Way with a Gun (7 page)

“What made you think I wouldn't be sleeping like a baby?”

“A man like you? You wouldn't be asleep this early. I am wondering, however, why you're not at one of our fine saloons, making the acquaintance of our fine saloon girls and whores.”

“Actually, I was trying to keep a low profile, but I guess there's not much point in that while I'm dealing with you and your husband.”

“I'm sorry it's such a hardship.”

“It's going to be a hardship, Miriam,” Clint said. “It's going to be a hell of a hardship when Ned Pine arrives.”

“Well, I just wanted to come over and thank you personally for agreeing to help Andy.”

“You did that,” he said. “You thanked me at your house.”

“No,” she said, “I mean . . . thank you . . . personally.”

Abruptly, she let her shawl fall to the floor. It was such a dramatic move that he expected her to be naked beneath it, but she would never have been able to get out of the house that way.

The fact that she wasn't naked, though, didn't make the situation any less explosive. She was extremely sexual, and he was feeling the effects of it as she undid the buttons of her dress.

“Miriam, don't—”

“Come on, Clint,” she said. “I see the way you look at me.”

“You're a beautiful woman,” he said. “I look at beautiful women.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “but you want me.”

“No,” he said, “I don't.”

The buttons were undone, and she tugged the top of the dress down so that her shoulders and the upper slopes of her pale breasts were showing. If he allowed her to get to her nipples, he wasn't sure he would be able to resist her. So he took quick steps forward, which she misinterpreted. When he grabbed the edges of her dress and tugged it back up, covering her breasts and shoulders, it surprised her.

“Wha—” she said.

“I told you, don't do it.”

“I don't understand.”

“I told your husband I wasn't interested in you,” he said. “You're another man's wife.”

“But you are interested in me.”

“But you're another man's wife,” he said again. “I draw the line there.”

She frowned at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “Besides, I don't understand what you think you're doing. I had the impression you loved your husband.”

“I did once.” She started buttoning her dress.

“When did it change?”

“When I realized he wasn't going to leave this godforsaken town and take me away.”

“You thought he would?”

“I thought I could make him eventually.”

Clint laughed.

“Don't make fun of me.”

“I'm not” he said. “You're just not the first woman to underestimate the lure of the badge.”

“Obviously,” she said. “You men and your pieces of tin.”

“Not me,” he said. “I took it off a long time ago, and it stays off.”

“Andy Taylor is not the man I thought he was,” she said. “That's why I'm here. But I guess you're not the man I thought you were.”

“I'm real sorry we both disappointed you, Miriam.”

“Yes,” she said with a sniff. “So am I.”

She left the room without saying good night, leaving her scent in the air. Clint didn't think he could stand it, so he decided to leave until the smell—of woman and sex and soap—dissipated.

He strapped on his gun and headed for the nearest saloon.

Miriam Taylor had been right about one thing. He'd wanted her. How could you be in a room with a woman like that with her naked to the waist, and not want her?

So when he found Buckskin Bill's Saloon and entered, he was not only receptive to all the girls working the floor, but they flocked to him. It was as if they could sense that he was ready.

He stood at the bar, drank beer, and flirted with the four girls while trying to decide which one he was going to take back to his room with him.

There was a brunette named Rio, who had big breasts, a Spanish accent, and a bawdy laugh.

A blonde named Santana who was long and leggy and had great big blue eyes.

A redhead—oddly named Raven—with green eyes and a quick smile.

And finally, another brunette named Cory, this one short and nicely chubby.

Clint was leaning toward Rio. He liked her accent and her body, and she was the tallest of the four, which appealed to him tonight.

But Cory, the small brunette, kept rubbing herself against him, all bulbous breasts and padded hips, and he could feel the heat of her through both of their clothes.

At one point, when all four women were busy working the room, he turned to the bartender and said, “Another beer.”

“Comin' up.”

He went off, came back with a frothy mug. He put it down on the bar and remained standing there.

“Can I help you?” Clint asked, picking up the mug.

“Want some advice?”

“That depends,” Clint said. “About what?”

The man leaned on the bar with his elbows. He was medium height, middle-aged, seemed to know his job well, so Clint thought that whatever bartenderly advice he had— about whatever—might be good.

“Seems to me one of them gals is goin' back to your room with you tonight.”

“I was thinking that.”

“Well, was I you, I'd forget about Rio.”

“Oh? Why's that?”

“She's got a man.”

“That's so?”

“Well . . . he sorta thinks she's his girl.”

“And what does Rio think?”

“She thinks he's annoyin'.”

“Then why should I take him into account?” Clint asked.

“He's big, mean, ugly, and can use a gun.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” the bartender said. “He's been glaring at you from a corner of the room all night.”

“Which corner?”

“Back right.”

Clint turned with his beer, looked around the room before zeroing in on that corner. Sure enough, there was a man there who matched the bartender's description. He was glowering at that moment, more than glaring.

“What's your name?” Clint asked the bartender.

“Bruno.”

“Bruno, what's that fella's name?”

“His name is Winston,” Bruno said.

“Winston?”

“Yeah,” Bruno said, “it's part of what makes him so mean.”

“And what does he do for a living?”

“Works on one of the ranches,” Bruno said. “I understand he pulls tree trunks out of the ground—with his hands.”

“And he can use a gun?”

“Yep.”>

“How good?”

“He hits what he aims at.”

“Come on, Bruno,” Clint said. “I want to know if he's killed anybody.”

“Lately?”

Clint reached out and grabbed Bruno by the shirt. He was short-tempered because he'd had to turn Miriam Taylor away, and because he was still in town when he was supposed to have left that morning. He was short-tempered because he'd gotten himself involved in a situation that was none of his business—again!

“Bruno, you're making me ask a lot of questions because you're trying to be clever.”

“He's killed a few men with his hands in fights, never with a gun . . . that I know of.”

Clint released his shirt.

“Then why should I be worried about him?”

Clint drank his beer, ordered another. Suddenly—with him in his present condition—Rio had moved up to the top of the list.

Even the other girls sensed that Clint had decided on Rio, and stayed away.

“Do you know what makes you interesting, señor?” she asked him.

“No,” he said, “but if you tell me I'll do more of it.”

She laughed and said, “No, no, it is that no one here knows who you are.”

“That's good,” he said. “I'd like to keep it that way.”

“You will not tell me who you are?” she asked, moving closer to him. “Not even me?”

“All you need to know is that my name is Clint,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist, “and that I want to take you back to my room with me tonight.”

“You have chosen me?” she asked, blinking her eyes at him innocently. “From all these other beautiful women?”

“You know you're the most beautiful,” he said, nuzzling her neck, “and most desirable.”

“Of course I know that,” she said, putting her hand on his chest. “I was wondering when you would realize it, Clint.”

Suddenly, there was a crashing sound. Clint and Rio both looked up and saw the big man, Winston, stalking toward them. He had knocked over his table and chair in his haste.

“Oh, Lord,” Clint heard Bruno say behind him.

“Friend of yours?” Clint asked Rio.

“No,” she spat. “I hate him. He smells.”

“So he's not your boyfriend?”

“I do not have a boyfriend, Clint,” she said. “It is not a wise thing to have in my profession.”

“You're probably right,” he said, “for just this reason. You better stand aside.”

He pushed her away from him just as Winston reached them, invading their space with not only his presence but—as she had said—with his smell.

Rio had understated the situation. The only thing Clint had ever come across that smelled this bad was a bear he had surprised in a cave one time in Minnesota.

“You got your hands on my woman, friend!” Winston bellowed.

Clint noticed that the center of the room had cleared out, patrons moving to the sides and the back, giving Winston room.

“Is that a fact?” Clint asked. “The lady tells me she's not your woman.”

“Rio ain't got nothin' ta say about it,” Winston told him.

He was even as big as the bear Clint had surprised, towering over him and the rest of the saloon.

At that moment Rio had something to say, though, and she said it in rapid-fire Spanish that Clint didn't understand.

“What'd she say?” he asked Winston.

“I toldja,” the big man replied. “It don't matter.”

“I said I would never have a smelly pig like you as my man,” Rio told Winston.

The man looked at Rio, and, despite her insults, Clint noticed that his expression softened. He was completely in love with the woman, and it didn't seem to matter that she didn't feel the same.

Under other circumstances, Clint might have stepped aside and allowed the two people to work things out for themselves, but he wasn't in that expansive a mood on this night.

“You heard her, big man,” Clint said. “She's not interested.”

Winston looked back at Clint and his expression changed again. It became dark, foreboding, and filled with hatred.

He pointed a huge forefinger at Clint.

“I'm gonna hurtcha.”

“I don't think so,” Clint said.

“Why?” Winston seemed honestly puzzled by Clint's reply.

“Because I won't let you.”

“You ain't got nothin' ta say about it,” Winston said. “I'm gonna hurtcha. It's as simple as that.”

“No, my friend,” Clint said. “You're the simple one.”

“Simple?” He frowned again. “Are you callin' me stupid?”

“If you think I'm just going to stand here and allow you to hurt me, then yeah, you're stupid.”

Winston looked Clint up and down and then said, “Gun or fists, friend. Your choice, but now I'm gonna hurtcha real bad!”

“Guns are used to kill people,” Clint said. “Not hurt them. If you make me draw my gun, I'll kill you. I say the choice is yours.”

That wasn't the first mistake he'd made that day.

The other patrons in the saloon tried in vain to get even closer to the walls. They didn't want to get in the way of a bullet if there was gunplay, but they also didn't want to miss a punch if there was a fight. The stranger didn't look like he'd put up much of a fight against Winston, but there was no way of knowing how he'd fare with a gun against the big man. If anyone had taken a vote, it would have pretty much been a hundred percent for a fight and against gunplay.

Just in case there was a fight, some of them had already begun to make bets. Only the most ardent underdog lovers were giving the stranger a chance in a fistfight with Winston.

“You're givin' me the choice?” Winston asked, staring at Clint in disbelief.

“That's right.”

“You're crazy, mister,” he said.

“Or drunk,” Bruno said from behind Clint.

Clint thought the bartender was probably right. He was a little drunk. His best bet at this point would probably be to walk out of the saloon, go back to his hotel, and go to bed—alone.

It was being alone that kept him from doing it, though. Miriam Taylor offering herself to him had gotten him started, but now there was the prospect of taking the fiery Rio to bed. And to do it, all he had to do was get by this big moron.

Winston's shirt was open almost to the waist, exposing a hairy chest. He was muscled, but he was big and raw-boned, probably got that way from years of hard work. His fighting skills probably depended entirely on his strength. He'd have speed, and no finesse.

His hands were big and thick-fingered. Clint doubted the man could get his gun out of his holster the first try, and then when he did, it'd probably take him a while to get his thick index finger inside the trigger guard. He might have been accurate with the gun once he got it out, but he wouldn't be getting it out in a hurry.