Death in the Family

by J. R. Roberts

  “That’s your horse?” he asked.

  “Has been for a long time,” Warden said. “Silvertip and me, we hunted plenty of outlaws together.”

  “You think this horse can keep up with mine?”

  Warden grinned.

  “Wait and see.”

  Clint mounted up and said, “Why wait?”

  * * *

  Several miles outside of town Clint reined Eclipse in and waited for Warden to catch up.

  “Okay,” Warden said, “the old boy can’t keep up.”

  “On the contrary,” Clint said. “I’m very impressed with him. Eclipse would have outdistanced most horses by now. Yours kept you close.”

  “Even so,” Warden said, “can we proceed at a little bit more . . . reasonable pace?”

  “I think that can be arranged,” Clint said.

  They rode on ahead, abreast this time.

  * * *

  They came to a sign that said FERGUSON, with the population number crossed out and replaced several times. Apparently, somebody decided it was time to stop, because the sign was lying on the ground.

  “The town is just up the road there, around the bend,” Jay Warden said.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Once,” Warden said. “It was my last bounty. I found the fella here.”

  “So what are we looking at?”

  “A collection of buildings that look like they’re gonna fall down,” Warden said. “Honestly, some of them probably have since the last time I was here. Bowen could be there alone, he could be there with some other fellas—or he might not be there at all.”

  “Anybody there going to know you from your old profession?” Clint asked.

  “Are you worried that we might get shot at as soon as we ride in?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I don’t think anybody’s gonna know me,” Warden said, “but somebody might know you and take a shot at you.”

  “That’s always a risk with every town I ride into,” Clint told him. “If that’s all we have to worry about, we might as well just go ahead and ride in.”

  “It’s your call,” Warden said.

  They rode forward together.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  As they rode down the main street of Ferguson—or what used to be the town of Ferguson—Clint saw what Warden meant. Many of the buildings had already fallen in on themselves to some degree. Some had half a roof, others three walls, still others had boarded-up windows.

  There was nobody on the street, and not a sound from anywhere. They reined in their horses in front of a deserted-looking saloon. They dismounted, Warden tying his horse to a hitching rail, Clint simply wrapping Eclipse’s reins once around it with a flick of his wrist.

  “Too quiet,” Clint said. “Somebody’s watching us.”

  “I know,” Warden said. “I can feel it.”

  Clint looked at him.

  “The old instincts don’t die.”

  “I hope not,” Clint said. “Let’s go inside.”

  “What about the horses?” Warden asked. “We don’t need somebody takin’ them.”

  “My horse won’t go with anyone,” Clint said. “He’ll sound the alarm.”

  “Smart animal.”

  “The smartest.”

  “Okay, then.”

  They mounted the boardwalk and entered the saloon. As they did, one of the batwing doors fell off its hinges.

  “Let’s hope the rest of the building doesn’t follow,” Clint said.

  Inside they found dust, bits and pieces of what used to be tables and chairs. There were, however, a couple of tables and four chairs at each. Clint walked to them and ran his finger over them.

  “No dust,” he said, showing Warden his fingertip.

  “I see. I’ll check the bar.”

  Warden walked to the bar, and around it.

  “Got some glasses here that have been used recently,” he said. “And some whiskey bottles.”

  “Are there any other saloons in town?”

  “No,” Warden said. “You can see how small this town is. This is the one saloon.”

  Clint looked around.

  “We may have made a mistake coming in here.”

  * * *

  Across the street, in what used to be the hardware store, Jess Bowen watched from the window as Clint and Jay Warden entered the saloon.

  “They’re inside,” he told the others.

  “Then we have them,” one of the other men said.

  “Let’s don’t be in a hurry,” Bowen said. He pointed. “You two get up on the roof.” Pointed again. “You two outside, on either side of this storefront. Nobody fires unless I do. Understood?”

  They all nodded.

  “Go!”

  That left one man with him.

  “We gonna get this done?” Andy Cardwell asked.

  Bowen looked at the whorehouse bouncer, whose sole reason for wanting to kill the Gunsmith was jealousy, and said, “That’s what I’m gettin’ paid for.”

  * * *

  “What are you thinkin’?” Warden asked.

  “I’m thinking we should stay away from the windows, for one thing.”

  “You wanna go out the back?”

  “No,” Clint said.

  “But if they’re waitin’ out front to ambush us—”

  “If they are,” Clint interrupted him, “it means we know where they are. If we go out the back, then we’re acting blind, still looking for them.”

  “You keep saying ‘them,’” Warden said. “You’re convinced there’s more than one?”

  “I doubt Jess Bowen would act alone.”

  Warden was still behind the bar, so he leaned his elbows on it, a familiar and comfortable position.

  “I can read your mind,” he said.

  “Can you?” Clint pulled a chair away from one of the tables and sat down. “Tell me.”

  “You’re thinkin’ this was a trap,” Warden said. “That we were lured here for Bowen to take.”

  “Not we,” Clint said. “Me.”

  “That would mean that whoever told you about this place was in on the plan. Or at least, one of the people who knew you were comin’ here.”

  “Probably.”

  “So that would mean it’s either Caleb, the sheriff—”

  “Or you,” Clint finished.

  “And what’s your best guess?” Warden asked.

  “I say it was you,” Clint said.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  “You insisted on coming with me,” Clint said. “And you fed me that manure about wanting to come out of retirement with me as your partner.”

  Warden fidgeted a bit behind the bar, moving one hand.

  “And I’m willing to bet Bowen left a shotgun under that bar for you.”

  Warden stopped moving his hand.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I? There’s two ways to tell.”

  “Howzat?”

  “Either you pull that shotgun out and take your chance . . .” Clint said.

  “Or?” Warden asked.

  “Or I walk over there and take a look. If there’s shotgun there, I’ll kill you.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Your choice,” Clint said.

  Clint thought the ex–bounty hunter looked nervous. He’d been away from this kind of thing a long time.

  “You’re crazy,” Warden said again.

  “Well then,” Clint said, “get out from behind there so I can take a look.”

  Warden didn’t move, but Clint saw his eyes flick to the big window in front of the saloon.

  * * *

  Across the street Jess Bowen sighted down the barrel of his rifle. Through the front window of the saloon he
could see the bar, and Jay Warden, but the ex–bounty hunter was not his target.

  Not yet anyway.

  * * *

  “All right, Adams,” Warden said. “I’ll move, and you can see how wrong you are.”

  The big man took his hands off the bar, turned as if to walk around it, then suddenly snatched the shotgun from beneath the bar and tried to bring it to bear.

  But Clint was expecting it. He drew and fired once, drilling the man through the chest. His eyes went wide, his hands opened, and the shotgun fell to the floor. Seconds later, so did he.

  Clint ejected the spent shell and replaced it before doing anything else. He thought he was going to need all six. Then he moved to the bar, crouched down by the prone man, who—for the moment—was still breathing.

  “What am I looking at, Warden?” he asked. “What am I facing out there? How many?”

  Warden’s eyes were wide and glassy, as if he was doing all he could to keep them open and stay alive.

  “Am I—am I—” he stammered.

  “Dying. Yeah, you’re dying. So tell me what I need to know,” Clint said. “How many?”

  For a moment Clint thought he wasn’t going to get any help from the dying man. He either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say anything, but then he took a deep breath, gasped out the word, “Six,” and died.

  * * *

  “Come on, Adams,” Bowen said, still sighting down his gun barrel. “Make it easy. Stand up.”

  He’d seen Warden go down, and had a split second of Clint Adams before the man ducked down behind the bar. Now he was waiting for Adams to stand back up.

  “Stand up, you sonofabitch.”

  * * *

  Clint started to stand up, then remembered the window. Warden had risked a glance at it for a reason. So he crawled out from behind the bar and didn’t stand still until he was away from the window, out of sight of anyone looking in, maybe from across the street. Window, rooftop, whatever.

  Standing in the back of that saloon, he knew what he’d gotten himself into—maybe knew it even when he first left the town of Chester to come to Ferguson with Jay Warden.

  The question now was, what to do?

  * * *

  Across the street Jess Bowen knew things had gone wrong—maybe terribly wrong.

  Adams should have stood up behind the bar by now, if he was going to.

  “You better get the men back here,” he said to Cardwell.

  “What for?”

  Bowen turned around and looked at the man.

  “It’s not goin’ as planned,” he said.

  “So what are we doin’?”

  “We’re goin’ in.”

  * * *

  He decided.

  If they were outside waiting for him to come out, they were going to wait a long time.

  Sitting back in a chair, he settled down to wait for them to come in.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clint decided to take a quick look around before settling down. He satisfied himself that there was no back door, no other way in but through a window. And he’d hear it if somebody broke one. The place was small, all on one level, so there was no upstairs to worry about.

  He returned to the main part of the saloon, sat back down in his chair. From there he could see the front windows on either side of the batwing doors.

  * * *

  “How’re we gonna do this?” Cardwell asked.

  “Like I said,” Bowen answered, “we’re goin’ in.”

  “Look,” Cardwell said nervously, “I’m no gunman.”

  “That right?” Bowen asked. “You didn’t say that when you said you wanted in on this. You said you wanted Adams dead. You think I’m just gonna do that job for you outta the goodness of my heart?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then get ready,” Bowen said. “We’re goin’ in. You’ll be with me.”

  “Yeah,” Cardwell said, “okay.”

  “You two are goin’ in first,” he told the two men who had been on the roof.

  “What?” one of them asked. “He’ll shoot us as soon as we go through the door.”

  “That’s why you ain’t gonna go through the door,” Bowen said. “Yer goin’ in through the windows.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  * * *

  Clint once again crawled behind the bar and grabbed the shotgun. He should have thought to take it with him the first time. Now he had his Colt and the shotgun, an over-and-under Greener.

  He checked it, found it fully loaded. He had no other shells, so he’d have to make these two count.

  For a third time he settled down in his chair. He kept his breathing steady, kept himself as relaxed as he could, considering what he was facing. There were six men coming for him, but at least he knew they had to come in the front.

  What they didn’t have to do was come in the front door . . .

  * * *

  Jess Bowen and his men left the storefront they were in and started across the street toward the saloon. Bowen kept a sharp eye out in case Adams was trying to peer out one of the front windows, but there was no sign of him. Apparently, the man had decided to stand his ground and wait for them to come in after him.

  Well, that suited Bowen. His odds were six to one, and he’d take those odds anytime.

  “There,” he said, pointing to a window, “and there. On my signal.”

  The two men nodded and took up their position. They were getting paid enough for this.

  “You two go right through the batwings as they go through the windows,” Bowen said.

  “Right.”

  Bowen looked at Cardwell.

  “We go in after them.”

  Cardwell nodded nervously, licking his lips.

  Jess Bowen drew his gun, then signaled his men with a wave of his arm.

  * * *

  The windows were both missing some of the glass, but it still made quite a racket as the two men came crashing through.

  Expecting this move, Clint concentrated on the batwing doors. It would take the men who crashed through the windows a few seconds to regain their balance. As the other two men came through the door, he let go with both barrels of the shotgun.

  The blast widened and took care of both men, driving them back out the doors and into the street.

  The two men on the floor struggled to get to their feet, going for their guns. One of them found an empty holster, as his gun had fallen from it.

  Clint fired at both men, dispatching them with great dexterity. If Warden had told him the truth before dying, that left two outside—Bowen and one other.

  * * *

  As the two men came flying through the batwing doors, landing in the street, Caldwell backed away, staring at their bloody forms.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Damn it,” Bowen said.

  “What do we do?” Cardwell asked.

  “Well,” Bowen said, “we’re not goin’ in there. Let’s get to the horses. We’ll get him another time.”

  But Clint had other ideas . . .

  * * *

  Discarding the shotgun, bypassing the dead bodies, he ran for the batwing doors, hoping to catch the other two men unawares. As he came through the doors, he saw them in the street, just starting away from the saloon. The bigger man had to be Bowen. He recognized the other man as Cardwell, the man who worked at the whorehouse.

  “Hold it!”

  Both men stopped cold.

  “Turn around.”

  Both men did. They still had their guns in their hands.

  Clint’s gun was holstered.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “Your partners are dead.”

  “Don’t—don’t—” Cardwell stammered.

  “Shut up!” Bowen said. “Whataya want, Adams?�
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  “I want to know who sent you after me,” Clint said. “That’s all. Who told you to kill Willie, and who sent you after me.”

  “I tell you that,” Bowen said, “I don’t get paid.”

  “If you force me to kill you, you don’t get paid either.”

  “J-Jess . . .” Cardwell stammered.

  “Settle down,” the big man said without looking at him. “Don’t panic.”

  But Cardwell had all the telltale signs of a man who was going to panic. He couldn’t keep still, his eyes kept darting about, he was sweating and licking his lips. Clint knew if it was only Cardwell he had to worry about, there would be no problem. Even if the man tried to draw his gun, Clint knew he could wound him easily. But if Cardwell panicked and drew, then Bowen would have no choice but to draw also. In that case Clint would have no time to be fancy. He’d have to shoot to kill. He never liked shooting unless it was to kill, but he wanted to keep at least one of these men alive to talk to him.

  “Look, Bowen,” Clint said, “just tell me what I want to know and you can ride out.”

  “And go where?” Bowen asked. “I took a job and I gotta do it. If I don’t, I’ll never get another one.”

  “Like I said,” Clint told him, “if you make me kill you, it’s over. You won’t need another job.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Over breakfast in their house, Veronica Perryman wanted to know what was going on.

  “With what?” Perryman asked.

  “Don’t play games with me, Milton,” she said. “Clint Adams and the boy.”

  “They’re being taken care of.”

  “How?”

  He put his silverware down and stared at her.

  “Veronica, since when do I discuss my business affairs with you?” he asked.

  “This is not just your business, Milton,” she said. “This is our lives. If that little boy lives, then he’s the rightful heir to all of this.”

  “How is anybody going to know that with my brother and his family dead?” Perryman asked.

  “But his family isn’t dead,” she said. “Not all of them.”

  “There’s no one left back East, Veronica,” Perryman said. “No one who can testify to the fact that there’s another heir.”