he said.
“Tell me,” Clint said. “Maybe it’s the same bad feeling I’m getting.”
“That we been led here by the nose?” Reeves asked.
“That’s the one,” Clint said, “or else why would they have stopped here?”
“And not even put a watch on us.”
Reeves went back to the window.
“Six of ’em,” he said, “and what are they doin’ if they’re not watchin’ us?”
“What do most men do when they hit a town?” Clint asked. “Eat, drink, or fuck.”
Reeves looked at Clint.
“Let’s eat and drink,” he said.
“Agreed,” Clint said.
TWENTY-NINE
Clint and Reeves went out and found a place where they could get a beer and a steak. They got a table away from the window and ordered.
“Six men waiting for us,” Clint said, “and they’re apparently not waiting to ambush us.”
“They wanted me to follow them,” Reeves said, “out of the Territories.”
“They wanted to get you out of your jurisdiction,” Clint said, “and alone.”
“But why?” Reeves asked. “Why me?”
“Well…you’re famous.”
“I ain’t goddamned famous,” Reeves said. “You’re famous.”
“Well, you’re a well-known black lawman,” Clint said, “and these are black men.”
“Black men,” Reeves said. “Also black lawmen. What do they have against me?”
“I guess that’s something we’re going to have to ask them,” Clint said.
“Take a walk,” Washington told Jefferson.
“What?”
“Take a walk around town, see what you can see,” the sergeant said.
“What if they see me?”
“If they do, and they stop you, bring them here,” Washington said. “Tell them I’m here.”
“What if they just…kill me on sight?” Jefferson asked.
Washington smiled.
“I know Bass Reeves well enough to know he won’t do that,” Washington said.
“What about sending Gordon? Or—”
“I don’t care who you send, just have someone take a look around town. I want to know where they are, what they’re doin’.”
“Okay,” Jefferson said, “I can do that.”
He stood up.
“Also check the hotels,” Washington said. “I want to know where they are—and who the white man is. We need to know what we’re dealin’ with.”
“Yessir.” Jefferson seemed calmer now that he didn’t necessarily have to be the one looking for Reeves and his partner.
He left the saloon and went in search of the others.
Washington went to the bar to get himself another
beer.
“You fellas ain’t lookin’ for trouble in town, are ya?” the bartender asked.
“Why do you ask that?” Washington asked.
“Well,” the bartender said, “half a dozen Buffalo Soldiers hangin’ around town, folks start to talk. Ya know…”
“Well,” Washington said, “you tell folks not to worry. We ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“That’s good—”
“But know this,” Washington added, “if it happens to come along, we’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry about that.”
He carried his fresh beer back to the table and sat down.
The bartender started cleaning the bar with a dirty rag, not feeling any better for the short conversation.
Jefferson found both Franklin and Gordon at the local cathouse.
He broke in on Franklin while he was pounding away at a fat whore. The skinny black man loved his women with meat on them, always asked for the biggest whore he could get. This one had massive thighs, pale as the moon, and they jiggled as Franklin drove himself in and out of her, grunting with the effort.
“-Ten-hut!” Jefferson shouted.
Franklin leaped off the woman to spring to attention, his long, skinny dick sticking straight out from his crotch, glistening with the girl’s juices. Jefferson averted his eyes.
When he saw Jefferson, he said, “Aw, goddamn, Corporal, you scared the crap outta me.”
“Sorry, Private, but we got some work for you,” Jefferson said with a wide grin.
The woman sat up. Her breasts were huge mounds of pale flesh with the biggest pink nipples he’d ever seen before. The hair on her head was as golden as the hair between her legs.
“Get dressed,” Jefferson said. “I’ve gotta find Gordon.”
“Probably down the hall,” Franklin said.
“I’ll check.”
The woman looked at Jefferson and smiled. Despite the weight in her face, she was very pretty.
“You sure you don’t wanna finish what your friend started, honey?” she asked with a smile. “I’m all warmed up for ya.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Jefferson said politely. “Maybe another time.”
He left them and went down the hall, opened the door. Gordon had not even had time to get his pants off yet. A dark-haired, skinny whore was waiting on the bed for him, fully naked.
“Aw, Corporal—” he said when he saw Jefferson. “Come on!”
“Sorry,” Jefferson said. “Get your pants back on and meet me downstairs.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Jefferson left, he heard the whore say, “I still get paid, right?”
THIRTY
He waited outside for his two men, who came out to join him glumly. He told them both what he wanted them to do.
“What if they see me?” Franklin asked.
“Don’t worry,” Jefferson said, “they gon’ wanna talk to the man in charge. You jes’ take ’em over to the saloon.”
“Where you gon’ be when I find out what hotel they’s in?” Gordon asked.
“I’ll be at the saloon, with the sergeant,” Jefferson said. “You jes’ come over there and tell us.”
The two men shrugged and went their separate ways. Jefferson stood there, waited until they were out of sight, then went back inside. After all, Washington had told him to stay out of sight.
He hoped the fat whore hadn’t got dressed again yet.
Franklin finally spotted Bass Reeves and the white man in a restaurant eating steaks. He watched them for a moment, trying to get some idea how long they’d be there, then turned and headed for the saloon. He ran into Gordon on the way, who was also hurrying.
“You find ’em?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’s eatin’ steaks. You find out who that
white man is?”
“Man,” Gordon said, “you ain’t gon’ believes me when I tell you.”
“Well, go ahead, then.”
“We might’s well wait ’til we get to the saloon,” Gordon said. “I’ll tell the sergeant and Jefferson at the same time.”
Jefferson had time to dally with the fat whore and get back to the saloon before Franklin and Gordon got there. He was sitting with Washington, having a beer.
“You boys get it done?” the corporal asked.
“Yeah, we did,” Franklin said. “They’s at a café having steaks, but Gordon here, he say he got some big news fo’ us.”
Washington looked at Gordon.
“Whataya got for us, Private?”
“They registered at the Main Street Hotel, sir,” Gordon said. “They got themselves rooms of they own.”
“And what’s the big news, Corporal?” Washington asked.
“Well, sir,” Gordon said, “the name of that white man that’s ridin’ with Bass Reeves?”
“Yes, Corporal?”
“Well, sir,” Gordon said, “his name is Clint Adams.”
They all sat silently.
“He’s the Gunsmith,” Gordon said.
“I know who he is!” Washington said.
“Why would Reeves have the Gunsmith ridin’ with him?” Jefferson asked.
“Maybe they’re friends,” Washington said. “Why would a white man ride all this way with a black man if they wasn’t friends?”
“Could be,” Jefferson said.
Gordon and Franklin stood there, waiting for their next set of orders.
“You two are done,” Washington said with a wave of his hand. “Go get a drink, or a woman, or whatever you wanna do.”
“Yessir,” Franklin said.
He left and went straight back to the whorehouse. Gordon stopped at the bar for a beer, and remained there.
Jefferson sat back in his chair and watched Washington. The sergeant was lost in his thoughts. Jefferson sipped his beer and waited, but finally felt he had to ask something.
“So what do we do now?”
“Hmm?” Washington looked at him. “Oh, nothin’ gonna change.”
“With the Gunsmith here?”
“He don’t scare me none,” Washington said.
“Well, he scares me,” Jefferson said. “He gon’ scare the others.”
“Then it’s best that I’m the leader, right?” Washington asked.
Jefferson nodded. In all the time he’d been riding with Washington, never was he more grateful that the sergeant was the leader, and not him.
“Get a couple of more beers, will ya, Corporal?” Washington said. “I gotta sit here and figure out what to do about the Gunsmith.”
THIRTY-ONE
Clint and Reeves finished their steaks, had some more coffee with pie.
“Well?” Clint asked.
“Yeah,” Reeves said. “We better go and find them boys.”
“We’re just going to talk at first, right?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, right,” Reeves said, “we ain’t gonna try to take ’em until after we talk to ’em. Unless they start shootin’ first.”
“I know you want to talk to these boys, find out what’s on their mind, but if I get shot at,” Clint said, “I’m going to shoot back.”
“Understood,” Reeves said.
They had the last bite of their pie, and the last sip of coffee, then paid their bill and walked out of the restaurant. There was a saloon right across the street.
“Let’s try that one first,” Reeves said.
* * *
When they walked in, Bass Reeves was the only black man in the saloon.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said.
“Sure,” Clint said.
They went to the bar, ordered a beer each.
“Here ya go,” the bartender said. “You with them other fellers?”
“What other fellas?” Reeves asked.
“Them other black boys that rode in,” the bartender said. “The ones wearin’ them jackets.”
“Buffalo Soldier jackets, you mean?” Reeves asked.
The bartender, a young man in his twenties, said, “I don’t know. They’re blue, and they got stripes on their arms.”
“How many stripes?” Clint asked.
“Mostly one,” the young man said. “I think one of ’em’s got two and another one’s got three.”
“Did they drink in here?” Clint asked.
“A few of them had a drink in here,” the bartender said, “but the others are drinkin’ down the street, in the Wagon Wheel.”
“When did they arrive?” Reeves asked. It was a question he’d forgotten to ask the sheriff.
“Yesterday,” the bartender said. “They only been here a day.”
Reeves nodded. He looked around, saw that he was the center of attention.
“Don’t have too many black folk in this town, do ya?” he asked.
“None,” the bartender said, “until they rode in yesterday, and now you.”
“Well,” Reeves said, “maybe by tomorrow you’ll be back to havin’ none.”
“That suits us!” someone spoke up.
Clint and Reeves turned. The man who had spoken was easily identified.
“You got something to say?” Clint asked.
“Yeah,” the man said, standing. He was tall, in his forties, wearing a well-worn gun on his hip. “We don’t need all you black boys here, lawmen or not.”
“Then why don’t you drive them out?” Reeves asked.
The man looked around, licked his lips, and looked like he was sorry he’d spoken.
“I—I can’t do it myself,” he said.
“And nobody will stand with you?” Clint asked, looking at the other men in the saloon.
They all looked away.
“No,” the man said, “nobody.”
“Well,” Reeves said, “you could stand alone against me.” He stepped away from the bar. “Drive me out of your town.”
The man put his hands out in front of him, away from his gun.
“Easy now, Deputy,” he said. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“Then shut your mouth,” Reeves said. “Sit down and don’t say nothin’ else.”
“Okay,” the man said, “okay.” He sat down.
Clint kept an eye on the man, just in case he got brave and went for his gun.
“Bass,” Clint said, “let’s get out of here.”
They backed to the batwing door and went outside.
“We need to get this done before somebody else gets brave,” Clint said.
“You’re right,” Reeves said. “We better get over to the Wagon Wheel Saloon.”
“He said down the street,” Clint said. “But which way?”
Reeves looked both ways, then shrugged and said, “We’ll try both.”
THIRTY-TWO
Gordon was standing at the batwings. He turned and hurried to Washington’s table.
“They’re coming down the street.”
“Okay,” Washington said. “Stand at the bar, and no matter what happens, don’t go for your gun.”
“Yessir.”
“What about me?” Jefferson asked.
“Stay where you are,” Washington said. “Bass will know you.”
“Yeah, he will.”
“This will shake him up,” Washington said. “Disappoint him.”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“Bass?” Washington laughed. “He’ll wanna know why. He’ll talk before he does anythin’.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“You just sit tight,” Washington said. “Don’t talk. Just listen.”
* * *
Clint and Reeves approached the Wagon Wheel Saloon. From the outside it looked larger than the place they’d just left.
“See that man at the doors?” Clint asked.
“I saw him.”
“They know we’re coming.”
“This is what they wanted,” Reeves said. “This is what they’re gonna get.”
“You want me to go around back?” Clint asked.
“No,” Reeves said, “they know about you. If they planned this, they already checked the hotel register. They know who you are.”
“You’re probably right.”
“We’ll just walk in together and let them call the play,” Reeves said.
Clint nodded. They mounted the boardwalk and went through the batwings.
What Bass Reeves saw froze him in his tracks. Clint knew something was up.
“What is it?”
Reeves didn’t answer.
There was one Buffalo Soldier standing at the bar, and two seated at a table. The two at the table had corporal’s and sergeant’s stripes, while the one at the bar had a single private’s stripe.
But Bass Reeves was looking at the men at the table. Clint didn’t know which one, but he could guess. The younger one, with the three stripes, was smiling at the big black lawman.
“Bass,” the man said. “Finally.”
“Can’t be,” Reeves said. “You’re dead.”
“I am?” the sergeant said. “I feel pretty good for somebody who’s dead.”
Reeves looked at the other man.
“Jefferson.”
“Bass.”
“You fellas have come a long way,” Reeves said.
Jefferson laughed. “Ain’t we all?”
Reeves looked at the man at the bar. “I don’t know you.”
The man didn’t answer.
“And you’re the Gunsmith,” the sergeant said. “My name’s Lemuel Washington, sergeant in the Buffalo Soldiers. This is Corporal Jefferson, and that’s Private Gordon.”
“Should be three more of you around here someplace,” Clint said.
“Oh, yeah,” Washington said. “They’re whorin’ or drinkin’—or both. But they’ll be here when I need them.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “so you know these two.”
“Yes,” Reeves said, “years ago. I thought Washington was dead.”
“You’ve come a long way, Bass,” Washington said. “Wearin’ a badge for Judge Parker.”
“And you, Lem?” Reeves asked. “What are you doin’? Are you still a Buffalo Soldier, or are you and your boys just wearin’ the jackets?”
Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388) Page 8