The Pinkerton Job

by J. R. Roberts

  “Don’t know him.”

  “Well, we have reason to believe he either passed through here, or he’s here now.”

  Sheriff Jenkins shook his head and said, “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you see all strangers who come to town?” Clint asked.

  “More or less,” Jenkins said.

  “Have you got deputies?” Siringo asked.

  “Two,” the man said, nodding.

  “You mind if we ask them?”

  “Not at all,” Jenkins said. “Billy’s out there now, making rounds. Walt will be in later.”

  “Billy and Walt,” Siringo said. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  As they turned to leave, the lawman said, “Whoa, hold on.”

  They stopped and looked at him.

  “Neither one of you is wearing a badge,” Jenkins said, “so I’m not going to want any gunplay in my town.” He seemed to be looking at Clint when he said that, which led Clint to believe the lawman had recognized his name.

  “Believe me, Sheriff,” Siringo said, “if we can take Sandusky and his men without firing a shot, we will. But if it comes to that . . .”

  “If either one of you kills a man in El Paso,” Jenkins said, “you’ll have to answer to me. I will not tolerate it.”

  He came across more like a stern schoolteacher than a sheriff.

  “Well, Sheriff,” Siringo said, “we’ll sure keep that in mind.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint and Siringo went back to the hotel to collect Horn. Between the sheriff’s office and the hotel they had passed a steakhouse, so they retraced their steps and stopped there.

  “Away from the window,” Siringo said when the waiter tried to seat them in front.

  “Of course, sir,” the waiter said, and took them to a table against the back wall, as far from the window as they could get.

  “We’ll take three steak dinners, fast as you can,” Siringo said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And three cold beers,” Clint said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  Horn shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

  “Okay,” he said finally, “what happened with the local law?”

  “I think he used to be a schoolteacher,” Siringo said. “He was very stern with us, wanted us to know how much he’d take offense if we killed anyone in his town.”

  “You tell him about me?”

  “No.”

  “Good. What about Sandusky?”

  “Claims he never heard of him,” Clint said. “He’s got two deputies, though. Maybe one of them actually knows what he’s doing.”

  “We’ll find ’em after we eat,” Siringo said, “and ask ’em.”

  The waiter brought the three beers, promised that their meals would be out in a minute.

  “We don’t find Sandusky here, we’ll have to check across the bridge,” Siringo said.

  “And failing that,” Clint said, “all of Mexico.”

  “I been to Mexico before,” Horn said.

  “We all have,” Siringo said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Sandusky hasn’t been to Mexico and doesn’t know his way around.”

  “We can catch up to him while he’s stumbling around,” Horn said.

  “He’s got Anderson with him,” Clint said. “His segundo. And his woman. One of them is bound to have been to Mexico before.”

  “You’re probably right,” Siringo said.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’s still here, or across the bridge,” Horn said.

  “Why don’t we split up?” Siringo offered. “We can cover more ground that way. I’ll go across the bridge and check in Juarez. You two stay here and check around.”

  “And if you find them, you won’t try to take them alone?” Clint asked.

  “Of course not,” Siringo said.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Clint said. “You two started this thing together. I’ll go to Juarez and you two check here. That way if you find them, you’ll be two against two.”

  “You’re sayin’ you’d be able to handle the two of them better than I would?” Siringo asked.

  Clint stared at Siringo and said, “I’ll let you answer that.”

  Before Siringo could answer, the waiter arrived with their steak dinners, set down the steaming plates, and asked, “Anythin’ else?”

  “Not right now,” Clint said.

  The waiter nodded and left.

  Clint picked up his knife and fork and looked at Siringo.

  “So?”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Siringo said. “You’re right. You’d have a better chance against the two of them than I would.”

  Horn laughed, cut into his meat, and said, “I coulda tol’ ya that.”

  THIRTY

  After they finished eating, they firmed up their plans.

  “I’ll go right from here to Juarez,” Clint said.

  “And Tom and I will look for Sandusky, and look for those deputies, see if they know anything.”

  “We know what Sandusky looks like,” Horn said. “You don’t. Maybe I should go with you.”

  “Just describe him,” Clint said. “That should do it.”

  Horn left it to Siringo to give Clint a solid description of the outlaw.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ve got it.”

  “I assume you’ve been to Juarez before,” Siringo said.

  “Many times.”

  “Good,” the detective said. “Well, let’s get this going. If he’s here, I want to put our hands on him tonight.”

  They stood up, paid their bill, and walked out onto the street. There they split, agreeing to meet at the hotel in three hours, whether they found something or not.

  * * *

  Clint crossed the bridge into Juarez, which was the larger populated of the two-in-one town of El Paso and Juarez. The majority of the populace was Mexican, and Clint, a gringo, drew looks as he walked the streets.

  He thought about visiting the sheriff of Juarez, but it was a fact that most of the lawmen in Mexico were crooked—or at least out for their own interests. But there was one person in any town who could answer most questions, and that was the bartender.

  Clint walked through Juarez until he found a large cantina with music, girls, food, and drink. A man liked Harlan Sandusky would not be able to resist such a place.

  He entered, ignored the looks that came his way, and walked to the bar. Several Mexicans turned to look at him . . .

  Then move away to allow him some space. At the end of the bar a few men had their heads together, and then the word started to spread through the place.

  Somebody had recognized him, and within a few minutes the entire place knew the Gunsmith was there.

  “Cerveza,” he told the bartender.

  * * *

  In El Paso, Siringo and Horn walked the streets, keeping a wary eye out for Sandusky or Anderson.

  Siringo walked at Horn’s pace, which was steady while not being brisk.

  They stopped whenever they came to a saloon, and there was no shortage of saloons in El Paso.

  They were standing at the bar in one saloon, holding beers, when Siringo said, “We’re not gonna be able to have a drink every time we stop in a saloon.”

  “Agreed,” Horn said. “We know you can’t hold your liquor, Charlie.”

  “I was thinkin’ of you, Horn,” Siringo said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Horn said. “I’m fine.”

  Siringo looked into Horn’s eyes, which were red-rimmed. He just didn’t know if it was from drinking, from being tired, or from pain. Maybe all three. Or maybe the drinking was dulling the pain.

  “In fact,” Horn said, “I’m thinkin’ maybe we should split up.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good id
ea, Tom,” Siringo said. “We’re lookin’ for two men, but we don’t know how many more they may have recruited since they got here.”

  Horn sipped his beer and said, “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m just gettin’ impatient.”

  At that point the batwing doors opened and a man stepped in. He looked around the room, but it was only when he turned to approach the bar that they saw his deputy’s badge.

  As he walked to the bar, they could see he was about Horn’s age.

  “Hey, Johnny,” he yelled to the bartender, “gimme a short one.”

  “The sheriff don’t like you drinkin’ on duty, Billy,” the bartender pointed out.

  “Well, the sheriff ain’t here,” Billy said, “and why do you think I asked for a short one?”

  The bartender shook his head, drew a short beer for the deputy, and set it on the bar.

  “Thanks.”

  “Put that on my tab, bartender,” Siringo said.

  The deputy looked at Siringo and said, “Thanks, mister.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Siringo said. “But I’m gonna ask for somethin’ in return.”

  The deputy sipped his beer, eyed both Siringo and Horn, then asked, “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Just some information,” Siringo said. “See, we talked to the sheriff earlier, and he said you might be able to help us.”

  “Yeah? How do I know you talked to the sheriff?”

  “Sheriff Jenkins said he had two deputies, Billy and Walt,” Siringo said.

  “Yeah, that’s right. And who are you?”

  “I’m Charlie Siringo,” the detective said. “This is Tom Horn.”

  “Hey,” Billy said, “hey, I hearda both of you.”

  “Will you help us?” Siringo asked.

  “I will if I can,” Billy said.

  “We’re looking for two men and a woman,” Siringo said. “One of the men is very big, the other kinda slender but tall.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Not pretty,” Siringo said, “dressed like a man, wearin’ a gun like one.”

  “Huh,” Billy said, “I gotta admit I only notice pretty women, but I ain’t seen nobody like the three of them. Not around here.”

  “What about your partner?” Horn asked.

  “Partner?”

  “Walt,” Siringo said.

  “Oh, Walt,” Billy said. “He ain’t my partner, just the other deputy.”

  “Okay, where is he?”

  “He’ll be on duty in a few hours,” Billy said. “But he won’t know nothin’.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s useless,” Billy said, “old and useless. That’s why the sheriff makes him work at night, when nothin’s goin’ on.”

  “Well,” Siringo said, “we can ask him anyway.”

  “Suit yourself,” Billy said. He finished his beer. “I gotta keep doin’ my rounds. See you.”

  Billy walked out.

  “Talk about useless,” Siringo said.

  “Didn’t ask us any questions,” Horn said. “Not much of a deputy himself.”

  “Don’t matter,” Siringo said. “We won’t need anythin’ else from him.”

  Horn put his empty mug down.

  “So I guess we better keep lookin’,” Horn said.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Sandusky looked at the women on the bed.

  The Mexican whore was slender, with small breasts and long, black hair. Her skin was dark, and she smelled like frijoles.

  On the other hand, Delilah was full-bodied—not fat, but meaty—with big breasts, red hair, and she smelled like . . . well, sex. Sweat, dirt, but sex, too.

  They hadn’t had time to take a bath, so they had just picked out a whore and gone to her room with her. Sandusky had both women undress for him. The Mexican’s nipples were dark brown, Delilah’s light brown. The whore’s were small, Delilah’s large.

  “It is your turn to undress, señor,” the girl said. “You look like a big gringo to me.”

  “Oh, he is,” Delilah said. “Very big.” She reached out and touched one of the whore’s breasts. She rubbed the smooth skin, touched the nipple with her fingertips.

  “Don’t start without me, ladies,” Sandusky said.

  He took off his shirt, revealing a torso like a slab of rocks. Next he pulled off his boots and socks, then his britches. His cock was erect, throbbing, and red. The whore’s eyes went wide.

  “Señor,” she said. “Muy grande.”

  “Yes, he is,” Delilah said, pinching the whore’s nipple.

  * * *

  Clint sipped his beer and looked around the noisy cantina. He was the center of attention. That was okay. Most of them just wanted to look. But there were others who wanted to do more than look. He could tell because he knew the expression on their faces, and in their eyes. It was hunger. A hunger for fame, and reputation.

  If they’d only ask him, he could tell them that neither was what they were all cracked up to be.

  There were five of them, and they all stood up from their table.

  He put his beer on the bar.

  * * *

  José Rios recognized the Gunsmith as soon as he walked in. He passed the word, which flowed through the room like wildfire. It eventually reached the table where Rodrigo Fuentes and his men were sitting.

  “Can it really be him?” one of them asked.

  “There is one way to find out, Carlos,” Fuentes said. “Are we ready, amigos?”

  “We have always been ready, Rodrigo,” Bernardo said.

  “Will others join us?” Eduardo asked.

  “Only one way to find that out, too, es verdad?” Fuentes asked.

  Yes, it was true.

  They stood up.

  * * *

  Clint watched the five men stand up, with steely resolve on all their faces. Usually, in a group like that, he could count on one or two who were acting out of fear, or against their will. Not this time. Every one of these men knew what they were up against and they were ready—even anxious—for it.

  And it was infectious.

  As they stood, several others also stepped forward. Those who were not involved quickly moved away. It was as if the population of the cantina was suddenly drawn to the walls.

  Leaving a big circle in the center.

  * * *

  When the word reached one man in the back of the room, he wasn’t sure it was true. But he heard the buzz moving through the room. He waited, and when suddenly the center of the room was cleared out, he could see what was happening.

  One man standing at the bar alone.

  At least nine others, facing him, all armed with pistols.

  He shook his head.

  His goal had been to remain unnoticed in this cantina, unidentified for as long as he could. But he could not stand aside and watch this.

  Not when he knew that the lone man was Clint Adams, the Gunsmith.

  His friend.

  He took his badge from his pocket, pinned it on, and then stood up.

  “Attencion!” he shouted.

  All eyes went to him.

  “I am a federal marshal from New Mexico,” he said. “This will not happen.”

  Rodrigo Fuentes looked at the young man with the badge and frowned.

  “You are foolish,” he said. “This will happen, and you cannot stop it.”

  “You misunderstand me, señor,” the lawman said. “What I meant to say was, this will not happen . . . without me.”

  Clint looked at the man with the badge, shook his head, and smiled. He hadn’t seen the young man in some time, and was not surprised to find him standing behind a badge.

  “Hello, Baca,” he said.

  “Hello, Clint.”

  Fuentes looked at the man with
the badge and said, “You are even more foolish than I thought. This is not your business.”

  “I am making it my business.”

  “Very well,” Fuentes said, “if we are to kill you as well, we should know your name.”

  “Gladly,” the man said. “My name is Baca, Elfego Baca.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Sandusky approached the bed.

  Delilah seemed to be entranced by the Mexican whore’s delicate breast and nipple. While she stroked the right one, Sandusky reached out to touch the left. The whore closed her eyes and got a dreamy look on her lips as the gringo and gringa played with her. Her name was Juanita, and unlike the forty-year-old Delilah, she was very young, and very pretty.

  Abruptly, Sandusky put his hand over her face and pushed her onto her back. She opened her eyes in surprise, gasped as he grabbed her by the ankles and spread her. It was his favorite way to take a woman, although later he planned to have her on all fours as well.

  Delilah knew the whore was going to come out of this battered and bruised, and she smiled, because better Juanita than her.

  Sandusky pressed the head of his penis against the whore’s pussy and then shoved. The woman gasped, but the cry was muffled when Delilah pressed her mouth to the whore’s lips and stuck her tongue in her mouth . . .

  * * *

  Baca moved across the room to stand next to Clint Adams. He was twenty-three years old and looked younger, but he commanded attention. He was best known for the “Miracle of the Jacal,” where he stood off a host of gunmen from inside a small building which was eventually decimated by gunfire—and came out without a scratch. And that was before he ever started wearing a badge.

  “Nice to see you,” Clint said.

  “Later you can tell me what you are doing here,” Baca said, “other than looking for trouble.”

  “You know me,” Clint said, “I never go looking for trouble.”

  They turned to face the nine men across the room from them.

  “Señores,” Rodrigo Fuentes said, “it is our honor to be the men who kill Señores Clint Adams and Elfego Baca.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Clint muttered to Baca, “is he thanking us?”

  “My people are nothin’ if not polite, señor,” Baca said. “Unlike most gringos I have met.”