Anatomy of a Lawman (15 page)

 

In the bank, Wilkes and Dudley struggled against each other. Their chests were pressed together, and they were hand to hand, as if they were wrestling.

Wilkes was thick as a tree trunk and powerful, but Dudley seemed to be at least as strong. Their hot breath mingled, and Wilkes knew he was at a disadvantage because Dudley was still wearing his gun. If the man decided to go for it, he was in trouble.

Dudley Graves was impressed by Wilkes’s strength. His anger had caused him to physically engage the man, when what he should have done was draw his gun and shoot him dead.

They were locked in a standoff, so there was only one thing to do.

Abruptly, Dudley released Wilkes’s hands and backed away. Wilkes stumbled forward as Dudley drew his gun. But as he stumbled, Wilkes drew his knife. He followed through on his forward motion, and as Dudley came up with the gun, Wilkes buried his knife to the hilt in the man’s sloppy stomach. Dudley gagged and pulled the trigger of his gun, discharging it into Wilkes’s right foot, and into the floor. Wilkes cried out and backed away, leaving the knife where it was. He fell back on his ass, staring up at Dudley, who had dropped his gun and was grabbing at the knife. He was unable to pull it out before he died.

 

Several of the robbers grabbed horses and mounted up. They were only concerned with getting away now. As they rode back up the street, Dillon sighted on one of the remaining bundles of dynamite and fired. Commons had buried the last two bundles close together, so as one detonated, it set the other one off. The two explosions killed most of the men and two of their horses. The remaining horses panicked and ran off, trampling several bank robbers as they galloped out of town.

 

The front of the bank was littered with bodies. Left standing were Clint Adams, and Del and Frank Graves.

Suddenly it was quiet. Clint could hear weapons being reloaded.

“Give it up, boys,” he said, “before the shooting starts again.”

The two men glared at him. Frank was angry, at Clint, and at himself for taking all this so personally. His anger had brought them all to this.

Del was just angry with his brother, for much the same reason.

“You suckered me,” Del said.

“You suckered yourself,” Clint said. “Which of you shot Sheriff Harper?”

“I did,” Frank said. “I put two in his back. I killed him.”

“You didn’t.”

“What?”

“He needed surgery, but he’s okay. He’s still sheriff of this town. I’m just wearing the badge until he comes back.”

“You’re a liar.”

“No, I’m not,” Clint said, “And you’ll see, because you’ll be in jail when he comes back. He’ll want to come and see you.”

“I’m not going to jail.”

“Frank—” Del said.

Both Graves brothers were holding their guns in their hands, down at their side, as was Clint.

“Don’t do it, boys,” Clint said. “In all the excitement you might have forgotten to reload.”

Del looked down at his gun, frowning. Had he reloaded? But Frank didn’t look down. Frank was determined not to go to prison.

“Fuck you,” he said, and started to bring the gun up.

Clint shot him in the chest before he got halfway. Frank fell to the ground, dead. Del looked down at him, then at Clint.

“Which one are you?” Clint asked.

“Del.”

“You’re the last one, Del,” Clint said. “Want to try it?”

The rest of them—Commons, the Prescotts, Minnesota, and Buck—had come out from their positions and were now standing behind Clint. Dillon was still on the roof, his rifle trained on Del.

“What do you say, Del?”

At that point Wilkes limped to the open door of the bank, shotgun in hand, and leaned against it. Del didn’t see him, but he could feel him.

He dropped his gun.

“Good decision.”

Looking around at his dead cousins and brothers, Del wasn’t so sure.

Clint came out of the hotel several days later with his saddlebags and rifle. Eclipse was standing quietly in the street. Clint tossed his saddlebags over the big Darley Arabian’s back and slid his rifle into the scabbard.

Buck came walking over with Minnesota. They were both still wearing their deputy’s badges.

“Sure you won’t change your mind?” Buck asked.

“Why don’t you change your mind and put that sheriff’s badge on,” Clint said. “You earned it.”

“Naw,” Buck said, “I ain’t ready to be sheriff. I’ll just keep wearin’ this badge until Sheriff Harper gets back. Does he know you’re leavin’?”

“I sent him a telegram, got one back from Doc Foster,” Clint said. “Jack understands. It’s time for me to move on.”

He looked at Minnesota.

“What about you?” he asked. “You going to keep the badge on?”

“For a while,” Minnesota said. “Think I’m gonna stick around, spend some more time at Mr. Dillon’s range.”

“Can’t hurt,” Clint said. “What about the Prescotts?”

“They’re back to odd jobs,” Buck said.

“Commons and Wilkes?”

“Left early this mornin’. Gonna move on to a town with a doctor, get Wilkes’s foot looked at. Still had the bandage you put on it.”

“Were they arguing?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buck said.

Clint nodded. That was a partnership he didn’t understand, but he was hoping each man might have learned something over the last couple of weeks or so.

Clint mounted up.

“Oh, Clint,” Buck said. “That telegram say how the sheriff is doin’?”

“He’s on his feet,” Clint said. “Not ready yet for a long train and stage journey, but soon.”

Buck stepped forward, extended his hand.

“Thanks for everything,” he said.

“Sure thing, Buck.”

“Sheriff,” Minnesota said, shaking his hand.

“Not anymore,” Clint said. “Just Clint Adams again—the way I like it.”

Watch for

 

345
^th
novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove