Missing Patriarch (9781101613399) (2 page)

THREE

Jason McCall rode into Santa Rosita, stopping briefly to watch some boys his age playing some kind of game with a ball and stick. He wished he could spend time playing with them, but he had an eleven-year-old sister, an eight-year-old brother, and a six-year-old sister who depended on him.

He continued on and reined in only when he was in front of the mercantile store. He dismounted and went inside. He was happy to see that it wasn't Mr. Mason who was behind the counter, but his clerk, Eddie. The clerk was in his late teens, and Jason knew him.

“Hey, Eddie.”

“Hello, Jason,” Eddie said. “What can I do for you?”

“I need some flour . . .” Jason said, and mindful of how little money he had in his pocket, he mentioned only a few more items.

“Have you got money, Jason?”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Mason says no more credit until you pay what you owe. Actually, he wanted me to tell your father that. Is he around?”

“No,” Jason said, “he had to go away to do some work.”

“Your mother, then?”

“She's been feelin' poorly,” Jason said. “That's why I come to town for the supplies.”

“Well . . . you got an outstanding bill, Jason. Can you get some money from your ma?”

“Look, Eddie,” Jason said, “Ma's gonna tan my hide if I come home without that flour.”

“Jason, I wish I could help—”

Jason reached into his pocket.

“Look,” he said, “I got a dollar. I can give you that to put toward our bill. And you can let me have the flour, and some fruit. How about it?”

Jason put the dollar in change on the counter so Eddie could see it.

“I tell you what I'll do,” he said, “and Mr. Mason'll probably take some of my hide for doin' it. I'll let you have the flour and a couple of cans of peaches, but that's it. That way at least this dollar will reduce your bill some.”

“Okay, Eddie. Thanks.”

Eddie swept the change off the counter, then put the flour and peaches into a burlap sack. On the counter was a jar with hard candies in it. He grabbed four of those and dropped them in.

“For you and your sisters,” he said. “And your little brother.”

“I appreciate it, Eddie.”

The clerk held the bag out and said, “You better get out of here before Mr. Mason comes back.”

Jason nodded, grabbed the sack, and went outside.

*   *   *

In the saloon Clint gathered his money together and then went to the bar for a beer, which he needed. He was dry, and he never drank while he played poker.

The lawyer, Hackett, came up to him and asked, “Can I buy you that beer?”

“Sure.”

Hackett signaled the bartender for two beers.

“I learned a lot from watching you play,” Hackett said.

“Well, you paid for the privilege.”

“You can say that again,” the lawyer said, “but not as much as much as Rutledge paid.”

“He's a fool,” Clint said. “He insists on playing a game he's not good at, then blames everybody else when he loses.”

“If I was you,” the lawyer said as the beers were set in front of tem, “I'd watch my step out on the street. He was pretty mad.”

“If he comes at me on the street,” Clint said, “then he's really a fool.”

“He's got two partners with him.”

“And they'll be even bigger fools if they follow him,” Clint responded.

“How much longer are you staying in town?” Hackett asked.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “That depends on how fast my horse is healing.”

“Maybe we can get the chance to play again.”

“I usually try to stay away from saloon games,” Clint said.

“I might be able to set something more private up,” Hackett said. “We actually do have some good poker players in town.”

“Something private might be okay,” Clint said.

“The stakes would be a little higher than today.”

“That's okay, too,” Clint said. “If I'm still in town, I'd consider it.”

“Well, I'll try to set it up and then let you know. Where are you staying?”

“Right across the street,” Clint said. “After I finish this beer, I'm going to check on my horse. After that I'll probably be in my room, reading.”

“I'll get word to you.”

Clint finished his beer, thanked Hackett for it, and headed for the batwings.

*   *   *

Jason came out of the mercantile and tied the burlap bag containing the peaches and flour to his saddle. As he circled the horse, preparing to mount, he saw the three men standing across the street from the saloon. They were all smoking, and watching the front doors. Jason had the feeling something was going to happen, and he didn't want to miss it. He could afford to take a few more minutes before he had to return home and be the big, responsible brother.

He went back onto the boardwalk in front of the mercantile store, found himself a good spot to watch near some barrels, and settled down to wait.

FOUR

“You sure he's comin' out?” Teddy Grant asked Rutledge.

“He'll be out eventually.”

“That could take all day,” Len Wilson said.

“He's got our money.”

“The money we let you talk us into tripling at poker?” Grant asked.

Rutledge gave the man a quick look.

“I woulda tripled it, but Adams cheated.”

“How about the fact that he's the Gunsmith?” Wilson asked.

“Does that scare you?” Rutledge asked.

“It sure does.”

“You know how good I am with a gun,” Rutledge pointed out. “All you know about him is how good he's supposed to be.”

Rutledge turned his attention back to the front door of the saloon.

“Today we're gonna find out for sure.”

*   *   *

Clint walked to the batwing doors and looked out. Sure enough, across the street was Rutledge, and standing just behind him, to either side, were his two partners.

Hackett came up alongside Clint and looked out.

“Looks like they're waitin' for you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to go out the back way?”

“No.”

“Why not? You could avoid them that way.”

“For how long? Besides, if word got out that I ran from a fight, I'd have more fights on my hands than I could handle. I have to face this head on. This is my life.”

“I understand. Well, if you have any trouble with the law, I'll represent you.”

“Thanks,” Clint said.

“Have you met the sheriff?”

“Once,” Clint said. “When I realized I was going to be stuck in town, I stopped in to see him.”

“What'd you think?”

“He seemed okay.”

“That's what he is,” Hackett said. “Okay.”

Clint didn't think it was time to discuss their opinions about the local lawman.

“You better stay inside.”

“I intend to.”

Clint nodded, then stepped out the batwing doors.

*   *   *

From where he was, Jason saw the man step out of the saloon. The other three men came to immediate attention. The other man didn't look scared or nothing. Jason was impressed. If he saw three men waiting for him, he would've been really scared.

He moved farther down the street to get a better look, stepped into a doorway to watch.

*   *   *

Clint stopped just outside the batwing doors and looked at the three men.

“You boys waiting for me?” he called.

“You got our money,” Rutledge said. “Put it down on the ground and walk away.”

“You mean the money I won?”

“I mean the money you cheated me out of.”

“You boys let Rutledge play poker with your money? I got some advice for you. Before you do that again, make sure the man you're trusting knows how to play the game.”

“I know how to play poker,” Rutledge said. “I just don't like gettin' cheated.”

“Nobody cheated you, Rutledge,” Clint said. “You're just a terrible poker player.”

Rutledge looked around to see who was listening to Clint talk to him this way.

“That ain't true!” he snapped.

“Yeah, it is,” Clint said. “In fact, you're one of the worst poker players I ever saw. I only sat down because I knew it would be easy to take your money.” Clint figured getting the man mad would make him careless. Also, ridiculing him in front of his friends might make them a little less willing to back his play.

“And now that you played lousy and lost,” he went on, “you're going to get yourself and your friends killed over it.”

“The only one gettin' killed is you.”

“Is that because you're better with a gun than you are with cards, Rutledge?” Clint asked. “Boy, you better be.”

“That's enough talk,” Rutledge said. “Either put our money on the ground and walk away, or go for your gun.”

FIVE

Jason watched in rapt attention.

The man who had come out of the saloon was going to face these three men alone. Three against one and he didn't look worried.

But the other men—two of them anyway—looked real worried.

*   *   *

Grant and Wilson were indeed worried.

In fact, both of them were having second thoughts, only they realized it was probably too late. They were going to have to make the most of this bad situation, and hoped they'd have a chance to do it different in the future.

If they had a future.

*   *   *

Clint kept his eyes on Rutledge. He didn't move until the bad poker player did. As it turned out, he was better with his gun than he was with cards . . . but only just.

*   *   *

Jason watched the man draw and fire. It was faster—the fastest thing he'd ever seen. But it was also accurate. He shot each of the three men once, and they all fell to the ground, dead.

He had to get closer.

*   *   *

The sheriff may have just been okay in Hackett's opinion, but he was on the scene within moments of the shots.

“Adams,” he said. “I shoulda knowed it.”

“Sheriff Dyson,” Clint said.

The sheriff was in his forties, a weary-looking man who had spent his life going from town to town, never wearing the badge for very long before moving on—for one reason or another.

“What was this about?” Dyson asked.

Clint pointed to Rutledge.

“That one was a bad loser at poker,” he said. “The other two were his partners. They were waiting for me when I came out.”

“I can guess the rest,” Dyson said. He looked past Clint at the saloon, where people were standing in the windows, watching. There was one man standing at the batwing doors.

“I suppose Hackett saw the whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Dyson said. “I'll just need a statement from you, and a witness statement from Hackett.”

“I was a witness.”

They both turned to see who had spoken. Clint saw a skinny red-haired boy of about twelve or thirteen.

“Jason, what are you doin' in town?” Sheriff Dyson asked.

“Pickin' up some supplies,” the boy said. “Those men were waitin' for him. He didn't have no choice.”

“Thank you, Jason,” Clint said. “My name's Clint Adams.”

He put his hand out for the boy to shake. After a moment the boy took it, then shook it once. He was staring at Clint with his mouth open.

“The Gunsmith?” he finally asked.

“That's right.”

“We don't need you as a witness, Jason,” Dyson said. “You better go on home. Your parents will be worried about you.”

“But—”

“Go.”

The boy made a face, then turned and walked to his horse. He was short, so he had to struggle to get mounted. When he finally did, he reluctantly rode out of town.

“Nice kid,” Clint said.

“Lives outside of town with his parents, and three other kids. I'm gonna go in the saloon, talk to Hackett, and get me some men to move these bodies.”

“I'm going to go and check on my horse,” Clint said, “then I'll be in my room.”

“Come by later today and make a statement,” Dyson said. “Won't take long.”

“I'll stop by before supper.”

“Fine.”

Dyson walked toward the hotel. He stopped at the batwings to exchange a few words with Hackett, who nodded and then waved at Clint.

Clint waved back, looked down at the three bodies, then walked to the livery.

SIX

“It was a bad one,” the liveryman, Rufus, said. “Still ain't healed.”

Clint knew the stone bruise on Eclipse's hoof was bad from the way the big Darley Arabian had been limping. Eclipse was an iron horse, didn't usually react to any injury unless it was really bad.

“He's gonna need a few more days,” Rufus said.

“How's he eating?” Clint asked.

“Like a horse.” Rufus grinned, but when Clint didn't laugh, he went on. “He's feedin' real good. The injury ain't hurt his appetite. He ain't gonna lose no weight.”

“That's good.”

They were standing near the horse's stall so Clint reached out and patted Eclipse's rump.

“Get better, big boy,” he said. He looked at Rufus. “I'll check back in tomorrow.”

“Hey, I heard some shootin',” Rufus said. “That have anythin' to do with you?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “it may have had something to do with me.”

*   *   *

Jason rode home as quickly as he could, dismounted, and ran into the house. Jesse, Simon, and Jenny were all there. The two little ones were watching Jenny take something out of the stove.

“Jace,” Jesse yelled, “Jenny made a chokecherry pie.”

“We helped pick the chokecherries,” Simon said.

“That's great,” Jesse said. He looked at Jenny. “We gotta talk.” Then he looked at Jesse and Simon. “You guys go outside and play.”

“We wanna eat pie,” Simon said.

“It has to cool down,” Jenny told them. “I'll call you when it's ready.”

“Okay!” they yelled, and ran outside.

Jenny looked at Jason.

“What's wrong?”

“Ain't nothin' wrong,” Jason said.

“Did you get the flour?”

“Yeah, I got the flour, and some peaches, and I got some candy for the kids.”

“How'd you do that with a dollar?”

“I'll tell you later,” he said. “I got to tell you somethin' else. What I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“Come and sit down,” he said, pulling her to the table. “Sit down and I'll tell ya.”

They sat at the table, across from each other, and Jason took Jenny's hands in his.

“I found him,” she said. “I found the man who can find Papa for us.”

“What? Where? What did you see?”

“I saw him,” Jason said, “the Gunsmith. I saw him shoot three men in the street, just like that. All by himself.”

“What? Did you get hurt?”

“No, no,” he said, “I wasn't nowhere near. I just watched.”

“And it was the Gunsmith?” she asked. “The real Gunsmith?”

“It was him,” Jason said. “I been waitin' for our chance, Jenny, and this is it.”

“Is he gonna do it?” she asked.

“I didn't ask him,” Jason said. “I wanted to come and tell you first.”

“So when are you gonna ask him?”

“Tomorrow.”

“But . . . he won't do it for nothin', will he?” she asked.

“That's why I wanted to talk to you,” he said.

He got up from the table, went to the stone fireplace, and pulled off a loose stone. He reached in, found his treasure, and drew it out. He took it back to the table with him.

It was a small bag, made of some sort of animal hide. It had been his father's. He loosened the leather thong holding it closed, upended it, and let the money drop out, coins and paper.

“Jason!” she exclaimed. “Where did you get all that money?”

“I been savin' it,” he said.

“You mean . . . you had this all along? You know how much food we coulda bought with this?”

“It's not for food,” Jason said. “It's to find Papa.”

She touched the money with her index finger, moving it around on the table.

“How much is there?”

“Nineteen dollars and fifty-eight cents,” he said.

“I ain't never seen this much money before.”

“I was hopin' ta get it to twenty dollars,” Jason said. “I think the Gunsmith would do it for twenty dollars. Don't you?”

“Anybody would do anythin' for twenty dollars,” she said, “but will he do it for nineteen dollars and fifty-eight cents?”

“I don't know,” Jason said. “I'll ask him tomorrow.”