The Gunsmith 406

by JR Roberts

  The bartender looked up from the bar and regarded Clint quizzically as he approached.

  “I thought you were gone,” the man said.

  “I was,” Clint said. “I’m back now.”

  “So soon? Where’d you drop Terry off?”

  “I didn’t,” Clint said. “Her father sent Peterson and his three partners to kill me … and her.”

  “What?”

  “Can we lock the doors?”

  “Sure.” Buck came around the bar, walked to the door closed them and locked them, then went back around behind the bar.

  “Beer?” he asked.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Buck set a cold mug in front of him.

  “Still got that shotgun under the bar?”

  “Yeah,” Buck said. “You want it?”

  “No,” Clint said. “Terry says if I have to trust anybody in town, it should be you.”

  “That’s probably because she knows I don’t like her father,” Buck said. “What do you need? And what do you mean he tried to have her killed? His own daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus,” Buck said. “That’s sick.”

  “You have any idea why he’d want to do that?”

  “Me? No,” Buck said. “I don’t know the guy. I just know I don’t like him.”

  “So you don’t know anything about his will, then?” Clint asked.

  “No.”

  “Never heard him talk about it in here?”

  “Maybe,” Buck said, “but nothing specific. Why?”

  “I’m thinking the only reason he’d want to kill his daughter must have something to do with his will. Or his wife’s will.”

  “His wife?” Buck asked. “She died when Terry was little.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “Five.”

  “What do you want from me?” Buck asked.

  “I might need to get him away from his ranch,” Clint said, “away from his men.”

  “He always has men with him. Maybe more now that you killed Peterson and the others. Does he know that, by the way?”

  “He’s probably guessed by now. How often does he come here?”

  “A few times a week.”

  “To see how the business is going?”

  “What business?” Buck asked. “Nobody comes here, and that’s the way he likes it. This place is just for him.”

  “To drink?”

  “To drink and do business.”

  “But you don’t know anything about his business.”

  Buck shook his head. “I hear things, but I don’t understand them.”

  “What if you sent him a message that you had to see him?” Clint asked. “Would he come?”

  Buck shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.”

  “Would you be willing to do it?”

  “I suppose,” Buck said, “if it would help you. But … isn’t it the wills you want to see? His and his wife’s?”

  “Yes, but he’d never—”

  “Why don’t you go and see his lawyer?”

  “I don’t know—do you know who his lawyer is?”

  “I do know that much,” Buck said. “It used to be old Mr. Henderson, bur he died a few years back.”

  “Did someone take over his practice?” Clint asked.

  “Not really,” Buck said. “He was an old man, his practice had fallen off. Restin was one of his last clients.”

  “So what did Restin do? Get a lawyer from somewhere like San Francisco?”

  “No,” Buck said, “he hired a new lawyer right here in town.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Clint said. “I just need to go to that lawyer and get a look at Terry’s mother’s will.”

  “You think he’ll show it to you?”

  “I don’t think I’ll give him a choice,” Clint said. “All I need from you is his name.”

  “Sure, I understood that much,” Buck said. “The lawyer’s name is Eugene Barkley.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Eugene Barkley.

  Why did that not surprise Clint?

  Sheriff Moreland had recommended Barkley to Clint, recommended Vance Restin’s lawyer to fight the charges Vance Restin had brought against him. Terry had been right not to trust Moreland.

  Clint left Buck, told him that Eclipse was behind the Drinkwater.

  “I’ll look after him,” Buck said. “Do what you gotta do, Adams.”

  “Thanks.”

  He left the saloon and walked to the lawyer’s office, hoping to find him there.

  He entered the office without knocking and the young lawyer looked up from his desk.

  “Why do I have a feeling this visit is not good news?” Barkley asked.

  “You’re Vance Restin’s lawyer.”

  “You’re not supposed to know that,” Barkley said.

  “But now that I do …”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to see a copy of Terry Restin’s mother’s will.”

  “That old thing?” Barkley asked. “I don’t even think I can find a copy—”

  “I know,” Clint said, “you keep a messy office, but I have a feeling you know exactly where it is.”

  Now Barkley frowned.

  “If I show you that, I could lose my biggest client.”

  “If you don’t show it to me,” Clint told him, “you could lose a lot more.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Adams?”

  “It certainly is, Mr. Barkley.”

  “Can I ask why you want to see it?”

  “Vance Restin sent four gunmen to kill me, and his daughter,” Clint said. “I have a feeling that will has the answer to why.”

  “Kill his own daughter?” Barkley said. “Well, that’s – that’s just ridiculous.”

  “Nevertheless, I need to see that will,” Clint said, “now!”

  Barkley looked past Clint at the door to the office.

  “No one’s coming to help you, Eugene,” Clint said, “and you’ll never make it past me to the door.”

  Barkley took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Well,” he said, finally, “I suppose if Restin really did try to have his daughter killed, we should know why.”

  “You don’t already know?”

  “I’ll find that will.”

  Barkley sat quietly behind his desk while Clint read Terry’s mother’s will.

  “There was a lot of money in her family,” he said.

  “Yes,” the lawyer said.

  “And her father controls it … until she’s twenty-one.”

  “Right, again.”

  Clint lowered the will and stared at the lawyer.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Barkley said.

  “And what are you thinking?” Clint said.

  Barkley sighed and said, “I’m thinking I may be losing my best client.”

  “I just can’t believe a man would have his own daughter killed, even for millions of dollars.”

  “You don’t know how much Vance Restin needs that money,” Barkley said.

  “Needs it? You mean, he’s broke?”

  “No,” Barkley said, “I just mean he needs to have money … needs to be rich.”

  “Needs it enough to kill his own daughter?”

  Barley spread his arms and said, “You tell me.”

  Clint put the will down on the young man’s desk, and stood up.

  “You better tell me right now how loyal you are to Restin, Eugene,” he said.

  “Well, he’s a client – but so are you.”

  “Oh yeah,” Clint said. “I’m a client all of you were planning to keep in jail if I didn’t take Restin’s job.”

  “All of us?”

  “You, Restin, the sheriff.”

  “You think we were all working together—”

  “No,” Clint said, “I think you and Moreland were working for Restin … period.”

  “Mr. Adams—”

  “Eugene,” Clint said, “you need
to stay in your office. I don’t want you to tell Restin I was here.”

  “Are you asking me, or …”

  “I’m telling,” Clint said. “And I won’t take it kindly if you cross me.”

  Nervously, the young lawyer said, “So you’re … threatening me?”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Clint said, “let’s say I’m threatening you.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Clint decided not to stop in and see the sheriff. He certainly couldn’t trust that Moreland would not go right to Restin and tell him that he was back. The lawman wouldn’t scare as much as the lawyer did.

  He stopped into a small café for some food, wrapped it up and took it back to the Drinkwater with him.

  “How did it go?” Buck asked. The front door was open again. Clint didn’t bother telling him to lock it, this time.

  “Just like I thought,” Clint said. “She’s supposed to get her mother’s money when she turns twenty-one, which she recently did.”

  “You’d think he would’ve killed her before that,” Buck said.

  “That’s what I thought,” Clint said. “His lawyer’s been holding up the transfer as long as he can. I think it took a while for Restin to finally make his decision.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to talk to Terry and see what she wants to do,” Clint said. “After all, the money’s hers.”

  “Well, whatever happens,” Buck said, “I’m with you. I’d kinda like to get my place back.”

  “We’ll work on that, Buck,” Clint promised.

  He rode back out to the small house and found, to his relief, that Terry had listened to him and stayed put.

  “What’d you bring?” she asked, anxiously.

  “Fried chicken.”

  “Ooh,” she said, “gimme.”

  He handed her the wrapped package and she tore into it and started on a chicken leg.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “Give me a wing.”

  She passed it over to him and they sat on the floor and ate.

  “What did you find out?”

  She listened intently as he explained everything he’d learned from Buck, and then from Eugene Barkley after reading the will.

  When he was done she sat there, chewing, looking slightly stunned.

  “I never knew,” she said. “I never knew my mother left the money to me.”

  “Your father didn’t want you to know,” he said. “That much is obvious.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, “he really does want me dead, doesn’t he?”

  He reached out and touched her hand. This was obviously the moment that fact had become very real for her.

  “What do I do?” she asked.

  “We’ll have to make sure,” he said, “he never gets the chance to do it again.”

  “You mean … kill him first? Oh Clint, I may not love him, but I don’t think I can—”

  “No,” Clint said, “not that. We have to prove he tried to have you killed.”

  “You mean … legally?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And send him to jail?”

  “Can you do that?”

  She firmed her jaw and said, “Oh yes, I can do that. I can do that for my mother.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “why don’t we do it for your mother, and do it for you, too, while we’re at it?”

  He grabbed a chicken leg and, in the absence of glasses, they clinked legs as she said, “Agreed.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Vance Restin came out onto his front porch, wearing a gun on his hip. Two men turned to face him. Both wore guns on their own hips in worn holsters. Restin preferred to employ men whose guns looked used, rather than men with new guns and pristine leather holsters.

  “You’re two of the new men?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What are your names?”

  “Heath,” one of them said, “and this is Stiller.”

  “You men know how to use those guns?”

  “We do, sir,” Stiller said. Both men were in their late thirties, with several days of stubble on their faces.

  “You’ve killed men before?”

  The two men exchanged a glance and then Heath said, “That’s pretty much our job.”

  “You’ve heard of the Gunsmith?”

  “We sure have.”

  “Not afraid to go up against him?”

  “Lookin’ forward to it,” Heath said.

  “Either of you ever seen him before?”

  “I have,” Heath said.

  “Good,” Restin said, “then you’ll recognize him.” He turned to go back inside, then stopped and turned back. “He won’t know you, will he?”

  “Naw,” Heath said, “he never heard of us.”

  “That’s good. What about the other new men?”

  “Everybody knows how to shoot, Mr. Restin,” Heath said.

  “And the more you pay,” Stiller said, with a grin, “the better we shoot.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Restin said.

  “Mr. Restin,” Heath said, as the rancher started for the door, again.

  “Yes?”

  “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so,” the man said, “Adams will never come here.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s no fool,” Heath said. “You have too many men.”

  “You’re all here to keep me alive.”

  “Yeah, but we could do that by killin’ him,” Stiller said. “And we can’t kill him if he don’t come here.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We think we should go and find him,” Heath said, “track him down.”

  “Where would you start?”

  “In town.”

  “Why would he go to town?” Restin asked.

  “Because,” Heath said, “he wouldn’t come here.”

  Restin turned to squarely face the men.

  “Why do I think you men weren’t out here on the porch by accident?”

  “We weren’t,” Heath said. “We were waitin’ for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Stiller and I are the best guns you’ve got,” Heath said. “Keep the others here and let us go and find Adams.”

  “We’ll kill him for you,” Stiller said.

  “Just the two of you?”

  “We have some other … friends,” Heath said.

  “I sent four men after him,” Restin said, “and they never came back.”

  “We’re six,” Stiller said, “and we’re better than they were.”

  Restin thought a moment.

  “If you men kill Adams,” he said, “I’ll triple what you were promised.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Restin,” Heath said, “but before we go we’ll needed a little more information from you.”

  “Whatever you need,” Restin said, “just ask.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “Keep that fire low,” Clint told Terry. “We don’t want the light to be seen.”

  “I told you,” she said, “my father would never come here.”

  “Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Why don’t we cover the windows?” she asked.

  “With what?”

  “Good point.”

  They had eaten and finished the coffee. The only reason to keep the fire at all was a little warmth.

  “Why don’t we just put it out and depend on the blankets?” she suggested.

  “Would you be warm enough?”

  She smiled and said, “If we were sharing the same blanket, yes.”

  “Well,” he said, “that is an idea.”

  He stomped out the fire, and then they wrapped themselves together in one blanket.

  When she started moving her hands around beneath the blanket he said, “Behave yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this isn’t the time or the place,” he said. “Besides, you’re too young.”

  “That didn’
t seem to bother you on the trail.”

  “I didn’t know how young you were, then.”

  “I’m twenty-one, Clint,” she said. “I’m a woman.” She kissed his neck, slid her hand inside his shirt.

  “Terry …”

  “Come on, Clint,” she said, her breath hot in his ear. “What else do we have to do?”

  She undid the buttons on her shirt and pulled his hand inside. He found her nipple, squeezed it with his thumb and forefinger. She caught her breath.

  She was right. What else did they have to do?

  He kissed her, her mouth eager, her tongue active, her hands undoing his shirt and his belt. He slipped off his gunbelt, set it on the floor close by.

  They unwrapped themselves from the blanket, instead spread it on the floor, then undressed each other.

  “Wait,” she said, when he reached for her. She got on her hands and knees, presented her smooth butt to him and said, “Like this.”

  “Oh,” he said, “you’re a bad girl.”

  “I’ve heard about it,” she said, “but I’ve never done it. I want to do it with you.”

  “For this you need to be wet,” he said, reaching between her thighs. She was wet, but as he slid his fingers into her vagina, she became even more so. He wet his fingers thoroughly, causing her to gasp, then spread the cheek of her ass and wet her anus as much as he could. When he slid his middle finger into her she tensed.

  “You have to relax,” he said. “You have to be very relaxed.”

  “I – I can’t,” she said.

  “You said you wanted it.”

  “I do,” she said. “I don’t mean – what I mean is I’m too excited to relax.”

  He used his hand on her again, getting it wet and slick from her pussy, then applying it to her tender butthole.

  “Try,” he said.

  He positioned himself behind her, pressed the head of his cock to her slick anus, and pushed slowly.

  “Oh,” she said, “oh … oh … yesssss …”

  Later she snuggled up against him for more warmth.

  “Do you have a plan, yet?”

  “Your father will have his ranch too well guarded,” Clint said. “We’ve got to get him away from there.”