“Then what?” Tibbs asked.
“Then start shootin’,” Steiger said. “Don’t stop until the Gunsmith is lying on the ground, dead.”
“Okay,” Jerome said.
“But remember,” Steiger said, “don’t hit the bull. You hit the bull, then we got nothin’.”
“We could go back, get the money that he paid,” Tibbs said.
“You wanna ride into that ranch, with all them hands there?” Steiger asked. “Be my guest. Me, I’m gonna get my money for this bull.”
“And then split it with Sheriff Lane?” Jerome asked.
“Naw,” Steiger said, “he ain’t been out here with us, ridin’ around in this dust all this time. And he ain’t gonna face the Gunsmith’s gun. Naw, we ain’t gonna split it with the lawman.” In fact, Steiger thought, he wasn’t going to split it with anyone.
They could see the wagon up ahead, but they were going to circle around and wait for them. Wait for them in a likely spot. The only way to be sure the Gunsmith was dead was to ambush him.
Men like that—like Adams, and Hickok, and Jesse James—you had to shoot in the back.
* * *
Carlos Montero sat his horse, looking ahead at the wagon, and the three men following it.
“Who are they?” Quentin asked. He had his reins in one hand, his rifle in the other. A big man, his big hands were no use for firing a pistol, but he was a dead shot with a rifle.
“I do not know,” Montero said. “But we better watch them carefully. They might do our job for us.”
“If I don’t use my rifle,” Quentin said, “I still get paid, right?”
“Oh, yes,” Montero said, “you will be paid.” He turned in his saddle, looked at Montgomery and Volquez. “We will watch awhile,” he said.
They both shrugged. They didn’t care as long as they got paid, too.
FORTY-ONE
The ambush came as expected, which, of course, meant it wasn’t much of an ambush. But Steiger had messed this up from the beginning, with Jerome and Tibbs going along.
They sprang up from both sides, two from an old dried creek bed on Clint’s side, one from a depression on Mano’s side.
Mano took what Clint said about not waiting for him to fire to heart. His gun was in his hand before he knew it, but he rushed his first shot and missed.
Jerome was on Mano’s side, and he rushed the young man and pulled him from his saddle before Mano could fire again.
Providence interceded on Clint’s side. As Steiger and Tibbs rushed him, he drew and fired. His first shot hit Tibbs in the chest. But just as he fired his second shot, the cart’s right wheel struck a rock. It jerked him just enough for his second shot to miss, and then Steiger was on him, pulling him from his seat . . .
* * *
“There,” Montero said. “They have made their move. Quentin, get ready.”
“Who?”
“Adams,” Montero said. “Take the shot when you can.”
Quentin shouldered the rifle.
* * *
Mano hit the ground hard, the air rushing from his lungs. Despite the fact he couldn’t breathe, though, he knew he had to move. He scrambled away from Jerome, realizing that, somehow, he’d held on to his gun.
Jerome hadn’t drawn his gun yet, but did so as Mano crawled away from him. The two men fired at the same time . . .
* * *
Clint also hit the ground hard, but managed to take the brunt of the fall on his left shoulder. He also held on to his gun, though with him it was no accident. He knew he was going to hit the ground hard, and he made sure he gripped his gun tightly.
Steiger had his gun in one hand when he grabbed Clint with the other. He meant to fire, but in pulling Clint from the cart, he lost his footing, slipped down to one knee. He put his left hand out to catch himself, while holding on to his gun with his right.
Both men ended up looking right at each other, each holding their guns, but pointed away.
The moment froze.
“You don’t want to do this,” Clint told him.
“At this point,” Steiger said, “I got no other choice.”
They both brought their guns around.
* * *
Just above them, on a rise, Quentin took his shot.
FORTY-TWO
When Katerina came upon Clint and Mano lying in the dirt with three other men, she thought they were all dead.
She dismounted and hurried to Mano first. Immediately, she saw that he was breathing, although he was bleeding from a wound in his side.
“Mano . . .” she said, shaking him.
* * *
Clint awoke when he heard a girl’s voice. He put his hand to his head, came away with blood. He’d been shot in the head, but he didn’t know how badly.
He got to his feet, survived a moment of dizziness, then saw Katerina crouching over Mano.
“Katerina,” he said.
She turned and looked at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to warn you,” she said. “I heard Montero and Antonia talking. She was telling him to steal the bull.”
“Antonia?”
“Sí,” she said, “I knew she did not love my father. She wants to sell the bull.”
Clint looked around. The cart and team were gone, with the bull, and with their horses. His head was pounding, blood was seeping down the side of his head. He took a bandanna from his pocket and held it to his head.
“What happened here?” she asked.
“These three jumped us,” he said, “but I’d swear . . .”
“What?”
He walked to all three men, checked them, and found them dead. Then he stood over Steiger and stared down at him.
“What is it?” she asked again.
“I could swear this one fired and missed,” he said. “So how did I get this head wound?”
“Mano is shot,” she said.
Clint hurried over to Mano and crouched on the other side of him. He examined the wound.
“It went through,” he said. “It’s not bad. In fact, he’s coming around.”
“Wha—what happened?” Mano asked. “Ow! That hurts.”
“It should,” Clint said. “You got shot.”
“Where?”
“In the side.” Clint took the bandanna from Mano’s neck, wadded it up, and put it inside his shirt, over the wound.
“Katerina?” Mano said, looking at her.
“Sí, mi amor,” she said, touching his face.
“You’ll have to stay with him,” Clint said.
“Where are you going?” Mano asked.
“I’ve got to track the cart,” Clint said. “I have to get back that bull, not to mention my horse.” He looked at Katerina. “I’ll have to take your horse. I’ll leave you the water, and come back.”
“What if you do not come back?” she asked.
“I will.”
He stood up, took the canteen from her saddle, and set it down next to her.
“You do not have to track them,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I know where they went. I heard them talking.”
“Where?”
“The mission.”
“Where’s the mission, and what’s there?”
“I will tell you . . .”
* * *
When Clint rode up to the mission two hours later, he saw the tracks from the cart’s wheels. They looked like they led right to the church.
He glanced around, didn’t see anyone, but he heard a faint mixture of horses whinnying and men conversing inside the church. He dismounted, grabbed Katerina’s rifle from her scabbard, then slapped the horse to send him trotting away.
He ran to the side of the
adobe building, moved toward a window. When he looked inside, he saw them—Antonia, Montero, and what appeared to be a priest. And yes, the bull and the cart were inside. The church was in disrepair and he could see a hole in the wall on the other side, obviously where they had driven the cart in.
He flattened himself against the wall and closed his eyes against the momentary surge of pain. He had tied the bandanna around his head and put his hat over it. The bleeding had stopped, but he still had a headache.
There were more voices than the ones coming from the church. Someone was behind the building, laughing. He moved along the wall until he reached the back, then peered around. Four men, two of them well over six feet, three wearing guns and one—one of the big men—holding a rifle. They were standing in front of a corral, passing around a bottle of whiskey and having a grand old time. Inside the corral, still saddled, were their horses, as well as Eclipse and Mano’s horse.
“That was a hell of a shot, amigo,” one of them said to the big man with the rifle.
“I didn’t kill him, though,” the man said. “Montero should have let me kill him.”
“I think the señora would not let him,” another man said. “I think she was sweet on the gringo.”
“Still shoulda killed him,” the big man said.
Clint thought he remembered a third shot before he blacked out. Must have been this man’s rifle he’d heard.
Seven. He counted seven, four outside, three inside. Only he probably didn’t have to worry about Antonia, or the priest. Only Montero. That meant killing these four took priority. Once they were handled, there was only Montero.
And only one way to do it.
Surprise.
He set the rifle down against the wall, stepped out into the open, right hand down by his gun.
“Hey, amigos!” he called.
The four men looked at him and stopped laughing—then they went for their guns, the whiskey bottle dropping from one man’s hand.
Clint drew and fired four times, so swiftly that the last shot had struck its target before the whiskey bottle hit the ground and shattered . . .
* * *
“What was that?” Antonia said.
“Shots,” Padre Pete said. “You should have killed Adams.”
“It can’t be him,” Montero said.
“Can’t it?”
Montero gave Antonia a stony look.
“You should have killed him,” she said.
“You told me not to.”
“I told you to get the bull, no matter what you had to do.”
“And I did.”
“All right,” Padre Pete said. “Señora, you stay here while Carlos and I go out and handle Adams.”
“Handle him?”
Padre Pete swept his robes back, exposing two holstered, pearl-handled colts on his hips.
“Handle,” he said.
FORTY-THREE
Clint grabbed his rifle, walked to the four fallen men to make sure they were dead. They were. Quickly, he reloaded his pistol, just in time to see the two men step from the church through the hole in the wall. One was Montero, the other the priest—who was wearing two guns.
“Montero,” Clint said. “Where is Antonia?”
“She is inside, señor,” Montero said. “She will stay there until we have dealt with you.”
“Dealt with me?” Clint asked. “You and the priest?”
“Padre Pete,” the priest said. “You are Clint Adams?”
“I am.”
“A pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m not used to seeing gun-toting priests,” Clint said.
“I wasn’t always a priest,” Pete said. “We all have pasts, Adams. Mine was . . . unsavory, until I came here and discovered . . . God.”
“And kept your guns.”
Pete shrugged.
“Some habits die hard.”
“But you’re not really an ordained priest, are you?” Clint asked.
“Well, no, not technically.”
“Good,” Clint said. “I’ve never killed a priest before, and I don’t want to start now.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Look, Father—”
“Padre,” he said, “Padre Pete.”
“Padre, I don’t know what your part is in this—”
“We—you, me, Carlos here—have all fallen under Antonia’s spell at one time or another. We have that in common.”
“And I guess some of you are still under her spell,” Clint said.
“I guess we are.”
“Well,” Clint said, “you and I don’t have that in common. I’ve come for the bull.”
“You have to go through us to get it,” Pete said.
Clint indicated the four dead men and said, “I guess it’s a little too late for me to talk you out of it.”
“Oh, yes,” Pete said. “Too late.”
“Carlos?” Clint asked.
“Too late, señor,” Montero said, and went for his gun.
* * *
Antonia heard the shots, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and waited, holding her breath. When Clint Adams came through the hole in the wall, she let her breath out.
“We better get going, Antonia,” he said.
She nodded.
* * *
Clint was driving the cart out of Mission, with Antonia next to him, and Eclipse and Mano’s horse tied to the back, when he saw the rurales riding in, Captain Ortiz at the head of the column.
“Oh, great,” Clint muttered.
“Do not worry,” she said wearily.
He looked at her, then said, “You mean . . . him, too?”
“Antonia,” Captain Ortiz said, reining in. “You are looking as lovely as ever.”
Clint held his breath. If Ortiz was still under Antonia’s spell, she could have the man arrest him. There was no way he could fight the entire company of rurales.
“Gracias, Capitán.”
“And Mr. Adams,” Ortiz said, “where are you off to now?”
“We are taking this bull to my husband, Capitán,” Antonia said.
Ortiz looked past them, but all the bodies were hidden in the church.
“Well,” he said, “do not let me stop you.” He waved to his men. “Ándale.”
The column went around them.
“You could have used them against me.”
“No,” she said, “I would rather go back to Don Pablo.”
“We better put as much distance between us and here before they find the bodies in the church,” Clint said, snapping the reins.
FORTY-FOUR
WYOMING
Clint rode onto Bill Werter’s spread a month and a half after he had left. Werter came out of his house and walked around the cart, peering in.
“Wow,” he said, “he’s a monster.”
“Yeah, he is,” Clint said, dropping down from the cart.
Elizabeth came out to look as well.
“Did you have adventures?” she asked him.
“Any trouble?” Werter asked.
Clint touched his hat, which was hiding his head wound.
After he and Antonia had returned to the rancho, they sent men out to retrieve Katerina and Mano, and sent for a doctor to treat their wounds. Then he had left, and Mano had stayed, with Katerina looking after him and Don Pablo hovering over them. The rurales had not come to the rancho, even though they must have discovered all the bodies. Don Pablo had enough influence to scare them away.
But why tell Werter all of that? Or maybe just wait ’til later. For now he just said, “Everything went smoothly. Not a hitch.”
“Really?” Elizabeth asked, looking disappointed. “No adventures?”
Werter came over and slapped Clint on the
back.
“Thanks for delivering El Duque, Clint, but why don’t you just make up some kind of story to satisfy her?”
Clint thought for a moment, then said, “I can probably do that.”
Watch for
THE PINKERTON JOB
378th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series
from Jove
Coming in June!
The Legend of El Duque Page 11