Missing Patriarch (9781101613399) (5 page)

FIFTEEN

When Clint got to the telegraph office, the clerk had two responses for him. He accepted them, took them outside to read.

Rick Hartman's telegram said the last he heard Donovan and his crew were in Texas. He couldn't be more specific, but he said it was not South Texas.

On the other hand, Talbot Roper not only said Texas, but North Texas. He also warned Clint that the man probably had a crew of seven or more.

Clint folded both telegrams and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. At that moment the sheriff came walking along.

“Bad news?” he asked.

“Good news for you,” Clint said. “I'm about to mount up and ride out.”

“For good?”

“For a while,” Clint said. “I'll be back, but I'm not sure when.”

“Well,” the sheriff said, “watch your back trail.”

“I always do.”

The sheriff walked away. Clint stepped down from the boardwalk, mounted Eclipse, and rode out of town.

*   *   *

Jimmy McCall came out of the Trail Dust Café and stretched. He missed his kids. He didn't have enough money yet to go back to them. In fact, he didn't have any money at all yet.

Andy Donovan was hanging on tight to all the loots he and his crew—including Jimmy—had stolen over the past few months. Nothing Jimmy said to him could get him to let some of it go. He knew Donovan's reputation. But he also knew some men who had worked for Donovan made money and left him. Alive.

Donovan had the rest of his crew convinced that all they had to do was follow him, obey him, and they'd all be rich.

Eventually.

Jimmy didn't want to be rich. He just wanted to have enough money to go back to Santa Rosita and take proper care of his kids. He'd left Jason in charge, and the poor kid was having to grow up too fast.

Jimmy's belly was full after a flapjack breakfast. He walked down the street and took up his position across the street from the bank. It was anybody's guess if Donovan and his crew were going to be sober enough to pull this off.

*   *   *

Donovan woke up next to a full-bodied brunette whom he had ridden hard all night. Now, as she lay on her back next to him, snoring, he realized she looked a lot like a horse.

He swung his feet to the floor and stood up, naked. He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked back at the woman on the bed again. He wondered what he had seen in her last night. Possibly the big, floppy tits with dark brown nipples? Or maybe the wild tangle of black hair between her legs? She opened her mouth then, and he knew it wasn't the big oversized teeth that had attracted him.

He turned away and looked down at his own body. His belly wasn't as flat as it used to be, and the hair on his chest was starting to turn gray. His penis, now flaccid, still performed fine when it was hard, if the horsey whore's screams were any indication.

He was still staring down at himself when suddenly a hand appeared and cupped his genitals.

“Where ya goin'?” she asked.

“Time to get up.”

She moved her hand up and gripped his penis. It immediately began to swell.

“Are you sure?” she asked, stroking him.

“Well . . .”

“Turn around,” she said. “I want to do somethin' while you're tryin' to decide.”

He turned and she took his cock deep into her horsey mouth. As he rose up onto his toes, he remembered why he had picked her . . .

*   *   *

The rest of the crew was already on the street with their horses when Donovan came out of the whorehouse.

“Have your ashes hauled for breakfast, boss?” one of them asked.

“Shut up,” Donovan said. “Where's my horse?”

“Back here.” One of the men rode up to him, leading his sorrel. He mounted up.

“Everybody know what they're supposed to do?”

“We know,” Henry Carter said, and the others nodded.

“Everybody sober enough?”

“Almost,” Carter answered. “Benny's still pretty drunk.”

“Benny, you'll stay with the horses. We don't need you shootin' one of us by accident.”

Listing to one side on his horse, Benny said, “Sure, boss.”

“What about Jimmy?” Carter asked.

“If I know Jimmy, he's in position,” Donovan said.

“Still don't know why we need him,” Carter said, miffed. He was Donovan's second in command, his
segundo
, but he didn't feel like it since Jimmy joined up.

“We need him,” Donovan said, “because he's smarter than the rest of you jokers put together.”

The men exchanged glances, but no one really seemed to have taken offense, except perhaps for Carter.

“All right, check your guns.”

There was a succession of clicks and spins as the outlaws drew their revolvers and made sure they were fully loaded.

“Okay,” Donovan said, “we've done this plenty of times before, so there shouldn't be any problems. As usual, if any of you make a mess of this, I'll shoot you and leave you behind for dead. Ready?”

SIXTEEN

Days later, when Clint rode into the North Texas town of Windspring, he noticed the suspicious looks he was getting from the townspeople. Men stared openly at him, while women shied away and hunched their shoulders.

He reined in his horse in front of a saloon with a sign over the door that said,
BULL'S HORN SALOON
. Across the street was a café called the Trail Dust. He was both hungry and thirsty, so he had a choice to make. Before he could make it, a voice said, “Just stand fast and don't move.”

Clint froze.

“You got a gun pointed at me?” he asked.

“I do.”

“You intend to shoot me in the back?”

“I do not,” the voice said. “I'm the sheriff of this town. I don't make a habit of shooting men in the back.”

“Then what's this about?”

“I just wanna have a talk in my office,” the man said. “You come along quiet like and we won't have no trouble.”

“Well, Sheriff, I'll tell you what. You put your gun away and let me turn around so I can see your badge, and I'll come along quietly.”

“I gotta take your gun, mister.”

“That's where we're going to have a problem, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I don't intend to give up my gun.”

“Look, friend—”

“We're not friends, Sheriff,” Clint said. “We don't even know each other, but I'm willing to come to your office and talk. I'm just not giving up my gun.”

After a moment the sheriff said, “Okay, keep your hands away from your gun and turn around.”

Clint turned, holding his hands away from his body. He saw a rather rotund man in his forties wearing a sheriff's badge.

“My name is Sheriff Willis,” he said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Clint Adams.”

The sheriff froze.

“The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I've got some telegrams and letters in my saddlebags.”

“Jesus . . . you ain't a bank robber.”

“I've never been accused of that, no. What's going on, Sheriff?”

Very deliberately, the sheriff holstered his gun.

“Let's go to my office and I'll tell you.”

*   *   *

When they got to the office, Willis removed his hat, revealing a bald head with a fringe of hair around it.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“That'd be good. Just black is good.”

The lawman poured two cups, handed Clint one, then sat behind his desk. He didn't look comfortable.

“We just had a pretty bad bank robbery in town,” he told Clint.

“When did it happen?”

“About a week ago.”

“How many men?”

“We're not sure,” Willis said. “Seven, eight . . . maybe nine.”

“How bad was it?”

“A couple of tellers were killed,” he said. “I've only been sheriff since that time, because they killed both our sheriff and his deputy, too.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“Strangers, that's all we know,” Willis said. “A bunch of strangers rode in, hung around a few days, ate, drank, used the whorehouse, and then all of a sudden one morning they hit the bank.”

It sounded like Donovan's method to Clint. He rode in with his crew and they made themselves comfortable, instead of riding in just to hit the bank.

“When I heard another stranger rode into town, I may have overreacted by drawing my gun on you.”

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I understand.”

“I'm not an experienced lawman,” Willis said. “I'm a lawyer by trade, but somebody had to step up and wear the badge until the town can find a new sheriff.”

“Did a posse go out and look for these bank robbers?” Clint asked.

“There was nobody to put a posse together,” Willis said. “Nobody to lead it.”

“So it's just a write-off?” Clint asked. “The town loses its money?”

“The town council has been meeting every day to try to hire someone to take a posse out. They haven't had any luck yet.”

“Why don't you do it?”

“Like I said,” Willis answered, “I'm a lawyer, not a lawman.”

“Have you ever ridden in a posse?”

“Well, yes . . .”

“Then you should be able to figure out how to run one,” Clint said.

Willis wiped his hand over his face and said, “Yes, maybe you're right . . .”

“How much did they get?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“That's a lot.”`

“I know,” Willis said. “The town is devastated.”

“Well,” Clint said, putting his coffee mug down on the desk, “I hope you figure it out.”

“Wait,” Willis said as Clint walked to the door.

“What?”

“Why are you in town?”

“I'm looking for a man,” Clint said. “He might be riding with those outlaws.”

“So you're hunting them?”

“No,” Clint said, “I'm just looking for one man. I have to take him home to his kids.”

Willis opened his mouth to say something else, but Clint turned and left the office.

SEVENTEEN

The sheriff said the gang ate, drank, and used whores. Clint decided to check the saloons, cafés, and whorehouse to see if one of the gang might have had a big mouth and said where they were going. Also, maybe somebody heard Jimmy McCall's name, which would tell Clint that he was on the right track.

From the sheriff's office, he went back to the Bull's Horn Saloon and ordered himself a beer. The place was only about half full, but he felt the eyes of all the other men trained on him.

The bartender set a mug of beer down in front of him and openly stared. He was in his fifties, a big, rough-hewn man with dark black stubble. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight, but maybe all the men were, given what had happened at their bank.

“I'm looking for a man who might have been riding with the bank robbers who were here last week,” Clint said.

“You huntin' them?” the bartender asked.

“No, I'm just looking for one man,” Clint said. “His name is Jimmy McCall. Did you hear that name at all while they were here?”

“Tell you the truth,” the bartender said, “thinkin' back, seems to me they didn't really call each other by name. Guess I know why now.”

“I guess so,” Clint said. If they were that careful, he might have a hard time finding something out. He finished his beer, said, “Thanks,” and left.

*   *   *

He went directly across the street to the café, got himself seated, and ordered a steak. It was between lunch and supper, so there were only a few folks in the place. When the waiter brought his food, he repeated the same questions he'd asked the bartender.

“Jimmy?” the waiter said, thinking back. “Can't say I heard any of them mention a name. We got some Jimmys in town, but no Jimmy McCall.”

“I see,” Clint said. “Okay, then, thanks a lot.”

“Let me know if you need anything else, mister,” the waiter said.

What Clint needed was a sharper knife to cut the steak with, but he made do with what he had, paid his bill, and left.

EIGHTEEN

After he finished eating, he tried a couple of other saloons, but the bartenders there had the same story. Although some of the gang may have drunk there, they never seemed to call each other by name. Clint figured Donovan either had them well trained, or scared enough of him.

As it started to get dark, he decided to check in at the whorehouse.

It wasn't hard to find. There were girls in scanty robes or dresses on the second-level balcony of a two-story house at the south end of town. They waved and called to men as they passed, even showed a breast or a thigh.

Clint stepped to the front door and knocked. The door was answered by a big man in his thirties. He had wide shoulders, bulging arms, and a hard look, which he trained on Clint.

“Whataya want?” he asked.

“I want to talk to someone.”

“Ya wanna talk, go to a saloon,” the big man said. “We don't supply talk here.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said, “I'll take whatever you do supply here.”

“You got money?”

Clint showed the man some money, offered him some.

“Is there an entry fee?” he asked.

“Naw,” the man said, “just go in.”

“Thanks.”

“If you cause trouble,” the man said, “you'll see me again.”

“I'll remember that.”

Clint went in, found himself in an entry foyer. From there he could see a sitting room filled with men and girls, drinking and talking. There was a stairway to the second floor, and up there he could see men and girls walking together, probably to a room.

Eventually, an older woman in a blue dress with powder applied heavily to her lined face approached him. She was showing cleavage which at one time had probably been impressive, but now it was also powdered and wrinkled.

“Help you, cowboy?” she asked. “Val is my name.”

“Well, Val,” Clint said, “I'm actually here to talk to some of your girls.”

“Talk? That all you want? You can get it a lot cheaper at a saloon.”

“That's what your man told me,” Clint said. “No, I'm actually looking for a man, and I understand he might have spent some time here.”

“Well, you'll have to pay for their time,” Val said.

“I'm willing to do that.”

“And while you're with them,” she said, “you can pay for whatever else you want.”

“I'll remember that.”

“Well, go on into the parlor,” she said. “Choose the girl you want, but you'll have to ask your questions in her room.”

“Okay.”

“Have a drink if you want,” she added. “First one's on the house.”

“Thanks.”

He went into the parlor. The girls turned their eyes to him, as he was the new meat in the room. The other men frowned at him, tried to get the attention of the women back on them, but Clint was the kind of man who drew attention wherever he went. He figured to use that to his advantage.

“Well, hello,” one girl said, approaching him. “What's your name?”

“Clint.”

“I'm Angie,” she said. “I haven't seen you here before.”

“That's because I just got to town today.”

“And you came right here lookin' for me?” she asked. “I'm touched.”

She was a young redhead, maybe twenty-five, stunning in a green gown that brought out the green of her eyes. The plunging neckline exposed most of her freckled breasts, which were average size, but pushed together to enhance them.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Actually, I need to ask some questions,” he said, “but I understand I can't do it down here.”

“That's right,” she said. “All we can do down here is the dance.”

“The dance?”

“Yeah, you know, dance around each other, flirt, feel each other out, and decide if we want to go upstairs.”

“You mean, if a man wants to take you upstairs, you don't have to go?”

“We don't have to go with anyone we're not comfortable with.”

“That sounds like a good policy.”

She moved closer to him so that he could actually feel the heat her body was giving off.

“I feel pretty comfortable with you, though,” she said. “How about you?”

“I'm comfortable.”

“Wanna go upstairs?”

“Lead the way.”

She did. He followed her upstairs, enjoying the way her bottom moved beneath the cloth of her green dress.

On the second floor she walked next to him, her arm linked in his.

“I'm so glad I don't have to come up here with some sweaty, dirty cowboy.”

“Well,” he said, “I did ride in today. I might not be the cleanest I could be.”

“We can fix that,” she said. “We got bathtubs here. Just cost a little extra.”

“You know,” he said, “a bath doesn't sound like a bad idea.”

“And I can wash you.”

Clint didn't usually pay for sex, but if a bath came with it, he could just figure that he paid for the bath—and whatever information he got.

“Sounds good to me, Angie,” he said.

“Come on, then,” she said. “I'll put you in my room, and then come and get you when the bath is ready.”