Showdown in Desperation

by J. R. Roberts

  “And you came down without a gun?”

  Lanigan took a small derringer from his trouser pocket.

  “Gentlemen,” Mrs. O’Shea said, “I want no gunplay in my house.”

  “Don’t worry, Erin,” Lanigan said, putting the derringer back in his pocket, “this is my friend Clint Adams. Clint, meet my landlady, Erin O’Shea.”

  “Miss O’Shea.”

  “Mrs.,” she said. “I’m a widow. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll leave you to it now.”

  She turned and went into the kitchen.

  Lanigan sat across from Clint. They poured coffee and then sat back.

  “What brings you here?”

  “Actually, it is that young pup, Creed,” Clint said.

  “What about him?” Lanigan asked. “He didn’t make a try for you last night, did he?”

  “No, but I found out that his father is Jimmy Creed.”

  “Jimmy Creed,” Lanigan said, frowning and shaking his head. “I don’t know—”

  “Jimmy Creed is a notorious backshooter,” Clint said. “Johnny is his son.”

  “Oh,” Lanigan said, “I see. You’re thinkin’ like father, like son?”

  “As far as I know,” Clint said, “the kid has never killed anyone . . . yet.”

  “Always a first time,” the gambler said. “So you came to warn me?”

  “Yes.”

  Lanigan raised his cup.

  “You have my thanks. I’ll watch my back—but I was going to do that anyway.”

  Clint sipped the coffee—which was weak—and set his cup down.

  “Tell Mrs. O’Shea I said thanks for the coffee.”

  “Terrible stuff, isn’t it?”

  Clint smiled. Both men stood up.

  “Worth it, though. She’s quite a handsome woman.”

  “Are you more than just a boarder, then?”

  “No,” Lanigan said, “not yet anyway.”

  The gambler walked Clint to the front door.

  “I’ll see you tonight at the game,” he said as Clint went out the door.

  “Yep,” Clint said, “see you there.”

  He went down the steps while the gambler closed the door behind him.

  Now that they were both forewarned, he felt a little better about Johnny Creed. They’d have to be very careless to end up getting shot in the back.

  The Gunsmith was never careless.

  • • •

  Lanigan went back inside, found Mrs. O’Shea waiting there, holding the tray.

  “Trouble?” she asked.

  “No, dear lady,” he said, “nothing to worry about.”

  “Will you be going out earlier, then?”

  “No,” he said, “just the usual time.”

  “So you’ll be having supper here?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Why would I go anywhere else when I can have your fine Irish cooking?”

  She smiled broadly and said, “Beef stew tonight.”

  A lovely lass, he thought as she went into the kitchen, but her cooking did leave something to be desired.

  SEVEN

  When Clint entered the saloon, the game was already in play. Brennan and the other locals had started without him and Carl Lanigan.

  “Gentlemen,” Clint said, stopping at the table.

  “Pull up your chair, Adams,” Brennan said.

  “I’ll be right over,” Clint said, “I just need to have a beer first.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Dargo said. “You don’t drink while you play.”

  “Maybe we’d better try to get him drunk, huh?” Brennan asked, and they all laughed.

  Clint walked to the bar and ordered a beer from Jasper, the bartender. As he was drinking it, Lanigan walked in, saw him, and smiled. He was in full gear—black suit, flowered silk vest, and a boiled white short. He walked directly to the table and sat down, but he waved at Jasper, who sent over a beer for him with one of the girls.

  As Clint was finishing his beer, Jenny appeared, came over to the bar to check in with Jasper.

  “You ready to work finally?” Jasper asked.

  “I needed my beauty sleep,” she told him, “but I’m ready.”

  “You know,” the bartender said, handing her a tray, “I have younger women who want your job.”

  “A younger woman couldn’t do my job as well, Jasper,” she said. “Don’t threaten me, or I might take you up on it.”

  She turned, gave Clint a wink, and waded into the throng to start working.

  Clint finished his beer and set the mug down on the bar.

  “Is she right?” he asked Jasper.

  “Unfortunately,” Jasper said. “I’d like to fire her, but I don’t dare.”

  Clint nodded, walked over to the poker table, and pulled out his chair . . .

  • • •

  As he awoke in camp, he remembered how he’d felt that day in the saloon. He was . . . uncomfortable, and there was no apparent reason for it.

  He looked around as he sat, saw nothing that would cause him any concern. In fact, everything was fine the first hour he was there, and he was just starting to relax when Johnny Creed came through the batwings . . .

  • • •

  “Don’t look now,” Brennan said, “but Johnny just came in.”

  “I see him,” Clint said.

  “He’s not gonna play tonight,” Dargo said.

  “He can if he wants—” Lanigan started, but Dargo cut him off.

  “No,” Dargo said, “after we left last night and you and Adams stayed to have a drink, the rest of us voted to keep him out of the game.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Clint said.

  “He might have some fresh money,” Lanigan said.

  “We don’t care,” Brennan said.

  “Well, okay,” Lanigan said with a shrug. “It’s your game.”

  But Johnny Creed didn’t try to get into the game—at least, not right away. He remained at the bar, drinking beers as fast as Jasper could pour them. Clint was sitting where he could see the bar, and he knew that trouble was coming.

  Lanigan started out hot, winning the first three hands he played, two with the best cards, and one when he bluffed out both Brennan and Wilkins.

  Clint was sitting with two kings on the table and one in the hole when Johnny Creed decided to come on over.

  “I’m sittin’ in,” he said, reaching for the one empty chair.

  “No, you ain’t,” Dargo said, kicking the chair back in.

  “What?”

  “You can’t play, Johnny,” Brennan said. “Not in this game.”

  “I got money!”

  “We don’t care,” Wilkins said. “You’re out.”

  Creed glared at all the men at the table.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Lanigan said. “I got outvoted.”

  The boy looked at Clint.

  “Hey,” he said with a shrug, “it’s their game.”

  Creed fumed, then said, “Well, ain’t nobody can stop me from watchin’!”

  “Not so long as you watch from over there,” Brennan said, indicating the bar.

  “You’ll be sorry,” he said, and stomped over to the bar to have another beer.

  “Whose bet?” Brennan asked.

  “Mine,” Clint said. “I’ll bet two dollars.”

  EIGHT

  Clint took that hand with the three kings, and then they started going back Lanigan’s way again. Still, Clint was well ahead for the past few days that he had been playing.

  Creed remained at the bar, drinking. At one point he began to complain loudly to anyone who would listen, and to everyone who wouldn’t.

  The game was quiet for a couple of hours, hands going around the table, being won and
lost by everyone. No one had taken charge for a while, and then a hand began to develop.

  Wilkins was dealing. Lanigan had two jacks on the table, Clint two tens. Brennan had three hearts. Dargo had already folded. Wilkins himself had a pair of threes he was trying to ride to the end.

  Brennan said, “I bet ten.”

  “Okay,” Lanigan said, “this has been boring long enough. I raise twenty.”

  “I also raise twenty,” Clint said without hesitation.

  “I’ll call both raises,” Wilkins said. “Your play, Brennan.”

  “I’ll call,” Brennan said. “A lot can happen with the last cards.”

  “Pot’s right. Comin’ out,” Wilkins said.

  He dealt everyone their fourth card. Lanigan and Clint received no discernible help. The same for Wilkins, but Brennan had a fourth heart fall on the table. His face betrayed nothing.

  “Well,” Wilkins said, “isn’t this interesting.” He set the deck down. “Brennan?”

  Brennan hesitated just long enough for Clint to figure that he was nervous. He was about to make a bet he wasn’t sure he could afford.

  “Bet fifty.”

  “Ah,” Lanigan said, “now it gets interesting.”

  “What do you do, Lanigan?” Wilkins asked.

  “I call the fifty,” Lanigan said, “and raise fifty more.”

  “Adams?” Wilkins said.

  “Hmm,” Clint said, “you fellas really like your hands. I guess I’ll call the bet and the raise . . . and I raise a hundred.”

  Wilkins looked at his hole card and shook his head.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said, “but I’m gonna fold.”

  He turned his cards facedown on the table. Clint was sure the man had three threes.

  “Brennan?” Wilkins said. “Bet your possible flush.”

  “Interesting,” Brennan said. He stared at Lanigan, then at Clint, and finally shook his head and turned his cards down. He was bluffing and could not keep it going.

  “That leaves the two of you,” Wilkins said.

  “A hundred,” Lanigan said.

  “Big pot,” Clint said. He wondered if he should make it bigger. He had three tens, and he was almost certain Lanigan had three jacks. He’d be a fool to raise. The gambler was not about to be bluffed. Not with three jacks.

  “I’ll call.”

  Lanigan turned over his hole card. A jack.

  Clint laughed, showed his third ten.

  “Good hand, Lanigan.”

  “I folded three threes,” Wilkins said.

  “Good fold,” Clint said.

  Lanigan raked in his chips while Brennan collected the cards. Lanigan had taken back part of what Clint had taken off him.

  • • •

  “Oh, hey!” Creed yelled. “The famous gunman was taken to school in that one! How does it feel, Gunsmith? Bein’ the big loser?”

  Clint rolled his eyes and ignored the young man’s jibes. Creed eventually fell silent, and the game continued . . .

  • • •

  Later, as the saloon began to empty out, Wilkins, and then Dargo, called it a night. That left Brennan, Lanigan, and Clint. Brennan had actually started to win late in the day. However, the pots he took usually came at the expense of his fellow townsmen.

  “Gettin’ late,” Brennan said. “Jasper’s gonna kick us out soon—again.”

  Clint looked at the bar. Even Creed had taken his leave.

  “One last hand, then?” Clint asked.

  “Agreed,” Lanigan said.

  Brennan nodded. He had the deal.

  The final hand of the night went to Lanigan. No surprise. He was the winner of the day.

  “A beer?” he asked them. “On me?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” Brennan said. “My wife’s waitin’.”

  “You have a wife?” Clint asked.

  “I never said?”

  “No,” Lanigan said.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her. She’s about fed up.” He waved. “See you gents tomorrow.”

  As he left, Clint and Lanigan went to the bar.

  “Beer?” Jasper asked.

  Lanigan nodded.

  “On me,” Clint said.

  “No,” Lanigan said, “I won, I’ll pay.”

  “Okay.”

  Jasper drew the beers and set them down.

  “Sorry about the three jacks,” Lanigan said.

  “I knew you had them,” Clint said, “I just couldn’t bring myself to fold three tens.”

  “It would have been a hell of a fold.”

  “Wilkins outplayed me that hand,” Clint pointed out. “He folded his three of a kind.”

  “He didn’t outplay you,” Lanigan said. “He lacked the gall to play the hand.”

  “Still,” Clint said. “He lost less money than I did.”

  “I can’t argue that.”

  They clinked glasses and finished their beers.

  NINE

  Clint rose in the morning, kicked the fire to death, and saddled Eclipse. It was time to go and find some supplies. As he rode, he remembered that last day in El Legado . . . the one that had led him here . . .

  • • •

  He rose that morning, like others, rolled over to find Jenny there. She had taken to spending each night with him. He hoped she hadn’t gotten too used to it. He’d be leaving town soon.

  He got dressed and went down to the lobby. His intention was to have breakfast, but when he got there, he saw the sheriff coming through the front door with two young deputies.

  “Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “Stand fast, Adams,” the lawman said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t make any quick moves,” Cox said. “We’ll need your gun.”

  “You’ll need my—what?”

  The two deputies’ hands hovered over their weapons.

  “Tell them not to skin those hoglegs, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Don’t give me a reason . . .”

  “Take it easy, boys,” Cox said, holding his hand out. “Don’t touch your guns.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “If you’ll come with me to my office, I’ll tell you,” Cox said. “Please.”

  “All right,” Clint said, “but I’m not giving up my gun.”

  “That’s okay,” Cox said, “for now.”

  They left the hotel, the deputies trailing nervously behind.

  • • •

  In the sheriff’s office, Cox said, “Have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand,” Clint said, “and I don’t want them behind me.”

  “Stand over here, boys,” Cox said, pointing.

  They stood to either side of his desk as he sat.

  “Now what’s this about?”

  “Your friend, Lanigan,” Cox said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?” Clint asked. “When? How?”

  “Last night,” Cox said. “Somebody shot him.”

  “In the back?”

  “No,” Cox said, “the chest.”

  “Are you suggesting that I did it?”

  “Well,” Cox said, “he took a big hand from you last night. Everybody saw it.”

  “That’s just poker,” Clint said. “That’s nothing to kill over. What about Creed?”

  “Well . . . if he had been shot in the back, maybe,” Sheriff Cox said.

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You mean, you came after me first?”

  “Well,” the lawman said, “your reputation . . .”

  “I had no reason to kill Lanigan,” Clint said.

  “I’m just doing my job, A
dams,” Cox said. “I’ll talk to Creed, and then I’ll have to make up my mind.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Not that I’ve found yet.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “In front of his rooming house.”

  “And nobody heard anything?”

  The sheriff didn’t answer.

  “Wait,” Clint said, “you mean you actually haven’t spoken to anybody? You came after me first?”

  “Like I said,” Cox replied, “your reputation.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I’m done here.” He stood up and headed for the door.

  “Do me a favor, Adams,” Cox said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t leave town.”

  “I won’t,” Clint said, then added, “not until I have a reason to.”

  • • •

  Clint went outside and stopped. Everything in town looked the same, but felt different. There was a killer there, and just as Sheriff Cox had thought of him first, he was thinking of Johnny Creed first. But before he talked to the young man, he decided to go over to the rooming house.

  • • •

  After Clint Adams left the sheriff’s office, one of the deputies said to Cox, “What do we do, Sheriff?”

  “Keep an eye on him,” Cox said. “Let me know if he leaves town.”

  Neither deputy moved.

  “Which one of us?” Tom Getty asked.

  “Both of you,” Cox said. “Take turns.”

  “What if he sees us?” Jesse Watts asked nervously.

  “He will,” Cox said. “In fact, he’ll expect to see you. Don’t worry. He won’t do anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” Cox said. “Just don’t go anywhere near your guns.”

  Both deputies swallowed hard.

  “Go on,” Cox said. “You can decide between you who should go first.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “My job,” Cox said. “I’m going to try to find out who shot Lanigan.”

  TEN

  When Clint knocked on the door of Erin O’Shea’s rooming house, the woman herself answered, holding a white hanky to her face.

  “You!” she said. “You have a nerve, comin’ here.”