The Gunsmith 406

by JR Roberts

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “You earned it.”

  “That’s blood money,” Clint said. “You keep it if you want to.”

  “You bet I will,” she said. “What do we do now?”

  “First,” he said, “I bury these men.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “They tried to kill us.”

  “They’re men,” Clint said. “They have a right to a decent burial. I’ll handle it myself.”

  “I can help …” she said, reluctantly.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “You pulled that money from a dead man’s hand. You’ve had enough contact with them. Why don’t you put on a fresh pot of coffee?”

  “Are you going to dig four graves?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, “one shallow grave for the four of them, just so their bodies aren’t fed on. They deserve a decent burial, but not that decent.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When Clint came back from burying the four men he found that Terry had made a fresh pot of coffee, and some bacon.

  “I didn’t know,” she said, “if you wanted to eat anything after killing four men. I mean, I-I didn’t know if you could eat—”

  “One has nothing to do with the other,” he said, and added to himself, anymore. There was a time when he couldn’t eat after having to kill a man, but that was a long time ago. The truth of the matter was, he was hungry.

  They sat around the fire, drank coffee, ate bacon, and talked.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Do you believe that your father sent those men to kill us?” he asked. “To kill you?”

  She thought a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t put anything past my father, but I can’t imagine he has any reason to want me killed.”

  “But?”

  “But where else would they have gotten that much money?” she asked.

  “So you do believe it.”

  She hesitated, then said. “Yes.”

  “Do you love your father?”

  “No.” This time she answered without hesitation.

  “Do you think he loves you?”

  “No,” she said. “I think he thinks he owns me.”

  “So he can do anything he wants with what he owns, right?” Clint asked.

  “That’s the way he thinks.”

  Clint drank coffee, munched on some bacon.

  “I think,” he said, finally, “we’re going back.”

  “But he has other gunmen,” she said. “And he wants to kill me for some reason.”

  “Do you want to find out why?”

  “Well, yes, but … I don’t want to get killed while I’m doing it.”

  “I won’t let you get killed.”

  “And I don’t want you to get killed.”

  “Well,” he said, “I definitely won’t let that happen.”

  “What was your plan for taking me to Sacramento?” she asked.

  “I had a variety of thoughts on that,” he said. “Part of the way on horseback, part on stage, the rest by train, but now I don’t think you should go, at all.”

  “Well,” she said, “I never wanted to go in the first place.”

  “Okay,” he said, “we have to be totally together on this, Terry.”

  “I--I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “We are together.”

  “Are we?” he asked.

  “Clint,” she said, “you’re confusing me.”

  “I’ve been pretty confused this whole time, Terry,” he said. “Confused by your father, and confused by you. I get the feeling I’m a pawn in a game the two of you are playing. Maybe some kind of power play?”

  “How could I make a power play against him?”

  “I don’t know, Terry,” Clint said. “I’m asking … do I know everything?”

  She bit her lip and looked away. He thought he saw a tear in her eye, but she blinked quickly.

  Finally, she looked at him again.

  “He killed my mother.”

  “How?”

  “He beat her into the ground,” she said. “I don’t mean physically. He broke her spirit, broke her heart.”

  “Tell me.”

  “First,” she said, “do we have anything stronger than coffee …”

  Clint took a bottle of whiskey out of his saddlebags. It wasn’t really for drinking, but for wounds. He poured some into her coffee cup and handed it to her, didn’t have any himself.

  “Go on.”

  “Nothing much more to tell,” she said. “I was five, watched him berate her, humiliate her. I watched her cry. She loved me, but in the end she couldn’t take it anymore. She went to the barn and hung herself.”

  “Terry, are you sure—”

  “I found her.”

  “Okay, but someone else could have hung her up—”

  “I didn’t just find her,” Terry went on. “I walked into the barn just as she threw herself off the hay loft. I heard her neck break.”

  “Jesus …”

  “I blame him,” she said. “I always have.”

  “And what about him?” Clint asked. “Who did he blame?”

  “He never took an ounce of responsibility.”

  “Did he blame you?”

  “Who knows?” she said. “He raised me after that, but he never showed me any love.”

  Clint ate his last piece of bacon, washed it down with the last of the coffee.

  “I guess it’s not much of a leap from not loving someone to having them killed, then,” he said. “But still … what would be the reason to kill you now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I just turned twenty-one.”

  He rubbed his jaw.

  “That might have something to do with it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me, how did your father make his money?”

  “Most of it came from my mother’s family.”

  “So the money was hers.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when she died,” he asked, “do you know what the will said?”

  “No,” she said, “I never saw it.”

  “Well,” he said, “then we have a place to start.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stood up.

  “Let’s break camp and head back to Festus,” he said. “We’re going to get a look at that will.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Vance Restin was impatiently waiting in the Drinkwater Saloon when his foreman, Ray Owens, came in.

  “Any word?” Restin asked.

  “No,” Owens said, “none.”

  Restin slammed his fist down on the table.

  “Peterson was supposed to send word when it was done!” he growled.

  “Mr. Restin, the Gunsmith may have just killed them all,” Owens said.

  “There were four of them!”

  “I know, sir, but … he is the Gunsmith.”

  Restin poured himself a glass of whiskey and downed it, never offering his foreman a drink.

  “Ray,” he said, “you have to find me more gunmen.”

  “But why?” Owens asked. “If Adams gets Terry to Sacramento—”

  “If Adams killed them,” Restin said, “then he knows they came after him on my orders.”

  “How could he know that?”

  “One, he’s not an idiot,” Restin said, “and two, one of them might have told him before they died. If so, he’s coming back here. And if he’s doing that, I need more men.” He glared at Owens. “And why am I explaining this all to you? Get out and get me some more men!”

  “Yeah, sure, boss,” Owens said, and left the saloon.

  It was only about ten minutes later when the sheriff came walking in.

  “What do you want?” Restin asked, without giving the man a chance to speak.

  Unlike Owens, Sheriff Moreland pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “I don’t want you to make a big mist
ake, Vance.”

  “When have I ever made a mistake, Moreland?” Restin asked. “And when have I ever needed your advice about anything?”

  Moreland shrugged and said, “Well, maybe startin’ now.”

  Buck came walking over with a cold beer and started to set it down.

  “Don’t give the sheriff a beer,” Restin said. “He’s just leaving.”

  Moreland stood up and grabbed the beer from Buck before he could retreat. He sipped it, then handed it to the bartender.

  “Now I’m leavin’,” he said.

  Restin entered his house and shouted, “Everett!”

  His houseman came running out.

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to start wearing a gun.”

  “A gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “All the time.”

  The man stared at him. He was in his fifties, and guns were a thing of his past.

  “I know, I know,” Restin said, “that’s not why I hired you, but—”

  “Is this about Clint Adams?”

  “It is.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Probably.”

  “And Mr. Peterson and his men?”

  “They probably aren’t coming back.”

  “I see.”

  “Everett,” Restin said, “I hate to ask this of you—”

  “Forget it,” Everett said. “It’s been a while since I strapped on a gun, but I think I can find one.”

  “Good,” Restin said, “because I’m going to start wearing one in the house, too.”

  “And will you be replacing Mr. Peterson and his men?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll be in my office,” Restin said. “If Ray comes, send him in. And if anybody brings a telegram—”

  “—I’ll bring it right to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sir.”

  Restin walked down the hall to his office.

  Mike Everett went to his own room, to a chest he kept in a corner. Inside the chest were the items he held most important in his life. He opened the chest, dug down beneath some clothes, an old bedroll and blanket, saddlebags, and came up with something wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it and held it in his hand. The gun felt right, even though he hadn’t held it in years.

  He reached further down, came up with a leather shoulder rig and holster that had been made especially for this gun. When he strapped it on he stretched his arms out. The rig felt comfortable, natural, made him wonder why he had ever taken it off?

  He put a jacket on over the rig, left his room to go back to work.

  Chapter Forty

  Clint and Terry had been riding for about three days when Peterson and his men caught up to them, but it took only two days for them to get back.

  On the outskirts of Festus, Clint reined Eclipse in, and Terry followed his example with her mare.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “I don’t want your father to know we’re here,” he said, “even though I think he knows we’re coming.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “He’s sure to have made arrangements with Peterson to notify him when the job was done,” Clint said. “When he doesn’t hear from him after a few days, he’ll figure he and his men are dead.”

  “So?”

  “Once he thinks they failed, and that I killed them, he’ll be waiting for me to come back for him.”

  “But he has plenty of men.”

  “And he’ll probably hire some more to replace Peterson and his crew,” Clint said.

  “So what do you want to do? Go to the ranch?”

  “No,” Clint said, “that’d be riding into the lion’s den. I’m sure he’s got men watching for me.”

  “What about me?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I could ride into the ranch,” she said. “Nobody’s going to stop me.”

  “Terry, your father’s already tried to have you killed once,” Clint reminded her. “I know that, Clint,” she said, “but would he kill me right there at the ranch? If so, why didn’t he just do it before? Why send me to Sacramento to have me killed on the trail? Because he won’t do it at home.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I could ride in and tell him that you’re coming for him,” she said. “That would scare him.”

  “Wait,” he said, “let me think about this. Maybe there’s another message I could send him.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Look, we need a place to hole up. Any ideas?”

  “Actually, yes,” she said, smiling, “I do have one idea. Follow me.”

  When Ray Owens knocked on Restin’s door the rancher looked up and snapped, “Well, come on in. Are you waiting for a special invitation?”

  “Uh, no, boss.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “I hired half a dozen guns,” Owens said.

  “Are they good?”

  “Best I could find in town,” Owens said. “Do we have time for me to look out of town?”

  “I don’t know,” Restin said. “Send some telegrams and see what you can find.”

  “Yes, sir. Uh, do you want to meet the new men?”

  “No, I don’t want to meet them,” Restin said, “I just want them to keep me alive. Position them around the house.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And set up a watch. I want the road observed at all times.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And the back trail.”

  “Yessir.”

  “So get out and get it done!”

  “Right, boss.”

  As Owens left, Restin sat back in his chair and rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. Things were not going according to plan, at all.

  Terry took Clint to a house standing alone in a meadow—or barely standing. It was obvious no one had lived there for a long time, and it was on the verge of falling down.

  “What’s this place?” he asked.

  “This is the house I was born in.”

  Clint didn’t know what to say to that.

  “My father would never dream of coming here,” she said. “He hates it. It reminds him that he had no money and had to depend on my mother’s in the beginning.”

  They dismounted in front of the house. Close up it seemed a bit sturdier than Clint had first thought.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “it won’t cave in on us.”

  They went through the front door and entered the dusty interior. There was no furniture, but they’d be able to put their bedrolls down with no problem.

  “Okay,” he said, “this will do for a while.”

  “What do you mean for a while?” she asked.

  “Couple of days, maybe.”

  “Why that long?”

  “Your father’s going to be waiting for us to come back,” Clint said. “I’m thinking we let him wait a while longer, let him get nervous.”

  “But in the end,” she asked, “how will you get to him?”

  “I think,” Clint said, “we’ll have to get him to come to us.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  They built a fire inside the house, in the center of the floor, after Clint took the horses around back. Clint prepared coffee, bacon and beans and they sat on the floor and ate.

  “How many nights are we going to spend here?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “One or two. After we eat I’m going to slip into town to see the sheriff.”

  “Do you trust him?” she asked. “I’m sure he works for my father.”

  “Well, if I was going to trust anyone it would be the lawman in town,” Clint said. “Do you have a better idea?”

  ”What do you want to do?”

  “I need to talk to someone who knows something about your father,” Clint said. “Maybe they can help me lure him away from his house, and his men.”


  “I wouldn’t trust the sheriff.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Buck.”

  “The bartender at the Drinkwater?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would I trust him? He works for your father, too.”

  “Not because he wants to,” she said. “Buck used to own the Drinkwater. My father made him sell, then kept him on as a bartender. Buck doesn’t like my father. If you can trust anyone in town, it’s Buck.”

  “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll talk to Buck.”

  After they finished eating she went out back with him and watched while he mounted Eclipse.

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” she asked.

  “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t leave. I’ll bring some real food when I come back.”

  “And what if someone comes along?”

  He reached into his saddlebag, came out with the little Colt New Line he used as a hideout gun.

  “Take this, and use it if you have to,” he said.

  She accepted the gun. He remembered how her hands were shaking when she held the rifle on the two gunmen. He had no idea if she would have been able to shoot them or not.

  “Terry,” he asked, “have you ever shot anyone?”

  She hesitated, then said, “No … but there’s always a first time, right?”

  He nodded, picked up Eclipse’s reins.

  “Be careful,” she said, “and don’t forget that real food.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

  She watched him ride off, then went back into the little house where she had been born.

  Clint knew there was little chance of riding into town on Eclipse and going unnoticed. Instead, he dismounted several hundred yards away and walked the horse into town, but stayed off the main streets. Eventually, he found his way to the back door of the Drinkwater Saloon.

  “Just stay right here, fella,” he said to Eclipse, dropping the horse’s reins to the ground. “I’ll be right back.”

  He tried the back door, found it locked. He tried to force it, but it was solid. He’d have to go in the front.

  Using the alley alongside the building he made his way to the front. Peering out, he waited until he was fairly sure he wouldn’t be seen, then moved quickly to the batwing doors. One glance told him the place was empty, and he slipped inside.