“Yes?”
“My name’s Clint Adams. I need to talk—”
“Adams? The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
“What brings you to my town, Mr. Adams?”
“Well, three men tried to ambush me a few miles out. They managed to wound my horse.”
“Not you?”
“No,” Clint said, “I managed to escape with a few bumps and bruises.”
“And your horse?”
“I left him with the vet.”
“Doc Martin got called away this mornin’.”
“I know,” Clint said. “His daughter is treating the wound.”
“Andrea,” Ingram said. “She’s capable. Well, come into my office and I’ll take a report.”
“You looked like you were on your way somewhere,” Clint said.
“That’s okay,” Ingram said. “I want to hear your story. And in the office, I can offer you some coffee.”
“Sounds good to me,” Clint said, following the man back to his office.
FOUR
The office reflected the man, in that it was very clean. So were the coffee mugs the sheriff filled. He handed one to Clint and then sat behind his desk. There was nothing on top of it but a pencil.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
Clint described the encounter to the lawman, who listened without interruption. Ingram was in his forties, seemed—in the short time Clint had known him, of course—to be competent enough. He wondered what Andrea Martin had against the man.
“Well,” Ingram said when Clint was done, “I guess the thing to do is send a telegram to the sheriff in Wells with a description of these men. I’ll also pass the description around town, and give it to my deputies.”
“How many deputies do you have?”
“Two,” Ingram said, “young men I’m showin’ the ropes to. They’ll be good lawmen with some experience.”
“Well, I just want you to know I’ll be keeping my eyes out for those men while I’m here.”
“And how long do you think that’ll be, Mr. Adams?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “I guess the vet will tell me that.”
“I hope if you see the two men,” Ingram said, “you’ll let me know, instead of bracing them yourself.”
“I guess we’ll have to see about that, Sheriff,” Clint said. “It’ll depend on the circumstances.”
“Fair enough.”
Clint put his coffee mug down on the desk and stood up.
“Got a suggestion for a hotel?” he asked.
“We got two, and there’s not much difference between them,” Ingram said. “Clean beds.”
“Okay, thanks. Will you let me know when you’ve sent that telegram?”
“Sure will.”
“I’m going to go and check on my horse before I get a hotel room.”
“I’ll find you,” Ingram promised.
Clint nodded his thanks and left the office.
• • •
When he got back to the vet’s, he started to walk to the front door, then decided to go around to the side instead. There was a window on the door, and he could see Andrea Martin inside, tending to Eclipse, who was standing calmly and—it seemed to Clint—leaning into her touch.
He knocked on the door.
Her head jerked in surprise, her eyes wide, then she saw him and relaxed. She walked to the door and unlocked it.
“Sorry if I startled you,” Clint said.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I was concentrating on your horse.”
“How’s he doing?”
“The wound wasn’t bad,” she said. “I’m glad you were careful, though, and walked him into town.”
“I’d never take chances with him,” Clint assured her.
She walked back to the horse and he followed. She’d obviously applied a poltice to the wound, packing it tightly.
“We’ll leave that on until tomorrow and then have a look,” she said.
“Suits me,” Clint said. “I’ll be in town for a while anyway. I’ve got some business to attend to.”
“Finding the men who tried to kill you?”
“Exactly.”
“Was the sheriff any help?”
“He was, actually.”
“Hmm,” was all she said.
“How long has he been sheriff here?”
“About two years,” she said. “He’s serving his second term.”
“What have you got against him?”
“That story is too long,” she said, “and I don’t know you well enough to tell you.”
“Well, maybe you could get to know me better if you accompanied me to supper tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I have to stay here until my father comes back. But thank you for the offer.”
She struck him as the type of woman who’d had some problems with men, maybe even been hurt—maybe recently by Sheriff Ingram, who was a handsome man.
“Well,” he said, touching Eclipse’s nose, “I’ll go and get myself a hotel room, and then something to eat.”
“Try the Harvest House Hotel,” she said.
“The sheriff said there wasn’t much difference between the hotels.”
“Hmm,” she said again, “well, the Harvest House has a very good dining room.”
“Thanks for the tip,” he said. “I’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Come by in the morning,” she said. “My father should be back by then, and he’ll take a look at Eclipse just to be sure I didn’t miss anything.”
“I doubt you did,” he said, “but I appreciate the care.”
She let him out, said good night, and locked the door behind him.
FIVE
Clint checked into the Harvest House Hotel, found the room clean, the bed adequate. He left his saddlebags and rifle in the room and went down to the dining room.
His steak and vegetables were well cooked, and the coffee was to his liking. Andrea Martin had steered him to the right hotel.
He was starting in on a slice of apple pie when the sheriff appeared.
“Have a seat, Sherriff,” Clint said. “Coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” the lawman said. He sat and poured a cup. “This hotel suit you?”
“It’s fine,” Clint said. “Actually, it was Miss Martin who sent me over here.”
“Ah,” Ingram said. “I don’t suppose she had anything good to say about me.”
“As a matter of fact, no.”
Ingram winced.
“She say anything bad?”
“Not really,” Clint said. “Didn’t have much to say, actually. But I get the feeling there’s . . . history there.”
“There is, but that’s not important,” he said. “I sent that telegram to the sheriff in Wells, and got a reply pretty quick. I also sent my deputies out to pick up that body.”
“Anything helpful from the sheriff?”
“Not yet,” he said. “He’s gonna check around, see what he can find out. If the three men spotted you in town and recognized you, they might have talked about planning to ambush you.”
“And no word on a couple of strangers riding in here recently?”
“No,” Ingram said, shaking his head. He was holding the coffee cup in front of him, talking over it, taking small sips in between. “I’m still checking, though. I can let you know when we have the body at the undertaker’s.”
“Good,” Clint said. “I’d like to take another look at it. Maybe it’ll look familiar when I can study him without having to worry about being shot in the back.”
Ingram finished his coffee and set the cup down, pushed his chair back.
“Well, I better get to it, then,” he sai
d. “I’ll send word when the body comes in.”
“Appreciate it, Sheriff.”
“Sure thing,” Ingram said. “I don’t like the idea of somebody being ambushed in my county.”
“Believe me,” Clint said, “neither do I.”
Clint finished his pie and coffee and left the hotel. An idea had occurred to him while he was eating, and he decided to act on it. He walked through town, found the people pleasant enough as they nodded to him in passing, even though he was a stranger.
Eventually he came to the storefront he was looking for—the telegraph office. He went inside and sent two telegrams of his own. One went to his friend Rick Hartman in Labyrinth, Texas, and the other went to Talbot Roper in Denver. Roper was a private detective—probably the best in the country—and a good friend.
Both telegrams asked the same question. Had either man heard any news about a price being put on Clint’s head? Of course, the three men might have simply spotted him in Wells and decided to try and make a name for themselves, but there were also a lot of people out there with money who would like to see the Gunsmith dead. There was no harm in checking that out.
He told the clerk he was staying at the Harvest House, and asked that any replies be brought there.
He left the office, stopped just outside. The sheriff didn’t know anything about two strangers riding into town together recently, but what if they had decided to ride in separately?
There were three people who either kept track of strangers in town, or they were simply in a position to have that information. They were the local lawman, bartenders, and men who owned or worked in livery stables.
Clint had already talked with the sheriff, so that left saloons and livery stables.
He decided to try the saloons first.
SIX
There were four saloons in Hastings. Two were holes in the wall, real small, with no girls or gambling. Clint nursed a beer in each of them. First he listened to the conversation around him. He could often pick out strangers that way. However, the few patrons in each of these saloons seemed to know each other very well. In the end, he asked the bartenders if they’d seen any strangers in town, and they each had the same answer:
“Just you.”
The other two saloons were larger, with all the trappings: girls, gambling, music.
He stopped at the Wild Horse Saloon first, decided to save the Jack of Hearts for last.
The Wild Horse was crowded for midday, girls already working the floor, gaming tables already open and in full swing. Clint made room for himself at the bar and ordered a beer. Unlike the beer at the other two saloons, this one was ice cold.
He followed the same sequence, first waiting and listening. While this saloon was crowded, most of the customers seemed to know one another, and the bartender.
“I’m looking for two strangers,” he said to the mean-looking barman. “They may have come in together, or separately.”
“What did they do?” The barman rubbed a big hand over his black stubbles.
“They tried to ambush me,” Clint said. “Backshoot me.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I’m going to ask them when I see them,” Clint said.
“Well,” the man said, “I ain’t seen ’em, apart or together.”
“So you know everybody in here right now?” Clint asked him.
The bartender took a toothpick from his mouth and said, “Everybody but you.”
Clint finished his beer and left.
• • •
He stopped into the Jack of Hearts, down the street from the vet’s. He ordered a beer, listened, then questioned the bartender, who looked like the other one’s brother, right down to the stubble and the toothpick.
“Two men?” the bartender asked.
“There were three when they tried to kill me,” Clint said. “Now there’s two.”
“Ain’t seen ’em,” the man said.
“You seen any strangers yesterday or today?” Clint asked.
“Only you.”
“Have you got a brother?”
The man stared at him.
“Yeah, why?”
“I think I just met him a while ago.”
“And what did he say?”
“Same thing.”
“Exactly?”
“Exactly.”
The man grinned.
“That was my brother, all right.”
“You guys aren’t very helpful.”
“Maybe,” the bartender said, “if we saw somethin’, we’d tell you.”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “I’ll ask again sometime.”
“Another beer?”
“No, thanks,” Clint said.
“Come back sometime,” the bartender said.
“Oh, I will.”
Clint left the saloon. His intentions were to check the livery stables, but as he left the saloon, he saw Andrea Martin leaving the vet’s office.
He intercepted her before she could get very far. She started when she saw him, drawing back a foot.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It seems I’m always startling you.”
“Oh, Mr. Adams,” she said. “Were you coming to check on your horse again?”
“No, actually I was coming out of the saloon when I saw you walking here.”
“And?”
“And I thought maybe I could walk you to wherever you were going.”
“Why?”
He was taken aback by the question.
“To be neighborly.”
“But we’re not neighbors.”
“Well then . . . to look after you. A lady shouldn’t walk alone, especially when it’s getting dark.”
“It’s hardly dusk,” she said, “and this is my town. I have nothing to fear.”
“I’m starting to think you just don’t want my company,” he said.
“Mr. Adams,” she said, “you’re passing through town. You’re a good-looking man. I’m sure you’ve been on the trail a long time and you’re looking for a girl. I’m not that girl. But there are plenty of them in the saloon.”
Clint stared at her, no words coming to mind.
Suddenly she frowned.
“I’ve offended you.”
“Well . . .”
She put her hands over her mouth.
“Is it possible—” she started.
“You misjudged me?”
She nodded.
“If I have, I’m sorry. It’s just that a lot of men come through town looking for girls.”
“I see.”
“If you’re not that kind of man, I’m sorry.”
“I see. And if I am?”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Well, I won’t do that anymore,” he said. “I’ll be on my way, and you can go and . . . do whatever it is you were going to do.”
“I was going to get something to eat,” she said. “Normally I would cook for my father and myself, but since he’s not back yet, I was just going to get a bite.”
“Well, go ahead,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”
“Maybe I can—”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “Maybe your father will be back, and you won’t even have to talk to me again.”
“That’s not fai—”
He cut her off by turning and walking away, a slight smile on his face.
SEVEN
Clint went back to the Jack of Hearts later that night, had a few beers, watched the activity going on. Every so often he looked at the bartender—whose name was Mack—and he’d shake his head. No strangers.
There were poker and faro tables, but nothing else. The seats were all taken, but even when one opened up, Clint was not interested in playing.
T
here was something—rather, someone—who was attracting his interest, though. Her name was Maria, a Mexican with a lovely Spanish accent. She worked the saloon floor very gracefully, managing to avoid most of the groping male hands and laughing about it. When she laughed, her eyes flashed. Every so often she tossed her head to get her black hair out of her eyes. And during the course of the night, she kept finding reasons to come over to where Clint was standing at the bar.
One time she said, “I hear you’re lookin’ for some strangers.”
“A couple,” he said “See any?”
“Only you.”
“That’s what I keep hearing.”
“Well, my name’s Maria. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“Thanks.”
Later she came back with an empty tray and set it on the bar for the bartender to fill with drinks.
“Not interested in gamblin’?” she asked him.
“Not tonight.”
“Maybe you’d just like to talk?” she asked.
“That would be nice.”
“Yeah, well, I noticed you haven’t been talkin’ to any of the men around you, so I thought maybe . . . a woman?”
“Do you have anyone in mind?”
She smiled, picked up her tray, and said, “I’ll let you know.”
As it got later, she stopped by him more often, and they did talk. She’d been living in Hastings for five years, had bought herself a small house outside town. She admitted to him that she used to work as a whore, but for the past few years she’d only been working as a saloon girl. No men. At least, not for money.
“Only when it’s somebody I like,” she said. “Or somebody who intrigues me.”
“And which am I?”
“A little of both, I suppose,” she said.
And in the end, when her shift was over, she took him home with her, with the promise of a bath . . . and a lot more . . .
• • •
She drew a bath for him, told him she’d give him some privacy. Alone in the room, he stripped, set his gun on a chair by the tub, and lowered himself into the hot water.
He lay back in the bathtub, enjoying how the steaming water soothed his aching muscles. After the day he’d had, it did him no end of good to just relax and have some peace and quiet. His arms hung over the sides of the tub. When he shifted one hand, his fingers bumped against something that was warm, soft, and hadn’t been there before. He sat bolt upright and turned to find Maria circling around the tub. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, and his fingers had brushed against the smooth, dark skin of her leg.
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