The Gunsmith 386 (13 page)

Inside, Clement was having coffee.

“So?”

“Looks like Adams came for the horse, and had some help,” Dunn said. He walked to the table, poured himself some coffee. “We're gonna need your help, Brock.”

“I have been helping you.”

“We're gonna need men.”

“To help you kill the Gunsmith?”

Dunn nodded. Sands poured himself some coffee, drank it nervously.

“Don't tell me a man with your money ain't never had anybody killed,” Dunn said.

Clement wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at Dunn.

“If I have ever done that, I had good reason,” their host said. “To do it again, I'd need a good reason.”

“You know the reason,” Dunn said. “It would square us.”

“Square us,” Clement said.

Dunn nodded.

Clement pushed his chair back.

“Why don't we go into the den,” he said, “and have some brandy.”

“Ain't got any whiskey?” Sands asked.

“Brandy's fine,” Dunn said, giving Sands a hard look. “Let's have some brandy.”

They followed their host into the den, where he poured. The only other person in the house was the cook. Everything else Clement did for himself.

“Dunn, you'll have your men tomorrow morning.”

“Are they good with guns?”

“They can use them.”

“Will they do what I tell them?”

“If I tell them to.”

“And if you pay them enough, right?” Sands asked.

“Actually,” Clement said, “that is correct.”

“How will you get word to them?” Dunn asked.

“Don't you worry about that,” Clement said. “They'll be here tomorrow.”

Dunn and Sands exchanged a glance.

“All right,” Dunn said. “We'll wait 'til mornin', then.”

“And do what until then?” Sands asked.

“Just relax.”

“You mind if I worry a little?”

“No,” Dunn said, standing up, “but it'll keep you awake.”

“That's for sure,” Clement said. “I learned a long time to leave my worrying outside my bedroom.”

“You got money,” Sands said. “Makes it easy.”

“Money just brings worry, Mr. Sands,” Clement said. “And more money brings more worries.”

“Well, I'd like to try me some of them worries sometime,” Sands said.

 • • • 

“When do you want to go?” Cain asked Clint. They were working on their second beers.

“I've been thinking about that.”

“What have you come up with?”

“I'm wondering how worried they'll be by morning. Worried men are careless.”

“On the other hand,” Cain said, “if they do not discover that the horse is missing until morning, they will not have spent the night worrying.”

“Good point,” Clint said, “but I had another thought.”

“What's that?”

“I've been tracking these two men a long time,” Clint said. “I'd like to see them in the daylight.”

“Between now and then they might get some help.”

“I'm tired of this,” Clint said. “I'll face however many men they want to throw at me. You don't have to come along.”

“I have come this far,” Cain said. “I will go the rest of the way with you.”

“You'll need a shotgun, then,” Clint said, “for close-up work. We can get one in the morning.”

“I won't argue with that.”

“Drink up, then,” Clint said. “We better turn in. We got a busy morning ahead of us.”

Cain nodded, and drank.

“One more thing,” Clint said.

“What's that?”

“What really happened with you in that whorehouse?”

In the morning when Dunn came down from his second-floor bedroom, there were four men sitting in the living room. In the dining room Clement was eating breakfast. Sands had not yet come down.

“These your best men?” Dunn asked.

“Yes.”

“Have they had breakfast?”

“I don't know.”

“You mean you ain't fed them?”

“I said they'd be here for your use,” Clement said, “I said nothing about feeding them. Go and have your breakfast. Where is Mr. Sands?”

“He'll be down.” Dunn sat, took some eggs, ham, and biscuits. If Clement wasn't worried about feeding the men, why should he be?

Sands came down minutes later and joined them.

“Them the men?” he asked.

“They are,” Dunn said.

“Don't look like much.”

“They can shoot,” Clement said, “and they will not run when the action begins.”

“You seem to know what's important with men like this,” Dunn said.

Clement didn't comment.

“We ain't talked about your business,” Dunn said.

“That's because it's my business,” Clement said.

“Yeah, okay.”

They ate.

 • • • 

Clint met Cain in the lobby and they went to a café for breakfast. Over steak and eggs they spoke of their day.

“You want to wait for them to come for us?” Cain asked.

“No,” Clint said, “I want to call the play.”

“So we just walk up to the house?”

“Yep.”

“No matter how many of them there are?” Cain asked.

Clint nodded.

“Why?”

“It'll unnerve them,” Clint said, “especially if there's five or more. They won't expect us to stand against those odds.”

“I wouldn't expect to either.”

“We can ambush them if you want.”

Cain shook his head.

“Not your way, or mine,” Cain said. “We'll face 'em head-on. Unnerve 'em.”

“Yes.”

Cain waved for the waiter.

“If I am to die today, I want another steak.”

It sounded like a good idea to Clint.

 • • • 

After breakfast Dunn and Sands faced the four men. As they entered the living room, the men stood up.

“Mr. Clement tell you why I wanted you?” Dunn asked.

“No,” one of them said. “He said you'd do that.”

“We've been hired to kill somebody,” Dunn said. “Anybody here got trouble killin' for money?”

The four men all shook their heads, while one—who seemed to be the spokesman—said, “No.”

“Good.”

“When do we do this?” the man asked.

“With any luck, this morning.”

“Who's the man?”

Dunn studied the four men, then asked, “Is that important? You're gettin' paid.”

“Just curious.”

“His name's Clint Adams,” Dunn said. He watched for reactions. “Anybody wanna back out?”

The four men didn't react.

“No,” the spokesman said. “We're in.”

“The Gunsmith is past his time,” one of the others said.

Dunn looked at him. He was probably all of twenty-four.

“That so?”

“Old,” the young man said. “He won't be no trouble.”

Dunn didn't bother telling the boy how many men Adams had killed recently, how many he and Sands had already sent against him.

“Maybe,” Dunn said.

“We goin' out lookin' for him?” the spokesman asked.

Dunn looked at Sands, then back at the men.

“No,” Dunn said, “he knows where we are. He'll come here.”

“Today,” Sands said.

“We best get set up to receive him,” Dunn said. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What's that?” the spokesman asked.

“He won't be alone.”

“How many?”

“Just one more.”

“No problem,” the young man said.

Dunn was willing to bet that this jasper would be the first one killed.

 • • • 

Clint and Cain finished their breakfast and left the café. They stopped in front and checked the street. It would have been easy if Dunn, Sands, and whoever else they recruited were waiting there for them.

“What about the sheriff?” Cain asked.

“We'll deal with him after the fact,” Clint said.

“If we're alive.”

“There is that.”

Clint approached the house alone.

The front door opened and a man stepped out, followed by a second.

“Adams?” the man asked.

“That's right,” Clint said. “Which one are you, Dunn or Sands?”

Dunn looked mildly surprised that Clint had managed to come up with their names.

“I'm Dunn, he's Sands.”

“What's this been about, Dunn?” Clint asked.

Dunn shrugged.

“Just a job.”

“Really? For money? All this has been for money?”

“Started out that way,” Dunn said. “Got kind of personal when you started killing my men.”

“Got personal for me when you tried to bushwhack me,” Clint said. “Even more when you stole my horse.”

“Well,” Dunn said, “you got him back, unharmed.”

“Somehow,” Clint said, “that doesn't settle things.”

Suddenly, a third man came out the door, unarmed, dressed well. Clint figured he was the owner of the house.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “can we take this activity away from my house?”

“Afraid not, friend,” Clint said. “You opened your house to these . . . gents . . . and you're going to have to deal with the consequences.”

“Truly, sir,” the man said, “there has been nothing personal in this for me. Except to repay my debt to Mr. Dunn for saving my life during a stagecoach robbery.”

“I'm not concerned with your debt to Mr. Dunn,” Clint said, “only mine.”

Clement looked dismayed, but had no answer for that.

“Where's the rest of your crew, Dunn?” Clint asked.

“The rest?”

“If I've learned anything about you, it's that you always have backup. Men you're willing to give up if you have to.”

“And you?” Dunn said. “According to the tracks you left when you got your horse back, you've got a man with you.”

“Just for true backup,” Clint said. “So I don't get bushwhacked again.”

“Well,” Dunn said, “that was a mistake. This time it's between you and us.”

“And these two,” a voice said to Clint's right.

He, Dunn, Sands, and Clement all looked and saw Cain holding a man in each hand by their collar. The men seemed unconscious as he dropped them to the ground.

“And I will bet there are two on the other side of the house,” Cain said.

At that point the two he was referring to stepped out and started shooting.

“No!” Clement shouted. “Wait!”

The others had no choice.

Dunn and Sands drew their guns.

Clint cleared leather well before they did.

Cain went into a crouch and raised his rifle. However, for a man almost seven feet tall, a crouch looked like a normal standing man. He made an impressive target, and the men from the other side of the house forgot their instructions to focus on Clint and began to fire at the big half-breed.

Dunn noticed quickly that the young man he had assumed would die first was now firing at the half-breed. The Indian fired back, and shot the young man in the chest.

First one dead, as he'd predicted.

Unless the two at the Indian's feet were also dead.

He drew his gun, and saw that Clint Adams's gun was already out.

Damn, he thought, not so past it.

As the lead began to fly, Clement hit the deck and covered his head with both hands, still yelling “Stop! Stop! Stop!” The lead slammed into the wall of his house, and broke the glass in the front window, showering him with fragments.

He was beginning to be sorry Adam Dunn had ever saved his life.

Then he heard other sounds, wet, slapping ones as lead struck flesh, and he felt the warmth of blood on him.

Someone else's blood.

Clint fired quickly, taking Dunn in the belly and Sands in the chest and head. He saw the blood fly from Sands's head.

He looked over at Cain, who was down on one knee firing his rifle. Suddenly, the big man jerked and Clint knew he'd been hit.

He turned his attention to the two men who were firing at Cain. The big half-breed was right. He wasn't that good with a rifle. One of them was down, but one was still firing. Clint squeezed off a quick shot and put him down.

And it was quiet . . . except for Clement, who was still screaming, this time because somebody's blood was on him, and he thought it was his.

Clint went to check on Cain first . . .

“You hit?” he asked.

The big man was still down on one knee and said, “Clipped me on the hip.”

“Bad?”

“It is . . . numb.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “lie back.”

Instead, Cain got to his feet.

“Let's see if we can stop that man from screaming,” he said.

Clint went to the porch, with Cain limping behind him. He leaned over Clement and checked him out.

“Okay, you're all right,” he said, “stop screaming, stop—” He slapped the man in the face, which cut off the screaming right away.

“Stand up,” he said, putting his hand beneath the man's arm. “You're all right. It's not your blood.”

“It's—it's not?”

“No,” Clint said. He helped the man to a chair on the porch and said, “Sit.”

Clement sat, patting himself to see if Clint was right.

“This one is still alive,” Cain said, “but not for long.”

Clint walked over, looked at Dunn. Cain was right. The man was gut-shot, and all color had drained from his face. His eyes were dull, but they were open.

Clint leaned over the dying man.

“Dunn, who hired you?” he asked. “Who hired you to kill me?”

Dunn laughed, but it sounded like a death rattle.

“You better . . . start watching . . . your back trail . . . really close . . . he's got a lot of money . . . a lot of . . .”

The man died.

Clint stood up, looked at Cain, whose face was stoic, but etched in pain.

“Come on,” he said, “let's get you to a doctor.”