Way with a Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  They settled the lawman on the floor and holstered his gun for him.

  “Make my wife happy,” he said. “Tell me I’m gonna die.”

  “I almost feel bad, but you’re not,” Clint said. “You’ve got a bullet in your thigh, and one took a chunk out of your side and kept going.”

  “You ain’t got enough lead in ya to kill ya,” Ransom said. He looked at Clint. “I’ll help Kale check the bodies, but I think they’re all dead.”

  “Me too.”

  Ransom started checking bodies. Clint looked at Taylor and asked, “Pine?”

  “Dead,” Taylor said. “He was quicker, but he missed.”

  “Yep, that’s the way it happens sometimes,” Clint said.

  FORTY-TWO

  SELKIRK, ARIZONA

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Clint knew there was a very good chance that whoever Tell was, he’d be gone from Selkirk by now. He was sure to have gotten word that the other two men had failed. The telegram found in each man’s pocket had to be meant to bring Clint here. He didn’t know why the other two men had been sent first, but he wanted to find out.

  He rode Eclipse directly to the sheriff’s office and dismounted. There was a wooden shingle on the door that had EVAN WOODSIDE, SHERIFF on it. He entered without knocking.

  A man with a badge was just walking back in from the cell block as Clint entered. He was tall, with gray, thinning hair, but had a bushy mustache to compensate for it. He had a thousand wrinkles around each eye, and Clint was sure there was a story for each one. He had the air of a man who had worn a badge for a long time—maybe not this particular badge, but a tin star somewhere.

  “Help ya?” he asked.

  “My name’s Clint Adams, Sheriff.”

  The lawman stopped and stared. There was recognition on his face, but nothing else. He’d seen and heard it all by now.

  “I know your rep, Adams,” he finally said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a man called Tell.”

  “Tell? Tell what?”

  “That I don’t know,” Clint said, “and I don’t know if it’s a proper name or a nickname.”

  “Tell,” the sheriff said again. He walked to his desk and sat down, waved Clint to the wooden chair sitting opposite him.

  “Don’t know that I can help you with this,” he said apologetically. “I can check my posters for you, but . . .” Neither of them thought that would be much help.

  “I have these two telegrams,” Clint said, taking them from his pocket. “They were both sent from here by a man who signed his name Tell.”

  Woodside took the telegrams and looked at them.

  “These weren’t sent to you.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And the men they were sent to?”

  “Both are dead.”

  “By your hand?”

  “Yes, sir, but they forced the issue.”

  “Not my business what brought it on,” Woodside said, waving the explanation away with one hand. He looked at the telegrams again. “Okay, this name I know.”

  “Which one?”

  “Newly Yates. Bad sort, hires his gun out. Was here in town some time ago.”

  “And the other name?”

  “Jerry Corbett. Don’t know him, but while Yates was here, he was seen in the company of two men.”

  “Corbett could have been one of them,” Clint said.

  “And this Tell you’re lookin’ for coulda been the other.” Woodside handed the telegrams back. “According to the dates on those telegrams, your man may not even be here anymore.”

  “Oh, he’s here.”

  “Waitin’ for ya, ya think?”

  “I can’t think why else the telegrams would have been in the pockets of these two men,” Clint said, tucking them away. “Yeah, I think he’s here waiting for me.”

  “Well, do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you two face each other,” Woodside said, “try to keep the property damage down.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Though Clint didn’t need the suggestion, the sheriff advised that he talk to the telegraph operator.

  “He might remember who sent them.”

  “Much obliged, Sheriff,” Clint said anyway, and then the lawman gave him something useful.

  “Talk to Terry Benson. He’s the regular key operator, got a good memory for faces and names. Tell ’im I sent you over.”

  “I’ll do it,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  He left the sheriff’s office and walked Eclipse over to the telegraph office. His hope was that he’d find this fella Tell and take care of him without having to get a room at a hotel. He’d already given this matter too much of his time. He wanted to work fast this time.

  He tied Eclipse off outside the office and went inside. A skinny fellow wearing a green visor was behind the desk with garters on his long sleeves. The office was empty but for him.

  “Help ya?” he asked.

  “Are you Terry?”

  “That’s me.” Up close, Clint could see he was in his fifties, and was wiry rather than skinny. That meant he did not look frail. Frowning, Terry asked, “Why do you want to know?”

  “Sheriff Woodside sent me over,” Clint said. “He thought you might be able to help me.”

  “With what?”

  “These telegrams.” Clint took them from his pocket. “I wonder if you handled them, and if you did, if you remember the man who sent them?”

  The clerk accepted the telegrams, unfolded them, and read them.

  “I remember these,” he said.

  “You do? Do you remember who sent them?”

  “That depends.” The clerk handed them back nervously.

  “On what?”

  “On who you are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the man who sent those,” Terry said, “told me he’d kill me unless I did exactly what he told me to do.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Again,” Terry said, “that depends on who you are.”

  “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  Suddenly, the man looked relieved. “Thank God.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Look,” Terry said, “you gotta kill this fella before he comes back to kill me.”

  “And who are we talking about?”

  “Barlow,” Terry said, “Will Barlow.”

  “I don’t know the—”

  “He goes by the name of Tell to his friends. That’s why he signed the telegrams with that name.”

  “Well, that’s who I’m looking for,” Clint said. “Tell Barlow.”

  “Well, he told me that if you came in here asking questions, I was to answer them truthfully,” Terry said. “If I didn’t, he was going to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t ask him,” Terry said. “So, are you gonna kill him?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On if I can find him.”

  “You’ll find him,” Terry said. “He’ll be at the Five Aces.”

  “Saloon?”

  “Yeah. Just off of Main Street, on First. You can’t miss it.”

  “He doesn’t want me to miss it, does he?”

  “That’s the impression I get,” Terry said. “He thinks he’s real good with that gun.”

  “Thanks for the information.”

  “Hey,” the man said before Clint had a chance to go out the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “He can’t possibly beat you, can he?”

  Clint shrugged. “I guess we’re going to find out.”

  He started out the door, then stopped of his own accord.

  “Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Why wouldn’t the sheriff know about this man?”

  “He doesn’t know him as Tell,” Terry said. “He knows him as Will Barlow.
I only know about the other name because of the telegrams.”

  “And where does that other name come from?”

  “Middle name,” the clerk said. “His name is William Tell Barlow.”

  Clint nodded his thanks and left.

  As soon as Clint Adams was gone, Terry Benson came around the counter, closed the door, put the CLOSED sign out, and left by way of the back door.

  By using both side and back alleys, he’d be able to get to the Five Aces before the Gunsmith and warn Tell Barlow that the man was coming. This had also been part of his instructions from Barlow.

  Terry Benson was not a brave man. Barlow’s threats had been all it took to get him to cooperate. Once he tipped Barlow off to Clint Adams’s arrival, he’d be done with the man. He only hoped that the Gunsmith would live up to his reputation and put William Tell Barlow in the ground.

  The sheriff had been the lucky one. The only instructions he had received were to send Adams to Terry at the telegraph office. Poor Sheriff Woodside, after wearing a badge for forty years, had had to bend to Tell Barlow’s threats as well or die. Benson knew this irked his friend Woodside, but the old man was not the lawman he once was.

  And Terry Benson had never been a brave man.

  So the stage was set. Benson and Woodside knew that Tell Barlow was a fast man with a gun who had never had the chance to prove it to them—until now.

  They only hoped that his first chance would also be his last.

  FORTY-FOUR

  William Tell Barlow sat in the Five Aces Saloon, as he had been doing since the day he’d heard of Jerry Corbett’s death. As the last of the three alive, Tell had gone to the bank to collect the proceeds of their wager, but it was never about the money for Tell. It had been about bringing Clint Adams to him, which the telegrams he had sent each man had been designed to do. He’d concocted a rule that the two of them had to keep the correspondence on them in order to collect if they won, and they’d been so dense that it had worked. So he knew Clint Adams had found at least one, probably both, of the telegrams.

  A man came rushing in from the back of the saloon. The bartender recognized the telegraph operator and knew the time had come. Now maybe somebody would kill Tell Barlow and get him out of his place so his regular customers would come back.

  Barlow watched as Terry Benson approached his table.

  “He’s here, Mr. Barlow,” Benson said.

  “I figured he was, or you wouldn’t be here. He on his way over?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then get out. You’re not of any use to me anymore. And tell the sheriff the same. I have no use for either of you.”

  “Then . . . you’ll leave us alone?”

  “I want both of you to leave town.”

  “W-what?”

  “After I kill Adams,” Barlow said, “I’m gonna come for both of you.”

  “B-but . . . why?” The telegraph operator was aghast.

  “Because you’re both weak,” Barlow said. “After I kill Adams, this town is gonna be mine, and I have no use for weak men. So get out.”

  “Mr. Barlow, that ain’t fai—”

  “Out!”

  And as Terry Benson ran for the back door, Barlow called out, “And tell the sheriff to leave his badge on his desk. It’s mine now too.”

  Jesus, the bartender thought, the town would never be rid of him unless the Gunsmith could kill him. He touched the shotgun that was beneath the bar, but he didn’t produce it. He hadn’t done it up to now, and he still couldn’t do it.

  “Bartender!” Barlow called.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring two cold beers.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “And then get out,” Barlow said. “I want the place empty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The bartender brought the beers over.

  “And get out of town,” Barlow added. “This place is mine now.”

  The man thought about arguing, but what was the point? If Barlow managed to kill Clint Adams, there’d be no stopping him. The first thing he’d do was hang those signs he’d had them paint over at the hardware store, the ones he’d use to rename the town Barlow, Arizona.

  After that, he would be right.

  The whole shebang would be his.

  As Clint walked to the Five Aces Saloon, he noticed that the streets were emptying out. It was as he figured. The sheriff, the telegraph operator, or both had tipped Barlow off that he was coming. Word had gotten out onto the street already.

  The only question that remained now was whether or not Tell Barlow would have help, or would face him alone.

  FORTY-FIVE

  When Clint entered the saloon, he saw the man sitting there alone with two beers, one in front of him and one across the table from him. Clint walked over and sat in front of the second beer.

  “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get me here, Barlow,” he said.

  “Not really,” Tell said. “Other people have gone to the trouble. All it’s cost me is time.”

  Clint picked up the beer and drank it. It was still cold. He thought about asking if the sheriff or clerk had tipped Barlow off that he was in town, but decided it didn’t matter.

  “So, now that I’m here, what do we do?” Clint asked.

  “I’ve got lots of big plans for this town,” Tell said. “But first I have to kill you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’ll have the rep,” the other man said. “I’ll rename the town after myself, sit back, and wait for fame and fortune.”

  “And the people in town will just stand for that?”

  “For the most part I won’t bother them. I’ll get rid of the troubling ones.”

  “Like an over-the-hill sheriff and a scared telegraph clerk?”

  “Exactly. Even this place will be mine. I’ll own the town.”

  “And that all starts with killing me?”

  “Exactly,” Tell said. “Plus I made a few extra dollars from the bet.”

  “What bet?”

  “Corbett, Yates, and I had a bet to see who could kill you.”

  “And you collected already?”

  “As the only one alive, I had that right.”

  “So you could have walked away with the money.”

  “Why, Mr. Adams,” Barlow said, “that wouldn’t have been honest.”

  Clint drank half the beer and said, “Let’s get to it. In here? Or on the street where people can see?”

  “I think if I walk out of here alive, that’ll be proof enough.”

  Both men stood up, didn’t even move away from the table. Clint waited, watched his opponent.

  “Don’t you want to know anything about me?” Barlow asked. “How many men I’ve killed?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “If you kill me, you kill me. If I kill you, my reputation won’t be enhanced at all. I’ve got nothing to gain, or lose. I just want to get it over with.”

  “Should we count—”

  “Just do it!” Clint snapped.

  Barlow sprang into action, drew his gun smoothly, and brought it up quickly. He probably would have killed any other man he faced . . . except for one or two—and the Gunsmith.

  Watch for

  TO REAP AND TO SOW

  311th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series

  from Jove

  Coming in November!