Out of the Past

by J. R. Roberts

  First they made sure there was a back door, then they made sure it wasn’t locked. They decided to go in the back door and collect his things, before going back out that way.

  “Saddlebags and rifle,” Sandy observed. “You travel light.”

  “The only things I own that I can’t do without are my gun and my horse,” Clint said. “And logically speaking, I could get another horse—although I wouldn’t want to have to try to get one as good.”

  “You’ve been lucky with horses,” Sandy said. “First Duke, then Eclipse.”

  “No luck,” Clint said. “I raised Duke. Okay, maybe getting Eclipse as a gift could be called luck.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Let’s go.”

  They took the back stairs down and went out. Then they took an alley to a side street and from there they caught a horse-drawn cab to the house. Clint’s secret escape from the hotel was complete.

  THIRTY-SIX

  True to her word, Sandy did not try to crawl into bed with Clint—and the same went with him. They had too much respect for their dead friend.

  Clint woke feeling sad. He was in Anne’s house. He could almost feel her presence. And when this was all over, what was he supposed to do with a fifteen-year-old daughter?

  He could smell the coffee, so he dressed and went into the kitchen to join Sandy at the table.

  “Did you sleep?” she asked.

  “Some.”

  “I don’t like it when this house is empty,” she said.

  “What are you going to do with it when this is all over?” he asked.

  “What am I gonna do with it?” she asked. “It’s not mine.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Well, I guess it belongs to Little Sandy now,” Sandy said. “But you’re her father. I think it’s gonna be up to you.”

  “Me?”

  “What are you gonna do with this house?” she asked. “And what are you gonna do with your daughter?”

  “What can I do with a fifteen-year-old girl?” he asked.

  “Almost sixteen.”

  “I was hoping you and Katy would take her.”

  “We’d love to,” she said, “either one of us, but you know what the life of a Pinkerton is like. Where could she live? Neither Katy or I have a home anywhere.”

  Clint played with his coffee mug.

  “Jesus,” he said, “I never thought I’d end up being responsible for a teenage girl.”

  “Well, maybe you better get used to it.”

  He drank some coffee, slammed the mug down.

  “First I have to find out who killed Anne, make sure they pay and come out alive myself. I’ll have to think about the house and Sandy later.”

  “Well, I can’t fault you for that,” she said. “If you get killed, Katy and I won’t have a choice, we’ll have to take over.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” he said.

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “Of course I don’t want you to get killed because you’re a wonderful human bein—”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “He’s gonna do it, you know,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Send somebody for you. Somebody who thinks he can take you, not like that kid Bravo.”

  “I know it.”

  “Why didn’t you kill that kid, anyway?”

  “Because I didn’t have to.”

  “It might have sent a message to Cameron.”

  “Like what? I kill children?”

  “Well, it won’t be a child next time,” she said. “What if this time it is someone faster than you?”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s bound to happen sometime.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t like it to be now,” she said.

  “If he sends a killer for me this time—I mean, somebody who really knows how to use a gun—then I think he’s sending us a definite message.”

  “Which is, he wants you dead?”

  “Which is,” Clint said, “either he had Anne killed, or he’s covering for somebody in his family who did.”

  “Like his wife?”

  “I don’t think he cares enough for her.”

  “Okay, then his son’s wife,” Sandy said. “She has a definite motive.”

  “I don’t think she cares enough.”

  “Then . . . you’re talking about Billy? He was in love with Anne.”

  “But she wasn’t in love with him, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So what if he found out?”

  “But . . . he’s drinking himself into a stupor because she’s dead.”

  “What if he’s drinking himself into a stupor because he killed her?”

  She sat back in her chair.

  “I never considered that,” she said. “Well then, we really do need to talk to him.”

  “We can try this morning,” Clint said, “hopefully before he has time to crawl into another bottle.”

  “We’d better get a move on if we want to do that,” she said.

  They stood up, each grabbing the gun they’d hung on a chair and strapping it on.

  “Oh, and one thing,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “If his wife tries to stop us again, let me handle her.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Denver Cole walked into Louis Cameron’s office, didn’t say a word and sat down opposite the big desk. He knew he was there to make money, and the old man would tell him when and how, so he had no questions.

  “You know who Clint Adams is?” Cameron asked.

  “Everybody knows who he is,” Cole said, “especially men in my business.”

  “Well, he’s become a thorn in my side,” the old man said. “I want him dead.”

  “Man like that’s gonna cost extra.”

  “Name your price.”

  “When do you want this done?”

  “Today.”

  Cole thought a moment.

  “Blank check,” he said.

  “That’s high.”

  “You don’t have to give it to me until after I kill him.”

  Cameron sat back in his chair.

  “That’s fair.”

  Cole leaned forward.

  “We’re always fair with each other, Mr. Cameron,” he said. “That’s why we get along.”

  Cameron was actually surprised that they got along at all. They were, after all, two men who ruled their worlds by fear, and they had each found someone who didn’t fear them.

  “Where do I find him?” Cole asked.

  “He checked into my Plaza hotel, but I don’t know if he’s still there.”

  “Where’s he been drinkin’?”

  “The Red Garter.”

  “Your saloon?”

  Cameron nodded.

  “This fella’s really in your face.”

  “And I want him out of it.”

  Cole nodded and headed for the door.

  “Cole.”

  The gunman turned.

  “I don’t much care how it gets done.”

  “It don’t do me any good to do it any way but head-on, ” Cole said.

  “Don’t forget your fee is a blank check,” Cameron said. “Why take chances?”

  “Money’s just money, Mr. Cameron,” Cole said. “This is the Gunsmith we’re talkin’ about. He don’t deserve nothin’ but head-on.”

  “Even you?” Cameron said. “What does this man have that rates respect from the likes of you?”

  Cole turned back to face Cameron, his posture suddenly aggressive.

  “What is the likes of me, Cameron,” he asked, “except for someone you hire to do your dirty work?”

  “I meant no disrespect, man,” Cameron said, waving away the man’s aggression. “Clint Adams frustrates me. He came here to my office, he tried to get to me through my wife . . .”

  Cole knew how that must’ve worked. He wouldn’t have minded trying to get to the old man that way himself.

  “. . . and then
he went to my son’s house and upset my daughter-in-law.”

  The daughter-in-law, Cole thought, there was another one. He didn’t know how these Cameron men rated wives that young and beautiful. Yes, he did. It was the money.

  “Well, I’ll get this job done,” he told the old man, “but I’ll get it done my way.”

  “However you get it done,” Cameron said, “just do it today.”

  “It’ll get done today,” Cole said. “You just have that check ready.”

  “It’ll be waiting.”

  Cole nodded, opened the door and went out. Walters, unlike Cameron, had nothing but fear when it came to Denver Cole, as he seemed to shrink when the gunman walked by. Once Cole was gone, Walters got up and went into the old man’s office.

  “Get me a check,” Cameron said.

  “Who shall I make it out to,” Walters asked, “and for how much?”

  “Make it out to Cole, but leave the amount blank.”

  “You’ll fill it in?”

  “He will.”

  Walter’s eyebrows shot up.

  “A blank check?”

  “Do you want the job, Walters?” Cameron asked. “How much would you charge?”

  Backing out of the room, Walters said, “I’ll get that check ready, sir.”

  As he closed the door to his master’s office, the other door opened and Olivia Cameron walked in.

  “Olivia,” he hissed, “my God, it’s been ages! When can we—”

  “I’m afraid we can’t, Franklin.”

  “What?”

  “It’s over,” she said. “I can’t be with you, anymore. Do you know if Clint Adams is still at the Plaza?”

  “I, uh, we can’t—”

  “Pay attention, Franklin,” she said. “I tried to find Mr. Adams at his hotel last night and this morning and he wasn’t there. Do you know where he is?”

  “Uh, no, no, I don’t,” Walters said.

  She frowned, then turned to leave. He grabbed her elbow, and she pulled away from him.

  “But Olivia, I thought we—”

  “We’re over, Franklin,” she said.

  “Is there . . . someone else?”

  “I have a husband, Franklin,” she reminded him, “and if you persist in bothering me, I will tell him. Do you want to lose your job, or worse?”

  “No,” he said, “no, I just . . . don’t understand.”

  “What’s there to understand, dear?” she asked, touching his face. “It was fun, and it’s over.” She slapped him, not hard, but forcefully. “Get that through your head.”

  She turned and walked out, leaving him totally confused.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  After breakfast Clint and Sandy got their horses and rode to Billy Cameron’s house, which was on the other side of the city. When they knocked, the same black woman answered the door.

  “Mr. Billy’s not here,” she said.

  “Do you know where he went?” Clint asked.

  The woman turned and looked over her shoulder, then dropped her voice down to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “If you ask me, he’s already got one of them saloons ta open their doors fer him.”

  “We’re too late,” Sandy said.

  “Too late?” the maid asked.

  “We wanted to talk to him while he was sober.”

  “Mister,” she said, “you way too late for that. Mr. Billy, he wakes up drunk these days.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “Can you tell us which saloon he might be in?”

  “Can’t tell you that,” she said, “but I can tell you the grubbier the better.”

  Olivia was walking the streets in a frenzy, looking for Clint Adams. She’d never done this for a man before. Usually, they were chasing her. But it worked, because she saw him riding down the street on his horse—with a woman by his side. A big, coarse-looking blonde. Was that why she couldn’t find him last night? Because he was with this woman?

  Well, she’d be damned if she’d chase him down the street now to warn him about her husband. Let him take his chances on his own.

  She turned and headed back to her husband’s office. Maybe she could catch Franklin Walters before what she said to him really sunk in.

  Clint and Sandy reined in their horses in front of the Plaza hotel. With Billy Cameron hiding out in a fleabag saloon somewhere in the city, Clint was going back to his old plan. He’d let Louis Cameron know exactly where he was and wait for the hired gun who was sure to come after him.

  When they entered the lobby, the clerk didn’t blink at them. He had no idea that Clint had sneaked out the back door the night before. As far as anyone was concerned, Clint had been in his hotel suite all night.

  That went for Lieutenant Abernathy as well, who was sitting there in the lobby.

  “Lieutenant Abernathy,” Clint said as the man fronted him. “This is Sandy Spillane.”

  “Ma’am,” the man said. He looked at Clint. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”

  “Why?”

  “To warn you,” the policeman said. “We’ve got word that Denver Cole rode into town today.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “He’s a gunman,” Sandy said. “For hire.”

  “And he only comes to a town when he’s hired,” Abernathy said.

  “So we’re figuring this is Louis Cameron’s big gun?” Clint asked.

  “If he paid Cole to kill you, and we can prove it, I can move on Cameron.”

  “You want to arrest him for the murder of Annie?” Sandy asked.

  “Sandy and Anne Archer were partners, Lieutenant.”

  “Partners?”

  “Sandy is a Pinkerton, too.”

  The man looked miffed.

  “Pinkertons operating in Kansas City without notifying us? The chief’s not going to like that.”

  “That’s beside the point right now,” Sandy said. “You have enough to arrest Cameron?”

  “I do,” Abernathy said, “but not the Cameron you’re thinking of.”

  “Billy?” Clint asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why he’s been drunk since the murder,” Clint said. “Because he did it.”

  “That’s what I believe,” Abernathy said. “And I think if I can get him away from his father, he’ll crack.”

  “So if it looks like his father’s trying to cover for him by having me killed . . .”

  “I’ll bring them both in.”

  “Your chief goes along with this?”

  “He does.”

  “So I have to make sure his hired killer doesn’t kill me,” Clint said, “while trying not to kill him.”

  “You did it with Joe Bravo,” Sandy said, “but—”

  “—but Denver Cole,” Abernathy finished, “is not Joe Bravo.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  After Abernathy left, Sandy said, “You’d think he’d offer to help, since we’re doing his job for him.”

  “He didn’t have to come and warn me,” Clint said. “What do you know about Denver Cole?”

  “He’s deadly,” she said. “He doesn’t know how many men he’s killed because he doesn’t count ’em.”

  “And how does he kill them?”

  “Head-on, as far as I know,” she said. “I’ve never heard anything about him bushwhacking anybody.”

  “Well, maybe I won’t have to worry about that, then,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll watch your back. Hell, I’ll stand in the street with you.”

  “I won’t need you to do that,” Clint said, “not if Cole is the man you say he his.”

  “I’m only tellin’ you what we heard at the Pinkerton’s, ” she told him.

  “And that’s all I can go by.”

  “He’s young and he’s fast, Clint,” she said. “How the hell are you supposed to keep him from killin’ you and not kill him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to think of a way.”

&
nbsp; Denver Cole could not let it show in Louis Cameron’s office, but he was excited. He’d killed many men—didn’t know how many because he didn’t count them. Some of them had been fast, some had been deadly accurate, but none of them had the reputation of the Gunsmith. He was supposed to be both fast and accurate.

  Cole had ridden into town that morning and hadn’t bothered to get himself a room. In the past he did all his jobs the same day he arrived, so there was no waiting— not for him and not for the intended victim. And there was no spending of his money for a room or a bed he wasn’t going to use.

  He was sure Clint Adams knew that someone was coming for him, but maybe he didn’t know who it was. And even if he had heard who was coming, he’d probably never heard of Cole. That was fine with the gunman. After today everybody was going to know his name and what he did.

  Denver Cole, the man who killed the Gunsmith.

  FORTY

  “You’re just gonna sit there?” Sandy asked.

  Clint had found a wooden chair and carried it out to the front of the Red Garter. He put it down in front of the building, with a wall against his back, not a window, and sat.

  “Cameron’s gun has to be able to find me,” Clint explained, “or nothing is going to happen.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You get a chair and sit over there,” he said, pointing across the street. “Whatever happens, you make sure nobody shoots me in the back from a window.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t believe Cole would do that?”

  “I don’t think he would,” Clint said, “but Cameron might put somebody up in a window with a rifle, just in case.”

  Unable to help herself, Sandy suddenly looked up.

  “Yeah,” he said, “see if you can find windows with a good angle.”

  “How will I know where you’re gonna stand?”

  “I’ll try to stand there,” he said, pointing, “if we end up in the street. If he’s smart, he’ll try to maneuver me to where he wants me. You’re just going to have to watch and figure.”

  Sandy dried her palms on her thighs.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “I trust you.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’m used to working in a trio, you know? Me, Annie and Katy. Unbeatable.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said again, “you were each always unbeatable on your own.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “look where that got Annie. Katy and I left her alone, and—”