The Gunsmith 387

by J. R. Roberts

  * * *

  He retraced his steps from the day before when Vazquez had led the way, and found the little café.

  “Ah, my new amigo,” Alberto said when he entered. “Welcome.”

  Again the place was empty. Nervously, Alberto looked past him.

  “Where is el jefe?”

  “I’m here alone today, Alberto,” Clint said. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course, señor,” Alberto said. “Of course.”

  “And I’ll pay for my meal this time.”

  “Amigo, that is not nec—”

  “Don’t worry, Alberto,” Clint said, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder, “it’ll be all right. Can you make me a steak?”

  “American, or Mexican?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Coffee, señor?”

  “The stronger the better.”

  “Then take a table, señor.”

  Clint grabbed a table against the wall and thought that Alberto seemed a lot more relaxed without Vazquez there.

  The Mexican brought him a pot of coffee and a heavy mug, poured it full for him.

  “Do you do everything yourself here, Alberto?” Clint asked. “Cook, and serve?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Don’t you get busy sometimes?”

  “Never, unfortunately,” he said.

  “Then how do you make a living?”

  “I make a meager living, señor, and it is very difficult,” Alberto said. “But this is what I love to do, so . . .” He shrugged.

  “And what about this arrangement you have with the sheriff?”

  Alberto’s eyes widened and he said, “I must see to your meal, señor,” and rushed back into the kitchen.

  After about two-and-a-half mugs of coffee, Alberto reappeared with a tray filled with food. He set it all down on the table in front of Clint and said, “Enjoy, señor.”

  Clint pulled the plate with the steak over to him and cut into it. It was juicy and red inside. He popped it into his mouth and chewed with great pleasure. Other platters were filled with potatoes, refried beans, corn cakes, and tortillas.

  “Is it all right, señor?” Alberto asked.

  “It’s great, Alberto, just great. But I want you to sit with me.”

  “But, señor, you are a customer—”

  “Don’t give me that,” Clint said. “Come on, sit.”

  Alberto hesitated, but then he pulled out the other chair and sat down.

  “What’s this between you and Sheriff Vazquez?” Clint asked.

  Alberto frowned.

  “I do not understand, señor.”

  “Why does he eat for free here?”

  “He is el jefe,” Alberto said, looking puzzled. “He eats free all over town.” His frown deepened. “Is that not the way of it?”

  “No, that is not always the way of it, Alberto,” Clint said. “I wore a badge for a while when I was younger, and I did not eat free all over town.”

  “But, señor, who am I to change the way things are done here? El jefe wants to eat, I feed him.”

  “And what do you get in return?”

  “Señor?”

  “There must be something you get for feeding him for free,” Clint reasoned. “Does he protect you?”

  “But . . . he protects everyone,” Alberto said. “He is el jefe.”

  Clint didn’t think he was going to get through to the rotund little man.

  “Does he frighten you, Alberto?”

  “Oh, sí, señor,” Alberto said, “but you must understand, I am a very frightened man.”

  “Do I frighten you?”

  Alberto hesitated, then said, “Sí, señor.”

  “Alberto,” Clint said, “I am going to pour you a cup of coffee, and then you and I are gonna have a long talk.”

  Alberto didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nodded and said, “Sí, señor.”

  TWENTY

  “Tell me about the sheriff,” Clint said.

  “What would you like to know, señor?”

  “Everything,” Clint said. “Everything that you know about him.”

  “I do not understand, señor. Are you and the sheriff not friends?”

  “We are not friends. We only met recently. I need to learn if I can trust him or not.”

  Alberto studied Clint for a long moment, then asked, “This is not a test, señor?”

  “Not a test, Alberto. I’m being truthful.”

  Alberto seemed to breathe a sigh of relief that Clint was not friends with Sheriff Vazquez.

  “Señor,” he said, “the sheriff, he is a bad man.”

  “But he’s the law,” Clint said.

  “That may be,” Alberto said, “but that does not mean he is a good man. I give him free food because I am afraid of him. And there are many people in town who are also afraid of him.”

  “But why? What’s he done to them? Or to you?”

  “He is a deadly man with a pistol, señor,” Alberto said, “and with his fists. I myself have seen him beat a man half to death.”

  “For doing what?”

  “For not showing him the proper respect.”

  “Was the man a prisoner?”

  “No, señor, just a citizen of Laguna Niguel.”

  “Then why is he allowed to keep his badge?”

  “Even the town fathers fear him,” Alberto said. “No one will try to take his badge.”

  “But in spite of this, does he do his job?” Clint asked. “Do the citizens of Laguna Niguel feel that he can protect them?”

  Alberto thought a moment, then said, “I have to admit the answer is yes.”

  “If push comes to shove, can I trust him to watch my back?” Clint asked.

  “I’m sorry, what is push and shove?”

  “I mean, if anything happens, if there’s trouble, can I depend on him?”

  Again, Alberto took a moment to think about the answer before giving it.

  “I think, señor, the sheriff wants something from you,” he said, “so I believe you can trust him—until he gets it.”

  “That’s very honest, Alberto,” Clint said. “I appreciate that.”

  “Señor, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “You are the Gunsmith, no?”

  “I am the Gunsmith, yes,” Clint said.

  “Perhaps, señor,” Alberto said, “when you and the sheriff have gotten what you need from each other, before you leave Laguna Niguel, you will . . . kill him?”

  “I don’t know about that, Alberto,” Clint said. “I think if the town is afraid of Vazquez, and you don’t want him around, you’re all going to have to get brave and get rid of him yourself.”

  “Sí, señor,” Alberto said. “I understand. But the sheriff does have a powerful friend in town.”

  “Is that right?” Clint asked. “Who would that be.”

  “Do you know Ernesto Paz?”

  “I’ve met him,” Clint admitted.

  “He and Vazquez are friends, and Señor Paz puts all his power behind the sheriff.”

  “And just how much power does Señor Paz have?” Clint asked.

  “He is the most powerful man in town.”

  Clint found that statement very interesting.

  Clint thanked Alberto for his food and his words, and promised that Sheriff Vazquez would never hear what they had talked about.

  “Gracias, señor,” Alberto said. “I only hope I was able to assist you in some way.”

  “You assisted me in every way, Alberto,” Clint said. “Thank you.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  In the morning Rydell and Chance awoke and had coffee together. Rydell had some beans, but Chance was waiting until he got to town to have a re
al Mexican breakfast.

  “Now, you understand what I want you to do, right?” Rydell asked.

  “Yeah, Cord, I got it,” Chance said. “I ain’t stupid, you know.”

  “No, you ain’t stupid,” Rydell said, “but sometimes you do stupid things, Hal. Don’t be stupid this time, because stupid is dead in this case.”

  What’re you sayin’?”

  “I’m sayin’ no matter what happens, when you find our guy, stay away from him. Don’t try to take him yourself. Don’t let him see you. Just spot him, and wait for me. Got it?”

  “How many times I got to tell you, Cord?” Chance asked. “I got it.”

  “If I get to town and find you dead, I’m gonna curse you all the way to hell, Hal.”

  “Don’t worry,” Chance said. “I won’t be dead.”

  “But if you mess this up,” Rydell said, “I’ll kill you myself.”

  * * *

  Clint awoke alone. Carmen had spent the night with him, but she had awakened early and slipped out. She needed to get ready for her job at Rosa’s.

  But the night before, prior to going to bed, he told her he wanted to talk to her about something . . .

  “What is it?”

  “Sheriff Vazquez.”

  “Domingo?” she asked. “What about him?”

  “His first name is Domingo?”

  “Sí. What about him?”

  “I want you to tell me about him.”

  “Tell you what about him?”

  “Whatever you know,” Clint said. “He’s been asking me for help, and I want to know if he’s worth helping. How well do you know him?”

  “I know him . . . very well,” she said.

  “Does that mean that you were once . . . involved with him?” he asked.

  “It means I am always involved with him,” she said. “He is my brother.”

  That stunned Clint. If she was Vazquez’s sister, she would have to be loyal to him, and Clint didn’t want her going back to her brother and telling him that Clint was asking about him.

  “What kind of help does he want?” she asked.

  “He says he senses trouble coming, and only has two inexperienced deputies to back him.”

  “My brother needs very little in the way of help, Clint,” she said. “He is the deadliest shot with a gun I have ever seen.”

  “That’s not always enough, Carmen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everybody needs help sometime.”

  “If my brother needs help, he knows where to get it.”

  Clint wondered if she was talking about Ernesto Paz. But he didn’t go any further with the questions now that he knew she was related to the lawman.

  They went to bed . . .

  * * *

  In the morning Clint dressed and thought about what he had learned the night before from both Alberto and Carmen. If Alberto was to be believed, Domingo Vazquez was a hard man, and not a good one. But he did his job. And both Alberto and Carmen talked about his prowess with a gun. What Clint liked about Sheriff Domingo Vazquez that he had never alluded to that talent at all. He was, apparently, not one to brag.

  Clint went down to the lobby, decided to have his breakfast in the hotel dining room. Over his steak and eggs he wondered who else he could talk to about Vazquez so that it wouldn’t get back to the man.

  He thought he knew of somebody.

  * * *

  Hal Chance rode into Laguna Niguel slowly, his eyes taking in both sides of the street. None of the citizens seemed to be paying him any special attention. If this had been an American town, he’d be noticed right away. The Mexicans were so much more relaxed about who entered their towns.

  He rode until he came to a livery stable. Not knowing if there was another in town, he simply dismounted and walked his horse in.

  “Ah, señor, welcome to Laguna Niguel,” the old hostler said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Chance said. “Like to put my horse up for a few days.”

  “Sí, señor, with pleasure,” the man said. “Does your fine animal have any special needs?”

  Chance’s horse was a worn-out pony he’d taken from an Indian he’d killed. He’d be replacing it soon—whenever he saw another one he wanted to steal—so he said, “No, nothing special. Just rub him down and feed ’im.”

  “Sí, señor,” the man said, taking the reins. “A few days, you say?”

  “Probably.”

  “Enjoy yourself in our town, señor.”

  “Is there a cathouse?”

  “Señor?”

  “Whorehouse,” Chance said. “Whataya call ’em here?” He held his hands in front of his chest, as if he were cupping melons. “Putas?”

  “Oh, sí, señor, a very fine house,” the man said. “It is at the end of the street.”

  Chance figured he could get directions from the hotel clerk so he said, “Yeah, fine.”

  He took his rifle and saddlebags from his horse, turned, and walked out, almost brushing shoulders with a tall man coming in. He didn’t give the man a second look . . .

  TWENTY-TWO

  The man with the saddlebags brushed past Clint without a look or a word, so Clint gave him only a cursory glance. The hostler was leading a worn-out-looking pony to the back of the livery when he spotted Clint.

  “Ah, señor, another visit!” he exclaimed.

  “Go ahead and take care of that man’s pony,” Clint said. “I’m going to saddle my horse and take him out for some exercise.”

  “As you wish, señor.”

  Clint backed Eclipse out of his stall and saddled the big Darley, speaking to him the whole time. By the time he was done, the hostler was back.

  “A magnificent animal, señor,” he said, his eyes shining. “Magnificent.”

  “Yeah, he is.” He turned to face the man. “What is your name?”

  “I am Pablo, señor.”

  “Pablo, you wouldn’t by any chance be related to Sheriff Vazquez, would you?”

  “Related?” Pablo laughed and shook his head. “No, señor, thankfully not.”

  “Thankfully?”

  The older man looked stunned that he had said that word out loud.

  “Señor, I am sorry if the sheriff is a friend of yours—”

  “He’s not, I assure you,” Clint said. “I barely know him.”

  Pablo looked relieved.

  “Pablo, have you lived here all your life?”

  “Oh, sí, señor,” he said. “I was here when the town was just one adobe hut.”

  “What can you tell me about Sheriff Vazquez?”

  Pablo frowned.

  “How do you mean, señor?”

  “I mean, what kind of man is he?” Clint asked. “What kind of lawman?”

  “He is not a good man, señor,” Pablo said. “I would be very careful if I was to consider taking him as a friend.”

  “And as a lawman?”

  “He frightens people,” Pablo said. “Perhaps this is a good thing for a lawman to do?”

  “Perhaps,” Clint said, “but not always.”

  “No, señor, not always.”

  “Thank you, Pablo,” Clint said. “Thank you for talking with me.”

  “Sí, señor,” Pablo said, “I hope I have been of some use to you.”

  Clint turned to leave, then turned back.

  “Another couple of questions, Pablo.”

  “Señor?”

  “Is the sheriff related to anyone else in town?”

  “His sister, Carmen, works at Rosa’s.”

  “What about Rosa?”

  “Oh, no, señor,” Pablo said, laughing. “She is much too ugly to be related to anyone.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Pablo thought a moment, then said, “No,
señor. Their parents died many years ago.”

  “What do you know about Ernesto Paz?”

  A very serious look came over Pablo’s face.

  “Oh, señor, he is a very powerful man,” the hostler said. “And very friendly with the sheriff. You must be very careful of him.”

  “And Paz?” Clint asked. “Is he close to anyone else?”

  “No,” Pablo said. “Oh, he has a woman in town, but she is just . . . his woman.”

  “And where would I find her—if I was looking?”

  “She has a large house at the end of town, señor,” Pablo said, “with many . . . girls in it. Do you understand?”

  “I think I understand,” Clint said. “Gracias, Pablo.”

  “Por nada, señor.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint decided to give Eclipse the treat he’d promised and took him for a ride on the beach. That meant he’d be riding him past Avery Castle’s house.

  He had not meant to be such a frequent visitor to his friend’s house, but it really was a beautiful place to live, and Avery had such an air of happiness about him that he was a pleasure to be around, as was his wife, Lita.

  This time, however, his intention was only to ride by, perhaps wave to Avery if he was out on his deck. However, after he turned Eclipse and rode back again, Avery was on the beach waiting for him.

  “Come up for a drink,” he said as Clint reined in. “That beautiful horse will be safe down here.”

  Clint nodded, dismounted, didn’t bother to tie Eclipse off. The big gelding would not be going anywhere.

  He followed Avery up to his deck, where his friend left him seated at the table, went into the house, came out with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “I don’t drink much anymore,” Avery said, “but Lita allows me to have a glass with a guest.”

  “Ah, so this was a selfish invitation,” Clint said, accepting a glass.

  “Totally.”

  Avery sat down and sipped his whiskey.

  “Well,” Clint said, “maybe not totally.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve been checking into Sheriff Vazquez.”

  “And?”

  “What I’m finding out isn’t good,” Clint said. “He seems to be a competent lawman, but not a good man in general.”