To Reap and to Sow (2 page)

“Who the hell are you?” Mark grunted.

Clint leaned to one side so he could see past Mark and into the room. “I'm one of the guests that have been complaining about the noise,” he replied. “I heard the owner mention that a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah?”

After seeing Lynn climbing off the bed and rubbing the bruised portion of her face, Clint shifted his eyes back toward Mark. “Yeah,” he said while staring the man down. “And I think you need to step outside to cool yourself off.”

“Why don't you step outside, mister?”

“So you can toss a woman around some more?” Clint shook his head. “I don't think so. There's a saloon across the street. Why don't you go there and leave the lady alone?”

“Go to hell, asshole. I'll do what I please with this bitch. You want some for yourself, you can wait around for your turn like everyone else.”

Mark was still grinning when he felt a tap on his shoulder. As he glanced behind him to look toward Lynn, it was obvious that he intended on giving her a moment to try to appease him. What he got instead was something very different.

Lynn glared at him defiantly and snapped her right hand around so quickly that Mark was unable to avoid getting slapped. Her palm landed flush against his face and did a real good job of wiping away the smug grin that had nested there for so long.

Unfortunately, Mark's surprise didn't last long. Wheeling around, he balled up his fists and let out a vicious snarl. “You're finished now, you whore!”

Bringing up his left arm, Mark sent Lynn backward with a quick shove. He took some more time to prepare his right arm, though, by cocking it back to deliver a solid punch. When he tried to unleash the punch, he found it impossible to budge his arm.

“What the hell?” Mark muttered as he tried to move his right arm.

Clint had reached out to grab Mark's arm so quickly that there was no way for Mark to do anything about it. Clint's grip was strong enough to keep Mark where he was, no matter how much Mark struggled against him.

“I believe you've been asked to leave,” Clint said calmly. “It's time for you to take us up on that offer.”

Mark started to say something as he brought his left fist around to punch Clint in the face, but he didn't get out more than a grunt before he felt Clint's knuckles slam into his jaw. The fast punch snapped Mark's head to the side and caused him to shift so he was facing Clint directly.

For a moment, Mark could only stand there and gawk. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “You got to the count of two before I tear your head off.”

Clint stood in his spot without moving a single muscle.

As soon as he saw Mark start to throw a punch, however, Clint responded with another swing that was quick as a bolt of lightning.

“Two,” Clint said after he'd delivered a sharp left hook to Mark's gut.

Doubled over and wheezing, Mark staggered back into the room.

Lynn hopped out of his way and pressed herself against a wall so she was out of both men's reach.

“You all right, ma'am?” Clint asked.

“Yes,” Lynn replied. “I…I just…”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Mark roared. “I'll deal with you when I'm through with this one!”

Clint held his ground and waited for Mark to collect his courage. When Mark finally did make another move, Clint saw it coming as clearly as if he'd watched a bank of storm clouds roll in over the course of a day.

Mark's first swing was rushed and was announced by a grunting breath as well as a shift in his entire body. All Clint needed to do was take a step back to allow that punch to miss him by a foot. Mark's second swing was a bit faster, but Clint was able to see it coming in enough time to spare for him to slap it away. When Mark bared his teeth and let out a frustrated obscenity, it was almost funny.

Seeing the start of a grin on Clint's face was enough to push Mark into another kind of anger. He charged toward Clint and weathered a few punches on his way in before wrapping Clint up in a bear hug and shoving him against the wall that had been hit by the man in the vest not too long ago.

Clint's shoulders slammed against the door. As soon as his boots touched the floor again, he brought up one leg to slam his knee into Mark. Clint wasn't sure where the knee had landed, but it hit hard enough to loosen Mark's grip.

Clint took hold of Mark's shirt and held him at arm's length. Before Mark could respond, Clint punched him in the face with a straight right jab. As Clint's knuckles cracked against Mark's chin, Clint knew he hadn't hit the other man hard enough to do any more than catch his attention.

“I'll buy the first drink,” Clint said. “No need to keep tussling if there's no call for it.”

“Oh, there's call for it,” Mark replied before lunging forward and throwing a punch intended to turn Clint's face into strawberry jam.

Clint shifted to the side and felt the breeze of Mark's punch sail past him. Next, Clint heard the crunching impact of Mark's fist slamming against the wall.

While Mark gritted his teeth and struggled to keep from yelping in pain, Clint positioned himself so he was standing between the man and the room where Lynn was still waiting.

Every one of Mark's haggard breaths needed to be pushed out of him. He was so angry that sweat had pumped out of his forehead and trickled down his face. The moment he got Clint back in his sights, he reached for the gun that hung in a battered holster on his hip.

Before Mark could close his fingers around his pistol, he was looking down the barrel of Clint's modified Colt.

Mark hadn't seen Clint go for his gun. He hadn't even heard Clint clear leather.

“You just lost that free drink I offered,” Clint said. “Take your hand from that pistol before you lose something else.”

Mark wanted to draw and fire with every fiber of his being. That much was plain to see in his eyes and the anxious twitching in his face. But no matter how worked up he was, Mark wasn't blind. He could see that he was beaten and wasn't even close to taking his own gun from its holster. Swallowing his pride along with his anger, Mark opened both hands and held them up to either side.

“Good,” Clint said without shifting his aim. “Now get out of here.”

Slowly, Mark backed away. “I'll be seeing you again,” he grumbled.

“It's best if you don't.”

With every step he took away from Clint, Mark seemed to grow a bit more confident. “I'll see you again. Count on it.”

Clint watched Mark carefully without paying any mind to the smoke he was blowing. Only when Mark turned a corner and disappeared from the hallway did he holster the Colt.

“Are you all—” was all Clint managed to say before Lynn rushed up to wrap her arms around him and plant a kiss on his mouth that curled his toes.

Clint walked into the Red Eye Saloon later that night. After riding all day long to make it most of the way through Kansas and get into Spelling, Clint had intended on filling his stomach and climbing into bed to call it an early night. The little restaurant connected to the hotel allowed him to carry out the first part of his plan, but Mark Rowlett's shouting had cut short the second.

As he walked into the saloon, Clint didn't even make it to the bar before the short fellow tending it had locked eyes with him.

“You staying at that hotel across the street?” the bartender asked.

Clint looked around a bit just to make sure he was the one in the bartender's sights. Judging by the edge in the shorter man's voice, he must have had some pressing business to relay. Seeing that he was the intended target, Clint let out a sigh and nodded. “Yeah. I'm staying at that hotel.”

“Someone was in here grousing about you.”

“I suspected it might be something like that,” Clint mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. Thanks for letting me know.”

Clint stepped up to the bar and rolled his head back and forth to loosen up his neck. As much as he enjoyed long rides, they played hell on him when the temperature dropped the way it had over the last few days.

The bartender leaned both hands against his edge of the bar. Now that he'd stepped up to stand directly in front of Clint, it was easy to see he was even shorter than Clint had first guessed. In fact, the bartender was standing on a crate situated behind the bar.

“You know how I knew you were the man that was being groused about?” the bartender asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Clint leaned forward to get a better look behind the bar. It wasn't just a crate set up back there for the short man, but an entire platform that covered most of the floor behind the bar and led to a ramp that would put him back onto the regular floor when he walked around the bar.

“Come on,” the bartender asked as if he was about to burst. “You know how I knew?”

“No,” Clint finally conceded. “How'd you know?”

Proudly, the bartender ran a finger along the side of his face and then pointed to that same spot on Clint's face. “Your scar. The man who groused about you mentioned a scar and I picked up on it right away.”

Clint reflexively touched the scar on his cheek and nodded. Most of the times, he even forgot the scar was there. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Real observant.”

The bartender straightened his back and nodded. If his arms were a bit longer, he would have been able to pat himself on the back. “Don't worry, though. I didn't say anything.”

“That's because you don't know who I am, or if that fellow wasn't just sounding off. I'm not the only man with a scar, for that matter.”

With every word Clint said, the pride etched into the little man's face dimmed. Before too long, the bartender was staring at his own fingers. “I suppose you're right. What can I get you to drink?”

Even if the bartender was twice as big as him, Clint would have felt bad for raining on the man's parade like that. “Then again,” Clint added as if he'd given the matter a good amount of thought, “not every person would have spotted me so quickly or from a distance that way.”

The bartender shrugged.

“It's been a long day,” Clint said. “I suppose I was just caught off my guard when you spotted me so quickly.”

Slowly, the bartender's sly grin was rekindled. “I can see how that might startle you. How about I set you up with a free beer to make up for it?”

“That might just do the trick.”

As the bartender got a mug and filled it for him, Clint looked around at the rest of the saloon. There really wasn't much to see. Apart from three other customers in the place, there were only a couple tables and a handful of chairs. It looked as if there might be a small stage in the back of the room, but that could have just been another platform for the bartender to use.

When the bartender turned around again, his smirk was back in full force. “Here you go. On the house. The first one is, anyway.”

“Much obliged,” Clint said as he lifted the mug and took a sip.

The brew wasn't the best he'd had, but it sure beat the swill he'd been served in Wichita. As he drank, Clint could feel the bartender eyeing him intently. Fortunately, the little man didn't wait long before talking again.

“You made an enemy in Mark Rowlett, you know,” the bartender said.

“Yeah. I kind of figured.”

“He's not the sort you'd want to trifle with.”

“Then he shouldn't have been beating a woman.”

The bartender nodded as his eyes drifted toward the holster at Clint's side. “Well, I guess you can handle someone like Mark better than most. Still, he gets awfully particular where that woman of his is concerned. I take it you know her as well?”

“I got her name, but that was about it.”

“She's not…uh…hurt is she?”

Clint set his mug down and looked up to find the bartender watching him carefully. “Not too bad, no,” Clint replied. “She wanted to clean herself up a bit. Are you a friend of hers, or just plain nosy?”

“I like to know what's going on so's I can spread the word. All a part of the job, you know. Mark's fairly well known around here. Folks'll want to know who put him in his place.”

Clint held the bartender's gaze until the little man looked away. Considering the long day Clint had had, it didn't take long for him to pull that off. “Maybe folks should tend to their own affairs,” Clint said with just enough of an edge in his voice to get his point across.

The bartender held up his hands and averted his eyes. “No offense meant. Just making conversation.”

Clint had to laugh at the bartender's easy manner. “You serve food here?” he asked.

“Sure do. I'm fixin' steak omelets tomorrow myself.”

“Be sure to have one ready for me and I'll tell you all about my run-in with Mr. Rowlett. Right now, I'd just like to finish this beer and get to sleep.”

Leaning over the bar so he could offer his hand, the barkeep said, “Sounds like a deal, Mr….”

As Clint shook the bartender's hand, he wondered if it wouldn't be wiser to give a false name. Despite the attractiveness of that idea, he replied, “Adams.”

“Tomorrow morning it is, Mr. Adams. I'll be looking forward to the story.”

Clint was glad to have appeased the bartender for the time being just so he could drink the rest of his beer in peace. Hopefully, the small town wouldn't be flooded with stories about the Gunsmith by morning thanks to Clint dropping his own name.

Then again, judging by the tenacity of the bartender, the little man probably knew who he was the moment Clint stepped through the door.