TWENTY-THREE
Ben Randolph finished his drink, picked up the bottle, and found it empty. Just as well. Time to turn in. It was getting late and the next day would be a big one.
He was about to get up from his table in the saloon when three of his men walked in—Lane Barrett and two others. He waited while they each got a beer and then walked over to his table.
“Want a drink, Ben?” Barrett asked.
“Nope,” Randolph said. “I just finished and was headed to bed. You boys ought to do the same. We got a big day tomorrow.”
“So tomorrow’s it, huh?” Lane asked. “The day we collect?”
“That’s right.”
“You mind if I sit a minute?”
“A minute’s all you got.”
Lane jerked his head at the other two men, who reluctantly withdrew to the bar. Lane sat down across from Randolph. The gang leader remembered that Lane Barrett and the other two had joined him at the same time. The three of them always stuck together.
“Me and the boys been wonderin’,” Lane said.
“Wonderin’ what?”
“About the money.”
“There’ll be plenty of money.”
“Yeah, but there’s . . . what? Twenty-five of us? How you gonna pay us all off?”
“Don’t you worry about that, Lane,” Randolph said. “That’s my problem.”
“Well . . . I was just tryin’ to be helpful to ya, Ben,” Lane said.
“In what way?”
“Well, I was thinkin’, ya really don’t have to pay off everybody, do you?”
“Well,” Randolph said, “I don’t have to pay everyone the same amount.”
“We was thinkin’ of not payin’ some people at all.”
“And who were you thinkin’ of leavin’ out?” Randolph asked.
“Mostly we been thinkin’ of who to leave in,” Lane explained.
“The three of you, of course.”
“Yeah,” Lane said, “and a few of the others. I mean, we’re gonna do most of the work. We’re the ones who killed those five hired guns the old man sent after you.”
“That’s true.”
“And you can count on us.”
“That’s true, too.”
“So it’s better to pay off seven maybe eight men, and not the rest.”
“And what do we do with the rest?” Randolph asked.
“Well, that’s up for discussion.”
“We can’t run out on them,” Randolph said. “Although if we did, I’m the one they’d go lookin’ for.”
“Well, yeah . . .”
“You weren’t worried about that, were you?”
“We’d back ya, Ben,” Lane said. “No worries there. Of course, we could kill ’em all.”
“In their sleep?”
“That’s one way.”
“That’s kind of bloodthirsty, isn’t it, Lane?” Randolph asked.
“Just money hungry, Ben,” Lane said. “If we can figure out a way to do it without killin’ them, I’m all for it.”
“I tell you what,” Randolph said. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Sure, sure,” Lane said, “you do that.”
“Now I’m going to turn in. See you in the morning, at the livery, like we planned.”
“Sure, Ben,” Lane said. “We’ll meet ya there. Good night.”
Randolph stood up, didn’t looked at the men standing by the bar, and left the saloon.
After Randolph was gone, the other two men joined Lane Barrett at the table.
“What’d he say?” Horace Brandt asked.
“He’s gonna think about it.”
“You think he really will?” Abner Grant asked.
“It don’t matter,” Lane said. “Whether he goes for the idea or not, we’re gonna end up with all that money.”
“How many we got backin’ us?” Abner asked.
“Five,” Lane said. “The eight of us can handle the rest.”
“And then what?” Brandt asked.
Lane looked at them both. “Then we’ll handle the other five. We’re gonna split a helluva lot of money three ways, boys.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Clint slid his penis into Chelsea’s vagina, taking his time, enjoying the feel of her heat engulfing him. When he was all the way in, he started moving, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She gasped, moving her hips to keep up with him. He had her on her back with her knees raised, spread wide. They made wet, sucking noises as they strained against each other, and did their best to keep their gasps and grunts quiet.
“Oooh, Jesus,” she said, hooking her arms behind her knees to keep her legs up.
Clint continued to listen for sounds outside in the hall as he fucked her, but eventually she took all of his attention. At one point the only way they would have heard anyone was if the intruder had kicked the door open.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, “it’s been a long time, but I don’t remember it ever being this good.”
“It should always be this good, Chelsea,” he said. “Always.”
She sighed, and closed her eyes, giving herself up to the sensations . . .
“What do you have on under that robe?” Andrea asked Gordon Westin.
“Never mind,” he said.
“Don’t you want to know what I have on under my gown?” she asked, standing.
“Andrea—”
She shrugged, and her nightgown fell to the floor, leaving her gloriously naked in the middle of the kitchen.
Westin caught his breath as he looked at her. She complained about her age, and the condition of her body, but he thought she was beautiful.
“Andrea—”
“He’s asleep,” she said, putting her hand to the side of his face.
“But—”
She knelt in front of him and reached into his robe, into his underwear, and drew out his stiff penis. Laughing to herself, she fondled it while he opened his robe fully, and she then took him in her mouth.
In the kitchen, he thought . . . again.
“I should go back to my own room,” Clint said later. Chelsea was lying in the crook of his arm. She turned her head up to look at him.
“Why?”
“I’m a guest here,” he said. “I don’t want to be caught sneaking out of your room in the morning.”
“We have time before the household wakes up,” she said. “I have to be in the kitchen early to make breakfast, so you’ll be out of here in plenty of time.”
“Are you sure?”
“I guarantee it,” she said, turning so that her breasts were pressed up against him. “There’s something else I can guarantee you, too.”
“And what’s that?”
She slid her hand down between his legs and said, “I can guarantee you a good time if you stay.”
She squeezed him, then stroked him while kissing the side of his neck.
“Well,” he said, sliding his hand down her back to the crease between her butt cheeks, “if you guarantee it . . .”
Early the next morning a rider entered town, rode down the street, and stopped at the hotel.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked. “Kinda early to be ridin’ into town.”
“I rode all night,” the man said. “Can I get a room?”
“Sure thing.” The clerk turned the register book around so the man could sign in. The stranger signed his name, then stopped when he noticed the name above his.
“Is this man still here?” he asked, pointing.
“Mr. Adams? He’s still registered, but at the moment he’s not in the hotel.”
“Where is he?”
“Uh, I think he went out to see Mr. Powell last night, and he ain’t come back yet.”
“What about a man named Joe Bags?”
“I don’t know that name.”
The stranger nodded, turned the book back around to the clerk, and accepted his key.
“Thanks. I’m gonna take care of my horse and then come bac
k.”
“Yes, sir. The livery is right down the street.”
“Obliged,” the man said, and left.
The clerk looked down at the book, read the name: Harcourt Smith.
He didn’t know the name, and closed the book.
TWENTY-FIVE
Clint succeeded in getting out of Chelsea’s room and back to his own without being seen. Chelsea went downstairs to prepare breakfast for everyone.
Andrea and Westin had gotten back to their rooms the night before, also without running into anyone. Westin slept well, while Andrea still slept fitfully next to her husband, who was fast asleep.
Powell woke refreshed for the first time in weeks. Having Clint Adams in the house was a good tonic for him.
When Clint got down to the dining room, Powell was already there, having coffee.
“Good morning,” Clint said.
“Morning,” Powell said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thanks.”
“Coffee’s right there on the sideboard. Help yourself.”
Clint walked over and poured himself a cup, carried it back the table.
“I was thinking,” he said, “that I’d go into town with Gordon and pick up my things.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Powell said. “Randolph and his men might show up today. Gordon can get your stuff. Do you have a particular reason for wanting to ride in?”
“Do you have a particular reason for not wanting me to go?”
“Well . . .”
“You know when Randolph is coming back, don’t you?” Clint asked.
Powell didn’t answer.
“Damn it—”
“Okay, okay,” Powell said, “I’ll increase your fee. Just don’t . . . change your mind, but . . .”
“Today?” Clint asked incredulously. “He’s coming back today?”
“To talk,” Powell said. “Just to talk. All I want is for you to stand next to me.”
“And if lead starts flying?”
“You know better than me what to do if that happens,” Powell said.
“Goddamnit, Powell—”
Clint stopped when Andrea Powell entered the room.
“Don’t stop scolding him on my account, Clint,” she said.
Clint got up to pour coffee for Andrea. As he was doing that, Gordon Westin entered.
“What about you?” Clint asked. “Did you know Randolph was supposed to be coming back today?”
Westin stopped in his tracks, as if he’d been slapped.
“What? No!” Westin looked at Powell. “How’s he supposed to get any help?”
“Look, once Randolph knows the Gunsmith is backing me, he’ll back down.”
“You think so?” Clint asked, placing Andrea’s coffee in front of her. “What if he just comes back with more men?”
“Well, if he comes back today and sees that you’re here, we’ll all know what he intends to do.”
“And maybe we’ll all just end up dead,” Clint said. “Powell, I think your wife should go back to town with Gordon.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Powell agreed. “Dear, why don’t you pack a bag and go with Gordon? You can stay in town until this blows over.”
“You think this is just going to blow over?” she asked. “Really?”
“Well . . . then stay until it’s over.”
“And if you die out here while I’m in town?” she asked.
“Then you’ll be a wealthy widow.”
She stood up, her eyes flashing.
“That’s not funny, Andrew!”
She stormed out of the room, presumably to pack a bag.
“Take her with you, Gordon,” Powell said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take everything from Clint’s room, then come back without her.”
Westin nodded.
The door to the kitchen opened and Chelsea entered carrying a plate full of flapjacks.
“You can leave right after breakfast,” Powell added.
“Yes, sir.”
The three men enjoyed their flapjack breakfast while Andrea Powell packed her bag. On the one hand, she was angry at her husband for sending her away. On the other hand, in town she would have more time to spend with Gordon Westin.
TWENTY-SIX
Ben Randolph awoke that morning, rolled Irene off his outstretched left arm without waking her. From behind she still looked quite a bit like Andrea Powell. Well, maybe she didn’t look like her, but she certainly reminded him of her.
He swung his legs to the floor and stood up. Naked, he walked to the window and stretched, then looked out. He couldn’t see the livery stable from where he was, but knew his men would be gathering there.
Lane Barrett was going to be a problem. If he got enough men to follow him, they might even try to take the money away. His proposal of getting rid of most of the men after they got the money was a good one, but it also meant he was ambitious.
There was nothing worse than an ambitious thief.
Irene moaned and rolled onto her back. Her small breasts were hard, like pieces of ripe fruit. He rubbed his crotch, then approached the bed.
Lane Barrett met his seven men at the livery, before any of the others came along.
“We all know what we’re gonna do?” he asked.
The men nodded their heads.
“Nobody’s havin’ any second thoughts, right?” he asked.
“Not for the amount of money we’re dealin’ with,” one of them said. “No second thoughts.”
The other men nodded their agreement.
“And anybody got a problem with what happens to Ben?” Lane asked.
There was some hesitation, then a man said, “Not as long as your plan works.”
“It’ll work,” Lane assured them, “as long as we all act at the same time and according to plan.”
“If somethin’ does go wrong, he’ll kill us,” a third man said. “He’s deadly with that gun.”
“He’ll be outnumbered eight-to-one,” Lane reminded them. “He won’t have a chance. Everybody just watch me, and don’t lose your nerve.”
Gordon Westin rode back to town after breakfast, accompanying Andrea Powell, who drove a buggy.
“Would you like me to get you a room at the hotel?” he asked.
“I can certainly register myself at the hotel,” she replied frostily. He knew she was angry with her husband, but didn’t know why he was receiving some of the overflow.
“I’ll come by to check on you before I go back,” he said.
“Fine.”
He stopped at his office first to sit behind his desk and think while she went on to the hotel.
While Andrea Powell was registering at the hotel, a man came up next to her and said, “Excuse me.”
She looked up at him. He was tall and brutish looking, and a shiver went through her as she looked into his steel gray eyes. The clerk looked on nervously.
“Yes?” she asked. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” he said. “I told this feller to let me know if anyone connected with the Powell place came in here.”
“And he just gave you the signal?” she asked, looking at the clerk, who looked away.
“Yeah.”
“I happen to be Mrs. Powell,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“My name’s Harcourt Smith,” the man said. “I came here to meet a friend of mine named Joe Bags. When I got here, the law told me he’s dead, and that he was workin’ for your husband.”
“That’s true, I suppose,” she said.
“You suppose? You don’t know?”
“You’d have to talk to my husband,” she said with a sigh, “or to his lawyer. His name is Gordon Westin and he’s in his office now.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Smith said. “If I can ask ya one more thing . . . where is his office?”
Westin was sitting with his feet up, wondering why Andrea was so cold to him, when the door opened and a man wal
ked in. He was tall, hulking, and wore his gun like he knew how to use it. Westin let his feet drop.
“You Westin, the lawyer?” the man asked.
“That’s right.”
“Powell’s lawyer?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Name’s Smith, Harcourt Smith.”
The man paused, as if the name should mean something to him.
“I don’t know—”
“I’m a friend of Joe Bags,” Smith said. “He sent me a telegram to come and help him. Seems I’m a little late.”
“Yes,” Westin said. “He’s dead, along with four others.”
“You know who killed him?”
“I know he was killed by Ben Randolph and his men,” Westin said. “I don’t know who actually pulled the trigger.”
“According to the law hereabouts, nobody’s doin’ nothin’ about it.”
“Not entirely true,” Westin said.
“Somebody is, then?”
“Yes,” Westin said. “there is somebody, and I think he might be needing some help.”
“And who would we be talkin’ about?” Smith asked.
“Mr. Smith,” Westin said, standing up, “why don’t I buy you a drink?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clint Adams was sitting in one of a set of wooden armchairs on the front porch of Andrew Powell’s house. The front door opened and Chelsea came out carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and a couple of glasses.
“I thought you’d like something to drink,” she said, putting the tray down on a small table at his elbow.
“Are you joining me?” he asked, noticing the second glass.
“No,” she said, “but I expect Mr. Powell will be out here soon.” She straightened up and looked out at the horizon. “Any sign of anyone?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Well, given how many men he has, I’m looking for a cloud of dust.”
“What if he comes alone?”
“That’d be preferred,” Clint said, “but not very likely.”
“Well,” she said, “I’ll leave you to it. Can I bring you a sandwich for lunch? I assume you’ll be out here all day.”
Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270) Page 7