The Gunsmith 387

by J. R. Roberts

  “Who is?” Avery asked.

  “You are.”

  Avery laughed. “You’re forgetting about my past.”

  “No, I’m not,” Clint said. “I’m just leaving it where it belongs, in the past.”

  “That’s not always easy to do.”

  “Well, we’re not discussing the past now,” Clint said, “we’re discussing the present. And from what I’ve heard, Vazquez has the town under his thumb. They fear him, and are so afraid they won’t even try to fire him.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Some locals,” Clint said. “A man who owns a café, the hostler . . . Carmen, the waitress.”

  “Your waitress?”

  Clint nodded, draining his glass. “Apparently, she is Vazquez’s sister.”

  “You did not suspect this?” Avery asked.

  “I never knew her last name.”

  “Ah.” Avery poured more whiskey into Clint’s glass, then refilled his own. “And why are you so interested in the sheriff?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s interested in you,” Clint said. “For another, he’s been trying to recruit me for some ‘trouble’ that he feels is coming. He wants to be my friend.”

  “And he is not the kind of man you would take as a friend?” Avery asked.

  “Well, I usually make up my own mind about that,” Clint said. “Now, here I am talking to other people about him.”

  “Maybe you should go back to making up your own mind.”

  Clint finished his second glass of whiskey, waved off a third, and said, “Maybe you’re right.”

  “What about the priest?”

  “What about him?”

  “The sheriff is interested in him, too, isn’t he?” Avery asked.

  “Another case of a man trying to leave his past behind,” Clint said.

  “But the sheriff is interested in him as well.”

  “And I warned him,” Clint said. “You and I are friends, Avery. The priest, Father Flynn, he and I are two people who knew each other once. We were never friends.”

  “So if the sheriff decided to go after him, you wouldn’t help?”

  “I wouldn’t help either one,” Clint said. “I’d leave it to them.”

  “And if he comes after me?”

  “I’ll be here. Right by your side.”

  “I appreciate that,” Avery said, “but I’m not so far gone, so old, that if one man comes after me, I can’t face him, mano a mano.”

  “Sorry,” Clint said, “not what I meant. Let me just say that I’d be here if you decided you needed me.”

  Avery nodded and said, “I appreciate that. I’ll let you know.”

  Clint nodded and stood up.

  “Thanks for the drinks,” he said.

  Avery stood up and walked Clint to the stairs, and down to the beach.

  “Let me know what happens,” Avery said as Clint mounted Eclipse again.

  “I will,” Clint said. “If something happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Chance stopped at a hotel and checked in, telling the clerk the same thing he’d told the hostler. That he’d be staying for several nights.

  “Welcome, señor,” the clerk said, handing him a key.

  “Thanks.” He took the key. “Can you tell me where I can get a good meal, a drink, and a woman?”

  “All in one pace, señor?” the clerk asked, smiling in a knowing way.

  “I don’t care how many places I’ve got to go.”

  “I can direct you, señor . . .”

  * * *

  He went to his room, tossed his saddlebags in a corner, where he leaned his rifle against the wall, then sat on the bed and bounced. Might be too soft for sleeping, he thought, but good for fucking. He hoped the beds at the cathouse were good.

  But first he needed to fill his belly with some good food. The clerk had given him several choices for good food. He was going to go to the closest one.

  He left the room, visions of meaty tacos and burritos in his head.

  * * *

  Clint took Eclipse for another run on the beach, this time in the other direction so that he did not pass by Avery’s beach house again.

  When he brought Eclipse back to the livery, Pablo was not around, so he unsaddled the horse and put him in a stall himself. The horse immediately stuck his nose in his feed box.

  “See you later, big guy,” Clint said, giving his rump an affectionate slap.

  He left the livery, walked from there to the sheriff’s office. Avery’s advice was good, and it was something Clint had been thinking about anyway. He should be making his own mind up about Sheriff Vazquez, and not making any decisions based on what others had to say.

  He entered the office, hoping to find the sheriff sitting behind his desk. Instead, he found a deputy there, cleaning a rifle. The young man looked up as Clint entered.

  “Hello,” he said. “May I help you, señor?”

  “I’m looking for the sheriff.”

  “As you can see, he is not here.”

  “Yes, I do see that,” Clint said. “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, señor,” the deputy said.

  “Then I guess I’ll just keep looking.”

  As he turned to leave, the deputy asked, “Can I tell him you were looking for him, Señor . . .”

  “Adams, Clint Adams.”

  “Oh,” the deputy said. He put the rifle down and said, “Oh!” again, and stood up. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Señor Adams. The sheriff told us that you were in Laguna Niguel.”

  “Told you both?”

  “Yes,” the young man said. “I am Deputy Manuel Soto. He told me and Deputy Julio Benitez.”

  “And what did he tell you about me?”

  “He said that we should not bother you.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, we were both excited that we might meet the famous Gunsmith from America,” Soto said. “The sheriff said we should not accost you, or gush.”

  “I see. Well, now you’ve met me.”

  “Sir,” Soto said, “Julio will be very jealous.”

  “I’m flattered, Deputy,” Clint said. “Have a nice day.”

  “Sí, señor,” Soto said. “Y usted.”

  Clint nodded and left the office.

  * * *

  Clint found Sheriff Vazquez at Cantina Carmelita, slumped over the bar relaxing, drinking a beer. It was still early, so there was little activity in the place.

  “Beer,” Clint said to the bartender, coming up alongside Vazquez.

  Startled, the lawman straightened and looked at Clint.

  “You move as silently as an Indian, señor.”

  “I think you were just deep in thought there, Sheriff,” Clint said. “What was on your mind?”

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing special. I was just . . . thinking.”

  Clint accepted his beer from the bartender and sipped it. Two whiskeys with Avery and now a beer. He was going to have to eat again soon.

  “I went looking for you at your office,” Clint said.

  “Ah, so this is not a fortuitous meeting,” Vazquez said. “I hope my deputy treated you with respect.”

  “Soto,” Clint said, “he did, yes. He also told me that you instructed him and the other deputy, Benitez, not to . . . what was his word? Oh yes, ‘accost’ me.”

  “I simply did not want them gushing over you,” Vazquez said. “That would be . . . undignified for my deputies.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Vazquez leaned on the bar again, and Clint followed his example. The bartender moved to the other end of the bar. He never asked Clint to pay for his drink.

  “Why were you looking for me?” Vazquez said.

  �
��I’ve been thinking about what you said to me.”

  Vazquez grinned.

  “I’m afraid I talk quite a lot, Señor Adams,” the lawman said. “Which words are you referring to?”

  “Just what you said about us getting to know one another better.”

  “Ah,” Vazquez said, “I think what I said was that we should be friends.”

  “Well, I’m going to be in Laguna Niguel a bit longer,” Clint said. “Maybe we should examine that possibility a little closer.”

  “Supper tonight, then?”

  “Sure, why not? Someplace other than Alberto’s, though.”

  “I know another place, señor,” Vazquez said. “You will like it.”

  Clint drank his beer down to the halfway point, set the mug down on the bar, and then pushed himself upright.

  “I’ll meet you at your office,” he said.

  “Your hotel would be better.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “my hotel. At seven?”

  “Seven is good.”

  “See you then.”

  The two men nodded to each other, and Clint walked out.

  * * *

  After Clint left the cantina, Vazquez finished his beer, then walked to the back of the room. He knocked and entered Ernesto Paz’s office.

  “Domingo,” Paz said, sitting back in his chair. “Come in. Sit.”

  “Clint Adams was just here,” Vazquez said, sitting across from Paz.

  “And?”

  “He was looking for me,” Vazquez said. “He says perhaps we should explore the possibility of being friends. We are having supper together tonight.”

  “What do you think is on his mind?” Paz asked.

  “I don’t know,” Vazquez said. “Carmen did tell me he was asking her some questions about me.”

  “Perhaps he has decided to ask the questions directly,” Paz said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “How is your lovely sister, by the way?” Paz asked. “You know, I still have a place here for her.”

  Vazquez stood and walked out.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Chance left the small café with a pleasantly full belly. It had been weeks since he felt this well fed. Now, even though it was still kind of early in the day, he needed a beer to wash his food down.

  He looked at the faces of the men he passed on the street, just as he’d examined the faces of the other diners in the café. So far he had not seen what he was looking for.

  He went into a place called Cantina Carmelita and walked up to the bar.

  “Beer,” he said.

  “Sí, señor,” the bartender said.

  As the bartender set the beer down in front of him, Chance saw a door open in the back of the room and a man stepped out. As the man walked toward the bar, he saw the badge.

  Ah, Jesus, he thought. Rydell had warned him to keep a low profile. He leaned on the bar and tried to shrink himself down, which was hard since he was six-two.

  “Cerveza,” the lawman said to the bartender.

  “Sí, Jefe.”

  Chance could feel the lawman looking at him, but figured it was just because he was a stranger.

  “Señor?”

  He looked at the sheriff, who was staring at him.

  “Do I know you, señor?”

  “I don’t think so,” Chance said, staring into his beer. Rydell always told him not to make eye contact with a lawman.

  “Just ride into town?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you plan on staying long?”

  “I don’t think so,” Chance said. “I’m just passin’ through, wanted to give my horse some rest.”

  “Well, we have a nice quiet town, señor,” the sheriff said. “We would like to keep it that way.”

  Rydell also told him that the time came when you did have to look the law in the eye—especially when you were going to lie.

  “Well, Sheriff.” Chance said, looking at him, “I sure don’t intend to cause any trouble.”

  “That is very good to know, señor.” The lawman drank down half his beer, set the mug down on the bar. “Enjoy your time here.”

  “I will, thanks,” Chance said.

  The sheriff nodded and walked out of the cantina. Chance waved to the bartender to refill his mug.

  The bartender brought him a fresh beer and said, “El jefe is a bad man, señor.”

  “Is he?”

  “Sí,” the bartender said, “muy malo, señor. I would stay away from him, if I was you.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Por nada.”

  * * *

  Cord Rydell poured himself another cup of coffee, drank it while staring out into the distance. He hoped Hal Chance wasn’t in Laguna Niguel doing something stupid. Hopefully, he had just found himself a whore and was fucking whatever brains he had out.

  He finished his coffee, poured another cup, wished he had a bottle of whiskey. He had no way to pass the time until morning, when he would also ride into Laguna Niguel. He was regretting the decision to allow Chance to ride in first. The man usually got himself in trouble—over women mostly—when Rydell wasn’t there to guide him.

  If he did anything to ruin this deal, Rydell would kill him.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint didn’t know if having supper with the sheriff was a good idea, but he’d find out soon enough. If the sheriff was the man he’d heard he was, he’d wonder why Clint was suddenly willing to discuss being friends. Maybe everything would come out in the open over a steak.

  And maybe it was time for Clint Adams to leave Mexico and go back to the United States.

  * * *

  Sheriff Domingo Vazquez walked back to his office, found Deputy Soto cleaning a shotgun.

  “We must have the cleanest guns in town,” he com mented.

  “I want to make sure they work if we need them,” Soto replied.

  “Well, they are clean enough,” Vazquez said. “Go out and make some rounds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Soto replaced the shotgun on the wall gun rack, put on his hat, and left the office. When the sheriff gave him an order, he obeyed it without question.

  Vazquez sat down behind his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bunch of wanted posters from both Mexico and the United States. He leafed through them, looking for the man he’d talked to in the cantina. It was not that he recognized him, only that he recognized the type. But the man’s face was nowhere to be found on the posters. Vazquez replaced them in the desk drawer, decided to go out and see which of Laguna Niguel’s two hotels the man had registered in.

  He left the office, unconcerned about leaving it empty.

  * * *

  Chance decided he wasn’t going to learn anything by staying in the cantina. And he didn’t want Rydell to think that he only got things done when he was being watched.

  The bartender’s advice was good, and he intended to keep it. He’d stay away from the law, whether it was the sheriff or a deputy. But he wanted to take a look around town, see if he could spot their guy so that when Rydell rode in, Chance would already know where their target was.

  He paid for his beer and left the cantina. He stopped just outside the batwing doors, looking both ways and across the street. He decided to turn right and just take a stroll around town.

  And maybe he’d end up at the cathouse.

  * * *

  Ernesto Paz sat back in his chair, watched the glass of brandy on his desk but didn’t touch it. He hoped Sheriff Vazquez was handling this Clint Adams thing correctly. The opportunity was too important to make a mess of. Vazquez was competent in many aspects of his job, which was the reason Paz had engineered his route to the sheriff’s job.

  He picked up the brandy and sipped it. Laguna Niguel was his pond, and he was the
big fish in it, but he was looking to move on. If Vazquez did his job correctly, he’d take the man with him as his right hand. A lot was riding on the way he handled this situation.

  He rose from behind his desk, walked to the door, and opened it. The bartender—this one was named Molina—was trained to sense when the office door opened, and he looked over. Paz waved to him, and the bartender left the bar and hurried over.

  “Señor?” he said.

  “Have you seen Santana?”

  “Not today, señor.”

  “Find him,” Paz said. “I want to talk to him.”

  “Today, señor?”

  “Yes, today,” Paz said. “As soon as possible. Now go!”

  “Sí, señor.”

  Paz slammed the door. He didn’t like any of his bartenders, but how much brains did it take to pour drinks? You took what you could get.

  He went back and sat behind his desk.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Clint was sitting in front of his hotel when three men stopped in front of him.

  “Señor,” one of them said, “you are in my chair.”

  Clint eyed the three men. They were hard, looked like bandidos, wore guns as if they knew how to use them. Here it comes, he thought. Word had finally gotten around that the Gunsmith was in town. These three wanted to try him. Or had they been sent? Had they caught up to him all the way down here? The killers for hire?

  No. He was far from home, and no one knew he was here, not even his friends Rick Hartman and Talbot Roper.

  “Go away,” he said to them.

  “But,” the middle one said, “I want to sit. I am tired.”

  The man smiled. He had several gold teeth in front, on top. Like the other men, he looked to be in his thirties. They were sweaty, dirty, weeks or months removed from their last contact with water and soap.

  “Sit somewhere else,” Clint said.

  The man laughed, looked at his friends. They laughed, too.

  “You must move, señor.”

  Clint wondered if they were willing to die over a chair. Or was he willing to kill them over a chair?

  He was not.

  “All right,” he said, standing up. “You can have it.”