Way with a Gun (3 page)

“Go back inside,” he told Angela.

“What? Why—”

“Don't ask any questions,” he said, giving her a push. “Just go inside. I'll explain later.”

But of course, if he was right, there would be no need to explain. She'd see for herself, and it would be better than any interview.

Once he knew Angela was safely inside the hotel lobby, he stepped down off the boardwalk into the street. There were two men directly across the street, staring at him. But they were waiting, not approaching him right away. Waiting for what . . . another man to move into position maybe? Like in a window, or on a rooftop? This wouldn't be the first time somebody tried to bushwhack him and make it look like a fair fight. Of course, once the Gunsmith was dead, who would care if he had a bullet in his back?

Clint would care.

The hair on his neck stood up as the two men across the street straightened up, still staring at him and waiting.

This was good. They weren't ready and didn't know what to do.

He crossed the street to them.

“What do we do?” Cameron asked.

“We do what we came here to do.”

“What about Lasker?” Cameron asked. “What if he's not in position?”

“Lasker is just insurance, Cameron,” the other man said. “We can do this.”

“We can?”

“He's only one man.”

“Yeah,” Cameron said, “with a legend attached.”

“Don't think about that part,” his boss told him. “Just think about the man.”

The two men remained on the boardwalk as Clint reached them, still standing in the street.

“You boys looking for me?” Clint asked.

“What would make you think that?” one of them said. The other looked at the first man, which told Clint that he was the one in charge. Also, the second man's eyes kept flicking up toward a rooftop behind Clint. When this was over, Clint would have him to thank for still being alive.

“You've been standing across the street from my hotel all day,” Clint said. “From the way you wear your guns, it's plain to me that you make your living with them. Although, you'd think professionals would keep their guns in better condition.”

“Our guns work fine,” the first man said.

“Well, okay then,” Clint said. “Do what you came to do. I'm hungry.”

Now both men's eyes went to a rooftop directly behind Clint—probably the hotel itself—and Clint saw the first man give an almost imperceptible nod.

In one motion Clint drew, turned at the waist, and fired one shot. The bullet struck the man on the rooftop square in the chest. He dropped his rifle and then fell. The weapon hit the ground in front of the hotel before he did.

Clint turned back just as the two men were grabbing for their guns. He fired twice, killing them both instantly.

Even though he knew they were dead, he walked to the bodies, plucked their guns from their holsters, and tossed them away. Then he crossed the street and kicked the rifle away from the body of the first man he'd killed. Only when that was done did he eject the spent shells from his gun and replace them with live ammo. He was holstering his own gun when Angela came out of the hotel, followed by several guests and the desk clerk.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “That was amazing. You killed three men with three shots, and one of them was on the roof of the hotel.”

“You saw it all?” Clint asked.

“Everything.”

“Good,” Clint said, “because here comes the sheriff. You can help me explain what happened.”

Sheriff Ames Edwards regarded both Clint and Angela across his desk.

“I've got three dead men at the undertaker's,” he said.

Clint didn't reply. Angela followed his lead.

Edwards was in his fifties, had been a lawman a long time, and knew very well who Clint was. In fact, he'd known as soon as Clint had ridden into town.

“I knew this would happen when you first rode in,” Edwards said. “Time for you to leave town, Adams.”

“What a coincidence,” Clint said. “Just what I had in mind. But there's something I need first.”

“What's that?”

“I want to know who those three were.”

Edwards opened his top drawer and took out a few items.

“One's unidentified,” he said. “According to the contents of their pockets—and their saddlebags—one of the others is named Bob Lasker.”

“I don't know him,” Clint said. “What about the third one?”

“He had a telegram in his pocket,” the lawman said. “I'm assuming it's to him. His name was Newly Yates.”

“Yates . . .” Clint said.

“That name sound familiar?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “but from where?”

“He's one of you,” the sheriff said.

“One of me?”

“He makes his way with his gun,” Edwards said. “He's for hire.”

“Wait a minute,” Clint said. “He's a bushwhacker.

Don't compare him to me. I've never killed a man who wasn't facing me and trying to kill me.”

“So you say,” Edwards said. “When are you leaving town?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“I'd prefer you leave now.”

“You want to make that an order?” Clint asked. “And then enforce it?”

The two men stared at each other, and then Edwards said, “First thing in the morning then.”

Clint stood up, reached for the telegram on the desk.

“What are you doin'?” Edwards asked as Clint picked it up.

“I killed him,” Clint said, folding the telegram and putting it in his shirt pocket. “I figure I'm entitled to it.”

He turned and put his hand out to help Angela to her feet. They left the office together.

Clint and Angela were seated with steaks in front of them before she started asking questions.

“What did those men want?”

“Other than to kill me? I don't know.”

“But . . . why?”

“Normally, I'd say it was just someone looking for a reputation,” Clint said. “They saw me in town and decided to try me.”

“But not this time?”

“No,” he said. “Newly Yates hires out. That means there's a good chance someone hired him to kill me.”

“And that bothers you more than if it was just someone trying to get a reputation?”

“Yes,” he said. “If he was hired, it makes it personal. If that's the case, I'd like to know who hates me enough to hire someone to kill me.”

“But, if he's a professional as you say, why was there a man on the roof behind you—and how did you know he was there?”

Clint studied her for a moment, then said, “If you're going to keep asking questions, we're going to call this our interview.”

She frowned.

“You can either go over old ground, or cover this particular incident,” he said.

“With your insight?”

“With whatever I can offer, yes.”

“All right.” She produced a pad and pencil. “How did you know the man with the rifle was there? How did you even know there was trouble?”

Clint explained the situation to her as clearly as he could. He'd “felt” that there was trouble, and the two men in the street had given away the presence of the man on the roof.

“They couldn't not look at him,” he told her. “That told me he was there, and where he was.”

“Wait,” she said, “I want to hear more about you feeling there was trouble. That was why you pushed me back into the hotel? Because of some . . . some instinct?”

“That's exactly right,” he said. “It's an instinct I've come to trust, and it's never let me down.”

She asked a dozen more questions, writing down all the answers, filling page after page until finally she ran out of pencil lead.

“Clint,” she said when they were finished talking and eating, “I would love to come back to your hotel with you tonight, but if I'm going to have this story ready by morning—”

“I understand, Angela,” he said. “You're a journalist. That comes first.”

“I'm afraid it has to.”

In truth, he wasn't disappointed. After killing three men, he really wasn't in the mood for sex.

Outside the restaurant, he asked, “Can I walk you home?”

“I'm not going home,” she said. “I'm going right to the office to start on this, and that's only a few doors down.”

“All right then,” he said. “I'll say good-bye now. I will be leaving in the morning, as I told you and the sheriff.”

“B-but, what are you going to do? I mean, about these men, about finding out who hired them?”

He didn't want the answers to those questions in the newspaper, so he said, “I don't know. I'll use my time on the trail to figure that out.”

She kissed him quickly then and said, “I have to run.”

He hugged her and said, “It was a pleasure, Miss Desmond.”

“It was definitely that.”

She started to walk away, then turned quickly and asked, “Do you want to give me an address so I can send you a copy?”

“Oh,” he said, “I think this is a story that will be picked up by other newspapers.”

“Do you really think so?”

He nodded. “I'm sure I'll be seeing it.”

She smiled happily, then turned and almost ran down the street to her office.

In his room, Clint took out the telegram he'd taken from the sheriff. It was short and said something about Yates being “first,” but he'd better hurry up and make his move. The “others” were waiting. It was signed with one name, “Tell.”

“Tell,” Clint said aloud. It sounded familiar. And with Yates being “first,” did that have anything to do with the attempt?

In the morning, before he left town, he'd check with the telegraph office to see where the telegram had come from. That would be his next stop.

Jerry Corbett put the newspaper down in front of Tell Barlow and sat across from him.

“Newly didn't make it,” he said.

“So I see.”

“And he cheated.” Corbett leaned across the table and touched the paper with his forefinger. “He had two men with him.”

“That wasn't cheating to Newly,” Tell said. “That was how he did business.”

The other man stared at him.

“You didn't know that about him?” Tell asked. “That he was a bushwhacker?”

“No,” Corbett said. “I thought he did his job the way we did.”

“He did his job the way he had to,” Tell said.

“I always knew he wasn't as good as us with a gun,” Corbett said, “but bushwhackin' people . . . man, even I don't do that.”

“Well, forget about that now,” Tell said. “Now that he's out, the bet's between you and me. I want to go next.”

“Naw, naw,” Corbett said, “we drew straws, remember? I'm next.”

“Really?” Tell asked. “Where is Adams gonna be next?”

“You think you're the only one with a brain, Tell,” Corbett said. “If he went through Newly's pockets and found your telegram, he's on his way here.”

Tell Barlow sat back in his chair. “I'm impressed.”

“I'm not a bushwhacker, Tell,” Corbett said, “and I ain't as dumb as Newly either.”

“I see that.”

Corbett stood up.

“Where are you goin'?” Tell asked.

“I'm gonna meet Adams along the way,” Corbett said. He pointed his finger at Barlow. “Don't try to take that money out of the bank.”

“You know one of us can't take it out unless the other two are dead.”

“Yeah,” Corbett said, “I also know you're a smooth talker, and one of them tellers is a young girl.”

“Don't worry, Jerry,” Tell said. “If you win, the money's yours. Just remember, to win, Adams has to be dead.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Corbett said, “he will be.”

Clint rode into Cedar City, Utah, still thinking about the telegram in his pocket. Having checked with the telegraph operator in Virginia City, he knew the message had been sent from a town called Selkirk, Arizona. What he didn't know was why the dead man had kept the telegram in his pocket. Was it so Clint would find it? If that was the case, then someone was certainly waiting for him to arrive in Selkirk.

Clint had been expecting attempts at every stop. Cedar City was no different, and Selkirk wouldn't be when he got there.

He liveried his horse and got himself a room at a small hotel off the main street in town. The lobby wasn't very clean, but the room seemed to be well taken care of. He figured the lobby was not the responsibility of a maid, as the room obviously was.

He had taken to staying in small, out-of-the-way hotels as he made his way to Arizona. He had the feeling there was more behind the attempt on his life in Montana than the normal craving for attention and reputation that most men seemed to have.

He found a small café where he had a meal and some coffee. He was staying away from saloons whenever he could, unless it was the only way to get some food. Over this meal he wondered—as he had since leaving Montana—if Angela's article had been picked up by any other newspapers around the country. He hadn't seen it, but he knew she'd printed it the very next day. Perhaps whoever had sent the dead man his telegram had seen it in another paper? And knew that Newly Yates was dead? And who were these “others” referred to in the telegram by this man named “Tell”?