The Gunsmith 387

by J. R. Roberts

  The clerk shrugged and said, “Señor Vazquez killed him.”

  “How?”

  “Out there, in the street,” the clerk said. “He is, uh—”

  “Muy malo?”

  “Sí, señor,” the clerk said, “and very deadly with la pistola.”

  “So I’ve heard. Now I’ve got another question.”

  “Sí, señor?”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because, señor,” the clerk said, “you are the Gunsmith, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “Then señor,” the clerk said, “you are also muy malo, are you not?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “yeah, I guess I am.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  From across the street, Rydell watched the action, and watched as the three Mexicans walked away, defeated by the gringo.

  He thought he knew who the gringo was, but he wanted to make sure.

  He crossed the street and peered in the hotel window. The gringo was talking to the desk clerk. He watched and waited. Eventually the gringo nodded, walked away, and mounted the stairs, presumably going to his room.

  Rydell entered the hotel and went to the desk.

  “Señor, may I help you?” the clerk asked. “Do you need a room?”

  “I have a room, thanks, in the other hotel.”

  “Oh, señor,” the clerk said, “our rooms are so much better.”

  “I’m sure they are, but I’m fine. All I need is a bed,” Rydell said.

  “We have better beds.”

  “I saw a man come in here, and I think he was a friend of mine,” Rydell said, ignoring the man’s sales pitch.

  “Señor?”

  “A tall man, just now,” Rydell said.

  “Ah, you mean Señor Adams.”

  “Yes, that’s him. Clint Adams, right?”

  “Sí, señor,” the clerk said. “He is muy malo. A very bad man.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Rydell said. “Thanks.”

  “Do you want his room number?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Rydell said. “I’ll surprise him when I come down.”

  He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back.

  “Don’t tell him I was askin’,” Rydell said. “I want to surprise him, okay?”

  “Of course, señor.”

  Rydell nodded and left the hotel. As he came out, he spotted a man hurrying down the street, and went to meet him.

  * * *

  After scouting the beach and the church, Hal Chance came running back to town. He had to find Rydell and tell him what he’d found.

  When he got to the main street, he saw Rydell come out of the town’s second hotel. He rushed to intercept him.

  “Cord!”

  “Not here!” Rydell said, going past him. “Meet me at the cantina.”

  “But which one?”

  “The smallest one,” Rydell said, and continued on.

  * * *

  Rydell found the smallest cantina in town. It served drinks, but no food, no girls, and no gambling. For that reason, it also had practically no business.

  Perfect.

  He ordered a beer and settled down to wait.

  * * *

  Chance checked two cantinas before he found the right one. Rydell was standing at the bar. He went and stood next to him, ordered a beer from the bartender. They waited for the bartender to walk away before they spoke.

  “I found him!” Chance said.

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Today. This morning.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “No, he had somebody with him.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Dead sure.”

  “You better be.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “You’re gonna take me and show me,” Rydell said. “When I’m sure, then we’ll move.”

  “Okay.” Chance started away from the bar but Rydell stopped him.

  “Not now! Finish your beer. Relax,” he ordered. “This has to look natural.”

  “Okay,” Chance said, “I get it.”

  “What about the local law?”

  “Supposed to be a really hard man,” Chance said.

  “Have you met him?”

  Chance hesitated.

  “Aw, Chance . . .” Rydell said.

  “I couldn’t help it,” Chance said. “I was having a drink in the big cantina and he walked up to me.”

  “Did you make eye contact?”

  “Just once, when I had to.”

  “Does he suspect you?”

  “He’s a lawman,” Chance said, “I’m a stranger. I’m sure he suspects me. But there’s no paper on me, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Guess you better avoid him, huh?”

  They both knew there was paper out on Rydell in both Texas and Arizona.

  “I will.”

  They finished their beers.

  “Okay, you go out first. Wait for me at the end of the street, in a doorway or alley or something.”

  “Right.”

  Hal Chance pushed away his empty beer mug and left the cantina.

  “Another, señor?” the bartender asked.

  “No,” Rydell said. “What do I owe you?”

  Rydell paid what he owed and left the cantina. He found Chance waiting in a doorway.

  “Okay,” he said, “show me.”

  “This way.”

  They left the doorway and Chance led the way.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clint went to his room and moved directly to his window, which overlooked the front of the hotel. He looked for the three Mexicans but didn’t see them. He did, however, see two other men, who looked like gringos.

  They didn’t seem to know each other, but one of them looked like he had come out of the hotel. They walked past each other without seeming to acknowledge one another, which was odd for two gringos in a Mexican town. When you came across a countryman in a foreign country, you tended to talk, if not bond. These two had ignored each other.

  Or had they?

  He left the room and hurried down to the lobby. The clerk looked up quickly as he approached.

  “Was anybody in here looking for me?”

  The clerk hesitated, and stammered.

  “Well . . . he told me not to tell.”

  “It’s okay,” Clint said. “You can tell me. What did he want?”

  “He just said you were friends, and he wanted to surprise you.”

  “How nice. Thanks.”

  “Did I do anything wrong, señor?” the clerk asked nervously.

  “No,” Clint said, “nothing at all.”

  He left the hotel.

  He looked both ways on the street, did not see anyone. Not the Mexicans, not the gringos. Only some of the town citizens, and not many of them.

  Clint headed for the sheriff’s office.

  * * *

  As he entered the office, Domingo Vazquez looked up from his desk.

  “Clint.”

  “Domingo,” he said, “do you know anything about two gringos being in town?”

  “You mean other than you?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Just one other,” Vazquez said. “A sloppy-looking gringo at that.”

  “Well, I saw a sloppy-looking one, but I also saw another one.”

  “Were they together?”

  “They took great pains not to seem to be together,” Clint said.

  Vazquez frowned.

  “This is not your trouble, is it?” Clint asked. “Were any of the
escaped prisoners gringos?”

  “No, they were not,” Vazquez said. “Perhaps these two are here for you.”

  “Speaking of somebody being here for me, I had another run-in with those three Mexicans.”

  “Yes?”

  “I dissuaded them again.”

  “Any bloodshed?”

  “None.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Vazquez stood up, took his sombrero from a peg on the wall. “I suppose I should look into these two gringos.”

  They walked outside together.

  “What will you be doing?” he asked.

  “Not sure,” Clint said. “Maybe I’ll go and have a talk with somebody who might be able to shed some light on everything.”

  “Will you tell me who that would be?” Sheriff Vazquez asked.

  “I will,” Clint said, “as soon as I figure it out.”

  They split up.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint went to the Cantina Carmelita. He knew who he wanted to talk to, he just didn’t want to tell Vazquez. He didn’t want the lawman around for the conversation.

  It seemed all the muy malo men in town worked for Ernesto Paz, so it was Paz he decided to talk to.

  He stopped at the bar and ordered a beer.

  “Is Señor Paz in?” he asked when the bartender brought the beer.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Would you tell him I’d like to see him, please?” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”

  “Of course, señor,” the bartender said. “I know who you are.”

  The bartender left the bar and walked to the back of the room. The thing about the Carmelita was that it was so big it was always doing a good business, no matter what time it was. Clint looked around at the bored faces in the place. He didn’t see any of the three Mexicans he’d encountered twice in front of his hotel, or either of the two gringos he’d seen in the street earlier.

  The bartender returned and said, “Por favor, this way, please, señor.”

  “Gracias.”

  He followed the bartender to the door in the back, where the man said, “You may go in, señor.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint had been in many saloon offices in the United States. This one was hardly any different, with a desk, some chairs, some files, and Ernesto Paz sitting behind the desk.

  There were many experiences Clint had repeated over and over again in his life. This was one of them.

  “Ah, Mr. Adams,” Paz said. “Please, have a seat.”

  Clint sat across from Paz.

  “Some brandy?”

  “No, thanks,” Clint said. “I’m fine.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You can call your men off,” Clint said. “I don’t know what your goal was in sending them to harass me, but it has to stop. There may be some real trouble headed this way, and I can’t be wasting my time with them.”

  “Well, I am disturbed to hear that trouble is coming,” Paz said, “but I don’t understand what you are saying about my men. What men?”

  “One of them is named Santana,” Clint said.

  “How do you know his name?” Paz asked.

  “He introduced himself.”

  Ernesto Paz looked annoyed that the man had volunteered his name.

  “You know Santana, don’t you?”

  He saw Ernesto very briefly consider lying, before he spoke.

  “Sí, he works for me.”

  “So why would he come after me himself?” Clint asked. “You sent him, didn’t you?”

  “I did not,” Paz lied. “Perhaps he wanted to test his mettle against the famous gringo, the Gunsmith.”

  “Well, if that was it, he didn’t do a very good job of it,” Clint said. “Look, whether you sent him or not, he works for you. So you tell him I don’t have time for him. If he braces me again, I’ll kill him. Got it?”

  “I have it, señor,” Paz said. “I will pass your words on to Santana.”

  Clint stood up.

  “If I have to kill him, or one of his compadres, I’ll hold you responsible, and I’ll be back to see you.”

  Paz stiffened. So far all that Clint had seen in the man was an amiable attitude. Suddenly he was cold.

  “I do not take well to threats, señor.”

  “Then don’t consider it a threat, Señor Paz,” Clint said. “Consider it a promise.”

  Clint did not wait for the man to say anything in return. He’d made his point, and he walked out.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rydell and Chance approached the church.

  “There he is,” Chance said.

  “Where?”

  “There,” Chance said, pointing.

  “I see a bunch of peasants, most of them old men, and a priest.”

  “Right.”

  Cord Rydell looked at Chance and said, “What the hell, Hal?”

  “Look at the priest, Cord,” Chance said. “That’s him.”

  “I gotta get a closer look.”

  They walked up to the church together. The people stopped working to look at them. The priest turned and stared at the two of them.

  “Jesus Christ,” Rydell said. “It is you.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Don’t deny it,” Rydell said. “Just go inside and get your gun.”

  “I can’t do that,” Father Flynn said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a priest.”

  “That’s crap.”

  “No,” Father Flynn said, “I really am a priest.”

  Rydell stared at him.

  “This is a dodge.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Father Flynn said, “I have been ordained.”

  “I don’t care,” Rydell said. “I ain’t sayin’ you ain’t a priest. I’m sayin’ you became a priest as a dodge.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve been hired to kill you,” Rydell said. “You left behind some people who hate you.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “That won’t do,” Rydell said.

  “Then draw your weapons and kill me,” Father Flynn said, spreading his arms.

  “We will,” Rydell said, “but I’m tellin’ you to go inside and put on your gun.”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  “That’s crap, too,” Rydell said. “Even if I retired, I’d keep my gun. You have, too.”

  “I can’t put a gun on again.”

  “I tell you what,” Rydell said. “If you don’t put on your gun, we’re gonna kill you anyway—but first I’ll kill all of them.” He pointed at the men who had been working on the church.

  “You can’t.”

  “I will!”

  From behind the church a man named Enrique heard all of this. The two gringo gunmen had not seen him, so he turned and ran to town.

  * * *

  Clint was coming out of the Carmelita when he saw a man running down the street.

  “Señor, señor,” he said breathlessly.

  “Take it easy,” Clint said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Señor, I saw you at the church,” the man said. “You are friends with Father Flynn?”

  “I am,” Clint said, rather than explain his real relationship with the priest.

  “They are going to kill him, señor.”

  “Who? Who’s going to kill him?”

  “Two gringo gunmen,” he said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Enrique, señor.”

  “Enrique, go and tell the sheriff what you told me.”

  “Señor, you will not let them kill the priest?”

  “I’m sure going to try,” Clint said. “Now go!”

  Enrique ran toward the sheriff’s office, wh
ile Clint took off running toward the church.

  THIRTY-NINE

  When Clint came within sight of the church, he stopped. The two gringos were outside, with a bunch of Father Flynn’s parishioners. Father Flynn, however, was nowhere to be seen. Clint assumed the priest had been allowed to go inside the church to get his gun.

  He circled around behind the church so he could enter from the back. Once inside he found his way to the priest’s sacristy, and then his office, where he found Father Flynn sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.

  “Father.”

  Flynn looked up with an anguished look on his face.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t kill . . . but if I don’t, they will kill my people.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Wha—how did you—”

  “A man named Enrique came and got me.”

  “I wondered where he was,” Flynn said. “I thought he was hiding.”

  “I sent him to get the sheriff.”

  “He probably won’t get here in time.”

  “All right, look . . . Father. I’ll go out there for you.”

  Father Flynn lifted his face from his hands and stared at Clint.

  “I will . . . but you’re going to owe me a favor.”

  “A favor,” Flynn said. “What kind of favor?”

  “I’ll tell you when the time comes.”

  Flynn was about to say something else when a voice came from outside.

  “Time’s up, Father,” the man shouted. “I’m gonna shoot the first one.”

  “All right, all right!” Flynn said. “I owe you a favor. Anything! Just don’t let them shoot any of my people.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “Stay here.”

  He turned and walked to the front of the church.

  * * *

  “What if he don’t come out?” Chance asked Rydell.

  “He’ll come out,” Rydell said. “He ain’t gonna let us kill any of these people. Not if he’s really a priest.”

  “Yeah, but what if he don’t care? What if he went out the back door and he’s gone?”

  A look came into Rydell’s eye, but it disappeared when a man stepped out of the church.

  “That ain’t the priest,” Chance said.

  “No,” Rydell said, recognizing the man from in front of the hotel, “it ain’t.”