Dying Wish

by J. R. Roberts

  Clint let out a surprised yelp and scrambled to maintain his balance. The blow hadn’t been enough to knock him out, but it stunned him in between steps so that his legs tangled up beneath him. He reached out to catch himself, and didn’t quite fall. The pain was still making itself known throughout his head when he regained his balance and raised his gun.

  The gunman was already off and running again. This time, he was headed for a horse tethered to a nearby post along the street.

  As if he could feel Clint’s sights on him, the gunman turned and pulled his trigger wildly. One shot after another erupted from his pistol. Hot lead whipped through the air, and a few shots even got close to drawing Clint’s blood. Rather than run toward the incoming rounds, Clint dropped in the dirt and fired a shot or two of his own.

  Fueled by desperation, the gunman climbed halfway into his saddle and got his horse moving down the street. The horse had to have been a bit spooked as well, because it launched into a full gallop without much encouragement from its rider.

  As Clint tried to take proper aim, one of the gunman’s bullets thumped into the dirt near his left boot. The impact caused Clint to take a small hop away to the side, which also threw off his aim as he was pulling his trigger. The Colt bucked against his palm, but only succeeded in getting the gunman’s horse to run faster.

  Even though he knew what would happen if he pulled his trigger again, Clint took aim and did it anyway. Just as he’d figured, the hammer slapped against the back of a spent round. That loud metallic click might as well have been a slap on Clint’s face.

  “Damn it!” he growled as he fought back the urge to throw his pistol at the gunman’s back.

  As he reloaded, Clint hoped the gunman would turn around and try to make another run at him.

  Unfortunately, the man wasn’t that stupid.

  SIX

  The gunman lying in the street was dead. His eyes were open, but he didn’t see any of the curious locals who inched forward to get a look at him. He also didn’t see the grave digger lift him into the back of his cart and haul him away. Clint actually felt envious that the man didn’t have to watch the commotion that followed or hear the questions posed by the law.

  Clint stood there and did his part to help the law, but quickly felt like he could have been doing something more useful. The questions were done soon enough, and Clint made his way back to Rick’s Place.

  “That was fast,” Hartman pointed out.

  Clint looked around the saloon to find the place only slightly busier than when he’d left. “Didn’t anyone come by to ask you what happened?”

  “Sure. A deputy came and left. Seems like there’s no shortage of folks with the same story to tell. Maybe next time you should keep your gun battles off the street.”

  “Very funny. Where’s Olivia?”

  “She’s washing up.” Stepping around the bar and a bit closer to Clint, Rick lowered his voice and added, “That kid who brought the letter didn’t die until after you ran out of here. She seemed a bit rattled.”

  “Yeah. I know how she feels.”

  “Want a drink?”

  Despite all the grief they gave each other, Clint and Rick had shared plenty of hard times. In fact, Rick Hartman was one of the few men around that Clint could take at face value. It was comforting to be able to talk with the man and not have to watch what he said or worry about what was actually going on in the Texan’s mind.

  “Yeah,” Clint replied gratefully.

  “One beer coming right up.” As he headed toward the bar again, Hartman slapped Clint good-naturedly on the shoulder. “I’ll just add it to the price of patching up my wall.”

  Clint sat down and rubbed his forehead. “Just add it to my bill.”

  “After all the windows, chairs, tables, doors, and walls that have been damaged throughout all the times you’ve traded lead with someone, you could probably have already bought this place out from under me.”

  “Actually, I think I could get a place a lot nicer than this.”

  Hartman walked over to Clint’s table and set a beer down in front of him. “Fuck you,” he said with a smirk.

  Clint took a sip of beer and savored the familiar taste. When he looked up, he saw Olivia stepping through a door that led to one of the back rooms. Before she could take two steps through the door, Clint had rushed over to her side.

  “How are you?” he asked. “Did you get hit?”

  “You mean did I get shot?” she asked in disbelief. “Those two could barely seem to hit the saloon.”

  Clint couldn’t help but be a little surprised by the easy tone in her voice, and that must have shown on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did you think I’d be too shaken to walk?”

  “Well…sort of.”

  Patting Clint on the arm, Olivia smiled and said, “I’m feeling all right, but it could have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there. Thanks for getting me off that street.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Seeing Clint’s eyes drift toward the spot where the courier had been lying, Olivia said, “Someone came to take him away. He looked so young. Do you know who he was?”

  “Not as such. All I know is that he came to deliver that letter.” Suddenly, Clint straightened up and started patting his pockets. “The letter! In all the ruckus, I don’t even remember if I…” He trailed off when he saw Olivia reach into the pocket of her skirt and retrieve something.

  “You mean this letter?” she asked as she showed him the folded envelope.

  “Good. You’ve got it. Do you know who it’s from?”

  “Actually,” she said with a weary laugh, “things have been a little busy lately with the shooting and all.”

  “It’s a good thing the law didn’t take that from you,” Clint said. “Did they ask about it when they were here?”

  Now it was Olivia’s turn to laugh. “They were here. Of course, they left well before you got back, so they didn’t have a chance to do much more than ask where the shots had come from and where you went. The deputy seemed more interested in who shot first instead of why any shots were fired at all.”

  “Usually, that’s the most important question they need to answer.”

  “Not this time. I would have told them more, but I thought it might be better to just wait for you to come back.”

  “So you didn’t open that?” Clint asked as he pointed to the envelope.

  “Not yet.” Although she started tugging at the corner of the envelope, Olivia stopped before opening it. She looked at Clint and asked, “Do you think those gunmen were here about this?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s take a look and see what’s in there.”

  Olivia looked around as she slowly opened the envelope. Her fingers went through the necessary motions as her eyes darted from one spot to another. She glanced at the window and door where she’d been when the shots had been fired. She looked at a few of the fresh bullet holes in the wall, and then wound up staring at the spot where the young courier had died.

  When she finally did get the envelope open, Olivia removed a single piece of paper that had been folded in half. She unfolded the paper and only needed a few seconds to read what was printed there. Clint waited for her to finish.

  As soon as Olivia looked up from the paper, he asked, “What is it?”

  “My uncle,” she said quietly. “He’s dead.”

  SEVEN

  “Your uncle?” Clint asked. “That’s what was in the letter?”

  Olivia nodded. “My Uncle Abner. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

  Although he felt awkward questioning her about a dead relative, Clint had to ask, “Then…how did he know where to find you?”

  “Come to think of it,” Olivia replied as she examined the letter more carefully and then started looking at the envelope, “that’s a very good question.” After a few seconds and a lot of squinting, she held out the envelope for Clint to see. “Here you go.”


  Clint tried finding what had caught her eye, but too much dirt and a few water streaks made the printing on the envelope difficult to read. He took it from her and stared at it. “It’s addressed to you via someone named Jenny in Dallas. Is that your aunt’s name?”

  “No. She’s been gone for a while. Jenny’s a cousin,” she explained. “I was going to visit her while I was in town for the tournament.”

  “And she knew you were here?”

  Olivia nodded. “I sent her a telegram so she wouldn’t worry.”

  “Well, that explains a bit of it. There’s still the question of how someone knew you’d be in Dallas.”

  “That’s no mystery,” Olivia said with a dismissive wave. “I told everyone I knew I’d be going to that tournament.” Suddenly, she pulled in a quick breath. “Do you think someone’s already gotten to Jenny?”

  Clint let out a tired breath as he and Olivia walked back to his table. After pulling out a chair for Olivia, Clint settled onto his own and took a drink of beer. “The more I think about it, the more I wonder if those gunmen even cared whether you or I were there or not.”

  “What do you mean?” Olivia asked. “I was out on that street. I could have been killed if you hadn’t pulled me back in here!”

  “Yeah,” Clint said patiently. “Those gunmen took a shot at that courier. After that, they shot at the saloon, but that could have been because I was shooting back at them. I think some others were shooting at them as well. They could have just been spooked.”

  Olivia placed her hands flat on the table and stared Clint right in the eye. She held her gaze for a few long seconds before asking, “Are you defending those killers?”

  Placing his hands on hers, Clint stared right back at her without even blinking. “I sure as hell am not defending those men. In case you hadn’t heard, I gunned one of them down myself.”

  Flinching a bit at the sound of that, Olivia started to nod. It wasn’t long before she couldn’t seem to look at him any longer. “I know you did. God, Clint, I’m so sorry I even—”

  “Stop right there,” Clint interrupted. “No apologies necessary. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  He let out a breath and patted her hands once more before asking, “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Desperately.”

  Clint got up and walked over to the bar. Rick Hartman hadn’t taken a step toward Clint’s table, but was eager for Clint to get over to him.

  “How is she?” Hartman asked as soon as Clint was at the bar. “She was shaking like a leaf before she asked to splash some water on her face.”

  “She’ll be fine. Can you fix her up a drink? I didn’t even ask what she wanted.”

  “Something to calm her nerves?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nodding once, Rick said, “I know just the thing.” As he gathered up some ingredients as well as a mug to hold them, Rick said, “You find out what was in that envelope? It must’ve been something pretty good to stir all this up.”

  “Not really. It was some bad news, but nothing that seemed bad enough to kill the messenger.”

  Hartman’s head snapped up from what he was doing and he cracked a smile. “Hmm. Killing the messenger, huh? I didn’t even realize.”

  After a second or two, both Clint and Rick shared a small laugh. Before too long, Hartman raised the mug he’d prepared for Olivia and said, “Here’s to the messenger. It’s just too bad he can’t tell you anything that might be of any help. For that matter, even that gunman you dropped might have been of some use. It’s a shame you’re such a good shot.”

  Clint blinked and backed away from the bar. Suddenly, the tired smile he’d been wearing took on some more steam. “You’re a smart man, Rick. You know that?”

  “Yeah. What’d I do this time?”

  “I’ll let you know when I get back,” Clint replied as he headed for the door.

  Rick shrugged and walked around the bar to bring Olivia her drink.

  EIGHT

  A town the size of Labyrinth saw its fair share of trouble, but normally not enough to warrant regular hours to be maintained by the undertaker. The only reason Clint knew where the place was located was because he put Eclipse up in the same stable as the horses that pulled the town’s hearse.

  As Clint walked down the street toward the undertaker’s parlor, it was late enough that most of the stores along the way were locked up for the night. This time, however, he was fairly certain that someone would be at the parlor. In fact, his modified Colt had made certain that the undertaker had something to keep him busy.

  The front window had a dark curtain drawn over it. A sign in the door told him the place was closed and that he should leave a note if any services needed to be planned. But the dim light behind the curtain told Clint the place wasn’t exactly empty.

  “Hello?” he said as he knocked on the door. “Could you open the door?”

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again and waited, but didn’t hear so much as a footstep coming from within the parlor.

  Clint leaned over to the window and peered through the narrow crack between the windowpane and the curtain. He couldn’t see much, but he could see something moving in the back of the building. It looked like a large, open room, so Clint rapped his knuckles against the window.

  That made a lot more noise as the knocking combined with the rattle of the glass within the pane.

  “Excuse me,” Clint said to the glass. “I need to have a word with you. It’s important.” When he saw a bit of movement, Clint added, “It’s about the shooting.”

  He still couldn’t hear footsteps, but Clint could see a figure approach the front door. Rather than try to stare through the narrow crack, he stepped over to the door and waited as someone fidgeted with the latch.

  The man who opened the door had a round face and a few days’ worth of stubble sprouting from his chin. “You’re not one of the deputies.”

  “No. My na—” was all Clint got out before the door started to close. He was just quick enough to get his boot in the door and finish his sentence. “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  The man seemed annoyed that Clint had kept the door open, but that expression quickly left his face. “Oh, I’ve heard of you. You own Rick’s Place.”

  “No, but I’m a friend of his.”

  “Whose?”

  Clint blinked as he tried to decide if the man was serious. When he came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was, Clint said. “Rick Hartman. He owns Rick’s Place and I’m his friend.”

  Slowly, the man nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of you.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “We’re closed.”

  “It’s important. Like I said before, it’s about the shooting.”

  “Right. What about it?”

  “Those men were shooting at me,” Clint explained. “They were also shooting at a woman and I was hoping to see if I could find out who they were.”

  “I’ve just got the two bodies here. I was about to get a coffin put together for each of them.”

  “And I won’t get in the way,” Clint quickly said. “Do you think I could get a look at what they were carrying in their pockets and such?”

  The man narrowed his eyes and studied Clint carefully. “Did the sheriff ask you to come down here?”

  No matter how easily Clint thought he could lie to the sleepy-eyed man, he shook his head. “The sheriff didn’t ask me. I’m the man who did some of the shooting and I thought I’d look into it myself.”

  For a moment, it was unclear as to whether or not the man had heard Clint. Then, he stepped back so he could open the door and allow Clint to walk inside. As Clint moved past him, the man said, “Sometimes it’s best to take care of things for yourself. More folks should do that.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said earnestly. “They should.”

  “I’m George Lindenwood,” the man said. He was a stout fellow with an ample stomach that hung a little bit over his belt. His
hair was a bit too long and a bit too mussed. He also kept his mouth open a bit and made every breath a noisy affair.

  “I really appreciate this, George. I’ll try not to get in the way.”

  “You shouldn’t be in my way because you won’t be here long. Fact is, I don’t know what you expect me to do for you. My job isn’t much more’n digging holes and nailing coffins together.”

  “Where are the men’s belongings?” Clint asked.

  George became still again, but Clint was growing accustomed to that. As George thought things through, the only noise he made was his constant, gasping breathing. “They didn’t have any valuables,” he finally told Clint.

  “I’m not out for valuables and I’m not out to steal anything,” Clint assured him. “All I’m looking for is something that might tell me why they were here or why they opened fire. If you like, you can watch everything I do.”

  George stared at Clint silently for a few seconds before turning around and heading toward a back room. The parlor would have been completely dark, if not for a few lanterns burning in that adjacent room. The leftover glow from the lanterns seeped into the main room like water through a cracked barrel, casting wavering shadows from several ominous shapes.

  While he wasn’t exactly the sort to get rattled so easily, Clint found himself reflexively lowering his hand toward his gun as he made his way past several coffins that were propped up at various angles. The room was the sort of thing that scary campfire stories were made of, and the kid inside any man wouldn’t have any trouble seeing ghosts in those corners.

  “There’s not a lot of room back here,” George said as he moved through the small doorway.

  As soon as Clint stepped inside, he knew that George wasn’t kidding. The room was filled with tables and piles of lumber. The stench of death was almost thick enough to choke on thanks to the two bodies stretched out on what had once been bunk beds. The mattresses had been stripped off the wooden frames, leaving what looked like large shelves against the wall.