by JR Roberts
They went down the steps and reached the lobby. Angie was still behind the desk, with a thin young man who was probably relieving her.
“Well, Detective, I suggest you look a little deeper into who Brad Wyatt’s friends are.”
“You have someone in mind?”
“I don’t have a name,” Clint said, “but I might before I leave town.”
“Then by all means,” Kingman said, “stop by the station and let me know before you leave.”
“I’ll do that.”
They shook hands and the detective walked out the front door.
“Are you ready for your bath?” Angie asked.
“I’m ready,” Clint said. “Lead the way.”
Chapter Fourteen
Angie showed Clint into a room with a steaming bathtub in the center of the floor. There was a chair in the corner, and she dropped his towels and cloths onto it.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, and moved the chair closer to the tub. “I’ll need to hang my gunbelt on that, within easy reach.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize … do you have it close to you at all times?”
“Yes,” he said, “at all times.”
“Even asleep?”
“Hanging on the bedpost,” he said.
“That must be a difficult way to live.”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it now. It’s become part of me.”
“I suppose so,” she said. “Here’s your soap.” She handed him a brand new bar.
“Thank you.”
“Take your time,” she said, “this tub is designed to hold the heat in for a long time.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Just let me know when you’re finished,” she said.
“I will,” he said. “Thank you.”
She didn’t move.
“If you leave,” he said, “I’ll get undressed.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, “sorry.” She backed out of the room and closed the door.
Clint got undressed, put his clothes on the chair, hung his gunbelt on the back, and eased himself into the hot water. He sighed as the heart began to seep into his muscles. Rather than wash immediately he just soaked for a while, letting the heat do its work.
Detective Dan Kingman got back to the police station and immediately went to the Chief’s office.
“Chief?” he said, knocking on the open door.
The man looked up and waved him in.
“Sit,” the said. “What have you got?”
“I went to the Walnut Inn, checked on the bona fides of the man who said he was Clint Adams.”
“And?”
“It appears he was telling the truth,” Kingman said. “He has letters in that name.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” Kingman said. “I checked at the livery across from the hotel. If he’s not Adams, he’s riding Adams’ horse.”
“How do you know?”
“The Gunsmith rides a big Darley Arabian,” Kingman said. “Everybody knows that. It’s not a horse you see everywhere.”
“All right,” the Chief said, “so the Gunsmith is in town. What does that tell us?”
“He also agrees with my thinking,” Kingman said. “About the vandalism.”
“That it’s an inside job?”
“Yes,” the detective said. “He indicated that he might have a name for me tomorrow.”
“And when is he leaving town?”
“Very soon,” Kingman said. “He originally said he was only staying a couple of days. I assume he’s leaving the day after tomorrow.”
“Well,” the Chief said, “let’s hope he gets you that name before he leaves, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Chief sat back in his chair.
“You know there’s a short-list of who could be the inside man, don’t you?”
“Yessir,” Kingman said. “Glanville, the manager; David Rabe, the clerk; and Brad Wyatt, head of security.”
“Wyatt wore a badge in Springfield for a while,” the Chief said.
“Until you took it away from him.”
“I came in and swept out all the corruption,” the older man said. “He was knee deep in it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If there’s an inside man,” the Chief said, “he’s my best bet.”
“I agree.”
“Have you spent any time on him?”
“Followed him for a day or two, but he only went to work, and back home again, with a stop for someplace to eat and have a drink.”
“And who’d he talk to?”
“Nobody,” Kingman said. “From what I can see, he’s got no friends.”
“Everybody has somebody they talk to, Dan,” the Chief said. “Women?”
“Just whores.”
“All right,” the Chief said, “let’s see if Mr. Adams actually comes through with a name for you.”
Kingman nodded and rose to leave.
“Remind me again why you think something other than vandalism happened?” the Chief said.
“Because,” Kingman said, “it’s kind of hard to have vandalism without any damage, Chief.”
“Ah, yes,” the Chief said, nodding, “you did make that point before.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clint was still soaking in the tub, his eyes closed but his ears very alert. He heard the door open quietly, and as someone crept toward the tub he quickly reached for his gun, drew it and pointed it …
… at Angie.
“Oh!” she said, startled. “My God!”
“Sorry,” he said, turning the gun away from her. “You shouldn’t sneak up on my like that.”
“I—I was trying to surprise you.”
“Well, you did,” he said, holstering the gun.
She stood there, apparently now undecided about whatever it was she was going to do.
“I’m not done with my bath yet,” he said.
“I—I was hoping you weren’t.”
“Why?”
“Well … I know you’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she said, “and, you know, we talked about me doing some of the things I wanted to do, like travelling, and I, well …”
“What is it, Angie?”
She came closer to the tub, looked into it. He saw where her eyes were going, and realized his cock was erect and poking up out of the water. The spongy head gleamed wetly at her.
“I—I’ve decided to be more bold,” she said.
“Angie.”
She got down on her knees next to the tub, reached in and took hold of him. Slowly, she began to stroke him.
“I’m not a virgin,” she said, “in case you were wondering, but … I’m not all that experienced, either.”
“You seem to be doing pretty well,” he said. “Uh, what about your father? What if—”
“He’s not working today,” she said. “Besides, Benny’s behind the desk and he said he’d keep watch.”
“Does Benny know why he’s keeping watch?”
“Well, yes … he’s my boyfriend. He’d do anything for me.”
“And … he doesn’t mind?”
“I explained it to him,” she said. “He understands.”
She reached into the water with her other hand to cup his balls.
“Sounds like you better keep him,” he said, tightly. “Sounds like a really good boyfriend.”
“He is,” she said. “He’s sweet.”
Abruptly she stood up, shrugged and her cotton dress fell to the floor. She was prepared for this, naked underneath. Her body was young, smooth and firm. The nipples of her pert breasts were brown and rigid, the bush between her legs plentiful and dark. She stepped into the tub, which was large enough to accommodate both of them.
She sat across from him, stretched her legs out on the inside of his so that he could feel her smooth skin. She leaned forward and took his penis into both hands again. As she stroked him he reached out and touched her breasts and nipples, c
ausing her to catch her breath.
The water was still hot, but the temperature was something neither of them seemed concerned with at the moment. She was so intent on his penis that she got to her knees in the water to get closer to it, began to stroke the length of him with both hands. He caressed her breasts, pinched her nipples, then reached into the water to poke into her wet bush and stroke her. She gasped, her body jerking as if she had been struck by lightning.
“Here,” he said, reaching for her, “come here …”
He pulled her into his lap, pinning his cock beneath her. She wriggled her butt, liking the way he felt beneath her, but then he slid his hands beneath her butt, lifted her and slid right into her with ease.
“Ooh,” she said, and started sliding up and down on him, splashing water from the tub to the floor.
He sat back in the tub with his hands resting lightly on her hips, letting her to the work. The bouncing up-and-down became more and more energetic, for more and more splashing, and her breath began to come in great gulps. When her eyes rolled up in her head he thought she might pass out, but instead she began to tremble and bounce uncontrollably on him, so he took hold of her more firmly to hold her in place until the waves of passion passed and she slumped against him. Moving her head she kissed him, and the kiss went on for a long time until she broke it, gasping for breath.
“Oh God,” she said, “what was that?”
“What was … you mean, you never had that happen to you before? With Benny?”
“No,” she gasped, “I’ve never felt anything like that before in my life.”
“Oh, sweet girl,” he said, “we have a lot to talk about.”
“Talk,” she said, drawing back and looking at him very seriously. Her lips were still swollen, her nostrils still flaring. “I don’t wanna talk, Mr. Gunsmith.” She moved her hips. He was still inside her, and felt himself begin to stir again. “I want to do it again!”
Chapter Sixteen
They did go again, and afterward Clint disengaged from the young woman, who clung to him, asking for more.
“Later,” he told her, “in a bed, where we can do it properly.”
“That wasn’t properly?” she asked. “It gets better than that?”
“A lot better.”
“Oh my God!”
He got dressed and strapped on his gun. She dried herself, then pulled her dress back on.
“I have to stay behind to clean up,” she said.
“You should,” he said. “You made this mess.”
She giggled and said, “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
He kissed her and said, “I’ll see you later, Angie.”
“Hey, you were gonna tell me stories over supper!” she complained.
“Well, I don’t have time for supper right now,” he said. “You sort of took up my free time, already.”
“I’ll come to your room later, then,” she promised.
He didn’t bother trying to dissuade her. The time in the tub had been very pleasant, and he was looking forward to taking her to a real bed. She was very energetic, and eager to learn.
Maybe she was younger than he thought, after all.
Clint went out through the lobby and, judging from the glare he drew from Benny the clerk, thought that maybe the young man wasn’t such an understand boyfriend, after all.
He didn’t want to have supper with Angie because he still needed time to think over his next move. He walked to Frieda’s and got a table, ordered a steak from Arthur, who asked after Angie.
“Whatever you do, don’t tell her I was here,” Clint said. “I just needed to have a meal with some quiet.”
“Yes,” Arthur said, “she’s quite a talker. I understand.”
Arthur brought him a pot of coffee while he waited.
Clint was thinking about the man from the carpenter’s shop.
He wanted to give the name to Detective Kingman, but he didn’t know it. He thought about going to the man’s neighborhood to try and find out the name, but then took it one step further. Why not knock on the man’s door, maybe shake him up a bit if he was, in fact, involved in stealing Lincoln’s body.
The steak came and for the time it took him to consume the meal he was very happy to concentrate on nothing else, it was that good. When the steak was gone he spent time over pie and coffee convincing himself he was making the right move.
When he was done he paid his check, said goodbye to Arthur, and headed for the carpenter’s house.
First he visited some neighbors under the pretext of looking for a non-existant person.
“I thought he lived in that house over there, but I’m not sure,” he said to one lady.
“Oh, that’s Colonel Wentworth’s house.”
“Colonel?”
The old woman grimaced and said, “He was a Colonel in the Confederate Army. Now he’s a carpenter, but he still demands to be called Colonel. Lotta nerve, you ask me.”
“I guess.”
“Colonel Samuel Wentworth,” she said, with distaste. “Can ya imagine?” Then she frowned at him. “You ain’t a Southerner, are ya?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, “Not me.”
“Yeah, well …” she said, dubiously, and closed the door in his face.
But he had enough.
He knocked on the door of the Colonel’s house. He was surprised when it was answered by a handsome, expensively dressed woman in her mid-forties. In her youth she must have been quite a beauty. Now her beauty had ripened into something merely lovely.
“Yes?”
“I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “we’ve finished. We were just having an after dinner drink.”
“Good,” he said. “I’d like to see your husband, the Colonel.”
“Only he calls himself the Colonel.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She leaned in and lowered her voice as if imparting a secret.
“He’s not a Colonel anymore.”
“He lowered his voice to match hers. “Can I see him?”
“Why not?” she said. “It might be interesting. Follow me, please.”
They closed the door and he followed her into the house. She took him to a large, well-furnished living room that Clint doubted had been furnished with money earned from a carpenter’s shop.
In the center of the room sat a tall man, seated in a plush chair, dressed in a Confederate officer’s uniform—a Colonel’s uniform. He had a drink in one hand.
“Samuel,” the woman said, “a man to see you.”
“Thank you, darling,” the man said. “Would you get Mr. Adams a glass of brandy, please.”
“Adams?” she asked.
“Clint Adams,” the man said, “otherwise known as the Gunsmith.”
“And you are?” Clint asked.
“Wentworth,” the man said, “Colonel Samuel Wentworth.”
“Only you can’t be a Colonel in the Confederate Army anymore,” Clint said, accepting the drink from the woman, “because there isn’t a Confederate Army anymore.”
“I beg to differ,” Wentworth said. “I never recognized General Lee’s surrender, or the dissolution of the Confederacy.”
“That doesn’t mean you can still use Confederate script, does it?” Clint asked.
“He got you there, darling,” his wife said.
“This is my wife,” Wentworth said, “Gemma.”
“Lovely name,” Clint said.
“Thank you.”
“Gemma, darling,” Wentworth said, “would you leave Mr. Adams and I alone?”
“Not a chance,” she said, “I want to see this … dear.”
Wentworth glared at his wife, then looked at Clint and said, “What can I do for the Gunsmith?”
Chapter Seventeen
“How did you know who I was?” Clint asked.
“The Gunsmith comes to Springfield?” Wentworth said.
“Did you think that would be a secret?”
“Yes, but how did you know—”
“You’re wearing a gun,” Wentworth said. “They’re trying to keep men from wearing guns in the city. But you … that would mean your instant death, wouldn’t it?”
Clint had seen other men in town wearing guns. Granted, not as many as he might see in Abilene or Virginia City, but enough to negate Wentworth’s logic.
“You knew who I was because Brad Wyatt told you.”
Wentworh smiled. “You followed him.”
“I did.”
The Colonel shook his head. “Stupid.”
“Are you calling the Gunsmith stupid, dear?” Gemma asked.
“I think he means Wyatt,” Clint said.
“Oh,” Gemma said.
“Does Gemma know what this is about?” Clint asked.
“Yes, she does.”
“It’s stupid,” she said.
“Gemma!”
“He asked.”
“You’re supposed to be on your way to Segundo to pay a ransom,” he said to Clint.
“Why don’t I just pay you and save myself the trip?” Clint suggested.
“That’s not how it is set up.”
“Why not?” Clint asked. “It would be so much simpler, wouldn’t it?”
“If only we could do things the simple way,” Wentworth said.
Clint was sure that was some kind of observation on the war.
“Ah,” Clint said, “you don’t have the body.”
Wentworth didn’t react.
“It’s not here in Springfield?”
Nothing.
“Why take it all the way to Colorado?” Clint asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Neither did the war,” Wentworth said. “Or the foolish way it ended. Our way of life in the South was working so well for us, and then Lincoln—”
“Please, Samuel,” Gemma said, cutting him off. Clint had a feeling she had done so many, many times before. “Not this again.”
Wentworth fell silent and glared at his wife, then looked at Clint.
“Gemma,” Wentworth said, “would you see Mr. Adams to the door?”
“It would be my great pleasure, dear,” she said. “Mr. Adams?”