The Gunsmith 387
Page 9
“Domingo plays the doting big brother when it suits him,” she said.
“Well, I guess it’s suiting him, then,” Clint said.
“Did he frighten you?”
“No,” Clint said.
“Did he ask you for help again?”
“Yes.”
“Help with what?” She sat on the bed.
“He told me some men he arrested several years ago have escaped from prison and might be coming here.”
“But why? Everyone in Mexico knows my brother and is afraid of him.”
“Not these men, apparently,” Clint said. “He said there were three of them, and they’ve recruited some other escapees.”
Carmen looked concerned.
“If these men come for my brother, will you help him?” she asked.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
He sat next to her on the bed.
“Carmen, is he telling me the truth? Did he send those men to prison years ago for bank robbery and murder?”
“My brother has sent many men to prison.”
“For bank robbery? And murder? Here in town?”
“I—I was not here—I only came back to Laguna Niguel two years ago, Clint.”
“Where were you?”
“Mexico City,” she said. “I thought I could make a life there, but it did not happen.”
“Why not?”
“Men,” she said. “They wanted me to . . . to do things. To work for them. For money. Things that I would not do for money. Even here, Ernesto Paz constantly tries to get me to come to work for him.”
“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “I know what men can be like.”
“But not you,” she said. “Why is that?”
“I just see the world differently, I guess,” he said. “I see women differently.”
She leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder.
“Do you think we could sleep tonight?” she asked. “Just sleep, holding each other?”
“Sure, Carmen,” he said. “We can do that.”
But they sat that way for a while.
* * *
Later, while she was sleeping on his left shoulder, he listened intently for sounds outside the hotel, outside his room. He hated to think it, but what if Carmen was trying to keep him busy? After all, he’d only known her a short time. Had she been playing him all this time? Along with her brother? And if so, why? For Paz, the powerful man?
There were no sounds, no one sneaking down the hall to his door. Clint knew the smart thing for him to do was leave in the morning, head back to the border. But he had a friend here, Avery Castle, and his pregnant wife. He had to make sure they would be safe.
If Paz and Vazquez were up to something, why would Vazquez be asking him to stay?
He reached up with his right hand, touched his gun. His pistol and his horse, they were the only things he could truly trust.
In the morning he’d talk to Avery, and come to a decision whether to stay or go.
While Carmen slept soundly on his shoulder, he tossed and turned most of the night, until the morning sunlight streamed through the windows.
THIRTY-TWO
When Clint woke up in the morning, realizing he’d slept after all, he shook Carmen awake.
“Come on, honey,” he said. “I’ve got to go. There are things I have to do.”
“What about breakfast?” she asked as he ushered her out of the room.
“I’ll be eating with a friend.”
Clint washed with the pitcher and basin in the room, dressed, and left his room. He walked to the beach, made his way to Avery Castle’s house.
* * *
Meanwhile, another stranger rode into town, missing Clint by moments. Cord Rydell rode down the street, keeping his eyes peeled, and reined in when he came to the livery.
“Buenos días, señor,” the hostler said.
“Like to put up my horse.”
“For how long, señor?”
“A day or two. How many hotels you got in this town?”
“Two.”
“Okay.” Rydell took his saddlebags and rifle and left the stable.
Where the hell was Chance?
* * *
Hal Chance woke up in his hotel bed, his legs weak from the time he’d spent with the whore, Pilar. That gal had let him do anything he wanted, as long as he paid for it, and that was all right with him.
But the light coming in the window told him it was morning, and he hadn’t found out a thing. Rydell was going to be upset with him. He had to get out there and find out where their guy was. But first maybe some breakfast . . .
* * *
Clint mounted the stairs to Avery’s deck, found his friend sitting at the table.
“Lita!” Avery shouted. “We have a guest for breakfast!”
“Bueno!” she shouted back. “I will bring the coffee.”
“I’m here for more than coffee, Avery,” Clint said.
“I figured that,” the older man said. “What’s up?”
“You know a man named Santana?”
“Yeah,” Avery said, “local muscle for hire.”
“Somebody sent him and a couple of friends after me yesterday.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Clint said, sitting. “I diffused the situation, but they sure looked disappointed.”
“He does a lot of work for Paz.”
“I figured that.”
Lita came out with a pot and two mugs, poured coffee for them, and then hurried back to the kitchen.
Clint told Avery about his conversation with Sheriff Vazquez.
“You’ve been here five years. Was there such a robbery here a few years back?”
“I’ve been in Mexico five years, Clint,” he said. “Not here exactly. I did hear something about a bank robbery several years back, while I was building this house, but I don’t know the details. You think he’s lying to you?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe I’m being set up, or maybe I’m just overly suspicious.”
“Well, I say leave town,” Avery said. “Leave Mexico. Get out before something happens.”
“But what about you and Lita?”
“What about us?”
“Vazquez says he thinks there’s more to you than meets the eye,” Clint said. “What if I leave and he turns his attention to you?”
“If he does, I’ll handle it.”
“When was the last time you used a gun?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Avery said. “It’s not something you forget. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know, but—”
“Breakfast,” Lita announced, coming out with a tray of steaming plates. “It is wonderful to have you here again, Clint.”
“I think I’m becoming a pain in the ass,” Clint said.
“Not at all,” she said. “Avery has no friends here. I am happy you are here for him.” She surprised him by kissing him on the forehead before returning to the kitchen.
“She’s quite a woman,” he said to Avery.
“Yeah, she is.”
“No way I can leave the two of you here without knowing you’re safe,” Clint said.
“So what are you gonna do?”
“I’m going to have to make a statement.”
“How?”
Clint shrugged, picked up a tortilla that was filled with eggs and steak.
“Maybe,” he said before taking a bite, “it’s time for me to go to confession.”
THIRTY-THREE
As Clint approached the church, he saw Father Flynn outside, in the clothes of a peasant, on his knees at the base of one of the church walls. When he saw Clint approaching, he stood up, brushing the dirt off his hands by rubbing t
hem together.
“You look like one of the locals,” Clint said.
“Jesus was a plain man.”
“Right,” Clint said. “A . . . carpenter?”
“That’s right.”
There were other men working on different sections of the wall.
“Can we talk? In private?”
“Keep working,” Father Flynn called out. “I will be back.”
“Sí, Padre,” one of them said.
“Come inside,” Father Flynn said. “I have some lemonade.”
“No more whiskey?”
“I have to save it,” the priest said. “I might not have the money to buy any more.”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “I can make a donation.”
“That would be most welcome.”
Clint followed Father Flynn into the church, down the side aisle to the front, and into the sacristy. They then walked beyond it, and into what he assumed was the priest’s office. On the desk was a pitcher of lemonade and several glasses. Father Flynn poured two and handed one to Clint. It was ice cold in his hand.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’m thinking I may need someone to back my play.”
Father Flynn stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth.
“And you decided to ask a priest?”
“I’m asking the man I used to know.”
“The man you used to know is dead, Adams,” Flynn said. “I can’t help you.”
“Don’t even want to hear what the play is?” Clint asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Flynn said. He drank some lemonade, then just stood there and looked at Clint.
“Tell me that if I search this room, I won’t find your gun,” Clint said.
Flynn didn’t answer. Clint knew he was right. Flynn’s gun and holster were somewhere in the room.
“Why would you keep it unless you thought you might have to use it again someday?”
“It would have to be an extreme case,” Flynn said, “to get me to even consider it.”
“I think I’m being set up for something, Father.”
“Then get out while you can,” the priest said. “If you know it’s going to happen and you don’t get out, then you’re a fool.”
“Well, color me a fool, then,” Clint said, “because I can’t leave. There are other people to consider.”
“There always are with you,” Flynn said.
“Do you know Avery Castle?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He has a house on the beach,” Clint said. “I would think you’d have seen him around.”
“He’s not one of my flock,” Flynn said, “and I don’t spend much time at the beach.”
“He has a pregnant wife.”
“And they are two of the people who may also be involved?” Flynn asked.
“Yes.”
“Is your main problem with Sheriff Vazquez?”
“It is.”
Flynn shook his head. “He has a big reputation in Mexico.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Flynn put his glass down. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Vazquez told me he locked up some bank robbers and murderers a few years ago, and now they’ve escaped from jail and may be on the way here.”
“So?”
“I’m trying to figure out whether or not he’s telling me the truth.”
“He’s made a lot of arrests.”
“Was there such a robbery a few years back?” Clint asked him.
“I wasn’t here then.”
“Some of your parishioners would probably know,” Clint said. “Could you ask around for me?”
“I can do that much,” Flynn said, “since you warned me of the sheriff’s interest in me.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Father Flynn walked Clint outside, where some of his flock were still working on the wall.
“If I get any answers,” Flynn said, “I’ll send them along to your hotel with a messenger.”
“Thanks . . . Father.”
Clint walked away, then turned and watched as Father Flynn joined the members of his flock kneeling at the base of the church wall.
He assumed that a threat to the welfare of his church would qualify as an extreme case.
THIRTY-FOUR
Rydell saw Chance’s name in the hotel register, which confirmed how stupid he was, signing his own name. Rydell signed in as Tom Brown. “John Smith” would have been just too obvious.
He dropped his gear in his room, then walked down the hall to Chance’s room and knocked on the door. There was no answer.
He went down to the front desk.
“Have you seen Mr. Chance today?”
“Chance?” the clerk asked, frowning.
“The gringo who rode in yesterday.”
“Ah, room six,” the clerk said. “Yes, I saw him early today, señor, going out just before you arrived. Is he a friend of yours?”
“No, no,” Rydell said, “don’t even know him. I just saw another gringo name in the register and thought I’d say hello.”
“Well, he did ask me for directions to a, uh, certain house in town,” the man said.
“Ah,” Rydell said, “I understand. And where would that house be . . .”
* * *
Chance was walking around town, but again he didn’t see anyone matching the description they had. There were, however, two places he hadn’t looked yet. One was the church, and the other was the beach, where, apparently, some people actually had houses. He didn’t understand living near the water like that, but then he’d never even seen the ocean. Might as well take a look now, though . . .
* * *
Clint walked back to town, wondering what he should do next. He’d talked with both Avery and Father Flynn, pretty much the only people in town he would be honest with. He knew who they were, and they knew who he was. There was really nothing to hide.
As he was approaching his hotel, he saw the same three men who had approached him the day before about the chair. One of them was sitting in it. Apparently, they were going to try him again. He wasn’t feeling as charitable as he had been the day before. Maybe dispatching this trio would keep anyone else from bothering him.
He continued on to the front of the hotel.
* * *
Rydell was walking down the street, heading for the cathouse to look for Chance, when he saw three men facing one in front of the town’s second hotel. He stopped to watch, with interest.
* * *
As Clint approached the hotel, the seated man—the spokesman from last time—remained seated as the other two turned to face him.
“Sorry, amigo,” the seated man said, “today the chair is mine.”
“Don’t mention it,” Clint said. “Today I’m not interested in sitting.”
“Are you interested in going into the hotel?” the man asked.
“That’s what I’m aiming to do.”
One of the other men put his foot up on a post, effectively blocking Clint’s entry through the front door.
“Lo siento, señor,” he said, obviously not sorry.
“Move your leg, friend,” Clint said.
“Did you hear the gringo, Armando?” the seated man asked. “He told you to move your leg.”
Armando looked at Clint with a grin and said, “No spikka da English.”
All three men laughed until Clint grabbed the man’s leg and pulled him off the boardwalk, dropping him unceremoniously onto his butt in the street.
The man glared up at Clint with fury in his eyes, and his hand started for his gun.
“Go ahead and do it,” Clint said. Then he pointed to the standing man. “You put your hand near your gun and I’ll kill you first.”
Clint looked down at the man on the ground.
“You want to use that? Then stand up,” he said. “Otherwise just stay where you are.”
The man thought it over, then his shoulders slumped and he remained on the ground.
For the first time Clint turned his full attention to the man in the chair.
“What’s your name?”
“I am Santana, señor.”
“You want to take a shot, Santana?”
“No, señor,” the man said. “I am just sitting here.”
Clint walked past all three men carefully and entered the hotel lobby. From there he watched the one man get up from the ground, and then all three men cross the street and walk away—though how far he didn’t know.
“Señor,” the desk clerk said.
“Yes?”
“That was Santana, señor.”
“I know,” Clint said. “He introduced himself.”
“He is muy malo, señor. Very bad man.”
“I’m hearing that about more and more men in town,” Clint said. “Is there anyone in this town who isn’t muy malo? First Sheriff Vazquez, then Santana. What about Ernesto Paz?”
“Sí, señor,” the clerk said. “Señor Paz is very bad.”
“And these very bad men, do they ever face each other?” Clint asked.
“That would be silly, señor.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, because they are all connected.”
“In what way?”
“Simple,” the clerk said with a shrug. “They work for Señor Paz.”
“I thought Vazquez worked for the town.”
“Oh no, sir,” the clerk said. “Señor Paz named Señor Vazquez as the sheriff.”
“There was no election?”
“No, señor.”
That was very interesting.
“What happened to the previous sheriff?”
“Well . . .” The clerk seemed reluctant to answer that question.
“Come on, now,” Clint said. “After everything you’ve told me, you’re not going to keep that back, are you?”
“I suppose not, señor.”
“Then what did happen to the former sheriff?”