Out of the Past

by J. R. Roberts

  “You can’t blame yourself for that,” he said. “Nobody can defend against a bullet in the back. Even with you watching mine, there could still be a good marksman on a roof three hundred yards from here who could put one dead-center.”

  “Jesus . . .” she said, shaking her head. “I’m used to tracking people, you know? This shoot-out in the street business . . . not for me.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “let’s make this your last, and let’s make your last the best.”

  Denver Cole was having a drink a few blocks away from the Red Garter. He found a small saloon that was doing little business that early and stood at the bar nursing a small whiskey. He didn’t want to drink too much, because he was going to have to be sharp for Clint Adams. One whiskey always sharpened him up, but he never knocked it back, he always savored it—just like he would savor every moment against Clint Adams.

  In the beginning he’d maneuver him to where he wanted him. Next would be the moment just before he drew his gun. That’s when everything would go quiet, everybody would just fade away and all he’d be able to see was Clint Adams, standing there waiting for his last bullet.

  And then the moment just after, when he saw that puff of dust kicked up by the bullet as it entered Adams’s chest and put him down for the last time.

  Finally, he’d walk to the fallen Gunsmith, stand over him and let everyone take a good, hard, long look. That would be a pose worthy of a painting. Too bad he didn’t have time to alert an artist, or even a photographer. Wouldn’t that make a great picture for the front page of dozens of newspapers across the county!

  Louis Cameron handed the man five hundred dollars.

  “Pick a window where you can see the Red Garter and the street in front.”

  “What if they don’t do it there?” the man asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Cameron said, “Denver Cole will want as large an audience as he can get.”

  “So if Adams kills Cole, I kill Adams,” the man said.

  “And you get another five hundred.”

  The man nodded, stuffed the five hundred dollars into his shirt pocket, picked up his rifle, turned and started for the door. When he got there, he turned around.

  “What if Cole wins?”

  Cameron thought about the blank check Cole wanted to hold him up for.

  “If he wins,” Cameron said, “wait until he walks to the body and stands over it, then kill him.”

  “What if he don’t stand over him?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that either,” Cameron said. “If he kills the Gunsmith, he’s going to want to stand over him for the entire town to see. You just put a bullet in him when he does. Then come back here for your other five hundred.”

  “Okay,” the man said.

  As the man with the rifle left, Cameron opened his drawer and stared at the gun there. Maybe to complete the circle he’d just put a bullet in the rifleman when he came back for his second five hundred, then take the first five hundred back. Leave it to Walters to dispose of the body. He was good at little errands like that.

  Sandy walked across the street, found a chair that was already sitting against the window of the Plaza hotel. Seemed a fitting place to watch the action. She scanned the windows and rooftops across the street, which all looked clear to her, but from where she sat she’d never be able to see above her, or anywhere on her side of the street. She suddenly realized that Clint had sent her over here to keep her out of the way. Okay, then, she’d show him she had value and possessed initiative. If she was a man with a rifle whose job it was to put a bullet in Clint Adams’s back while he stood in the street, where would she be?

  She got up from her chair, went inside and asked the clerk, “How do I get to the roof?”

  FORTY-ONE

  Clint spotted Denver Cole walking down the street. It could only be him. It was in his walk, his posture, hell, it was written all over his face.

  Whether or not he could keep Cole alive and keep himself alive at the same time depended on how good Cole really was.

  Clint remained in his chair, relaxed. He doubted he could talk the man out of what he had in mind. The price was bound to be too high.

  He loosened his gun in his holster and waited . . .

  Denver Cole saw Clint Adams sitting in a chair in front of the hotel. It had to be him, waiting. That was fine. It suited him not to have to go looking for the man. He knew earning his money wouldn’t be easy, but at least it would be quick.

  The man with the rifle stood on the roof and sighted down the barrel. At the moment he was aiming at Denver Cole, because that was the only man he could see. Soon, however, Cole would entice Adams out into the street and he’d have both possible targets in front of him.

  It would be up to the two men who would actually become the target. The rifleman made a bet with himself that he would end up being the man who killed the Gunsmith, not Denver Cole.

  Sandy got to the top floor of the hotel and started looking for the hatch in the ceiling that would take her to the roof. When she found it, she had a problem. She couldn’t reach it. She jumped a few times, but she was too short. She looked around but there were no chairs in the hallway. This had to be a problem for most people who had to get to the roof. There had to be a ladder somewhere, maybe in a closet.

  She started trying doors.

  There was a tension between the two men, who were still a distance from each other, that people on the street could sense. Slowly, the spectators started to go inside. It didn’t matter where, they just needed to get inside. Strangers opened their doors to strangers, until the street was virtually empty, except for the two men.

  Clint watched as Denver Cole approached. Once Cole got there, Clint let the two front legs of his chair hit the boardwalk.

  Cole stopped in the street, right in front of Clint.

  “Clint Adams?”

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “You Cole?”

  “I’m Cole.”

  “How much is Cameron paying you?”

  “Blank check.”

  “Impressive,” Clint said, “but still not enough to die for.”

  Cole shrugged and said, “This is how I make a living.”

  “Dying ain’t much of a living.”

  “Well,” Cole said, “this time it’s about much more than that.”

  “Oh, you want a reputation?” Clint asked. “The man who killed Clint Adams?”

  “The man who killed the Gunsmith,” Cole corrected.

  “You think you’re going to see that on a dime novel in a few months?”

  Cole shrugged.

  “All I know is everybody in this country will know my name next week,” Cole said, “and I’ll be a rich man. I don’t see any bad side to this.”

  “I do.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll be dead in a few minutes.”

  Cole pushed his hat back on his head, rubbed his jaw and regarded Clint critically.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I got about fifteen years on you. You can’t be as good as you used to be.”

  “You got it wrong, junior,” Clint said. “I’m the one who’s got fifteen years on you—in experience.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said, “but are you as fast as you used to be?”

  “I don’t have to be faster than you,” Clint said, “just more accurate.”

  “You think I’m gonna miss?”

  “I think we’re talking this thing to death,” Clint said. “But before we do this, I just need you to say it again, for the record.”

  “Say what?”

  “That Louis Cameron hired you to kill me.”

  “Why not?” Cole asked. “Why should I deny a dying man’s last wish? Cameron hired me to kill you.”

  “The old man? Louis. Not the son?”

  “The son’s useless,” Cole said. “It was the old man. He said you’re a thorn in his side.”

  “He’s right.” Clint stood up. “Okay, where do you want me? In the stre
et?”

  “That’s as good a place as any.”

  “Can I give you a piece of advice before we start?” Clint asked.

  “Sure.”

  “If you do get lucky and manage to kill me,” he said, “watch the rooftops.”

  “The rooft—you sayin’ you put a man on the roof with a rifle?”

  “Not me,” Clint said.

  “Cameron?”

  “You really think he’s going to give you a blank check?” Clint asked. “Come on, you know him better than I do.”

  “That can’t be!”

  “Can’t it?” Clint asked. “I’ll bet you your blank check that whether I kill you or you kill me, the winner will be dead seconds later.”

  Cole frowned.

  “If that’s true, there won’t be nobody alive to collect on that bet,” he said.

  “Won’t there?”

  FORTY-TWO

  Sandy was frantic. She had to get to the roof and she still wasn’t finding a chair or a ladder. She felt stupid. She ran down to the lobby where there were plenty of chairs.

  “Hey!” the clerk shouted as she grabbed one and ran up the stairs with it.

  Clint stepped down into the street, moved off to his right, while Denver Cole backed up and moved left. Some brave people came outside to watch from a closer vantage point, but for the most part the street was empty.

  Clint and Cole stopped, facing each other over a distance of not less than twenty feet.

  The man on the roof with the rifle sighted down the barrel. Come on, he thought, somebody make a move and give me my target.

  Sandy set the chair beneath the hatch and climbed up on it. She reached up to push the hatch open, but it was either heavy or stuck.

  Damn it, she thought, either way I’m getting this hatch open!

  The onlookers watched and waited to see who was going to make the first move. Some bets were made, but for the most part this was just a little piece of history people were watching—especially if the Gunsmith got himself killed!

  Suddenly, Cole’s hand streaked for his gun.

  The man with the rifle watched as Denver Cole cleanly outdrew the Gunsmith and shot him down. As Adams hit the street on his back, Cole marched to where Adams lay and stood over the Gunsmith, just like Cameron predicted he would.

  Just turn a little bit, he thought, give me your back.

  “Hold it!” the rifleman heard from behind him.

  He turned quickly and pulled the trigger, but Sandy was down on one knee. The hatch had been heavy, which helped her. If it had been light, she would have flipped it over and made a lot of noise doing it. As it was, she’d had to lift and slide the heavy lid off and hadn’t made a sound.

  The rifleman’s shot went over her head. As he levered another round, she fired once. The bullet struck him in the chest. He staggered back and fell off the roof.

  Denver Cole looked up at the sound of the shot, saw a man and a rifle fall from the roof of the Plaza hotel.

  “You were right,” he said to Clint.

  On the ground Clint opened his eyes, looked up at Cole and said, “You owe me your blank check.”

  To the surprise of all and the consternation of some, Cole reached down and helped Clint to his feet.

  “Good luck collectin’,” Cole said. “If Cameron was willin’ to kill me to save it, he ain’t gonna let go of it real easy.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I didn’t really want it, anyway. All I want you to do is tell the police he hired you to kill me.”

  “I don’t have to admit to anythin’ else?”

  “No, we’ll tell them you came right to me and told me, and we set up this little bit of playacting.”

  “And you had somebody on the roof all along?”

  “I had somebody watching my back,” Clint said. “How she got to the roof I don’t know, but I’m sure glad she did.”

  Cole hesitated a moment, then said, “She?”

  FORTY-THREE

  Clint followed Lieutenant Abernathy into Louis Cameron’s office with Franklin Walters trailing along behind them saying, “B-but you can’t—”

  Clint stopped just inside the room, turned, pushed Walters back outside and slammed the door in his face.

  “He’s got a gun in a drawer of that desk,” Clint said, “but I don’t think he has the nerve to use it.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Cameron demanded with all the indignation he could muster.

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Cameron,” Abernathy said.

  “On what charge?”

  “Conspiracy to commit murder.”

  Cameron stared at Clint. He obviously assumed that Denver Cole was dead.

  “Your man gave you up.”

  “My man?” He wondered if they’d grabbed the man with the rifle.

  “Denver Cole.” Abernathy clarified things. “He told us everything.”

  “The man’s a notorious gunman and liar,” Cameron said.

  “How about your son?” Abernathy asked. “Is he a liar, too?”

  “He’s a drunk,” Cameron said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Abernathy said, “everybody’s either a liar or a drunk and you’re a victim. Get up, Cameron.”

  “You can’t do this,” Cameron said, starting to get nervous. “I know people.”

  “Yeah, I know people, too,” the lieutenant said, “lots of people.”

  “My lawyer will—”

  “We’ll arrange a meeting between you and your lawyer . . . in your cell.”

  Abernathy came around the desk, stopped to look out the window.

  “Oh, look,” he said, “one of my men has Billy. Maybe we can put you in the same cell.”

  Abernathy had sent uniformed policemen all over the city to search low-rent saloons for Billy Cameron.

  The old man stood up with a speed that belied his age and looked out the window. He saw Billy Cameron talking to a uniformed policeman, who had him in handcuffs.

  “Goddamnit!” he said.

  “Let’s go,” Abernathy said, taking out his cuffs. “I got a nice pair of bracelets for you, too.”

  “No,” the old mans said. “No.” He turned and lunged for his desk drawer. Clint was there first, swatting his hand away before removing the gun from the drawer.

  “Jesus,” he said, looking at the old Colt Navy, “this would’ve blown up in your hand, old man.”

  “I can give you the killer,” Cameron said. “I can tell you who killed that woman, but you have to let me—”

  “We don’t have to let you do nothin’,” Abernathy said.

  “It was Billy!” the old man shouted. “My son, Billy. He got drunk, the girl rejected him. It was him!”

  Abernathy looked at Clint and raised his eyebrows.

  “You were right,” Abernathy said to Clint.

  “Right?” Cameron asked. “About what?”

  “He said you’d give up your own flesh and blood to try to stay out of jail,” Abernathy said. “That don’t exactly make you father of the year in my book.”

  He grabbed the old man’s hands and slapped the handcuffs on him.

  “No, no,” Cameron said. “My son is young, he can take prison. I can’t.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said, “you’ll be able to help each other. And I want you to think about Anne Archer while you’re in there. She was worth ten of your son and a million of you.”

  “That’s what this is about?” the old man demanded. “That woman?”

  “That woman was a friend of mine,” Clint said, “a close friend of mine. You and your boy made a big mistake, Cameron, and you’re both going to pay.”

  “B-but—I have money . . .”

  “Yeah,” Abernathy said, “tell it to the judge. It might mean something to him.”

  As Abernathy marched Cameron out, Clint realized the man was right. Cameron’s money might mean something to a politician or a judge.

  That was something to worry about.

  Later tha
t week Clint was still worrying about that.

  “So if he buys his way out, then what?” Sandy asked.

  “Then I’ll have to come back and make sure justice is served the old way,” Clint said.

  “You’d do that?” she asked. “Kill them?”

  “Both of them.”

  They were outside the house that Anne Archer had shared with her daughter, Sandy. Clint’s horse was saddled and ready to go.

  Katy came out of the house with Little Sandy, whose head was hanging down. Clint had stayed up most of the night with his daughter, explaining why he couldn’t take her with him, why she’d be better off with Katy and Sandy in Chicago, where they were based for Pinkerton. The two aunts had agreed that one of them would always be available for the girl, who would soon be a young woman anyway.

  “Say good-bye to your father, Sandy,” Katy said.

  “Good-bye,” she said sullenly.

  “Sandy—” Katy said, but Clint waved her off.

  “Sandy, I know you don’t believe me but I do love you. I’ll come to see you often.”

  She looked up at him.

  “Do you promise?”

  “I swear it,” he said. “Are you going to let me ride out without a hug?”

  For a moment, he thought she would, but then she suddenly lunged forward and hugged him, then pulled his head down so she could kiss him soundly on the cheek.

  " ’Bye, Poppa.”

  The night before she had settled on “Poppa” for what she would call him.

  “I’ll see you soon, sweetie,” he said, hugging her tight.

  He stepped to his horse and mounted up.

  “I’ll see you all soon,” he said.

  “You’d better,” Katy said, “or we’ll come lookin’ for you.”

  He waved, turned his horse and rode away from his daughter with an aching heart.

  Watch for

  STRAW MEN

  320th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove

  Coming in August!