Clint Adams, Detective
Page 14
Whoever he was, he looked confident . . .
McCloud knew that if he had the emotions of a normal man—which meant any at all—he might be nervous about facing the Gunsmith. All he felt, however, was a deep calm. If he outdrew the Gunsmith and killed him, he’d have himself a reputation. If the Gunsmith killed him, he’d have everlasting peace.
He didn’t much care which . . .
Clark watched from the window as the remaining two men in the street panicked, didn’t seem to know which way to turn, and were gunned down by Sammy and Levon. When the men hit the ground, Clark ran out to help Sammy, not knowing how badly the man was hurt. Levon also rushed up onto the porch.
Suddenly, it was quiet, as Clint Adams and Ben McCloud faced each other in the street. Melanie eased out the front door to watch from the porch with her brother and the two black men . . .
The look on the man’s face surprised Clint. It appeared that the man had not a care in the world. Normally, Clint would try to talk a man out of facing him, give him a chance to walk away and live. He could tell by this man’s demeanor that that would not work.
This was going to happen.
The two men faced each other, their guns holstered. Both were calm, one confident, one uncaring. The only nervous people were the ones on the porch, watching.
“If he kills Clint,” Levon said, “we’re gonna have to kill him.”
“I’s ready,” Sammy said, despite his leg wound.
“He won’t kill Clint,” Clark Orwell said. “Clint’s the Gunsmith.”
Melanie said nothing, just kept a tight hold on her brother’s arm.
Clint and McCloud were close enough for Clint to watch the man’s eyes. At the last moment, though, he realized that this man’s eyes would reveal nothing. He had the demeanor to be a deadly man with a gun. Clint decided to watch his hand instead. The fingers. Sure enough, he made the right decision. There was a slight flicker of the fingers before the man went for his gun.
Clint drew smoothly and fired.
When the bullet entered Ben McCloud’s chest, he felt a moment of regret for the first time in his life. It had to do with Mandy Hollister. He’d never have that feeling again.
Then he was at peace . . .
Clint walked up to the body, kicked the gun away, and then leaned over to check the man’s pulse. He was dead.
He looked up at the people on the porch. Levon and Clark were supporting Sammy between them. The skinny black man had a leg wound. Clint looked around among the bodies in the street and spotted Willy, Sammy’s brother. A bullet had entered his head, probably killing him instantly.
Levon and Clark helped Sammy walk to where his brother lay and allowed him to sink to his knees next to him.
“Check these other bodies,” Clint instructed. “Let’s see if anyone’s got anything on them that will tell us who they were.”
He started checking bodies while Levon and Clark did the same. Melanie was still on the porch, with her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide as she watched. She’d never seen so many dead bodies in one place.
Clint found nothing to reveal who the dead men were. It was if they’d been told not to carry anything.
“I found something,” Clark Orwell called out.
“What?”
“You better come and have a look.”
Clint and Levon walked over to where Clark was standing over a young man who looked barely old enough to shave. None of them knew they were looking at the body of Ted Evans.
What they did see was the Hannibal Police Department badge the kid had pinned to his chest, inside his jacket.
FORTY-FOUR
Clint didn’t know there was a county sheriff until Sam Clemens told him.
“His name’s Armstrong,” Clemens said. “He’s not real happy about this Hannibal Police Department.”
“He’ll be happy about this,” Clint had said. “Set up a meeting . . .”
The day after the shooting Clint walked into police headquarters with Sheriff Lem Armstrong and three of his deputies. They walked right past the front desk, Clint leading the way to the chief’s office. Behind them marched Mark Twain, replete in his cream-colored suit, his hair and mustache perfect.
Clint pushed open the door of the chief’s office, startling the man as he sat behind his desk.
“What’s the meaning—” he started, but then saw the sheriff enter with his men, and then Twain.
Sheriff Armstrong tossed a badge onto the chief’s desk. It was stained with blood.
“What’s this?”
“You tell me, Chief,” the sheriff said. “We took this off one of your men who was killed yesterday. He and a bunch of men—your men, I’m betting—tried to kill John Taylor’s lawyer, Clark Orwell, and his sister, Melanie. Care to explain that?”
“Why would a bunch of my men try to kill the lawyer and his sister?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” the sheriff said.
“How do you even know they were my men?” Dent demanded. “Anybody could—”
“I recognized one of them myself, Paul,” Armstrong said. “Your boy Ben McCloud—Sergeant McCloud.”
“McCloud? Is he—”
“Dead,” Clint Adams said. “I killed him when he tried to draw on me.”
“I’m sure we’ll be able to identify the other men, Chief,” Armstrong said. “When we do, there’ll be an investigation into you and your whole department. That is, unless you want to cooperate now.”
Dent, feeling trapped, kept quiet, his mind racing. Could his politician friends help him with this, or was it time to look out for himself?
“We’re going to go through Sergeant McCloud’s things and see what we can find, Paul,” Armstrong said. “Last chance before I bring in the federal authorities.”
Dent wanted to talk, but nothing was coming out.
Armstrong looked at Clint and said, “I think we’re done here.”
They had both turned, preparing to follow the deputies out, when Chief Dent stood up abruptly and said sharply, “Wait!”
Armstrong turned back.
“Got something you wanna say, Paul?”
Dent hesitated, then sank back into his chair.
“Yeah,” he said, “I got a lot to say.”
The charges against John Taylor were dismissed that day. The sheriff and his deputies went to the home of Winston Hollister that afternoon and arrested him. They dragged him out of his house, with him demanding to know where his wife was.
That evening Sam Clemens had dinner with Clint Adams, who was planning to leave the next morning.
“Well, you did it,” Clemens said. “I know everyone said thanks, but I’ll add mine to it.” He raised his glass. “Thank you for coming at my request, and for everything you did.”
“Nothing would have happened if Chief Dent and the banker, Hollister, hadn’t started talking. And they’ll drag Hollister’s other supporters down with them.”
“Well,” Clemens said, “I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re politicians, Clint,” Clemens said. “They’ll have their asses covered. Hollister will certainly be tried for the Johnson girl’s death and Dent will be tried for corruption. The politicians? They’ll find themselves a new candidate.”
“Well,” Clint said, “that’s Hannibal’s problem, then. I won’t be here.”
“I won’t, either,” Clemens said. “My visit is over.”
“Yeah, but you’ll be back to see your mother,” Clint said. “I think I’ve had it with Hannibal. There are too many other places for me to go—starting tomorrow.”
“And tonight?”
Clint thought about Mandy, waiting up in his room.
“I’ll spend tonight quietly in my room.”
Watch for
OUTLAW’S RECKONING
309th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series
from Jove
Coming in September!
R. Roberts, Clint Adams, Detective