The Sapphire Gun (11 page)

“If there's anything I can do to help, you just need to ask.”

“Is there a way you could check on a man by the name of Galloway who works for Western Union?”

“How much do you need to know?”

“Just where he is.”

Tom shrugged. “Shouldn't be too hard. Those fellas usually ain't too far from a telegraph wire.” Draping an arm around Clint, Tom asked, “You sure there ain't more to tell me about this lady? As of now, there's not a lot to throw at her.”

“To be honest, I don't know if there should be more charges against her. I told you everything I know and don't have any reason to know any more.”

“What about this assassin? I've heard of a man looking like the one you described at a few killings, but that's about it.”

“Actually, there is something else.” With that, Clint reached behind him to remove Franco's .44 from under his gun belt. Holding it flat in his hand, Clint showed it to the marshal and explained, “This was his gun. I've had a chance to look it over and it's more than just a pretty, expensive piece.”

Tom let out a slow whistle. “A gun like that would go a long way to fund my retirement.”

“Which is another reason why I'm handing it over to you instead of someone who might actually make good on a notion like that.”

Sighing as if cursing his own conscience, Tom asked, “What else is there to that pistol?”

“Apart from the sapphire and engravings, it's been modified to be quicker on the draw and deliver a harder punch than most .44s. It's not quite enough of a change to make it a different caliber, but it would definitely fire a bit farther than a standard gun like this.”

“Ain't nothing standard about that,” Tom said.

“Exactly. It's even got a better than average chance of shooting through things that might stop a regular round. If I would've known that, I would have been a little more careful going against him.”

Tom shook his head and patted Clint's shoulder. “Skill will trump firepower any day of the week, my friend.”

“And a bit of luck doesn't hurt.” With that, Clint handed over the pistol.

“I can ask around to see if anyone else has seen someone carrying a gun like this. That might be enough to tie this Dominguez and maybe even his lady over there to another killing or two.”

Even though that same thing had been on Clint's mind, he wasn't anxious to heap more trouble onto Rosa's back. He was also quick to remind himself that if Tom Clark connected her to more deaths, then she deserved whatever trouble came her way.

“I'm going to get a room for the night and some real food in my belly,” Clint said. “And don't think I'll let you off the hook where those beers are concerned.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Tom said. “My wife's gonna insist you come over for dinner, as well. Ducking her ain't too wise.”

“I'll stay on an extra day for some home cooking.”

“Then it's settled. I believe there's a card game or two to be had at the Blaylock Saloon. That should keep you busy until I meet you there. We can have some beers and swap stories.”

Clint tipped his hat to the marshal and started to walk away. The younger lawman was cutting Rosa's ropes and helping her down from the horse. Knowing she was in good hands, Clint led Eclipse to the closest stable.

The Blaylock was a small saloon that not a lot of people knew about. Fortunately for the saloon's owners, enough poker players preferred their tables over the others in Carson City for them to keep the place open for business. It also served good enough food to keep Clint there for the entire night after he checked into his room.

After a hearty meal, Clint sat in on a friendly game until he saw Tom Clark walk through the front door. U.S. Marshal Clark tossed a wave in Clint's direction, found his way to the bar, and ordered two beers. By the time Clint stepped up beside him, Tom had already drained over half of his first mug.

“Any luck?” Tom asked.

Clint patted his pocket and replied, “Enough that I needed to cash out rather than pay up.”

“You been cheating the locals again?”

“Buy some chips and see for yourself.”

“I may look stupid, but I know better than to sit across a card table from you. Been waiting long?”

“Not long enough for me to lose interest.”

Tom laughed and pushed a full mug of beer to Clint. “And aren't you in high spirits all of a sudden?”

“It feels good knowing that I'll have a mattress under me tonight.”

“And something soft and warm on top of you, if I'm guessing correctly.”

“Just sleep will be fine for tonight.”

Shrugging, Tom finished his beer and slapped the bar for another. “I hate to knock the grin off yer face, but I already heard back about that gun you handed over.”

“And?”

“And a few other marshals in New Mex recognized it the moment I brought up the sapphire in the handle.”

“What about the man who carried it?” Clint asked.

“They said something about a Mexican fella, but he could have also been a Spaniard. My gut tells me he could have also been Chinese for all they know. They seemed a hell of a lot clearer about the gun.”

“That figures. So that means Dominguez was either real good at keeping his head down or there's more than one person using that gun.”

“Or one just like it,” Tom added.

“I thought about that, too. Actually, I was trying not to think about it.”

The marshal shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds to me like you handled that Spanish fella well enough.”

“I got lucky once or twice,” Clint said as he thought back to the first shot that had been fired when Franco ambushed him and Johnny while on the trail. “If there is some sort of organization of assassins at work here, it's going to take a lot more luck than anyone has to get through them all.”

“And what makes you think they'd throw all they got at you?” Tom winced and added, “Maybe I should put that another way.”

“Point taken,” Clint said. “Did you find out anything else?”

“I sure did! Galloway's still right where you left him. I just sent a wire to the spot you mentioned before and got an answer right quick.”

Clint nodded and took another drink of his beer. The brew was a good balance that left a nice flavor in his mouth while also having enough alcohol in it to calm his nerves. “Then I'll be heading back that way. If he hired that assassin to come after me and Johnny, that makes him just as guilty as the one who pulled the trigger.”

“More guilty if you ask me,” Tom grumbled.

“You think so?”

“Hell yes! A real assassin, not just a killer but a real professional, don't kill nobody unless he gets paid for it.”

“An assassin is a killer, the last time I checked.”

“Sure, and a real good one. Most killers are mean-spirited, wicked souls, or just plain foul drunks. They're dangerous because they're bound to go off and hurt anyone around them when they do. That's the sort of person paying the money to an assassin. They've got all the bad intent behind what they're doing, but just don't have the guts to pull the trigger.

“The assassin may be a killer, but he's really no worse than the gun he holds,” Tom said, while making the shape of a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. “He'll sit nice and quiet without harming a soul. He'll go to church and live a long time without making a fuss. If nobody hires him for long enough, he'll find some other line of work. Once that asshole with the money steps up . . .” To cap off his own sentence, Tom dropped his thumb as the hammer of his make-believe pistol.

Clint laughed and leaned against the bar. “No worse than the gun he holds, huh? In this case, that's saying a lot.”

“Sure enough. That's one hell of a gun.”

A few days passed, and Clint spent the first of them socializing with the Clarks. He had some more beers with Tom, played cards at the Blaylock Saloon, and ate dinner with the marshal and his wife. Once that was done, Clint saddled up Eclipse and rode out of Carson City to retrace his steps west to where he'd met up with Johnny Blevin.

As those same days passed, Johnny bought a ticket on a ship bound for Wales, with a carriage meant to drive him all the way into London. He left from a small port that didn't bat an eye at the fake name they were given. Johnny spent his time trading off between savoring his newly found wealth and looking over his shoulder for someone carrying a sapphire gun.

The passage of those days hit Rosa especially hard, since she spent them in a jail cell. Tom and his men treated her just fine, but the walls were thick enough to keep the sights and sounds of the outside world away from her. The food was terrible, the water was dirty, and she had nothing to do but pace, sit and sleep.

She was surprised at the way the marshals treated her. After the first two days passed and she had nothing but boredom to complain about, Rosa figured the lawmen hadn't found out the extent of the kills Franco had made. Compared to how she'd expected to be treated, these jailers were downright cordial.

The marshal who'd brought her in at the start was the one who'd searched her upon locking her up. His hands had been quick and thoroughly efficient, which was a poor comparison in her mind to the searches Clint had given her. After that first search, the marshal had tossed a plain gray dress into her cell and told her to toss her old clothes out.

He stood there and watched as she stripped down and fit the new dress over her head. Actually, the new garment was only a dress by the loosest definition of the word. It was more like a sack with three holes at the top for her head and arms to slip through.

Every day, Rosa expected something more from the marshals. She expected to see Tom Clark walk in and confront her about the grisly details regarding the deputies Franco had killed a few months ago. She knew she'd catch hell for the federals that were killed once they tried to chase her and Franco down after they assassinated that lance corporal in Fort Sanders.

In fact, the most trouble she'd gotten was from the two other prisoners that had been locked in neighboring cells. One of them was a rowdy asshole with crooked teeth and bruises on his face from the guff he'd given to Tom Clark while being brought in. He bragged about the hell he'd raised, but Rosa had him pegged as nothing more than a big talker.

The other prisoner was a quiet black man who'd been captured after a store owner accused him of stealing. He'd been brought in one night and shoved into his cell without him saying a word. Soon after that, one of the other marshals came by to let the man know he'd be released as soon as they could convince the shopkeeper to drop the charges. It seemed even the law was aware of the accuser's tendency to suspect a man of color rather than his own son, who'd been caught stealing from his father's store several times before.

For the most part, the marshals only looked in on Rosa from time to time to give her food, water, or to dump the pot that sat in the corner of each cell. There wasn't much need for them to watch over the prisoners every moment of the day, since each cell was basically a solid box of thick iron bars in a room locked by a door that could possibly withstand a battering ram. Her window was just big enough for her to crawl through if it, too, hadn't been sealed off by thick iron bars.

What surprised her more than anything else was that the marshals let her keep her boots. Perhaps Tom was confident since Clint had had custody of her for so long beforehand. Perhaps the marshals were lazy, or even out of boots for women. Whichever it was, Rosa was thankful. Once she heard the tap of something against the bars of her window, she was doubly grateful.

The loudmouth was currently asleep, and the black man lay stretched out on his cot as always.

“You awake in there?” came a voice from the outside world.

Rosa jumped up from her cot and rushed to the window. It was just high enough to prevent her from looking out to see much of anything apart from a sliver of sky. At the moment, that sky was pitch-black. “I'm awake. Is that you, Mackie?”

She may not have been able to see much of anything through the window, but she recognized the thick fingers snaking their way through the bars. “You got that right. Is that marshal in there with you?”

“No.”

“Then he must still be in his office. What about anyone else?”

“Two others,” she whispered.

Rosa couldn't contain herself any longer. She pulled the cot beneath the window, hopped onto it, and stood on her tiptoes to get a better look through the window. “I think the other two in here are asleep, but they're in different cells.”

Wes Mackie was a big enough man that he already looked to be at the same height as Rosa while she was standing on her cot. Long, stringy dark hair hung over most of his face. Another sizable chunk of his face was covered by a full, scruffy beard. He smiled at her the moment he saw her face.

“Still pretty as ever,” he said.

“You should see this dress they gave me.”

“You still got them boots that I like so much?”

She smirked and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Then you might be able to help me out.” Mackie glanced over his shoulder at the space behind him. When he looked back again, he lifted something in one hand that Rosa couldn't see until he slipped it between the bars. It was an iron hook connected to a chain, which rattled against the outside of the wall.

“Just give me a minute to get ready and then let me know when you're ready to go,” he said. “You think you can take the guard or should I do it?”