“Gordon,” Powell said. “Good evening.”
“Sir,” Westin said. “I have Mr. Adams with me.”
“So I see. Welcome to my home, Mr. Adams.”
“Thank you, Mr. Powell.”
“Can I offer you a drink? I have some good European brandy.”
“That’d be fine.”
“Have a seat, please,” Powell said. “Gordon, two brandies, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint noticed that Powell’s instruction had been for two glasses of brandy, not three. He watched as the lawyer poured two, handed one to his boss, and then the other to Clint.
“Thank you, Gordon,” Powell said. “That’ll be all. Get yourself some coffee in the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Westin nodded to Clint and then left the room.
“You don’t want your lawyer in on this business?” he asked.
“This is my business,” Powell said, “and by that I mean personal. There’s no reason for Gordon to be present.”
“Well,” Clint said, “that’s certainly up to you.”
“I truly appreciate that you came, Mr. Adams,” Powell said. “Believe me, I understand that you do not hire out your gun.”
“I’m here to satisfy my curiosity, Mr. Powell,” Clint said.
“Not for the ten thousand dollars?”
“That helps,” Clint said, “but I’m not suffering for money these days, so it’s more for curiosity that I’m here.”
“And why is that?” Powell asked.
“Well, if you’re willing to pay me ten thousand just to come and listen to you, how much must you be willing to offer me to do whatever the job is?”
“Indeed,” Powell said. “I’m willing to offer you a lot.”
“We might as well get to it, then,” Clint said.
“Let me do this at my own speed,” Powell said.
“Sure,” Clint said.
“More brandy?”
“No, this is enough.”
“A few weeks ago,” Powell said, “right where you’re sitting now, there were five dead men piled one on top of the other.”
“Five dead men?”
Powell nodded.
“They were carried in and dropped right there in front of my desk. Scared the hell out of my wife.”
“Did you know the men?”
“I knew them,” Powell said with a nod. “All five of them. I hired them to do a job, and that’s where they ended up.”
“I see.”
“They were all hired for their guns,” Powell said.
“Were they any good?”
“I was given to believe they were all good,” Powell said. “Have you heard of Johnny Bendell or, uh, Blackie Wilcox?”
“I’ve heard of both of them,” Clint said. “They were supposed to be pretty good.”
“Well, the other men with them were apparently just as good. They all ended up dead.”
“Then I guess the men they went up against were better,” Clint said.
“Obviously so.”
“And now you want me to go after them?” Clint asked. “Alone?”
“Whether you go alone or not is up to you,” Powell said. “I simply want you to succeed where these other men failed.”
“So you are trying to hire my gun.”
“I’m trying to save my life,” Powell said, “and perhaps the lives of my family members.”
Clint leaned forward and set his empty glass on the man’s desk.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Powell. But thank you for the drink, and the ten thousand dollars.”
As Clint stood up to leave, Powell said, “I was given to understand that one of the dead men was a friend of yours.”
Clint stopped, then turned around.
“Are you playing games with me, Mr. Powell?”
“Not at all,” Powell said. “The man told me he was a friend of yours when I hired him. I don’t know if that was true or not.”
“What was his name?” Clint aside.
“His name was Bags,” Powell said. “Joe Bags. He told me that you and he were old friends. Was that true?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “yes, that is true. You mind if I have another drink?”
“Not at all,” Powell said. “Help yourself.”
FOUR
Clint poured himself another brandy and then sat back down.
“Why would Joe Bags even mention me?” Clint asked.
“Well, he was the first one I hired,” Powell said, “and he put the men together. He told me if this didn’t work, that he might be able to get you to come in and take a hand.”
“I see.”
“Was that a lie?”
“Not a lie exactly,” Clint said. “If Bags needed help with something, I might have considered it. I’m surprised, though, that he even hired out his gun. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a badge.”
“Yes, I believe he mentioned that he was once a lawman.”
“How did you get hold of him?” Clint asked.
“He was brought in to see me by Mr. Westin,” Powell said. “He could probably tell you more.”
“That might be a good idea,” Clint admitted.
“I’m sure you’ll find him in the kitchen if you’d like to speak to him before you make your decision.”
“No,” Clint said, “I think I’ll go back to town and make my decision tomorrow, after I’ve talked with Westin and I’ve sent out some telegrams.”
“Very well,” Powell said. “I won’t rush you, but I will tell you that sooner would be better than later for your decision.”
“I understand that,” Clint said, standing again. “I’ll go and see if Westin is in the kitchen.”
Powell sat back in his chair.
“I hope to see you back here tomorrow night, Mr. Adams,” Powell said. “In fact, why don’t you come here for dinner. You can inform my cook when you go to the kitchen to find Gordon. Her name is Chelsea.”
Clint nodded, and left the office.
After a couple of wrong turns Clint found his way to the kitchen, where Gordon Westin was seated at a table with a cup of coffee in front of him. He was talking with a lovely young woman who Clint assumed was some sort of servant in the house.
“Finished?” Westin asked.
“Not quite,” Clint said. “I’m going to think over Mr. Powell’s offer tonight and give him an answer tomorrow.”
“Really? Well, then I expect you want to get back to town.” Westin stood up. “Oh, let me introduce Chelsea Piper. She’s the cook here in Mr. Powell’s house.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Clint said. “I should probably apologize, but I assumed you were a maid . . . or something.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “It happens because I’m so young to be a cook.”
“You must be a good one, to have this job,” Clint said.
“She’s an excellent cook,” Westin said. “I’ve had dinner here many times.”
She smiled demurely and said, “Thank you, Gordon.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I guess I’ll get a chance to find out for myself. Mr. Powell has invited me to dinner tomorrow.”
“Wonderful!” she said, clapping her hands together. “I’ll try to put my best foot—or roast—forward.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Clint said. He looked at Westin. “Shall we go?”
FIVE
Clint and Westin rode back to town in silence. The lawyer was the first to speak when they arrived.
“I suppose you want to go right to your room?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Clint said. “Let’s put the horses up and go to the nearest saloon. I want to talk to you.”
“As you wish,” Westin said dubiously.
They hit the saloon nearest the livery, a small place with a short bar, just a few tables and only a couple of patrons. A good place to have a quiet, private talk.
They each got a beer from the bar and carried them to a tab
le.
“What can I do for you?” Westin asked.
“You can tell me about Joe Bags,” Clint said.
“What do you want to know?”
“What the hell was he doing here selling his gun?” Clint demanded.
“I don’t know,” Westin said. “Mr. Powell wanted me to put out the word for guns for hire, and Mr. Bags answered the call. It was through him that we found the other men.”
“But he mentioned me?” Clint asked.
“He said you and he were friends,” Westin replied. “When I asked if he could get you for this job, he said perhaps later, if things didn’t work out.”
“So they didn’t work out and he ended up dead, with all the rest of them.”
“Yes.”
“How many men were there altogether?”
“Five.”
“Do you know how many men they were going against?” Clint asked.
“Easily five times that many,” Westin said.
“Somebody’s got the money to hire that many men?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why would Bags go with only five?” Clint wondered aloud.
“He seemed to think that was enough,” Westin said. “I, uh, also think he only wanted to split the money five ways.”
“Were you paying per man, or one lump sum?”
“One lump sum.”
If Bags had hired out his gun, and then underhired because he wanted his cut to be bigger, he must have been in bad money trouble.
Clint had not heard from Joe Bags in many years, but that didn’t mean the man couldn’t have come to him for help.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Westin said. “Did you know the other men?”
“Powell mentioned some names,” Clint said. “I knew them, but we weren’t friends.”
Clint got the names of the other two dead men from Westin, but he didn’t know them at all.
“So what are you going to do?” the lawyer asked.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “I’ll have to think about it overnight, like I said. And I want to do some checking on Joe Bags. Where’s he buried, by the way?”
“We gave all five of them a nice burial, outside of town.”
“Were they paid in advance?” Clint asked.
“Half.”
“Did you bother trying to find family to pay the other half to?”
“Uh, well, no.”
“I can probably help with that,” Clint said. “Powell will pay the families the other half of the money, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“He’d better.”
“You, uh, could make that a condition of your own employment.”
“Yeah, I could,” Clint said, “but I shouldn’t have to.”
Westin finished his beer and started to get to his feet. “All right, then. I better go back to my office and do some paperwork before I go home.”
“Sit down,” Clint said. “We still have some talking to do.”
Westin sat back down.
“About what?”
“I think it’s time you answered the main questions for me.”
“And what are they?”
“What’s going on?” Clint asked. “That’s one.”
“And the other?”
“Who’s heading up this group of men that killed Bags and the other four?” Clint asked. “Who’s got it in for your boss that he needs gun help?”
“Uh, I think that’s for Mr. Powell to tell you.”
“Well, I didn’t ask him,” Clint said. “I asked you.”
“Um, well . . .”
“Come on, Westin,” Clint said. “You represent Powell. Tell me who you guys want me to go up against.”
“His name’s Ben Randolph,” Westin finally said.
“Ben Randolph?”
“Yes,” the lawyer said. “Do you know him?”
“No,” Clint said, “as a matter of fact, I’ve never heard of him.”
Clint let Westin go back to his office while he sat and had another beer. There was no way for him to be sure that Joe Bags was, indeed, dead. He couldn’t see the body because it had already been buried. All he could do was send a couple of telegrams the next morning to see what he could find out.
If he became convinced that Joe Bags had been killed by Ben Randolph and his men, then he’d have to decide if he wanted to do something about it. And if he did, did he want to take Andrew Powell’s money to do the job?
None of these questions were going to be answered until morning, so he finished off his beer, stood up, and headed for his hotel.
SIX
Ben Randolph was getting impatient when there was finally a knock on his hotel room door. The town of Ariza was smaller than Brigham, a good place to hide out until his business with Andrew Powell was completed. He and his men had ridden into town and taken it completely over. The people understood they were free to go about their business, but no one was allowed to leave, and he and his men were entitled to anything they wanted.
And that included women.
Randolph opened the door and looked at the woman standing there. He’d told his number one man, Spencer, to bring him a woman who looked a lot like Andrea Powell. He thought it would give him pleasure to pretend he was fucking Powell’s wife—until he could have the real thing.
This woman was tall, dark haired, slender, and had Andrea Powell’s smooth, pale skin. She was also about ten years younger.
“Um, my name is Irene. They told me to come up here?” she said.
“Come in,” he said.
“Can you tell me . . . why I’m here?”
“Sure,” he said, “but come inside. Don’t stand in the hall. People will think I’m being rude.”
“Rude?” she asked, stepping inside. “You and your band of outlaws have taken over the town and you’re worried about being rude?”
He closed the door and turned to face her. She was hugging her upper arms, as if she was cold.
“Have we hurt anyone?” he asked.
“N-Not that I know of.”
“Well, let me assure you, we haven’t,” he told her. “We only need a place to stay and rest for a while, without anyone sending for the law.”
“And when you’re rested?”
He shrugged. “Then we’ll leave.”
“Is that the truth?”
“It is.”
She rubbed her upper arms and looked around the room. He’d taken the biggest room in the hotel for himself.
“Well, then,” she said, turning to look at him. “Why am I here?”
“I need you.”
“For what?”
He studied her for a moment. She didn’t seem stupid. Maybe just a bit dense at the moment.
“What do men need women for?” he asked her.
She stared at him for a few moments, then shook her head slowly and said, “Oh, no no no no . . . you don’t mean . . .”
“I do mean,” Randolph said. He walked up to her, his hand on her face. She closed her eyes. She didn’t look like Andrea Powell, but she was certainly the same type. He rubbed his fingers over the smooth skin of her face.
“Did they tell you when they sent you over here that me and my boys get what we want while we’re in town?” he asked.
“Well . . . yes, but I thought that meant . . .”
“What?” he asked, sliding his fingertips down her neck. “What did you think?”
“Well, I thought that meant . . . food, and drinks, and supplies . . . not . . .”
“Not women?”
She shook her head.
“Well, yes, that includes women.” He slid one finger into the bodice of her dress, touched the smooth flesh of her breasts, and felt her shiver.
“Well then . . . you want a . . . a whore,” she said with a hopeful note in her voice. “I am not a whore.”
“Are you married?” he asked. “Is there a husband?”
“Well, no . . . but I’m not—”
“
I’m glad you’re not a whore,” he said, “but don’t all women want to be treated like a whore . . . sometimes?”
“I don’t . . . uh, well . . .”
She was still stammering when he pulled, tearing her dress down to her waist . . .
Ten minutes later she was on her back on the bed, naked, while Randolph fucked her hard and fast. She gasped and cried out, scratched his back, drummed her heels on his naked butt, but never once did she say “no,” or “stop.”
Half an hour later she said, “Well, I guess you were right.”
“About what?”
They were lying on their backs on the bed together, naked.
“When you said every woman likes to be treated like a whore sometimes.”
“You mean you liked it?”
She slid her hand to his crotch and gripped his flaccid penis. Immediately, it began to come back to life.
“You know I did,” she said. “This is a small town. There ain’t nobody here like you.”
“Honey,” he said as she started to stroke his cock, “there ain’t nobody anywhere like me.”
He reached over and cupped one of her small breasts, teasing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She bit her lip and moaned.
“You gettin’ excited again?” he asked her.
“You know I am, Ben.”
“Then show me.”
She smiled, slid down between his legs, started to kiss and lick his penis until it was hard. He watched the top of her head as she took him in her mouth and began to bob up and down on him. He continued to stare and pretend she was Andrew Powell’s wife. Maybe he should have had the man’s wife do this right in front of him that day they brought the bodies to his house. Maybe that would have taught Powell that he wasn’t kidding.
He didn’t know why Powell was resisting him so much. After all, it was only money.
SEVEN
Since he had eaten at only one restaurant in town, Clint went back there for breakfast. His steak and eggs were just as good as the steak dinner he’d had the night before. And the coffee was so good he had a second pot.
After breakfast he left the restaurant and started walking around town. The telegraph office in most places was found on the main street, and Brigham was no different. He had walked three blocks when he came upon the office, and stepped inside.
Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270) Page 2