Way with a Gun (14 page)

Clint said, “One . . . two . . .”

Taylor didn't have time to look in the front window to see what was happening inside. If he did that, there was a good chance he'd get a bullet in the back. One of the bank windows was already shattered. He was just going to have to burst in and do the best he could.

Another bullet smashed into a window as he opened the door and rushed in. . . .

As Clint and Ransom came running out of the hall into the bank, Clint saw Andy Taylor come bursting through the front door. All three of them had to take in the scene in an instant, see the employees against one wall, the two gunman watching them, and the four cousins behind the cages.

At the same time, Ned Pine's cousins saw the badge on Taylor's chest, which kept them from seeing Clint and Ransom, giving Clint and Ransom a much-needed advantage in the six-on-three situation.

“Law,” Rafe shouted. “Kill 'im!”

The inside of the bank erupted in gunfire. . . .

Abruptly, the exchange of fire outside stopped.

Winston, Kale, and the limping Delaney all stood up and stared down at the street. It was littered with bodies— both human and equine, as some unfortunate horses had gotten caught in the hail of lead.

The three men waved at each other that each was okay, and then they heard the gunfire from inside the bank.

Winston and Kale ran for the hatches of their roofs, while Delaney dragged his bad ankle toward his, but they all knew they would be too late to help the others inside with whatever was happening there. . . .

Six-guns turned on Sheriff Taylor as he entered the bank. Clint and Ransom hastily began to fire, drawing some of the deadly attention to themselves. Unfortunately, in order to do that, they had to shoot some of the men in the back. It went against every fiber of Clint's being to do that, but he felt he had no choice in this situation.

Before the bank robbers knew what was happening, three of them were down. The bank employees had wisely dropped to the floor. Rafe and Lew turned to face Clint and Ransom, while Charlie tried to gun the sheriff. Festus, Zeke, and Del were all dead.

A bullet struck Ransom in the left shoulder. He didn't know who had fired it, but he pulled the trigger of his own gun and sent Lew to join his relatives.

Clint felt a bullet zip past his right earlobe, but kept his concentration and shot Rafe in the chest.

Taylor, already limping from a bullet wound to the thigh, felt something bite him on the side, but managed to drill Charlie dead center, dropping him to the floor.

And it was deadly quiet, inside and out. . . .

When Winston and Kale reached the bank and entered, they saw Clint and Ransom lowering the sheriff to the floor. Around them were the bodies of the bank robbers. Bank employees were still against the wall, some standing, some sitting, all shaking.

“Is it over?” Kale asked.

“It is in here,” Clint said. “Outside?”

“Done there too.”

“Everybody okay?”

“I think so,” Kale said. “Delaney's limpin', but he ain't shot.” Kale peered out the window. “He's checkin' bodies outside.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Let's check the ones in here. Winston. Go and get the doctor for the sheriff. He's been hit . . . twice.”

They settled the lawman on the floor and holstered his gun for him.

“Make my wife happy,” he said. “Tell me I'm gonna die.”

“I almost feel bad, but you're not,” Clint said. “You've got a bullet in your thigh, and one took a chunk out of your side and kept going.”

“You ain't got enough lead in ya to kill ya,” Ransom said. He looked at Clint. “I'll help Kale check the bodies, but I think they're all dead.”

“Me too.”

Ransom started checking bodies. Clint looked at Taylor and asked, “Pine?”

“Dead,” Taylor said. “He was quicker, but he missed.”

“Yep, that's the way it happens sometimes,” Clint said.

Clint knew there was a very good chance that whoever Tell was, he'd be gone from Selkirk by now. He was sure to have gotten word that the other two men had failed. The telegram found in each man's pocket had to be meant to bring Clint here. He didn't know why the other two men had been sent first, but he wanted to find out.

He rode Eclipse directly to the sheriff's office and dismounted. There was a wooden shingle on the door that had EVAN WOODSIDE, SHERIFF on it. He entered without knocking.

A man with a badge was just walking back in from the cell block as Clint entered. He was tall, with gray, thinning hair, but had a bushy mustache to compensate for it. He had a thousand wrinkles around each eye, and Clint was sure there was a story for each one. He had the air of a man who had worn a badge for a long time—maybe not this particular badge, but a tin star somewhere.

“Help ya?” he asked.

“My name's Clint Adams, Sheriff.”

The lawman stopped and stared. There was recognition on his face, but nothing else. He'd seen and heard it all by now.

“I know your rep, Adams,” he finally said. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm looking for a man called Tell.”

“Tell? Tell what?”

“That I don't know,” Clint said, “and I don't know if it's a proper name or a nickname.”

“Tell,” the sheriff said again. He walked to his desk and sat down, waved Clint to the wooden chair sitting opposite him.

“Don't know that I can help you with this,” he said apologetically. “I can check my posters for you, but . . .” Neither of them thought that would be much help.

“I have these two telegrams,” Clint said, taking them from his pocket. “They were both sent from here by a man who signed his name Tell.”

Woodside took the telegrams and looked at them.

“These weren't sent to you.”

“No, sir.”

“And the men they were sent to?”

“Both are dead.”

“By your hand?”

“Yes, sir, but they forced the issue.”

“Not my business what brought it on,” Woodside said, waving the explanation away with one hand. He looked at the telegrams again. “Okay, this name I know.”

“Which one?”

“Newly Yates. Bad sort, hires his gun out. Was here in town some time ago.”

“And the other name?”

“Jerry Corbett. Don't know him, but while Yates was here, he was seen in the company of two men.”

“Corbett could have been one of them,” Clint said.

“And this Tell you're lookin' for coulda been the other.” Woodside handed the telegrams back. “According to the dates on those telegrams, your man may not even be here anymore.”

“Oh, he's here.”

“Waitin' for ya, ya think?”

“I can't think why else the telegrams would have been in the pockets of these two men,” Clint said, tucking them away. “Yeah, I think he's here waiting for me.”

“Well, do me a favor.”

“What's that?”

“When you two face each other,” Woodside said, “try to keep the property damage down.”

Though Clint didn't need the suggestion, the sheriff advised that he talk to the telegraph operator.

“He might remember who sent them.”

“Much obliged, Sheriff,” Clint said anyway, and then the lawman gave him something useful.

“Talk to Terry Benson. He's the regular key operator, got a good memory for faces and names. Tell 'im I sent you over.”

“I'll do it,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

He left the sheriff's office and walked Eclipse over to the telegraph office. His hope was that he'd find this fella Tell and take care of him without having to get a room at a hotel. He'd already given this matter too much of his time. He wanted to work fast this time.

He tied Eclipse off outside the office and went inside. A skinny fellow wearing a green visor was behind the desk with garters on his long sleeves. The office was empty but for him.

“Help ya?” he asked.

“Are you Terry?”

“That's me.” Up close, Clint could see he was in his fifties, and was wiry rather than skinny. That meant he did not look frail. Frowning, Terry asked, “Why do you want to know?”

“Sheriff Woodside sent me over,” Clint said. “He thought you might be able to help me.”

“With what?”

“These telegrams.” Clint took them from his pocket. “I wonder if you handled them, and if you did, if you remember the man who sent them?”

The clerk accepted the telegrams, unfolded them, and read them.

“I remember these,” he said.

“You do? Do you remember who sent them?”

“That depends.” The clerk handed them back nervously.

“On what?”

“On who you are.”

“Why?”

“Because the man who sent those,” Terry said, “told me he'd kill me unless I did exactly what he told me to do.”

“Which was what?”

“Again,” Terry said, “that depends on who you are.”

“My name's Clint Adams.”

“The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

Suddenly, the man looked relieved. “Thank God.”

“What's going on?”

“Look,” Terry said, “you gotta kill this fella before he comes back to kill
me
.”

“And who are we talking about?”

“Barlow,” Terry said, “Will Barlow.”

“I don't know the—”

“He goes by the name of Tell to his friends. That's why he signed the telegrams with that name.”

“Well, that's who I'm looking for,” Clint said. “Tell Barlow.”

“Well, he told me that if you came in here asking questions, I was to answer them truthfully,” Terry said. “If I didn't, he was going to kill me.”

“Why?”

“I didn't ask him,” Terry said. “So, are you gonna kill him?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On if I can find him.”

“You'll find him,” Terry said. “He'll be at the Five Aces.”

“Saloon?”

“Yeah. Just off of Main Street, on First. You can't miss it.”

“He doesn't want me to miss it, does he?”

“That's the impression I get,” Terry said. “He thinks he's real good with that gun.”

“Thanks for the information.”

“Hey,” the man said before Clint had a chance to go out the door.

“Yeah?”

“He can't possibly beat you, can he?”

Clint shrugged. “I guess we're going to find out.”

He started out the door, then stopped of his own accord.

“Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Why wouldn't the sheriff know about this man?”

“He doesn't know him as Tell,” Terry said. “He knows him as Will Barlow. I only know about the other name because of the telegrams.”

“And where does that other name come from?”

“Middle name,” the clerk said. “His name is William Tell Barlow.”

Clint nodded his thanks and left.

As soon as Clint Adams was gone, Terry Benson came around the counter, closed the door, put the CLOSED sign out, and left by way of the back door.

By using both side and back alleys, he'd be able to get to the Five Aces before the Gunsmith and warn Tell Barlow that the man was coming. This had also been part of his instructions from Barlow.

Terry Benson was not a brave man. Barlow's threats had been all it took to get him to cooperate. Once he tipped Barlow off to Clint Adams's arrival, he'd be done with the man. He only hoped that the Gunsmith would live up to his reputation and put William Tell Barlow in the ground.

The sheriff had been the lucky one. The only instructions he had received were to send Adams to Terry at the telegraph office. Poor Sheriff Woodside, after wearing a badge for forty years, had had to bend to Tell Barlow's threats as well or die. Benson knew this irked his friend Woodside, but the old man was not the lawman he once was.

And Terry Benson had never been a brave man.

So the stage was set. Benson and Woodside knew that Tell Barlow was a fast man with a gun who had never had the chance to prove it to them—until now.

They only hoped that his first chance would also be his last.

William Tell Barlow sat in the Five Aces Saloon, as he had been doing since the day he'd heard of Jerry Corbett's death. As the last of the three alive, Tell had gone to the bank to collect the proceeds of their wager, but it was never about the money for Tell. It had been about bringing Clint Adams to him, which the telegrams he had sent each man had been designed to do. He'd concocted a rule that the two of them had to keep the correspondence on them in order to collect if they won, and they'd been so dense that it had worked. So he knew Clint Adams had found at least one, probably both, of the telegrams.

A man came rushing in from the back of the saloon. The bartender recognized the telegraph operator and knew the time had come. Now maybe somebody would kill Tell Barlow and get him out of his place so his regular customers would come back.

Barlow watched as Terry Benson approached his table.

“He's here, Mr. Barlow,” Benson said.