• • •
“Law comin’!” Pierce said as he rushed into the saloon.
“Alone?” Mike Torrey asked.
“No,” Pierce said, “got a man with him.”
“Okay, don’t panic,” Torrey said. “He’s probably just makin’ his regular rounds.”
“Where do you want us, Mike?” one of the men sitting with him asked.
“Split up,” Torrey said. “Tate, you and Holcomb at opposite ends of the bar.”
“And me?” Pierce asked.
“In the back,” Torrey said, “and don’t panic. Nobody shoots unless I do. Got it?”
“We got it,” Tate said.
“Pierce?”
“I got it!”
“Then move.”
Torrey watched the three men get into position. The only one he worried about was Pierce. He, Holcomb, and Tate had ridden into Orwell with Dunn. It was the other fella, Sands, who had brought Pierce in. Torrey didn’t trust Pierce at all.
He remained seated at the table, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and watched the door.
• • •
Seven . . . eight . . .
The sheriff reached the back of the saloon and opened the rear door, which he knew from experience was never locked. He entered, closed it quietly, and crept across the expanse of the back storeroom until he came to another door. From there he could see the inside of the small saloon.
He settled in to do what the men in the saloon were doing . . . wait.
• • •
Nine . . . ten.
Clint stepped up onto the boardwalk and approached the front door of the saloon. It was quiet inside. No music. No sounds of men cursing and gambling.
Just the silence of a bunch of men . . .
. . . waiting.
NINETEEN
Clint stepped inside.
The saloon was less than half filled—a few men at the bar, some more seated at tables. However, there were no men clustered at the bar together, or at a table. If there were three or four men there who were out for him, they weren’t showing themselves.
But he’d dealt with these men all his life. He looked around the room and picked out the four likeliest ones. They were the four who were paying the most attention to him, but trying not to show it. Also, the bartender was very nervous.
This had to be the right place.
There was a man sitting at a table alone with a bottle of whiskey and four glasses.
Clint walked to the table.
“Bad idea to leave all the glasses on the table, friend,” he said. “It’s kind of a dead giveaway.”
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, friend.”
“Yeah, I think you do,” Clint said. The question is, where are the other two? Or are you Dunn? Sands?”
“My name’s Torrey,” the man said. “Mike Torrey, and I don’t know you.”
“Well,” Clint said, “now’s the time to get acquainted.”
The man swallowed, risked a look at the bar.
“I count three more,” Clint said. “If any of them go for their guns, I’ll get you first.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“Where are Sands? Dunn? Are they here?”
“No.”
“So they just hired you to wait for me?”
“It’s just business, Adams, you know? Nothing personal.”
“Sorry,” Clint said, “but when somebody tries to kill me, I take it very personal.”
“Look,” Torrey said, “it’s all set up. If either one of us makes the wrong move, there’s gonna be a lot of lead flyin’.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t make the wrong move,” Clint said. “Just tell me where they are.”
“Sands and Dunn?”
Clint nodded.
“If I tell you, you ain’t gonna like it.”
“Try me.”
“They’re in Hastings.”
Clint hesitated, then said, “You’re right, I don’t like it.”
Shrugging, Torrey took a drink from his glass, which Clint noticed he was holding with his left hand.
“So we don’t have to do this,” Clint said.
“That’s up to you,” Torrey said. “Just turn around and walk out if you want.”
“You think your friends will go along with that?” Clint asked.
“They have orders not to fire unless I do.”
“I’m going to back out,” Clint said. “Let’s try not to get anybody killed.”
Torrey shrugged again. He already had the money Dunn had paid him, and Dunn was in Hastings, as he had told the Gunsmith. He really didn’t care.
“Go ahead . . .”
• • •
Their conversation could be heard by everyone in the place, and while Tate and Holcomb were willing to go along with whatever Torrey said, Tom Pierce was apparently not.
Pierce, watching Clint back toward the batwings, thought that his chance would soon be going out the door, so although he did it nervously, he reached for his gun . . .
• • •
From his position in the back of the room, Sheriff Roberts saw Pierce going for his gun. He turned the barrel of his rifle that way and fired.
And all hell broke loose . . .
• • •
After the sheriff’s shot, all three of the other men went for their guns. Clint was almost to the doors when he saw them draw.
He drew his own gun and fired . . .
• • •
Torrey, angry that someone other than him had called the play, stood up, drew his gun, and flipped the table over for cover.
The other two, Tate and Holcomb, had no such cover. As they drew, Clint turned the barrel of his gun on them and shot each of them.
Clint knew Torrey hadn’t called the play. He’d had his eyes on the man the whole time. Torrey was behind the fallen table, and Clint decided to wait and see what the man was going to do.
The sheriff, however, had no such intentions. He stepped out of the doorway into the saloon, leveled his rifle at Torrey, and fired. The bullet took the man in the back. He straightened up, staggered, and fell over the fallen table.
The other men in the place—including the frightened bartender—had all hit the floor. Now that the shooting had stopped, they began to raise their heads.
“Everybody out!” Sheriff Roberts shouted.
The bystanders rose and ran out of the saloon.
The bartender stood where he was.
“Cliff,” Roberts said, “two whiskeys.”
“Comin’ up, Sheriff.”
Clint checked all the bodies to make sure they were dead, then joined the sheriff at the bar.
“That one in the back drew,” the lawman said. “I had no choice.”
Clint picked up his whiskey and said, “I almost got out with no bloodshed.”
“Talked them out of it, did ya?” Roberts asked.
“That one seemed to be the leader, and we came to an understanding,” Clint said.
“Are any of these men the ones you were lookin’ for?” Roberts asked.
“Apparently not,” Clint said. “That one told me that Sands and Dunn are in Hastings.”
“Well, if you were in Hastings with them, why’d they get you out here?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out when I get back,” Clint said.
“Not gonna ride at night, are ya?”
“No,” Clint said, “I’ll put up my horse, get a room, and head out first thing.”
The two men drank down their whiskeys.
“Another one,” Roberts said to the bartender.
“Not for me,” Clint said. “I want to get an early start in the morning.”
“I’ll have these bodies take
n care of,” Roberts said.
“Will you need a statement from me?” Clint asked.
“Naw, I was here,” Roberts said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“I appreciate it, Sheriff,” Clint said.
He turned and looked down at the dead men. It didn’t sit right with him that the sheriff had shot Torrey in the back, but he couldn’t concern himself with that at the moment. He was smarting from being bamboozled by Dunn and Sands into riding all the way to Orwell to kill four men.
Tomorrow he’d show them just how much he resented it.
TWENTY
Clint rode out the next morning without seeing Sheriff Roberts again. He was in a hurry to get back to Hastings, and he pushed the steeldust as hard as he could.
He bypassed Kirby and got back to Hastings late in the afternoon. Stopping at the sheriff’s office, he was told by the deputy that Ingram was out, so he left the horse in front of the office. He would have unsaddled the horse, brushed, and fed it, but he didn’t know where the sheriff kept his animals, and the deputy didn’t feel comfortable telling him.
From the sheriff’s office, Clint went back to his hotel.
“Back so soon, sir?” the clerk asked.
“That’s right,” Clint said. “Any messages?”
“No, sir.”
He went up to his room to drop off his rifle and saddlebags, then came back down and headed for the vet’s office. On the way he passed the undertaker’s and decided to stop in.
“Yes, sir,” the undertaker said, “the sheriff told me who you are. What can I do for you?”
“The body of the man I killed, is it still here?”
“Why, yes,” the man said. “Why would it not be?”
“I’ve learned that the man’s friends are still in town,” Clint said. “I thought they may have claimed it.”
“No one has claimed it, sir, and I need to do something with it soon.”
“You got a potter’s field?”
“We do.”
“Then plant it,” Clint said.
“Yes, sir,” the undertaker said, “as you say.”
Clint left the undertaker’s office and continued on to the vet’s office. When he got there, the front door was open, and he heard voices inside. When he entered, he was surprised to see the sheriff there, talking to Doc Martin and Andrea.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“You’re back,” Ingram said. “That’s good.”
“Oh, Clint . . . I’m so sorry,” Andrea said.
“Sorry? About what?”
“It’s your horse . . .” Martin said.
“What happened?’ he demanded.
“They took him!” Andrea said. “They took Eclipse.”
“Who took him?”
“Two men,” she said.
Clint looked at Ingram.
“Dunn and Sands,” Clint said.
“The two men you went to Orwell to find?”
“They weren’t there,” Clint said. “They suckered me into going there, where four men were waiting for me.”
“What happened?”
“I killed them, with the help of the sheriff. Then I rushed back here, because before he died, one of them told me they were here. I guess now I know why.” He looked at Andrea and her father. “How did they get him to go with them? Normally, Eclipse would never—”
“They threatened to kill my father if I didn’t walk him outside and tie him to the back of a wagon,” she said. “I—I couldn’t refuse. I’m sorry.”
“We’re both sorry,” Martin said, “but it’s my fault. That horse was my responsibility.”
“It’s all right,” Clint said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get him back.”
“Are you sure?” Andrea asked.
“I’ll get him back, and I’ll find out why they took him,” Clint said. He looked at Ingram. “If they harm that horse, they’re dead.”
“I understand,” the lawman said. “Come on, let’s go to my office and talk about our next move.”
“Our next move?”
“Horse stealin’ is a crime, isn’t it?” Ingram said. “It’s my job to get him back.”
They left Martin and Andrea standing together, looked crestfallen.
“You really can’t blame them for this,” Ingram said as they walked out.
“I don’t,” Clint said. “I blame Dunn and Sands.”
“You find out what they looked like?”
“Everything went south pretty quick,” Clint said. “I never did get a description.”
“Too bad.”
“But we can get one of Sands from Mrs. Nunally.”
“Fine,” the sheriff said. “Let’s go and do that right now.” They changed direction and headed for the rooming house.
TWENTY-ONE
When Mrs. Nunally answered her door, she scowled at the two of them. Clint figured she was probably always an unpleasant woman.
“What do you want now?” she asked. Clint wasn’t sure if she was asking him, or the lawman.
“The man I talked to you about last time I was here,” Clint said. “Your tenant. What did he look like?”
“How should I know—”
“You rented him a room, ma’am,” the sheriff said. “You should know what he looked like.”
Still scowling she said, “Tall, thin, dirty, in his thirties. And he stank.”
“Anything else?” Clint asked.
“Ain’t that enough?”
“Did you ever see him with another man?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, one other. Same type, dirty, but younger, and nervous looking.”
“Nothing else?” Ingram asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “he was left-handed. That’s all I got.” She slammed the door.
“That help?” Ingram asked.
“A little,” Clint said. “One of the men I killed in Orwell was left-handed.”
They turned and walked away from the boardinghouse.
• • •
When they got to the sheriff’s office, he said to the deputy, “Go make your rounds, Jody.”
“It ain’t my turn, Sheri—”
“Just do it!”
“Yes, sir.” The deputy grabbed his hat and headed for the door.
“And see to my horse!”
“Yessir!”
Ingram picked up the coffeepot, found it empty.
“Damn it! I tol’ them both that part of their job is keepin’ this full.”
He poured some water in the pot. Dumped in a couple of handfuls of coffee, and put it on the stove.
“What about your other deputy?” Clint asked. “The one who was out with the tracker? They find anything?”
“My tracker says your men were pretty good at hidin’ their tracks. But he’s pretty sure at least one of them went to Kirby.”
“And the other?”
“He says he probably stayed here.”
“The one who took a room at Mrs. Nunally’s.”
“But now you’re sayin’ they’re both here,” Ingram said.
“Well, somebody took my horse.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’ll need your tracker.”
“What for?”
“To track them from the doc’s office.”
“The street is filled with wagon tracks.”
“Is your man any good?”
“Plenty good,” Ingram said, “but I don’t know if anybody is that good.”
“Well,” Clint said, “why don’t we find out.”
“Okay,” Ingram said, “I’ll get ahold of him today.”
“When?”
“When my deputy comes back.”
“Not good enough,” Clint said. “Tell me wh
o he is and where I can find him.”
“His name’s Cain,” Ingram said. “He’s a half-breed. He’s usually at the Wagon Wheel. That’s a small saloon at the south end of town. Nobody ever goes there.”
“Then why will I find him there?”
“Because he doesn’t like people,” Ingram said. “He won’t like you.”
“I’ll tell him you sent me.”
Ingram laughed.
“He doesn’t like me either.”
“Who does he like?”
“I’ve never been able to figure that out.”
“Then why does he work for you?”
“I pay him.”
“So I’ll pay him.”
“You best lead off with that fact.”
Clint nodded, headed for the door just as the smell of coffee filled the room.
“Oh,” he said, “how will I know him?”
“You’ll know him,” Ingram said. “You ain’t seen anybody like him before.”
TWENTY-TWO
Clint found the Wagon Wheel Saloon at the end of town. It was in a building that looked like it was a good stiff breeze away from falling down. As he approached the batwings, he saw that one was hanging sideways on one hinge, ready to fall. He entered carefully, not wanting to be the one who knocked it off.
Inside he saw two people, a bartender and a customer. Even if there had been twenty more, though, he would have known that this customer was the man he was looking for.
Tall—beyond tall, probably close to seven feet—rangy, wearing a long black duster and a black hat with a feather in it. He was bent over a glass of whiskey, with a bottle close at hand. There was also a Winchester on the bar, which Clint assumed belonged to the big man.
The bartender was a broad, beefy man with hairy arms and dark circles under his eyes. He watched as Clint approached the bar.
“You’re in the wrong place,” the bartender said.
“I’m looking for a beer.”
“Like I said,” the barman answered, “wrong place. There are other saloons.”
Clint looked around and said, “I like this one.”
“Why?”
“Because this is where I’m supposed to find Cain.”
“Who says?”
“Sheriff Ingram.”
“Why do you need him?”
“For work.”
The Gunsmith 386 Page 6