Showdown in Desperation

by J. R. Roberts

  “I’ll do that when I’m ready to arrest you,” Sheriff Cox told him.

  “Then I’ll get on with my day,” Clint replied, “if you don’t mind.”

  “Just don’t try to leave town,” Cox said.

  “You told me that already,” Clint said. “What I’d like to know is how you plan to stop me if I was ready to leave.”

  Cox stared at him, then turned and walked away, trailed by his two deputies.

  Clint decided to change direction. Instead of checking the saloons, he was going to check the livery stable.

  • • •

  As he entered the stable, the hostler came walking over to him, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

  “Come to check on your horse?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but I’ll take a look at him while I’m here.”

  They both walked over to Eclipse’s stall. Clint ran his hand over the horse’s flanks.

  “Wonderful animal,” the old hostler said. “Best I’ve seen, and I’ve worked with horses for sixty years.”

  “What’s your name, Pop?”

  “It ain’t Pop,” the man said. “It’s Pete.” He cackled. “You was close.”

  “You been in this town that long?” Clint asked.

  “No,” the man said, “but I’ve been here for twenty years.”

  “Do you know Johnny Creed?”

  “Sure, I know the kid.”

  “Did you know his old man?”

  “Jimmy? Yeah, him, too.”

  “Have you seen Johnny lately?”

  “Sure,” the man said, “saw him about three hours ago.”

  “What was he doin’?”

  “Saddlin’ up,” Pete said.

  “He had his horse here?”

  “Most folks do.”

  “And he left town?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Is he comin’ back?”

  “I doubt it,” Pete said. “I told him to say hi to his old man for me.”

  “He’s going to look for his father?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Do you know where his father is?”

  “No,” Pete said, “but neither does he. He’s . . . lookin’.”

  “Do you know about the man who was killed in town?”

  “The gambler? Yeah, I heard.”

  “You think Johnny could’ve done it?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I thought he’d never killed anyone before.”

  “That boy is bound and determined to be like his daddy,” Pete said. “He’ll kill for that.”

  “You sure?”

  “Dead positive,” Pete said. “You gonna go after him?”

  “I am.”

  “Want me to saddle him up?” he asked, slapping Eclipse’s rump. The Darley stood still for it. The old man told the truth. He was good with horses.

  “Yeah, saddle him up.”

  “If you’re goin’ now, you have to go without supplies,” Pete said. “I got a canteen.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I’ll bring him out back,” Pete said.

  “Okay.”

  • • •

  Clint waited out back until Pete brought Eclipse out, saddled, with the canteen on the saddle.

  “I got some beef jerky, too. Put it in your saddlebag.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint mounted up.

  “The sheriff lookin’ for you?”

  “He will be.”

  “The boy put the finger on you, didn’t he?”

  “He did.”

  Pete shook his head.

  “If you catch up to him, and he’s with his daddy, you better watch out.”

  “I will,” Clint said. “Tell me, how do you know so much about Johnny and his dad?”

  Pete cackled and said, “Because I’m Johnny’s grandpappy.”

  FOURTEEN

  Clint saw a collection of buildings up ahead. Whether or not it was a town remained to be seen.

  It had been five days since he’d left the livery, left El Legado. Pete had told Clint that he was Johnny’s mother’s father. He was not related to Jimmy Creed, and if and when Clint found him, Pete wanted a favor.

  “Kill him for me,” the old man said.

  Clint didn’t promise that he would. But he didn’t say he wouldn’t either.

  He was out of water and beef jerky. Even if the buildings up ahead were not a town, it might be someplace he could get supplies. And it might be someplace that Johnny Creed had already passed through.

  “Okay, big guy,” he said to Eclipse, “let’s go have a look.”

  • • •

  Not a town.

  A collection of ramshackle buildings, and no people in sight. But there were fresh tracks on the street. There was some regular activity.

  Examining the tracks on the ground, he could tell which building most of them led to. He rode to a one-story wooden shack, the biggest one in the place.

  He dismounted, dropped Eclipse’s reins to the ground. The big Darley wouldn’t go anywhere, and if a reason did arise for Clint to have to move, he’d be able to.

  He went to the wooden door, tried it, found it unlocked, and opened it. He found himself inside a small, makeshift saloon.

  There was a man behind a bar made of wooden planks, and one man in front of the bar, drinking a beer. Three mismatched tables were all empty. The men were as mismatched. The bartender was fifty, portly, and bald. The other man was thin, with long hair and a beard, and could have been any age behind all that hair.

  “Not your busy time, is it?” Clint asked.

  “You kiddin’?” the bartender asked. “This is our lunch rush.”

  “You got food?”

  The bartender brought out a bowl of hard-boiled eggs from beneath the bar.

  “You got money?”

  “Not much,” Clint said, “but enough for a beer and a couple of hard-boiled eggs.”

  “Step up to the bar, then,” the man said.

  The bartender told Clint how much a beer and two eggs would be. It was reasonable. Clint expected to be gouged, since this was the only place in town.

  Clint moved up to the bar as the man set a beer there for him, and pushed over the bowl of eggs.

  “Two,” the bartender said, holding up two fingers to remind Clint.

  He took the money out and placed it on the bar, sipped the beer, and began to peel an egg.

  “What brings you here?” the bartender asked. The other man sipped his beer and just watched and listened. He wasn’t wearing a gun.

  “Just passing through,” Clint said. “I ran out of water and food. What is this place?”

  “Just a mud hole in the road,” the bartender said.

  “Can I get some supplies?”

  “I thought you only had enough money for a beer and two eggs,” the other man asked.

  Clint bit into the egg, chewed, and looked at the man.

  “Why is that your business?”

  The man shrugged. By examining his eyes, Clint made him out to be about forty.

  “Not too many people come through here,” the hairy man said. “I’m just curious.”

  “About my money?”

  “Thought maybe you’d buy me a drink.”

  Clint studied the man, then looked at the bartender.

  “Sure,” Clint said, “give the man another beer.”

  “So you do have more money,” the bartender said, drawing a beer for the hairy man.

  “I do,” Clint said, “but it wouldn’t benefit anyone to try to take it from me.”

  “Hey,” the bartender said, showing Clint his hands, “just wondering if you could pay for supplies, that’s all.”

 
“I can pay.”

  The man put his hands down and said, “Then what do you need?”

  FIFTEEN

  The bartender’s name was Eddie. He took Clint across the street to another building to pick up the supplies he needed. Eddie used a key to unlock the door and they went inside. There were supplies stacked everywhere, like the back room of a general store.

  “Whataya need?” Eddie asked.

  “Coffee, jerky, beans, bacon—”

  “No meat,” Eddie said. “I can’t keep it here.”

  “Fine. Got some canned peaches?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll take some of that.”

  “How about some flour?” Eddie said. “You could make some biscuits on the trail.”

  “I’ll take some.”

  “Good,” Eddie said. “I’ll put it all together. You need a pack animal?”

  “No. Put it all in a sack, a burlap sack if you have it,” Clint said. “Two if you have to. I’ll just hang them from my saddle. I’ve got to travel quickly, and light.”

  “Okay,” Eddie said. “Go on over to my place and I’ll bring it all over. Tell Cesar to give you a beer.” “Cesar?” Clint asked. “The hairy guy?”

  “Yeah, the hairy guy.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint headed for the door.

  “Hey, you need cartridges?” Eddie called.

  Clint waved and said, “I always have enough ammunition.”

  • • •

  Across the street, Cesar drew Clint a beer and they stood at the bar and waited for Eddie.

  “There are a lot of tracks outside,” Clint said.

  “There aren’t too many other places around here to get beer, or supplies,” Cesar said. “Eddie’s kinda got the market sewed up.”

  “What about a young guy named Johnny Creed?” Clint asked. “Ever heard of him?”

  “Johnny Creed? Naw, can’t say I have. But wait . . . I heard of a Jimmy Creed.”

  “That’s his father.”

  “Jimmy Creed’s a backshooter.”

  “Yes.”

  “His son, too?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I’m trailing him. He must have come through here.”

  “Talk to Eddie,” Cesar said. “I’m not always here.”

  Clint nodded.

  The door opened and Eddie came in, carrying two sacks. He set them on a table.

  “You want to check ’em?”

  “I trust you.”

  “Naw,” Eddie said, moving around behind the bar, “you better check while I write up your bill.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint went to the table and started looking through the sacks. His hand was inside one of the sacks when the bartender came up from the bar with a shotgun.

  “Just keep your hand in the bag, friend,” he said.

  Clint looked at Eddie and the double-barreled Greener he was holding.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said.

  “You’re not?” Eddie asked. “Good for you. Cesar, get his gun.”

  “Forget it, Cesar,” Clint said. “It’s not in my holster.”

  “It’s not?” Eddie asked. “Where is it?”

  “It’s in my hand, in this bag,” Clint said.

  Eddie grinned.

  “You’re bluffing. Cesar, get his gun, and his money.”

  “If Cesar comes near me, I’ll pull the trigger,” Clint said. “If you don’t put that shotgun down, I’ll pull the trigger.”

  “Go ahead, Cesar,” Eddie said. “He’s bluffin’.”

  “You sure, Eddie?”

  “I’m positive.”

  Cesar walked tentatively toward Clint, and when he came within view of the holster, he saw that it was empty.

  “Aw, Eddie—” he said.

  Clint cut him off by pulling the trigger of his concealed Colt. He had drawn it as he sat behind the sacks, and stuck his hand in one of the bags. He figured Eddie would try something while he was checking the sacks.

  The bullet tore through the bottom of the bag and drilled Eddie right through the chest. Clint hit the floor and upended the table. Eddie pulled both triggers of his shotgun as he died.

  The shotgun made a hellacious noise. The shot spread out and struck the table and the wall behind Clint.

  Then it was quiet.

  Clint raised his head. He saw the shotgun lying on the bar, but Eddie was nowhere in sight. He looked over at Cesar. He was on the floor, torn apart by buckshot. His blood was seeping into the wooden floor.

  Clint got up and walked to the bar. Eddie was lying behind it, dead.

  Clint ejected the spent shell from his gun, replaced it with a live load, and holstered it. He didn’t know what to expect when he went out the door. Eddie could have had some more men.

  He went back to the sacks and checked them. Everything he’d ordered was there. There was a hole in the bottom of one of the sacks from the bullet, but it wasn’t a big hole. The sack would continue to hold.

  He lifted both sacks with his left hand, went out the door with his right hand swinging free. There was nobody there. He tied the sacks to his saddle horn, mounted up, and rode out.

  SIXTEEN

  Clint camped later that day, before dark. He was hungry. He made some beans and jerky, also used the flour to make some trail biscuits. Eddie’s idea about that had been a good one. Probably the last good idea he’d had.

  Johnny Creed had either bypassed Eddie’s mud hole, or he’d been and gone because he had no money for them to steal. Might have gotten lucky.

  Clint had to assume that Sheriff Cox and a posse were trailing him. Cox had told him several times not to leave town. Once he did, the lawman would have no choice but to come after him.

  He ate as it got dark, drank his coffee. Eclipse was finding enough on the ground to graze on. Once again he’d leave it to the horse to stand watch that night. He needed to get some sleep if he was going to stay alert. The Darley was better at it anyway. He tended to sense things well ahead of Clint—man or beast.

  “Okay, big fella,” he said, stroking the animal’s huge neck, “you let me know if anybody’s sneaking into camp to kill me.”

  He went back to the fire, unfurled his bedroll next to it, and settled in, his belly full for the first time since leaving El Legado.

  He fell asleep in minutes.

  • • •

  He woke up the next morning hungry. For breakfast he finished the beans he’d made the night before, along with the coffee. Then he cleaned up, stamped out the fire, and saddled Eclipse.

  “You did a good job, boy,” he said, patting the horse, “kept both of us alive.”

  He rode out of camp.

  • • •

  A couple of hours later he was still following the trail he’d picked up outside El Legado. There was a distinctive chink on one horseshoe, so unless Creed had exchanged horses with someone along the way, Clint was still on the right trail.

  From the length of the horse’s stride, Creed wasn’t pushing his horse very hard. They traveled at a walk most of the time, cantered once in a while, but never went at a gallop. He wondered if the boy was riding aimlessly, or if he had some idea where his father was.

  Clint decided he needed a town with a telegraph office. While there was a possibility his own description might have been sent on ahead, he decided to take the chance. He wanted to send a couple of telegrams, one to his friend Rick Hartman, and the other to Denver Private Detective Talbot Roper. One of them might have had some information on where Jimmy Creed had been seen lately, or someplace a backshooting might have taken place.

  He bypassed a couple of small towns with no telegraph lines, finally came to one that did. According to the road sign, it was called Rio Diablo. There was no population number on the sign, bu
t there were telegraph lines. That was all he needed.

  • • •

  He rode into Rio Diablo slowly. Riding Eclipse, he could not go unnoticed, but he was determined not to do anything that would draw undue attention.

  As much as he wanted a cold beer, he bypassed a couple of saloons until he found the telegraph office. He dismounted and went inside.

  “Help ya?” the clerk asked. He was an indistinct man of indeterminable age. Five minutes after leaving the office, no one would remember his face.

  “Two telegrams,” Clint said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man supplied Clint with what he needed to write them out. Clint did it quickly. He mentioned Jimmy Creed, asked for a location, and signed it with a “C.A.”

  “Here you go,” Clint said. He looked out the front door, saw a small saloon across the street. “I’ll be in that saloon when the replies come in.”

  “Could be a while.”

  “If I don’t get a reply within the hour, I’m riding out,” Clint said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint left the office and walked across to the saloon. He left Eclipse in front of the telegraph office.

  He entered the saloon, stopped just inside the batwings. It was early, and there were only a few patrons, which suited him. He approached the bar.

  “What’ll ya have, friend?” the bartender asked. Unlike the telegraph clerk, this man was memorable. In his forties, he had an eye patch and a scar, and you’d remember both when you left him, even after weeks and months.

  “Beer.”

  The bartender nodded, drew it, and set it in front of him.

  “Passin’ through?” he asked.

  “Exactly,” Clint said. “I’ll be gone in an hour.”

  “Nice town,” the bartender said. “Folks like to settle here.”

  “I’m not looking for a place to settle.”

  “Lookin’ for a man, then?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve got the look,” the man said with a shrug. “Bounty hunter?”

  “No.”

  “On the run, then?”

  “No,” Clint said. “If I was, would I tell you?”

  “You’d be surprised what men tell a bartender,” the man with the eye patch said.