“That’d be nice,” he said, “whenever you get a chance.”
“Sure.”
She went back inside and Clint poured himself some iced tea from the frosty pitcher.
He was halfway through the first glass when Andrew Powell came out.
“Iced tea?” Clint asked.
“I’d rather have a cognac, but sure,” Powell said. He pulled the second chair over and sat down. “No sign of anything yet?”
“No,” Clint said. “Do you anticipate Randolph coming with his full complement of men?”
“He’ll bring somebody, that’s for sure,” Powell said.
“So no chance he’ll come alone?”
“Not a chance,” Powell said. “Not if he’s still the man I knew.”
“Did he have money when you knew him?” Clint asked. “Is that why you went into business together?”
“He had some contacts I was interested in,” Powell said. “But no money of his own.”
“So when you made those contacts and you didn’t need him anymore, you cut him loose. Am I right?”
“Actually, you are,” Powell said, “and I give no apology for that. It was just business.”
“But you can’t get Randolph to see it that way, can you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Are you thinking of using that gun under your arm?” Clint asked. He had noticed the bulge under the man’s arm when he first came out.
“I didn’t use it the first time Randolph came to me,” he said. “And I certainly didn’t try for it when he brought me the five dead men. I’m thinking it may be time for me to get actively involved. Besides, you’ll probably need some help.”
“Can you hit what you shoot at?”
“I can’t hit targets,” the man said. “I’m not a sharpshooter, but I can hit something the size of a man.”
Clint nodded. He didn’t bother asking Powell if he could shoot at a man who was shooting back at him.
“Well, if it comes to that,” Clint said, “just keep your eyes on me. Don’t go for that gun unless I pull mine. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
The two men sat there, drinking their iced tea in silence.
Harcourt Smith reined his horse in, causing Gordon Westin to do the same.
“What is it?” the lawyer asked.
“That way,” Smith said, pointing to their left—west. “See that cloud of dust?”
“I see it.”
“Only thing makes a cloud like that is a lot of men,” Smith said. “What’s that way?”
“Just a nothing little town called Ariza.”
“Nothin’ ?”
“There’s nothing there but a saloon and some fallingdown buildings.”
“Just the kind of place to hole up if you don’t wanna be found.”
“You think Randolph was there?”
“And he’s ridin’ this way,” Smith said.
“Heading . . . to town?”
“He got any business in Brigham that you know of?” Smith asked.
“No.”
“You know someplace where he does have business?”
“We both do,” Westin said.
“Then we better get movin’ if we wanna beat them there,” Smith said. “Lead the way, lawyer.”
Clint stood up.
“What is it?” Powell asked.
“Two riders.”
Powell stood up.
“Just two?”
Clint nodded.
“I don’t see them.”
Clint pointed.
“I still don’t—oh, wait . . . I see them. Can you tell who they are?”
“One looks like your lawyer,” Clint said, although he was going more by the horse than the rider.
“And the other one?”
Clint squinted,
“I can’t tell . . . I don’t think I know him,” Clint said. He looked at Powell. “Could it be Randolph?”
“I doubt it,” the man said. “Why would he be riding here with Gordon?”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “your lawyer doesn’t have a choice.”
“What do we do?” Powell asked anxiously.
“We relax,” Clint said, “until we know what we’re dealing with. Let’s just let them get closer.”
“All right.”
“Remember,” Clint said, “don’t touch that gun unless I touch mine.”
“I understand.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“It’s not him,” Powell finally said as the men came closer. “It’s not Randolph.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “then you can relax.”
“I’m relaxed.”
He may have been relaxed at that moment, but just seconds earlier he’d been as jumpy as a cat.
“Now the question is,” Clint said, “who is he and why is Westin bringing him here?”
However, as the two riders got closer, Clint was suddenly able to identify the other man.
“Well, I’ll be—” he said.
“What? You know him?”
“Yes, I do,” Clint said. “His name’s Harcourt Smith. He makes his living with his gun.”
“Did you send for him?”
“I didn’t,” Clint said, “But Joe Bags did. He’s just a little bit late.”
“But it’s good that he’s here, right?”
“We’ll have to see,” Clint said.
“Big house,” was all Smith said as they approached it.
“Yes, it is.”
Smith was more interested in the two men on the porch.
“The older man is Mr. Powell,” Westin said. “The other man is—”
“Clint Adams,” Harcourt said, cutting him off.
“You know him?”
“I do.”
“Does he know you?”
“He does.”
“There’s not going to be trouble, is there?” Westin asked.
“Not from me,” Smith said.
Westin decided to keep quiet until they reached the house.
Clint didn’t move as the two riders reached the house. Powell shuffled his feet, but that was all.
The two men stopped their horses right at the base of the steps.
“Clint,” Smith said.
“Court.”
“Bags call for you, too?” the man asked Clint.
“Not me. When I got here, he was already dead. Got killed.”
Smith looked at Powell.
“Did he die workin’ for you?”
“Yes,” Powell answered.
Then he looked at Clint.
“You workin’ for him now?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I figure to get the man who killed Bags,” Clint said. “Why not get paid while I’m doing it?”
Smith stared at him a few moments, then said, “Makes sense.”
“You want in?” Clint asked.
“Who pays me, him or you?”
“Him.”
“Then I do.”
“We’re waiting for a man named Ben Randolph to show up,” Clint said. “I’ll explain it to you.”
“How many men?”
“About twenty-five.”
“Well, you better talk fast, then,” Smith said. “We’re about half an hour in front of a dust cloud.”
“Then you better take care of those horses and come up here,” Clint said. “I’ll tell you over some iced tea.”
“Iced tea?” Smith asked.
“I can do better,” Powell said.
“Then let’s get to it,” Smith said, stepping down from his horse.
TWENTY-NINE
They sat on the porch drinking iced tea laced with whiskey while Clint told Smith what he knew. Powell and Westin sat off to one side, with the older man contributing here and there.
“So what you’re tellin’ me,” Court said when Clint was done, “is that it’s the four of us against maybe twenty-five men, and these two can’t sh
oot worth a damn.”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
Smith looked at Powell.
“You better be payin’ a whole lot of money.”
“I am,” Powell said.
“They’re coming,” Clint said, looking out at the approaching cloud of dust.
Smith had a look, too.
“Ten minutes, by my reckoning,” he said. “Clint, you think we can come up with a plan in ten minutes?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
“What is it?” Powell asked.
Clint didn’t answer Powell. He looked at Harcourt Smith when he said, “Why don’t we just kill them all when they get here?”
Smith stared back at him, then said, “Sounds like a plan.”
When Ben Randolph came within sight of the house, he stopped his gang’s forward progress. He could see four men standing on the porch.
“Looks like he got hisself some help,” Lane Barrett said.
“One man is Powell, another is the lawyer,” Randolph said. “That means he got maybe two guns.”
“We can ride in and kill them right off,” Lane said.
Randolph looked at Lane.
“You and your bunch ride with me,” he said. “Tell the rest of ’em to stay here.”
“Why go in shorthanded, Ben?” Lane asked.
“Never mind,” Randolph said. “Eight of us will be plenty. We were plenty against the other five, weren’t we?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Then we’ll be able to handle these two, whoever they are.”
“If you say so. I’ll pass the word.”
“You do that.”
“They ain’t all comin’ in,” Court said. “At least that’s good.”
“He’s probably bringing his best guns,” Clint said. “They’ll do all the work. The rest are for show.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Court, you got any problem with me taking the lead?” Clint asked.
“No,” Smith said, “no problem. You got here first.”
“Okay.”
Smith looked at Powell.
“How good is Ben Randolph with a gun?”
“Very good,” Powell said.
“Why would a businessman be good with a gun?” Clint asked.
“I never said Randolph was a businessman,” Powell said. “I said I was in business with him.”
“For his contacts,” Clint said.
“Correct.”
“So he’s more gunman than businessman,” Smith said.
“That begs the question,” Clint said to Powell, “why would you cross a man like that in the first place?”
“It was business,” Powell said, “just . . . business.”
“Is there anything you wouldn’t do in the name of business?” Clint asked.
“No,” Gordon Westin said.
Ben Randolph, leading seven men, rode up to the house and reined his horse in. The twelve men eyed each other silently.
“Well, Andrew,” Randolph finally said, “looks like you got yourself some more men. They must be pretty good, though. You only brought two this time.”
“I brought as many as I thought I’d need,” Powell said.
“Does this mean you’ve agreed to pay, Andrew?” Randolph asked.
“No,” Powell said, “no, Ben, I’m not going to pay.”
“Having five dead men laid at your feet didn’t convince you?” Randolph asked. “Did you tell your two new men what happened?”
“We know,” Clint said. “He told us.”
Randolph looked at Clint.
“Are you the spokesman here?”
“You can talk to me.”
“My name is Ben Randolph,” the gang leader said. “These are my men. And further back are more of my men. How much is Andrew paying you to die?”
“I’d like to know which of your men killed a friend of mine named Joe Bags.”
“Bags?” Randolph frowned.
“One of the five men you killed.”
“Well,” Randolph said, “that’s really all I know. There were five of them, and they were killed. I don’t know what their names were.”
“But you gave the order,” Harcourt Smith said.
“I suppose that’s right,” Randolph said. “What do you two propose to do about it?”
Smith looked at Clint.
“Who are you two anyway?” Randolph asked. “Maybe this time I should know your names before we kill you.”
Clint nodded to Smith.
“My name’s Harcourt Smith.”
“Smith,” Randolph said. “I’ve heard that name before.”
He looked at Lane Barrett.
“Yeah, me, too,” Lane said. “He makes his way with his gun.”
“Like those other five?” Randolph asked.
“No,” Lane said, “not like them at all.”
The other men stirred, not sure where this was leading.
“And you?” Randolph asked, looking at Clint. “You somebody I should be concerned about?”
“My name’s Clint Adams. I don’t know if that means anything to you, or not.”
The eight men remained silent, but exchanged glances. It seemed all of them wanted to speak.
“The Gunsmith?” Lane finally asked.
“That’s right,” Powell said, puffing out his chest. “The Gunsmith.”
THIRTY
If Andrew Powell expected the men to turn and ride off at the sound of Clint’s name, he was disappointed.
Clint didn’t expect that either, but he saw the looks on the faces of the men Ben Randolph had with him. The leader himself was able to control his expression better.
“Impressive,” he said finally. “The Gunsmith, and Court Smith.”
He looked behind him for a moment, then back at them.
“I have seven men with me, and twice that waiting for me.”
“Go ahead and call the others,” Clint said. “You’ll be dead by the time they reach us.”
Randolph laughed.
“You think you can kill all eight of us before they get here?”
“I think we can kill most of you,” Clint said, “starting with you.”
“Who wants to be first?” Court Smith asked.
Before any of them could speak, or act, Randolph held up his hand.
“Take it easy, everyone,” he said. “Nothing has to happen here. You may get me, Adams, but I’d get Andrew. Then who would pay you?”
“What do you want, Randolph?” Clint asked.
“You know what I want,” he said. “At least, Andrew knows.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Clint said.
“You’re gonna stand in my way?”
“That’s right.”
“Just the two of you against twenty-five men?”
“Whether or not it’s just the two of us remains to be seen,” Clint said.
Randolph suddenly looked around, even up on the roof. His men followed, looking all around them.
“Guns on us?” Randolph asked.
Clint didn’t answer.
“Look, do you know what he did to me?” Randolph asked.
“I’ve heard the story,” Clint said.
“So what do you want?”
“I told you. I want the man who killed my friend, Joe Bags.”
“So do I,” Court said.
“So if I give you his killer, will that satisfy you both?” Randolph asked. “Would you then leave me and my old friend Andrew to conduct our own business?”
“You call showing up here with twenty-five men taking care of your own business?” Clint asked. “The answer to that question is no, I won’t leave.”
“I won’t either,” Smith said, although at that moment he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was just backing Clint’s play.
“If you don’t know which man was Joe Bags, that’s okay,” Clint said. “We’ll take the killers of all five of them. And then you can be on your way and forget your bu
siness with Powell.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Randolph said. “I’ll burn this whole house down first.”
“You can try.”
“You’d let me burn the house down with a woman inside?”
“You ain’t burnin’ nothin’,” Smith said. “In fact, you better go back to your other men and tell them who they have to deal with here. They might change their mind about backin’ you.”
Randolph licked his lips, then compressed them. He looked at Powell.
“This ain’t gonna work, Andrew.”
“It’s going to work better than the other five did,” Powell said. “You aren’t going to carry the bodies of these two men into my office, I guarantee that.”
“I’ll back that guarantee,” Clint said.
“So will I,” Smith said.
“Damn you all, then,” Randolph said. “What happens next is on your heads.”
Randolph wheeled his horse around and rode off, followed by his men.
“What do you think he meant by ‘what happens next’?” Powell asked.
“He’s just making threats,” Clint said. “He needs to come up with a new plan now. That’ll take time.”
“So you don’t think they’ll come riding in on us now?” Powell asked.
“No,” Clint said. “He’s got to talk to his men. The seven he had with him heard our names. Now they have to tell the others.” Clint looked at Smith. “Court?”
“I agree,” Smith said.
“Then we can go into the house?” Powell asked.
“All but one of us,” Clint said. “We’ll need somebody on watch.”
“But you said they wouldn’t come today?” Powell said.
“But they’ll come sometime,” Clint said, “and we need to be ready.”
THIRTY-ONE
Randolph gathered his men around him. He knew he had to tell them all the truth because Lane and his bunch knew it. They all listened intently while he told them what they were dealing with.
“The Gunsmith?” one of them said. “I didn’t sign on to go up against him.”
“He’s only got one other man with him,” Randolph pointed out.
“I heard of Court Smith,” another man said. “He’s damn good with a gun. I wouldn’t wanna face both of those fellas at the same time.”
Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270) Page 8