The Hunt for Clint Adams (4 page)

Clint decided to settle down and watch as Chief Shelby's men hit the streets in search of Jed Tarver. They were looking for a man—a stranger, they were told—carrying a set of saddlebags that looked pretty full.

After Clint left the police station, he spotted a saloon across the street and stopped there for a cold beer. He drank it looking out the front window, which was how he saw the uniformed lawmen stream out onto the street—five of them.

“Ain't exactly a secret they're lookin' for somebody, huh?” the bartender asked.

“That's what I said,” Clint answered.

“They ain't lookin' for you, are they?” the man asked, looking worried. “I don't want my place all shot up to hell.”

“Don't worry,” Clint assured him, “it's not me.”

“Good.”

The man went back to mopping spilled beer of his bar with a dirty rag.

When the lawmen were out of sight, Clint went back to the bar.

“You seen a man carrying a set of saddlebags?” Clint asked.

“Lots of men carry saddlebags,” the bartender said.

“These would look pretty full,” Clint said, “and I'll bet he's clutching them, not just carrying them. Close to his chest.”

“You know,” the man said, leaning heavy forearms on the bar and rubbing the black stubble on his chin, “now that you mention it I did see a jasper looked just like that.”

“When was that?”

“'Bout an hour ago,” the bartender said. “He was in here having a beer, and he kept the saddlebags on his shoulder with the other hand—and he had a tight hold on 'em.”

“What'd he look like?” Clint realized he should have asked Abe that when he left Eclipse at the stable. “Describe him.”

“Tall fella, kinda thin, wears his gun down low and tied down, so I guess he knows how to use it.”

“What was he doing when you saw him?”

“He had a beer, nursed it for a while,” the bartender said. “Just kinda . . . stared out the window, like you was doin'.”

“At the police station?”

“I suppose.”

“So one beer, an hour ago?”

“That's it.”

“And he didn't say much?”

“He didn't say anythin' but to order a beer,” the bartender said.

“So you have no idea where he went when he left?” Clint asked.

“That way,” the man said, pointing. “That's all I know.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

Clint left the saloon and turned in the direction the bartender had pointed.

Jed Tarver sat on the bed in his hotel room with the saddlebags full of money. The only man he'd ever been loyal to, or trusted to watch his back, was Bart Dexter. But forty thousand dollars was forty thousand dollars—actually, forty-two—and it was a hell of a lot better than twenty-one thousand dollars.

He walked to the window and looked out. It was Dexter's own fault. He should have shaken off the posse and been here by now . . . Tarver stopped thinking about Dexter when he saw the uniformed lawmen on the street. They were grouped, then separated, then converged, then separated again.

It was pretty clear they were looking for somebody, and he had a good idea who it was.

Clint was in a hurry to find Tarver before the law did. But unlike them, rather than running around the streets, he walked briskly. In this direction were a couple of hotels, three more saloons, and the livery stable, among other stores. Which of these Tarver might have gone into would only be a guess.

All Clint could do was try to put himself in Tarver's place. Standing there, looking out the window of the saloon at the police station across the street, Clint—as Tarver—would decide that he'd made a mistake coming here. There was too much law here. He'd have to find another place to meet his partners and split the money—if he did, indeed, intend to split.

Tarver would have arrived here, gotten a room in a hotel, and counted the money. Once he found out he had more than forty thousand dollars in his possession the temptation to keep it all for himself would be great. It would be great for any thief because it would appeal to their nature.

Why share when you could have it all? That's what it meant to be a thief.

Clint—as Tarver—would decide to leave town, get out before his partners arrived, and before the law could find him—because who else could they be looking for as they scoured the town?

Tarver collected his belonging in his room—his rifle, his bedroll, and his money-filled saddlebags. Nothing else. No extra shirts. Nothing else would fit in the saddlebags with all those greenbacks.

He left the room and went down the back stairway. With lawmen in the streets, he was going to have to use back alleys to make his way to the livery. It was time to go, time to start his new life with forty thousand dollars—
his
forty thousand dollars.

Tarver used the alleys and back streets to make his way to the livery stable. He did not encounter any uniformed lawmen along the way, which was good because he would have had to kill them and that would have raised an alarm.

As he entered the livery with his saddlebags over his shoulder, the old liveryman turned and stared at him in surprise.

“I need my horse,” Tarver said.

“Already? Ain't been in town that long—” Abe stopped when Tarver pointed his gun at him.

“Don't try to stall me, old man,” he said. “I know the law is lookin' for me. Now, saddle my horse and be quick about it.”

“Yessir.”

Abe went to the stall Tarver's horse was in and backed the animal out. When he looked over at Tarver, his eyes widened again, but not because of anything Tarver had done. It was because Clint Adams had entered the livery behind Tarver.

Clint had crept up on the livery, just in case Tarver was already inside. As he peered around the door he saw that his instincts were well founded. Tarver was standing there, saddlebags over his left shoulder, gun in his right hand, as Abe was backing the man's horse out of its stall.

He stepped into the stable and said, “Tarver.” The man stiffened.

“Who's that?” Tarver asked.

“My name's Clint Adams,” Clint said. “I'm riding with the posse from Abilene.”

“You're here with the posse?”

“I'm here alone, Tarver,” he said. “Followed your trail.”

“I'm impressed,” Tarver said, “They got the Gunsmith to come after me?”

“Just happened that way,” Clint said. “I rode into town and made a deposit in the bank just before you and your gang robbed it.”

“Fate,” Tarver said.

“What?”

“It was fate that you and me should meet,” Tarver said. “I always wondered which of us was faster.”

“How do you figure it?”

“Well, you got the edge in experience, but I'm younger,” Tarver said. “I think I'm faster. I think your day is done.”

“Too bad we're not going to find out,” Clint said.

“Whaddaya mean?” Tarver asked. “Why not?”

“Because I'm here to take you back to Abilene,” Clint said, “not to try to find out who's faster.”

“You're gonna take me back, to go to prison?” Tarver said. “I'd rather take my chances with you, Adams.”

“Well, you're lucky you didn't kill anybody,” Clint reasoned, “so yeah, you'd go to prison, but you wouldn't hang.”

“That won't do,” Tarver said. “Look, Adams, all I gotta do is holster my gun and turn around. Then we'll see who's best.”

“No,” Clint said. “I'm going to take you back to Abilene. You've got to pay for what you did, according to the law. So drop the gun.”

“Whaddaya see, old man?” Tarver asked Abe. “He got his gun on me?”

Abe looked at Clint, asking if he should answer.

“Go ahead, tell him.”

“His gun's holstered.”

“Now get out, Abe,” Clint said.

“Yessir.” The old man used the back door and ran out.

“What if I just turn around?” Tarver asked. “What then?”

“I'd shoot you before you could.”

“In the back?”

“Back of the leg, maybe,” Clint said.

“That ain't fair, Adams.”

“Who said life is fair, Tarver, especially for a bank robber?” Clint asked. “Now drop the gun.”

Tarver was feeling a lot of things, but mostly he was frustrated. He had forty thousand dollars over his shoulder and a gun in his hand. If anyone had offered him that position, he would have taken it ten out of ten times. But here he was, and there wasn't much he could do. He could turn, but he knew Clint Adams would shoot him. The Gunsmith was afraid to face him man to man; that much was obvious.

Jed Tarver had made a lot of wrong decisions in his life. If he ever made a right one it would have to be now. If he dropped his gun he went to prison. If he tried to turn and fire he'd go to prison with a bullet wound in his leg.

“I ain't gonna forget this, Adams,” he said. “Sure, I'll go to prison, but when I get out I'll come lookin' for you. You'll be older, and I'll take you then. I'll kill you.”

“That's fine, Tarver,” Clint said. “Just fine. Now drop your gun.”

Tarver tightened his hold on his gun for a moment, then shook his head, opened his hand, and dropped his weapon.

“I'm surprised,” Rick Hartman said when Clint finished his story.

“Why?”

“Did you think you could take him?”

“That never entered into my decision,” Clint said. “I was riding with a posse, and I was supposed to take him back. That's what I did.”

“It must have been frustrating for him,” Hartman said. “All that money in his hands and he couldn't do anything with it.”

“Too bad,” Clint said. “I did what I was supposed to do.”

“Yeah, you did,” Hartman said, “and now he's gonna come after you.”

“Probably.”

“And he won't come alone.”

“There's something Bart Dexter doesn't know,” Clint said.

“What's that?”

“Tarver was leaving Manhattan with the money,” Clint said. “He wasn't going to split with his partner.”

“What do you think Dexter would do if he knew?” Hartman asked.

“He'd kill Tarver.”

“Or force Tarver to kill him first.”

“Right.”

“So it's easy. All you have to do is tell him,” Hartman said. “Let them take care of each other.”

“Why would he believe me?”

“Because,” Hartman said, “all thieves know they'd do the same thing.”

Clint knew Rick was probably right. Given the opportunity, any crook would make off with forty thousand dollars and not share a dime of it.

He went back to his hotel, found that Lisa was still in the room. Luckily, she was dressed. If she'd been naked he wouldn't have been able to resist.

“There you are,” she said. “I was going to leave you a note and go back to my own room.”

“Aren't you leaving town today?”

“I'm supposed to,” she said, “but . . .”

“But what?”

She stared at him.

“Don't you remember what I said before you left?” she asked. “I could stay, if you wanted me to.”

“Don't you have a show to do in Austin?”

“Yes, but . . .”

Clint had heard her sing that first night. That was what she had been doing in Rick's Place, performing. She was good, and she had other shows lined up. They'd had a good three nights, but there was really nothing he could offer her to make her stay.

“You have your career to worry about, Lisa,” Clint said.

“Clint—Oh, forget it,” she said. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“Lisa—”

“No, no, it's okay,” she said, waving off any objections. “This has been nice, Clint. But you're right, I have other shows.”

She walked to him and kissed him shortly. He knew he could have stopped her, but the simple fact was, he didn't want to. Women came in and out of his life, and that was the way it was. It was too late in his life to change it. So he watched her leave . . . and then started thinking about Jed Tarver.

Tarver and Dexter sat in a café together in a town east of Yuma called Fortune. Sam Barcley and Dan Gerald were off in a saloon somewhere. They had been in Fortune for about three days, since Tarver walked out of Yuma Prison.

In that three days, this was the sixth steak Tarver had eaten. He'd missed steak most of all while in prison. He cut into it enthusiastically.

“So?” Dexter said.

“So what?”

“You ain't told me about prison,” Dexter said. “What was it like?”

“It was . . . an education.”

“A what?”

“I learned a lot,” Tarver said.

“About what?”

“About bein' a man, Dex,” Tarver said. “I made a lot of mistakes in the past, but I ain't makin' any more. From now on, things are gonna be different.”

“How?”

“The jobs we pull are gonna make a lot more money,” Tarver said. “The risk we take is gonna be in proportion to the size of the job.”

Dexter had never heard Tarver talk like that before. He apparently
had
learned some new things while in Yuma Prison.

“What do we do first?”

“First, we get some men we can count on,” Tarver said while chewing. “You told me you knew a few boys?”