The Gunsmith 386 (8 page)

The front door of the sheriff's office was riddled with bullet holes. As Clint entered, he saw corresponding bullet holes in the wall across from the door. None of the holes were recent, however.

The man seated behind the desk had one bare foot up on the desktop, and was working on the nail of his big toe. He stopped what he was doing and looked up.

“What can I do for you?”

“You the sheriff?”

“I am.”

“Lots of holes in that door.”

“This used to be a wide-open town.”

“And now?”

“Now it ain't.”

“Because of you?”

“That's right.” The sheriff looked at his foot, and smiled. “Oh, don't let this fool ya. I just got this hangnail that's been drivin' me crazy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And who are you?”

“My name's Clint Adams.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

The sheriff dropped his foot off the desk to the floor.

“What's the Gunsmith doin' in my town?”

“Looking for two men.”

“Who are they?”

“Derrick Sands and Adam Dunn.”

The sheriff thought a moment.

“Don't know 'em.”

“Maybe they're here under other names.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “You got two strangers in town?”

“Nope.”

“But you had one for a while, a couple of days ago.”

“Yeah, we had one, but he's gone.”

“That was Dunn.”

“Well, I'll be,” the sheriff said. “If you knew he was here, why didn't you come and get 'im?”

“Because I found out too late,” Clint said, “but I'm looking for him now—him and his friend.”

“What'd they do?”

“Tried to kill me, and stole my horse.”

“Then I guess I know why you're lookin' for them so hard.”

“They were here,” Clint said, “with a wagon, and an extra horse.”

The sheriff rubbed his jaw.

“They pay you to keep quiet?”

The lawman didn't respond.

“Or did they pay you to point me toward them?” Clint asked. “Because I'm sure they're waiting for me, with some extra men.”

When you accuse a lawman of taking a payoff, their reaction is always an indication of whether or not you're wrong or right. This lawman took it calmly, just staring back at Clint.

“My name is Patrick Buford,” he said calmly, “and if you're gonna accuse me of takin' money, you better have some proof, son.” His tone was not as laid back as his manner.

“I didn't accuse you of anything,” Clint said. “I was just making a statement.”

“If you're trackin' your men, then keep on trackin', friend,” Buford said. “I ain't seen 'em.”

Clint couldn't call him a liar until he found out what Cain had learned.

“Okay, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Sorry if I offended. I didn't mean any offense.”

“Well, offense taken,” Buford said.

There wasn't much to say to that, so Clint turned and left the office.

 • • • 

Clint found the smallest saloon in town. It was so small it didn't even have a name, just a board over the door on which someone had written the word
SALOON
. There was also no one inside but the bartender, and Cain.

Clint entered and joined Cain at the bar.

“What'll it be?” the young bartender asked. He had a towel over his shoulder, but it was dry. It was there for appearance' sake. Clint had a feeling this was his first job in a saloon.

“Beer.”

“Comin' up.”

“I talked with Sheriff Buford,” Clint told Cain. “I think I pretty much insulted him.”

“How?”

“I may have insinuated that he'd been paid off,” Clint said. “He said he hadn't seen two strangers in town.”

“I don't think he has,” Cain said.

The bartender put a beer in front of Clint. Cain was still working on his.

“How so?”

“I followed the tracks,” Cain said. “They didn't go through town, but around.”

“Why bother driving to this town, and then going around it?” Clint asked.

“That I could not read in the tracks,” Cain said. “I just know that they bypassed the town.”

“So we're wasting time here.”

“Yes.”

“Then let's get out of here,” Clint said.

Cain finished his beer, while Clint drank down half of his. He paid for both, and they left.

 • • • 

Outside, Clint and Cain mounted their horses.

“I've got a question for you, Cain,” Clint said.

Cain looked at him.

“We're following a wagon trail, with my horse trailing along behind.”

“That is right.”

“What about other horses?” Clint asked. “Trailing behind? Or riding alongside?”

Cain stared at him.

“Or are both men riding in the wagon?” Clint went on. “And if so, why? Why a wagon? Why aren't they on horseback?”

“You make good points,” Cain said, “but some of your questions I cannot answer. All I see are the wagon and your horse. If there are two men, they have to be in the wagon. But there could only be one man.”

“Which would mean the other might have ridden on ahead,” Clint said.

“That figures,” Cain said.

“So maybe the wagon led us here to force us to waste time.”

“For what?”

“Until they get ready for us. Or for me. They probably don't know you're along.”

“That could work to your benefit.”

“Yes, it could,” Clint said. “We can talk about how along the way.”

Cain took Clint outside of town and showed him the trail as it circled around to the other side.

“This road is not as well traveled as the road to Hastings,” the big half-breed said, pointing down. “The tracks are much easier to follow.”

“That's because they want me to follow them,” Clint said. “If what happened in Orwell is any indication, they're definitely waiting for me.”

“And even knowing that, you are going to ride in anyway,” Cain said.

“Yes.”

“Well,” Cain said, “maybe we can find out how many guns we will be facing.”

“We?”

“Well, yes,” Cain said, “you hired me to track. I figure you don't expect me to just watch while you get shot up.”

“I assume you'll want some extra money to back my play.”

“Of course.”

“I don't have a problem with that.”

Clint didn't know how proficient Cain was with a gun, but he really wasn't in a position to refuse the help.

 • • • 

They continued to follow the trail, stopping only briefly to spell the horses. They ate beef jerky and washed it down with water along the way.

Abruptly, Cain reined his horse in. Clint went on a few yards before he realized what had happened, and rode back.

“What happened?”

Cain pointed to the ground.

“Other horses.”

“We know there are other tracks on this road.”

“No,” Cain said, “the wagon was joined here by riders”—he continued to point—“on both sides.”

“How many?”

Cain took a moment, then said, “At least four.”

“So five men altogether.”

“Depending on how many are in the wagon,” the half-breed reminded him.

“Right.”

Cain looked at Clint.

“This does not mean there are only these men,” he said. “There could be more waiting for them at their destination.”

“I understand that.”

“We will see if they are joined by any others along the way,” Cain said.

“Apparently,” Clint said, “the original two men are not willing to face me alone.”

“That is obvious,” Cain said, “especially since they attempted to bushwhack you.”

Clint looked ahead of them.

“I wonder if they're leading us to another town.”

“If they are, it is not Orwell,” Cain said.

“What's up ahead?”

“Dover,” Cain said, “and Hooper.”

“What kind of towns?”

“Small ones.”

“What else is ahead?”

“Canyons,” Cain said. “Some of them have been used by gangs in the past.”

“That's probably it, then,” Clint said. “My bet is they're leading us to a canyon, looking to trap me.”

“And bushwhack you again.”

“Guess they think it was a good idea that just didn't work,” Clint said.

“Cowards,” Cain said.

“No doubt,” Clint said. “Let's continue on and see where we end up.”

“You are not going to expect me to ride into a trap with you, are you?” Cain asked.

“No,” Clint said, “once we figure out where they are, we'll also figure out an approach. Nobody's riding into a trap.”

“Good.”

“Unless we have to . . .”

 • • • 

Adam Dunn came out of the shack, where Derrick Sands was waiting with their horses.

“Are we set?” Dunn asked.

“All set.”

“How many men?”

“Six,” Sands said. “One man on watch all the time.”

“Good.”

“Where are we headed?” Sands asked.

“Away from here,” Dunn said. “We might head for Kerrville, send a telegram from there for instructions.”

“Are we payin' these men ahead of time?”

“Half,” Dunn said. “They'll get the other half when the job is done.”

“And that's okay with them?”

“Hey,” Dunn said, “they're just real excited about gettin' a chance to kill the Gunsmith.”

“It better work this time,” Sands said. “We could be runnin' out of men.”

“As long as there's more money,” Dunn assured him, “there'll be more men.”

“If you say so,” Sands said.

“I do,” Dunn said. “Come on, let's ride.”

As they continued to follow the trail—which pretty much stuck to the main road—they encountered the tracks of a few more men.

“How many does that make now?” Clint asked.

“If there's only one man on the wagon,” Cain said, “I count eight men.”

“Hopefully, there aren't more waiting for them.”

“Eight to two,” Cain said. “Those aren't very good odds.”

“If they do it the way they did in Orwell, it'll be three to one,” Clint pointed out. “Dunn and Sands probably won't be there.”

“Then we will need at least one alive, to tell us where they are.”

“Yes, we will.”

Cain frowned.

“It's very difficult to keep someone alive when lead is flying around. We could get killed trying not to kill someone.”

“Well,” Clint said, “our own lives will be top priority. How's that?”

“It works well for me,” Cain said.

They had already bypassed one of the small towns Cain had mentioned.

“Hooper is ahead,” Cain said, “but we will come to some canyons before that.”

“That's my bet,” Clint said.

 • • • 

As they approached the canyons, Cain stopped again.

“What is it?”

“The wagon continues on toward Hooper,” he said, “but the horses veer off and head for those canyons.”

“And my horse?”

“He is with the tracks going towards the canyons.”

“None of the men rode with the wagon?”

“No.”

“They're bound to have someone on the lookout,” Clint said. “We need to find which canyon they're in before they see us.”

“We cannot do that on horseback.”

“You want us to go on foot?”

“Not us,” Cain said, “me.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Stay with the horses,” Cain said. “I will scout ahead on foot and return.”

“You better.”

They dismounted, walked the horses off the road until they reached a boulder Cain could sit on. He took a pair of moccasins from his saddlebags, took off his boots, and put the moccasins on.

“I will leave my rifle.”

“Is that wise?”

“I will not want to make any noise,” he said, “so I would not be firing it. I have my knife.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “you know what you're doing.”

Cain looked around, then pointed.

“There is a dry wash there,” he said. “If you take the horses there, you won't be seen from the road. Just in case someone comes along.”

“If someone does come along,” Clint said, “I'll be asking them some questions.”

“That is up to you. I will be back soon.”

“Good luck.”

As the half-breed moved off on foot, Clint took the reins of both horses and walked them to the dry wash. He grounded the reins of both horses, then found a place to sit and took out a piece of beef jerky.

 • • • 

Cain spotted the lookout with no trouble, also managed to avoid him. He might have been able to get behind him and kill him, but that would sooner or later alert the others that something was wrong. He and Clint weren't yet ready to announce their arrival. But at least he now knew that they had found the men. What remained was to determine how many of them there were, and exactly where.

He bypassed the lookout, moving in his moccasined feet with remarkable silence for a man his size.

The man on lookout was completely oblivious.

In seconds, Cain found a shack in the canyon, surrounded by several men. There was one fire, with three men seated around it. With the man on lookout, that made four. He wondered how many might be in the shack.

Their horses were picketed nearby. He moved to a better vantage point and was able to count six horses.

Six men.

Clint Adams had probably been right. The bushwhackers, Dunn and Sands, weren't there. Hopefully, one of them would know where the two men went. If they managed keep one alive—and the right one, at that.

He was high above the canyon, peering over the edge at the men below. He backed away and started to make his way back to Clint.

As he passed the point where he'd seen the lookout, he noticed the man was gone. Had he been relieved? And if so, where was the new man?

He came around a turn and found out for himself. The lookout was just doing up his pants, having just relieved himself on a rock, which was steaming as a result. The two men froze when they saw each other.

The lookout had set his rifle aside to take his piss, but he was wearing a gun and holster. He went for the gun, but he was no fast draw. Cain produced his knife and was on the man before he could draw his weapon.

As shocked as he was at this giant Indian attacking him, the man managed to get a hand up to defend himself, deflecting Cain's knife. In seconds the men were locked together, but Cain's superior strength quickly asserted itself. As the knife pierced the lookout's chest, he opened his mouth to scream. Cain clamped his other hand over the man's mouth to muffled the yell, and then the body went limp and he lowered it to the ground.

He pulled the body out of sight behind the piss rock and then rushed to join Clint. Now that he'd killed one man, they didn't have much time.