The Gunsmith 386 (5 page)

“You did not come back to me for more, so I came to you,” she said later, lying in the crook of his arm.

“I've been busy,” he said. “Besides, it's only been a few hours.”

She slapped his arm and said sternly, “It has been all day,
bruto!
”

“And don't you have to go to work?”

“I do,” she said, “very soon. That is why I came to see you.”

“Maria,” Clint said, “I'm sorry, it's just . . . I have to leave town tomorrow.”

She sat up and looked down at him. He, in turn, looked at her lovely breasts, the nipples still hard.

“So soon?”

“Not for good,” he said. “I have to go to Orwell, but I'll be back.”

“Hmph,” she said, lying back on the crook of his arm, “so you say.”

“It's true,” he said. “My horse is still at the vet's.”

“Ah,” she said, “and you would not leave your horse, eh?”

“That's right.”

“But you would leave me?”

“Maria—”

She laughed and slid her hand down over his belly.

“Do not worry,
hombre,
” she said, “Maria is joking. I know we are only passing, eh? Lovers for the moment?”

Her words did make him relax, but her hand didn't. It continued to move lower until she was holding his cock in her hand—and he was filling it.

“This will have to be quick,” she told him, slipping down between his legs. “I must go to work, but . . .” She licked her lips and swooped in on him . . .

It was quick and she was gone, leaving him pleasantly exhausted.

 • • • 

After a short time, he pulled on his pants and went about packing his saddlebags, and then cleaning his guns. He worked on all three, his modified Colt, his Winchester, and the little Colt New Line. He made sure they were all working. He was after two men, but by the time he caught up to them, they were liable to have joined up with some others. Bushwhackers had a pack mentality. They were cowards, and they felt safer in a group.

When he finished, he realized he was hungry again. It was past supper time, but he might find a café still open. He dressed, putting on the same shirt, and left his room.

Down the street he found a small restaurant that was still open. It wasn't late for saloons, but for restaurants it was different. Most of them had closed, the cooks and waiters and waitresses having gone home to their families.

Bartenders, saloon girls, gamblers, their lives really began when the sun went down.

“Closing?” he asked the waiter.

“Not while you're here, sir,” the man said. “We don't turn away paying customers.”

Clint sat and ordered a steak dinner. The waiter went into the kitchen, there was some shouting, and then a man in an apron stormed out. The waiter came out after him.

“Who was that?” Clint asked.

The cook,” the waiter said, “but don't worry, I can make a steak.”

“I don't want to cause trouble—”

“That was my partner,” the man said. “He has a big ego, and he's always storming out. He'll be back tomorrow. Sit back and relax. I'll make you a steak.”

“Okay, thanks.”

It took a while, but the man finally came out holding a plate with a steak and vegetables on it.

“There ya go.”

Clint stared at it.

“I hope you like your meat well done.”

“I've had well-done steaks before,” he said.

Glumly, the man said, “And that's not well done, right? It's burnt.” He sat down opposite Clint. “I'm sorry. I really can't cook.”

“I can,” Clint said. He stood and picked up the plate. “Come on.”

Clint cooked two steak dinners, and while they weren't perfect, they were better than the burnt steak the man had served him.

The waiter's name was Tom Hamilton, and with his partner, George Manning—who was also the cook—he owned the café.

They sat together and ate their food.

“Wow,” Hamilton said, “this is better than anything I coulda made. Where'd you learn to cook?”

“Comes from living alone,” Clint said. “Plus I don't have a partner who can cook.”

“George's steaks are always perfect,” Hamilton said, then quickly added, “No offense. This is fine.”

“No offense taken,” Clint assured him.

“I don't recognize you,” Hamilton said. “New in town?”

“Been here a day or so,” Clint said, “but I've got to ride out in the morning.”

“Too bad,” Hamilton said. “You should meet George—I mean, when he's in a better mood.”

“What was he so upset about?” Clint asked.

“He was ready to douse the stove and close up when you came in,” Hamilton said.

“Sorry I caused trouble.”

“That's okay,” Hamilton said.

When they were done, Clint asked, “Want me to help clean up?”

“Naw,” Hamilton said, picking up the plates, “that's my specialty.”

“Well, then . . . thanks. Maybe I'll stop in again when I get back.”

“Comin' back?”

“Yeah, I'll be back in a day or two.”

“See ya then.”

The two men shook hands and Clint left the café. He went back to his hotel, read for a short while, then turned in for the night so he could get an early start in the morning.

 • • • 

Maria did not return during the night, which was fine with him. He'd had a good night's sleep—probably the best he'd had in some time.

He woke up the next morning, dressed, and went down to the lobby. He found the dining room open early, so he stopped in there for breakfast before walking to the sheriff's office.

In front of the office was one horse, a big steeldust, already saddled. The animal looked like a sturdy five- or six-year-old. Clint wasn't certain that this was the horse he'd be riding, but if it was, he was satisfied. Also with the saddle, which was a fine-looking McClellan.

He opened the office door and stepped in.

“See your horse?” Sheriff Ingram asked.

“That steeldust?”

“That's him.”

“Good-looking animal.”

“Should do the job for you.” Ingram was behind his desk. “Sorry you didn't find me last night. Deputy said you were here. You find a name?”

“Yeah, Adam Dunn. Mean anything to you?”

Ingram thought a moment, then said, “Naw, nothing. I'll check and see if there's any paper on him.”

“I'll check in with the sheriff in Orwell when I get there,” Clint said.

“I can send him a telegram and tell him you're comin,” Ingram said.

“I'd appreciate that.”

“Oh,” Clint said, “and thanks for the saddle. I was going to put my own on the horse.”

“Still can if you want,” Ingram said. “I just thought I'd have him ready for you to go.”

“I'll take him as is,” Clint said. “Got a name?”

“He answers to Dusty.” Ingram stood up, grabbed his hat. “I'll walk out with you.”

The two men went outside, stood in front of the office looking at the horse.

“What is he? Five?”

“Six.”

Clint walked to the horse, patted his neck, then tossed his saddlebags over him. He checked the cinch on the saddle, found it nice and tight.

“Well, thanks for everything, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I hope I'll be able to settle my problem in Orwell, and then I'll bring back your horse.”

Ingram put his hand out and the two men shook.

“Good luck,” he said. “I know the sheriff in Orwell. He's a good man. His name's Paul Roberts. I'll send that telegram right away.”

“Thanks.” Clint mounted the horse, liked the way it felt underneath him.

“Push him as hard as you like,” Ingram said. “He can take it.”

“I'll bet he can,” Clint said, patting the horse's neck. “Okay, Dusty, let's get a move on.”

He pulled on the reins, turning the horse, then waved at the sheriff and rode up the street, heading out of town.

 • • • 

Sheriff Ingram waited until Clint Adams was out of sight, then stepped down off the boardwalk and walked to the telegraph office to send that telegram to Orwell, Texas. Sheriff Paul Roberts would be very interested to hear that the Gunsmith was coming to his town. Very interested, indeed.

Clint stopped off in Kirby first, a small town that—for some reason—had a telegraph office.

Clint rode in, stopped in front of the office right away. He had no intention of staying any longer than he had to. He tied the horse off and went inside.

“Help ya?” the older clerk asked. He had gray hair and was missing one of his front teeth.

“Do you remember receiving this telegram?” Clint asked. He showed him the slip of paper with “Orwell, Texas” written on it.

“You law?”

“I'm not.”

“Then who's askin'?”

“My name's Clint Adams.”

The clerk swallowed and asked, “T-The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“I got this telegram yesterday,” he said quickly. “Gave it to the feller and he left town.”

“Fellow named Dunn?”

“Dunn, yeah, that's right, Adam Dunn—like your last name.”

Clint nodded. “He left town right away?”

“Walked outta here, got on his horse, and rode out.”

“Okay,” Clint said, folding the slip of paper and putting it in his pocket, “thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Clint walked out and mounted Sheriff Ingram's steeldust. So far, the horse had done everything Clint had asked. He turned the horse, preparing to ride out, when the clerk came out the door.

“Mr. Adams?”

“Yeah?”

“There's somethin' else ya might wanna know.”

Clint turned the horse to face the man.

“What's that?”

“When Dunn left, he didn't leave alone.”

That was interesting to Clint.

“How many?”

“He had three men with him.”

“You know who they were?”

“Just gunnies for hire,” the clerk said. “Not local.”

The three men had probably met Dunn there. What about Sands, then? Had he left Hastings alone, or had he also picked up a few men?

Suddenly, Clint was thinking maybe that piece of paper he'd found in Sands's room with Orwell written on it had not been left behind by accident.

Clint dug a silver dollar out of his pocket and flipped it to the clerk, who caught it neatly in one hand.

“Thanks for the information.”

“Sure thing.”

Clint turned Dusty around and rode out of town.

 • • • 

It was getting on toward dusk when Clint got to Orwell. He reined Dusty in and looked at the town as the lights began to come on. If Dunn and Sands were waiting for him there with extra men, it would be better for him to ride in after dark, so he dismounted, sat on a rock to wait. The steeldust nuzzled him, so he rubbed the horse's nose and spoke to him soothingly.

“Don't worry, fella,” he said, “we'll be riding in soon.”

He'd go in and see the sheriff first. He knew Ingram was going to send the man a telegram about him, but he didn't know what else he'd tell him, whether or not he'd mention Sands and Dunn—and only Clint knew about the extra men.

He took out a piece of beef jerky and chomped on it while he waited. Finally, it was fully dark, and he mounted up again and rode into the town of Orwell.

 • • • 

Four men sat together in a saloon in Orwell, passing around a bottle of whiskey.

“Take it easy on that stuff,” one of them said.

“Why?” another asked. “The Gunsmith ain't gonna be fool enough to ride at night, is he? If he ain't here by now, he'll be here sometime tomorrow.”

“If he's comin' here at all,” one of the other men said.

“Hey,” the first man said, “we're only gettin' paid if he shows up, so he better.” He grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “And you guys better be sober when he gets here!”

“Hey, give that here!”

“You should be out there watchin' the street,” the first man said.

“I wanna drink!”

“You had enough, Pierce,” said the first man, whose name was Mike Torrey. “Now get out there and watch the street. Let us know if anybody—and I mean anybody—rides in.”

Pierce stood up, shifted his holster, and trudged toward the batwing doors, muttering, “This is stupid. Ain't nobody gonna ride in at night.”

He stepped outside, just missing the Gunsmith, who had ridden by only seconds before.

 • • • 

Clint reined in his horse in front of the sheriff's office. Tied Dusty's reins off to a hitching post, and stepped to the door. He knocked, and entered when a man's gruff voice yelled, “Come in, already!”

Clint stepped inside. A man holding a broom stopped sweeping and looked at him. He was wearing a badge.

“Sheriff Roberts?” he asked.

“That's right. You Adams?”

“I am.”

“Didn't think you'd be ridin' in at night.” Sheriff Roberts put the broom aside. “Well, you better have a seat and tell me what this is all about.”

“How much did Sheriff Ingram tell you in his telegram?” Clint asked.

“Not much, just that you'd be comin' here.” Sheriff Roberts got himself comfortable behind his desk. He was a barrel-chested fellow in his forties. His gun belt and hat were hanging on pegs on the wall.

“Well, a couple of days ago three men tried to bushwhack me . . .” Clint told Roberts the whole story, finishing up with the information he'd gotten when he stopped in Kirby.

“So they're here? With a gang?”

“You haven't seen a bunch of men ride in?” Clint asked.

“If they rode in, they didn't come in all at once,” Roberts said. “If they were smart, they came in one or two at a time.”

“Do you know of any strangers who came to town today?”

“A few,” Roberts said, “but I had no reason to brace them when they did. Maybe now, though, it's a different story.”

“I rode in after dark on purpose,” Clint said, “just in case they were watching, and waiting.”

“Chances are if they all met up, they did it in one of the saloons,” Roberts said. “I guess we oughtta go and check that out.”

“And then do what?” Clint asked. “If we find them, I mean.”

“Run 'em out of town,” Roberts said.

“First I'd like to find out if my men are among them,” Clint said. “Sands or Dunn.”

Roberts stood up, grabbed his gun belt and hat, and put them on.

“We might as well take a walk. Before we decide what to do, let's see if they're here.”

 • • • 

Pierce was scowling as he looked up and down the street. Chewing on a toothpick. When he looked to his left, he saw two men walking down the street. It was dark, and the streetlamps weren't doing such a good job of lighting the street, but he thought he saw a badge on one man's chest.

He turned and hurried through the batwings.

 • • • 

“Did you see that?” Roberts asked.

“I did,” Clint said. “Looks like they may have had a man on watch.”

“How do you want to play this?” the lawman asked.

“I think I should go in the front,” Clint said. “You take the back.”

“My town,” Roberts said. “I should go in the front.”

“They won't try anything,” Clint said. “They're not after you. It's me they want.”

“Okay, then,” Roberts said. “You go in the front, I'll take the back.”

“Okay.”

Roberts grabbed Clint's left arm.

“I know your rep, Adams,” he said, “but Sheriff Ingram vouched for you, which is the only reason I'm lettin' you call the play. Got it?”

“I've got it, Sheriff.”

“Good luck, then. Give me 'til a count of ten and I'll be in place.”

“Right.”

They split, the sheriff moving alongside the building to the back.

Clint approached the front of the saloon, slowly counting to ten. One . . . two . . .

 • • • 

“Law comin'!” Pierce said as he rushed into the saloon.

“Alone?” Mike Torrey asked.

“No,” Pierce said, “got a man with him.”

“Okay, don't panic,” Torrey said. “He's probably just makin' his regular rounds.”

“Where do you want us, Mike?” one of the men sitting with him asked.

“Split up,” Torrey said. “Tate, you and Holcomb at opposite ends of the bar.”

“And me?” Pierce asked.

“In the back,” Torrey said, “and don't panic. Nobody shoots unless I do. Got it?”

“We got it,” Tate said.

“Pierce?”

“I got it!”

“Then move.”

Torrey watched the three men get into position. The only one he worried about was Pierce. He, Holcomb, and Tate had ridden into Orwell with Dunn. It was the other fella, Sands, who had brought Pierce in. Torrey didn't trust Pierce at all.

He remained seated at the table, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and watched the door.

 • • • 

Seven . . . eight . . .

The sheriff reached the back of the saloon and opened the rear door, which he knew from experience was never locked. He entered, closed it quietly, and crept across the expanse of the back storeroom until he came to another door. From there he could see the inside of the small saloon.

He settled in to do what the men in the saloon were doing . . . wait.

 • • • 

Nine . . . ten.

Clint stepped up onto the boardwalk and approached the front door of the saloon. It was quiet inside. No music. No sounds of men cursing and gambling.

Just the silence of a bunch of men . . .

. . . waiting.