The Death List

by J. R. Roberts

  Outside he once again looped Eclipse’s reins around a post and went inside. He went to the bar and suddenly wanted a beer very badly. He’d been running ever since he received that telegram over two weeks before, and there was going to be a lot more running in the future. Why the killer chose him, he didn’t know. He wondered if and when he found the man, would he know him? Probably. Why would a stranger want to run him around this way?

  “Beer,” he told the bartender.

  “Comin’ up.”

  The bar had a few patrons, none of whom paid any attention to him, which suited him.

  “There ya go,” the bartender said, putting a beer in front of him.

  “I’m looking for the sheriff,” he said to the man. “Have you seen him today?”

  “Earlier,” the bartender said. “Not lately. Do you know him?”

  “Never met him,” Clint said. “I don’t even know his name.”

  “Sheppard,” the bartender said, “Sheriff Joe Sheppard.”

  “Has he been the sheriff here for very long?” Clint asked.

  “A couple of years,” the bartender said. “He’s kind of a young guy.”

  “How young?”

  “Um, I’m thirty-five—he’s a few years younger than me.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “any idea where I might find him?”

  “He could be doing his rounds.”

  “Where does he go when he has time off?”

  “No time off that I know of,” the bartender said.

  “Does he have a deputy?”

  “We’re a small town,” the man said, “there’s no money in the budget for a deputy. It’s just him.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “what’s your name?”

  “Nolan.”

  “Mr. Nolan—”

  “Just Nolan.”

  “Okay, Nolan,” Clint said, “maybe you can help me.”

  “Before I do,” Nolan said, “who are you?”

  Clint hesitated, then said, “My name is Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What the hell are you doin’ in this town?” Nolan asked.

  “Maybe if you let me ask my questions, you’ll find out,” Clint said.

  “Okay, yeah, go ahead,” Nolan said. “You want another beer first?”

  “Yes, I do,” Clint said.

  Nolan drew another beer and set it in front of Clint.

  “Okay,” he said, “shoot.”

  “Do you know a man named Dave Britton?”

  “Sure, Dave, he comes in here…a lot.”

  “How often is a lot?”

  “Like, every day.”

  “Has he been in today?”

  “Now that you mention it, no. He shoulda been.”

  “Why does he come in every day if he lives outside of town?” Clint asked.

  “Because that’s what drunks do,” Nolan said. “They drink every day.”

  “He’s the town drunk?”

  “We might be a small town,” Nolan said, “but we’re not that small. We have town drunks. He’s one of them.”

  NINE

  “Nolan, if I can’t find the sheriff, who could take me out to Dave Britton’s house?”

  “I can getcha somebody,” Nolan said. “If you come back later and let me know—”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll take a look around town and see if I can locate the sheriff. If not, I’ll come back.”

  “I’ll have somebody ready to go,” Nolan said.

  “I’ll pay him.”

  “No problem, Mr. Adams.”

  Clint finished his second beer and paid for both, even though Nolan tried to let him have them on the house.

  “Are you sure he’s the Gunsmith?” Randy Wilkins asked.

  “Well,” Nolan said, “he said he was. Why would anybody claim to be the Gunsmith if he wasn’t?”

  “For the fame?”

  “Not me,” Nolan said. “Claiming to be Adams would paint a target on any man’s back. Naw, he was tellin’ the truth.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Wilkins said. “The Gunsmith. And I’m gonna get to meet him?”

  “You’re gonna get to take him out to Dave Britton’s place.”

  “What for?”

  “You’ll find out when you get there.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “Don’t know where he is.”

  “I could find ’im—”

  “Then you won’t be able to take Adams out there,” Nolan said. “Why don’t you just wait like I said, and we’ll all find out what’s goin’ on.”

  Clint walked around town, checked the other, smaller saloon, but found no sign of Sheriff Joe Sheppard. He checked the office again, but when he found it empty, he finally gave up and went back to the saloon.

  There was a man standing at the bar with Nolan when he walked in. He was about thirty, dressed in trail clothes, wearing a well-worn gun that he was too young to have worn out himself.

  “This my guide?” he asked.

  “This is him,” Nolan said. “Randy Wilkins, meet Clint Adams.”

  “Sure is a pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Adams.”

  “You know the way to Dave Britton’s place?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “Now?”

  “The sooner the better. Where’s your horse?”

  “Well…outside—”

  “Like I said,” Clint cut him off, “let’s go.”

  * * *

  They rode about a mile outside of town. Clint figured he could have made the trip with directions. For some reason, the bartender wanted this fella to go with him.

  “This it?” Clint asked.

  “Ain’t much of a house, is it?” Wilkins said.

  It was a shack.

  “Stay here,” Clint said, dismounting.

  “I can’t come in?”

  “I have a feeling I know what I’m going to find inside,” Clint said. “Take my advice and stay here.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “Hold my horse’s reins and don’t talk to him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t like strangers.”

  He walked to the front door, found it ajar, but knocked anyway. He didn’t knock a second time. He pushed open the door and went inside. There were only two rooms in the shack, and not much in the way of furniture. The body was in the center of the floor. Shot in the back.

  He realized he should have let Wilkins come in. He had no way of knowing if this was Britton or not.

  He went to the door and stuck his head out.

  “Randy? You want to come in here?”

  “Why?”

  “I just need you to look at something.”

  Wilkins dismounted, tied off the horses, and approached the shack.

  “What am I lookin’ at?” he asked.

  “A body,” Clint said.

  “What for?”

  “I need to know if it’s Dave Britton.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “You tell me.”

  Wilkins entered the house. Clint went to the body and turned it over enough for Wilkin to see the face.

  “That’s him,” he said. “That’s Dave Britton.”

  Clint let the body flop back over onto its belly.

  “Okay, Randy, wait outside.”

  “We got to find the sheriff.”

  “I spent the morning trying to find the sheriff,” Clint said. “You got any idea where he is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then wait outside. I just need to look around a bit, and then we’ll go and look for him.”

  Wilkins went out.

  Clint went through the dead man’s pockets, then searched the shack. He found nothing helpful. On top of that he found no paper or pencils, and no reading material. He had the feeling that Dave Britton hadn’t known how to read or write.

  On the other hand, William Rea
rdon had been a rancher who did a lot of paperwork. What could these two men have had in common to make the same killer shoot them both? And why in the back?

  Clint left the shack, found Wilkins standing with the horses.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s find that badge toter.”

  TEN

  They got back to town and stopped at the saloon to see Nolan.

  “What happened?” the bartender asked. “Did you see Britton?”

  “We saw him,” Clint said.

  “Dave’s dead, Nolan.”

  “Dead?” Nolan looked at Clint.

  “I didn’t shoot him,” Clint said. “I found him that way. Have you seen the sheriff yet?”

  “Yeah, I did. He was in here for a drink a little while ago.”

  “And do you know where he is now?”

  “Well, he said he was goin’ back to his office.”

  “And did you tell him about me?”

  “I—well, um, yeah, I did, but—”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just go and see if I find him in his office.”

  Clint took a few dollars out of his pocket and gave it to Wilkins.

  “Thanks, Randy.”

  “Huh? Oh, sure, Mr. Adams.” Wilkins took the money. “Thanks a lot.”

  Clint started for the door.

  “You want me to come with ya?” Wilkins asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “I know where the sheriff’s office is.”

  “Yeah, but I thought, ya know, maybe you’d want me to tell him what we found.”

  Clint turned to face Wilkins, then said, “Well, yeah, that’d be good, Randy.” He put his hand in his pocket again.

  “That’s okay, Mr. Adams,” Wilkins said. “You ain’t gotta pay me again.”

  “Thanks, Randy.”

  A man Clint took to be Sheriff Sheppard looked up from his desk as Clint and Randy Wilkins walked into the office.

  “Randy,” he said, “what brings you here?”

  “Mr. Adams and me got something to tell you, Sheriff,” Randy said.

  “Adams?”

  “Clint Adams,” Clint said.

  Sheppard sat back with a startled look, then frowned and leaned forward.

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right,” Wilkins said.

  “Well…what brings you to town, Mr. Adams?” the lawman asked.

  “I was looking for a man named Dave Britton,” Clint answered.

  “Britton? Why would you be lookin’ for a drunk like him—you ain’t lookin’ ta kill him, are ya?”

  “He’s already dead, Sheriff,” Wilkins said. “We done found him that way.”

  “Randy…” Clint said.

  Wilkins shut up and looked at Clint, wondering if he’d said something wrong.

  “I think I’d like to talk to the sheriff alone,” Clint finally finished.

  “Oh, uh, sure, Mr. Adams,” Randy said. “Sure thing. I’ll just see ya later at the saloon, huh?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “maybe.”

  He waited for Wilkins to leave, then turned to the lawman and said, “I should show you a few things first…”

  ELEVEN

  Clint showed the lawman the telegram, the letter, and the list, and gave him time to look at them all.

  “This is crazy,” the man said, handing them all back.

  “I know it.”

  “Why would Britton even be on a list like that?” Sheppard asked. “He was a nothing, a nobody, a…drunk.”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me that,” Clint replied.

  “Me? I ain’t got no idea. Sorry.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to move on to the next location.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Tennessee,” Clint said. “A town called Brethren.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Me neither.”

  “What’s the next man’s name?”

  Clint took the list out and unfolded it.

  “Beckett, Andrew Beckett.”

  “Never heard of him either.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Stayin’ in town tonight?” Sheppard asked.

  “Yes, me and my horse need to have some rest.”

  “I’ll go out and collect poor Dave’s body and take him over to Blemish. Have you met Blemish?”

  “Briefly.”

  “He’s a funny little man, but a good undertaker. Did you take a look around out there?”

  “Just enough to see if there was anything helpful there.”

  “Well, I guess I don’t need to worry about who killed him. Not since you got that note.”

  “I’ll be leaving in the morning,” Clint said, “so I’ll be at the hotel if you need me. Uh, how many hotels do you have?”

  “Two,” the sheriff said, “one’s as good—or bad—as the other.”

  “Well, I’ll be in one of them, if you need me,” Clint said, “but I’ll be leaving at first light.”

  “Think you’re gonna beat your killer there?”

  “I doubt it,” Clint said. “He’s always got a head start on me.”

  “Why don’t you jump ahead of him?”

  “I may have to do something like that,” Clint said, “but if I do and he finds out, I’m taking a chance that he’ll mix up the order.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, he’s supposed to be killing them in order,” Clint said. “At least, that’s what he claims. If he decides to start mixing up the order, I’ll probably never catch him.”

  “I don’t envy you, havin’ to chase him all over the country,” Sheppard said. “And who knows how long you’ll be doin’ it?”

  He had a good point.

  Clint took Eclipse to the livery, and got himself a room at one of the hotels. After that he went back to the saloon for a beer. He also hoped that Nolan or Wilkins would be able to steer him toward a good steak.

  “Hey, Mr. Adams,” the bartender called out as he entered.

  It was later in the day, so the place was much more crowded than it had been before. Nolan beckoned Clint to the bar.

  “Beer on the house?” he asked, setting it on the bar.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Clint picked it up, turned, and looked around.

  “Where’s Randy?” he asked.

  “I ain’t seen him since he left here with you,” Nolan said.

  Clint noticed there were two girls working the floor, a blonde and a redhead. The blonde seemed to notice him at the same time and came over.

  “Is this him?” she asked Nolan.

  “This is him,” the bartender said. “Louisa, meet the Gunsmith.”

  “Mr. Gunsmith,” she said, sticking out her hand.

  “My name is Clint.”

  “Clint,” she said as they shook hands. “I’d buy you a drink, but you seem to have one.”

  “Well, then,” he said, “let me buy you one.”

  “Nolan,” she said, “I’ll have a beer.”

  He knew she had come over to him on her own. If she was working him for the saloon, she would have ordered champagne.

  “Comin’ up.”

  She pressed up close to Clint, hip to hip, while she waited for her beer.

  “How long are you gonna be in our little town, Clint?” she asked him.

  “Only ’til morning,” he said. “I’ll be riding out at first light.”

  “You must be goin’ someplace important to be in such a hurry to leave.”

  “I’m heading for Tennessee,” he said. “I’ll find out how important it is when I get there.”

  Nolan brought her a beer. She picked it up and held it out in a toast.

  “Here’s hopin’ you enjoy the time you have left in town,” she said.

  He clinked glasses with her and said, “Maybe you can help me out with that.”

  She sipped her beer and said, “Maybe I can.”

  TWELVE

  Louisa accomp
anied Clint back to his hotel later that night. Clint kept a sharp eye out for anyone following, or waiting for them near the hotel. Of course, she could have been going back to his hotel willingly, but there was also the possibility that she had some partners following or lying in wait.

  By the time they reached the hotel, though, he hadn’t noticed anyone. Nevertheless, when they entered his room, he made sure the door was locked, and then hung his gun on the bedpost, where it would be within easy reach.

  “You think you’re gonna need that?” she asked.

  “You never know,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, approaching him and putting her arms around him, “you won’t need it to get me into bed.”

  “Maybe,” he said, encircling her waist, “I’ll need it to get you out.”

  She laughed, pulled his head down to kiss him.

  She was not tall, about five-five, and fit in his arms nicely. In holding her, he found that she was more solid than she appeared. He started to undo the stays on her dress, wanting to get a look at her naked. She did what she could to help him without breaking the kiss.

  Finally, her dress dropped to the floor and his hands were on her pale skin. She had round, solid breasts, not overly large but nice and heavy in his hands. He broke the kiss to look at her pink nipples, bent down to lick first one then the other. A shiver ran through her as she started undoing his shirt, and then his belt. They worked together to divest him of all his clothes, and then pressed their naked bodies together in a hot embrace.

  She reached between them to grasp his cock in her hand and seemed to like what she found.

  “Oh, my!” she said. She kissed his chest, his belly, then went to her knees to fondle his penis in both hands while she kissed and licked it. It swelled in her hands, and then in her mouth as she sucked it in.

  “Mmmm,” she said as her head bobbed back and forth, sliding his cock wetly in and out of her mouth.

  He groaned as she continued to suckle him, and slid one hand down to cup his testicles. He began to move his hips in unison with the sucking motion of her mouth and head. She slid her hands behind him to cup his ass cheeks as the avid sucking began to produce loud, wet sounds.

  He looked down at her blond head as she bobbed up and down on him, and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he bent, slid his hands beneath her arms, and lifted her to her feet. Once there, he kept going, lifted her off her feet, turned, and deposited her on the bed.