The Gunsmith 387

by J. R. Roberts

  The three men exchanged a disappointed glance. After a moment, they looked at him again.

  “Never mind!” the middle man snapped. “I have changed my mind.”

  He turned and marched away, and the other two followed him.

  Clint sat back down, puzzled.

  * * *

  Clint was still sitting out in front of his hotel when Sheriff Vazquez came walking up.

  “Buenas noches,” he said.

  “Good evening.”

  “I hope you are hungry.”

  Clint stood up.

  “I could eat.”

  “Come with me, then,” Vazquez said. “We will go to my sister’s restaurant.”

  “Your sister?”

  “She does not own it,” Vazquez said, “but she is a waitress there.”

  Could it be that Vazquez didn’t know that Clint had a relationship with Carmen?

  “Lead the way, then.”

  “Bueno.”

  Clint followed the sheriff to Rosa’s. When they entered, Carmen turned, saw them come in, and smiled.

  “Hermano,” she said, rushing to her brother. “It has been a while since you came to eat here.”

  “I brought a friend,” Vazquez said. “Or perhaps you already know him? Clint Adams.”

  “Sí,” Carmen said, looking at Clint, “Señor Adams has eaten here several times. Nice to see you again, señor.”

  “And you, señorita.”

  The small cantina was doing a good business this evening, but there was an empty table in the back that she led them to.

  “What will you both have?” she asked.

  “Steaks,” Vazquez said, “thick and . . . rare?” He looked at Clint.

  “That’s fine.”

  “And cerveza.”

  “Right away, Domingo.”

  “How is Rosa this evening?” he asked.

  “She is fine.”

  “In good spirits?”

  Carmen laughed.

  “When is Rosa ever in good spirits?” She turned and went to the kitchen.

  “Rosa is the cook and the owner,” Vazquez said to Clint. “She is as ugly as sin. But you probably know that.”

  “I’ve heard,” Clint said, “but I’ve never seen her.”

  “Believe me,” Vazquez said, “you do not want to.”

  “I am kind of curious, though,” Clint admitted.

  “Well, then,” Vazquez suggested, “walk into the kitchen and have a look.”

  Clint thought about it, and said, “Maybe not before my steak.”

  Vazquez laughed and said, “A wise choice.”

  * * *

  During supper, Clint told Vazquez about the three men who had accosted him over a chair.

  “I do not think they were interested in a chair, señor,” Vazquez said.

  “Do they sound familiar?” Clint asked.

  “Sí,” Vazquez said, “they sound like every bandido in the hills.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “they do, don’t they.”

  “They had probably heard that the famous Gunsmith was in town,” Vazquez said. “Perhaps they were curious about you. You undoubtedly disappointed them.”

  “It was only a chair,” Clint said.

  “Sí,” Vazquez said, “only a chair.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Vazquez managed to talk all through supper without really revealing anything about his character, or his life. Although he did talk about his sister, who he obviously loved very much. Clint felt there were veiled threats all through the conversation, should he hurt Vazquez’s sister in any way.

  Over coffee and sopapilla—a deep-fried pastry—Clint brought up the subject that was still on his mind.

  “Are you ready to tell me what this big trouble is that you’re expecting?” Clint asked.

  Vazquez chewed on his pastry, seemed to be considering the question, then drank some coffee before answering.

  “Some years ago I made an arrest, put some bad men away,” he said.

  “How many?”

  “Three.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Bank robbery, and murder.”

  “So they were put away for life?”

  “They were sentenced to life in San Pedro Cholula City Prison,” Vazquez said.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “They have escaped.”

  “All three of them?”

  “The three of them, and several other men,” Vazquez said. “They all escaped together.”

  “And you expect them to come here for you?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Vazquez asked.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “So you see,” Vazquez said, “when they arrive, I have only my two deputies to support me.”

  “What about others from town?”

  “Storekeepers,” Vazquez said. “I can expect no help from them.”

  “What about Señor Paz?” Clint asked. “I’m told he’s a very powerful man in Laguna Niguel. Can’t he help?”

  “Not personally,” Vazquez said. “He is a businessman, of no use in the street.”

  “What about his money?” Clint asked. “Can’t he hire some men to help you?”

  “I am afraid Señor Paz has the same opinion that the other businessmen in town have,” Vazquez said.

  “That it’s your job,” Clint said.

  “Sí.”

  Clint shook his head.

  “Time and a different country, and nothing’s changed since the last time I wore a badge,” he said.

  “I am afraid not,” Vazquez said. “So you can see why I might try to take advantage of the fact that you are present in my town at this time.”

  “Do you have any word on whether or not the men have been spotted in the area?”

  “No word at all.”

  “Isn’t it possible they won’t come?”

  Vazquez gave Clint a look and said, “I suppose it is possible.”

  “Yeah, all right,” Clint said. “Okay, what if they don’t come until after I leave?”

  “Then I will simply have to do the best I can,” Vazquez said.

  “What about you leaving town?”

  Vazquez shook his head.

  “That is not an option,” the lawman said. “I am afraid I am cursed with a good portion of Mexican machismo.”

  “I understand,” Clint said. “Many American lawmen have had the same affliction. Unfortunately, most of them are dead. Sometimes it’s smarter to run.”

  “Would you run, amigo?”

  Clint replied without hesitation.

  “No, I wouldn’t, but that’s me,” Clint said. “Running from a fight would only make me a larger target.”

  “Sí, that I understand.”

  They finished their desserts. Carmen cleaned the table, and poured them each some more coffee.

  “Was the meal satisfactory, señors?” she asked playfully, as if they were strangers.

  “Very much so,” Clint said.

  Vazquez took out two cigars and handed Clint one.

  “Aye, Domingo,” she said hastily, “do not light those up around me.” She fanned the air and rushed away.

  “She does not like cigar smoke,” Vazquez said, striking a match and holding it out for Clint to light his cigar. He then used the same match to light his own.

  “I got that,” Clint said.

  Vazquez puffed on his cigar until the tip glowed bright, then held it out and looked at it while smoke dribbled from between his lips.

  “So, señor, now you know,” he said. “What have you decided?”

  “Sheriff—”

  “Call me Domingo.”

  “Domingo,” Clint said, “if I were to see you in the s
treet facing three or more men, I would be inclined to step in and back your play.”

  “Señor,” Vazquez said, spreading his hands, “that is all I have ever hoped for.”

  * * *

  They left the cantina, Vazquez kissing his sister good night, Clint and Carmen bidding each other good night primly.

  Clint and Vazquez walked away, heading back to the part of town where Clint’s hotel and Cantina Carmelita were located.

  “A drink in the cantina before you go to your hotel?” Vazquez asked.

  “Why not?”

  They entered the cantina, finding it crowded and noisy. Girls were working the floors, games were going on at the tables. The bar was crowded, but space opened up miraculously for the two of them. Clint was sure it had nothing to do with him.

  “Dos cervezas,” Vazquez told the bartender.

  “Sí, Jefe.”

  When they had their beers, Vazquez turned to Clint and raised his mug.

  “To my sister, Carmen,” he said.

  “Carmen,” Clint repeated, wondering where this was leading.

  “She is a gem, señor,” Vazquez said, “and should be treated as such.”

  “Agreed,” Clint said.

  “Please remember that,” Vazquez said. “I would not like it if anyone was to hurt my sister.” He’d implied this over supper, but now he was saying it outright.

  “I understand, Domingo,” Clint said.

  “Excellent,” Vazquez said, slapping Clint on the back. “Now we are truly amigos.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Hal Chance walked around town for several hours, never saw anyone matching the description they had been given. He ended up in front of the cathouse, decided to take a break and go inside.

  The place was well stocked with Mexican girls and nothing else, which suited him just fine. He had planned on sampling as many Mex gals as he could while down here. So far, though, Rydell had kept him from doing that. But now, with Rydell not around, he was free to sample all the Mex gals he could.

  “Señor?” an older lady asked. She wore a black dress and had a black comb in her hair, from which hung a black veil. “Come in, come in, señor. The girls are waiting.”

  She led Chance into a parlor, where black-haired, dark-skinned gals of all sizes and shapes sat.

  He was in heaven.

  * * *

  Rydell put a fresh pot of coffee on the fire as darkness fell. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Chance was doing something stupid. But he hoped it was something like spending hours in a bordello, rather than finding their man and facing him alone.

  But knowing his partner as he did, his money was on whores. Chance probably didn’t have the gumption to face their man alone, but he was stupid enough to be spotted.

  Just go to a whorehouse and fuck all night, he thought. It was the safest thing for both of them.

  * * *

  Clint finished his beer with Vazquez, turned down the offer of a second, and said, “I’m going back to my hotel. Thank you for the supper, Domingo.”

  “Por nada, señor,” Vazquez said.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Vazquez nodded, and as Clint went through the batwing doors, Vazquez signaled the bartender for another beer.

  The door to the office opened and Ernesto Paz stepped out. Vazquez wondered if the man had been watching him and Clint Adams at the bar.

  Paz came to the bar, and without being asked, the bartender put a glass of whiskey on the bar. Customers at the bar cleared out and gave the two men a wide berth.

  “So?” Paz asked. “How was supper?”

  “Very good,” Vazquez said. “We went to see my sister.”

  “Ah, the lovely Carmen . . .” Paz said.

  “Don’t say it,” Vazquez said warningly. He did not like that Paz was constantly trying to hire Carmen to work in his cantina.

  “Lo siento,” Paz said, raising his hands. “I am only interested in what you and Señor Adams talked about.”

  “He agreed to help me, if it comes to that,” Vazquez said.

  “Really?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Because you sent your man, Santana, to try to provoke him?”

  “And he did not.”

  “He did not wish to kill a man—or three men—over a chair,” Vazquez said.

  “Or he is not the man we think,” Paz said, “and he was frightened.”

  “Trust me, he is not frightened.”

  “So you say,” Paz said. “And I suppose, for your sake, we better hope not.”

  Paz drank his whiskey, turned, and walked back to his office.

  THIRTY

  Hal Chance put his hands behind his head and watched the Mex gal’s head bob up and down in his lap as she gobbled his cock.

  He had asked in the parlor for girls who would do this sort of thing. Not all whores provided what they called “French” services, and in Mexico, a lot of them had not even heard of such a thing. But this girl, Pilar, was not only willing, but anxious to do it for him. At least, that was how he saw it. In point of fact, Pilar was known by the other girls as someone who would do anything to anybody for money.

  Pilar said, “Mmmmmm,” as she sucked Chance’s cock wetly, sliding one hand beneath his balls to fondle them at the same time. As he erupted into her mouth, he thought he had sure picked the right whore this time . . .

  * * *

  Pilar sat back on her heels on the bed and smiled at the gringo with the small polla. She knew he wouldn’t last long, and she was right. As soon as she sucked him and touched his cojones, he was finished.

  “How was that, señor?” she asked.

  “That was amazin’!” he said breathlessly. “Are there any other girls here who would do that?”

  “No, señor, just me.”

  “What about . . . you know . . . from the back?”

  “The back, señor?”

  “You know, putting my johnson in your . . . back hole? Any girls do that?”

  “Ohhh,” she said, giving him a sly look, “señor, you are a very bad man.”

  “Yeah, I am,” Chance said, still trying to catch his breath after she had sucked him dry. “So, are there any of the girls that’ll let me do that?”

  She smiled, turned around, and shook her big, bare ass at him.

  “What about me, señor?”

  His eyes bugged out as she reached back and separated her ass cheeks, presenting him with her little pink anus.

  “Oh my God!” he said, reaching for her, but she scampered away.

  “Hey!”

  “Señor,” she said, shaking her index finger at him, “you must pay me for what we did, and then we will talk about what else we will do.”

  Chance grabbed for his pants, took out some money, and handed it to her.

  “Okay, so now . . . how much?”

  She smiled as she stood up, walked to her dresser, put the money in the top drawer, then walked back to him, making sure he got a real good look at her going and coming.

  “Now, señor,” she said, “exactly what do you want to do to me?”

  “Well . . .”

  * * *

  After Paz walked away, Sheriff Vazquez started to wonder where the other gringo in town had gone. According to the hotel register, his name was Hal Chance. He’d never heard of the man, and still didn’t find him on the wanted posters by name. If he wasn’t in the cantina, looking for a girl or a game, what was he doing?

  The only other place he thought he might be was the whorehouse. If he was, then he was no danger to anyone but those girls, and they had their own way of taking care of things there.

  “Another one, Jefe?” the bartender asked.

  “No,” Vazquez said. “Have you seen Santana?”<
br />
  “No, Jefe.”

  “Tell him I am looking for him.”

  “I will, Jefe.”

  Vazquez knew the bartender would “yes” him ’til he was blue in the face, and then do whatever Ernesto Paz told him to do.

  “Buenas noches, Jefe,” the man said.

  Vazquez turned and walked out.

  * * *

  When Clint got to his hotel room, he kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his shirt, and sat down on the bed. He ran through his conversation with Domingo Vazquez, wondering if the lawman had told him the truth the whole night. And if not, why lie? Of course, the one who could tell him if Vazquez was lying was Carmen—and that was if she would tell him the truth. And if she would even come to him tonight, considering her brother had seen them together.

  He picked up the Alexandre Dumas novel from the table next to the bed, decided to read until either Carmen showed up or he started to fall asleep.

  THIRTY-ONE

  He was dozing when there was a knock on the door. He roused himself, set the book aside, took his gun from the holster on the bedpost, and walked to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” Carmen said. “Who were you expecting?”

  Well, since the three men had tried to provoke him into a fight earlier, he couldn’t be sure. He opened the door, still holding the gun ready, and saw Carmen in the hall, alone. He opened the door.

  “You are being very careful, señor,” she said, slipping in. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Just some men showing an interest in me,” he said. He walked to the holster and slid the gun home.

  “Why did you and my brother come to the cantina today?” she asked, removing the shawl from her head.

  “I didn’t take him there,” Clint said. “He took me.”

  “Did you tell him about us?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but I didn’t know if you had.”

  “I do not tell my brother all about my life, Clint,” she said, “and he does not tell me all about his.”

  “I see. Well, he sure made it sound like he knew about us,” Clint told her.

  “Why? What did he say?”

  “Nothing obvious,” Clint said. “Just some veiled threats about what he’d do to anyone who hurt his sister.”