Crossing the Line (4 page)

Clint must have still been smiling when he looked across the street, because the man watching him from there smiled right back at him. Carl's grin only lasted a second or two before he lowered his head so the wide brim of his hat covered a good portion of his face. The black man was close to Clint's height, but carried himself in a way that made him seem shorter. He crossed the street in quick steps and stopped just outside of Clint's reach.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Carl said. “I don't know if you know me, but I'm—”

“The fellow from Pace's Emporium,” Clint said in a friendly tone. “Name's Carl, isn't it?”

Carl lifted his head again and almost straightened up to his full height. “Yes, it is. Carl Malloy. And you'd be Clint Adams?”

“That's right. I'd like to thank you for stepping in on my behalf with George.” Clint extended a hand to the other man and left it out there when it wasn't shaken. Taking a step toward Carl, he added, “Sorry if there was more trouble after I left. When things got stirred up, I had no idea George would pull you into it.”

Carl took Clint's hand and shook it. He had a strong grip, but was obviously holding back. “There wasn't any more trouble. Leastways, no more than usual. George got back to his game and lost all that money you handed over.”

“I kind of figured that's how it would go. Knowing for certain makes it a lot easier to bear.” After a few seconds of awkward silence, Clint tipped his hat and started to walk away. “If that's it, I suppose I'll be moving along.”

“Where are you headed?”

“To the stable. Any more rest and my horse will start to expect such easy living whenever his legs get tired.”

Practically jumping to catch up with Clint, Carl fell into step beside him and asked, “You're not leaving, are you?”

“I'm not about to buy a house and sink roots here.”

“I . . . have a proposition for you.”

Clint stopped. “What kind of proposition?”

After gulping down a few deep breaths, Carl spoke in a rush. “I want to hire you.”

“Hire me for what?”

“I heard a few things about you, Mister Adams. After what happened yesterday, you can see for yourself what kind of trouble sprouts up around me. Most of that trouble comes from men like George.”

Not liking where the conversation was headed, Clint narrowed his eyes and hooked his thumbs over his gun belt. “Yeah?”

“Well, from what I've heard . . . folks call you the Gunsmith.”

“They do.”

Carl shifted on his feet, straining to get out the words he wanted to say. “They must call you that for a reason.”

“I can do some fine work with firearms, but my wagon with all my tools isn't around. Do you have some weapons that need repairing?”

“No. I heard that you know how to use a gun every bit as well as you know how to fix 'em.”

Nodding, Clint said, “Finally you arrive at it. You want to hire me as a gunman?”

“Yes, but—”

“I'm not a professional killer,” Clint interrupted. “Anyone who told you that was wrong. There's no way for you to know any better, so I'll chalk this up to a simple mistake. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got things to do.”

There was more Carl wanted to say, but Clint was in no mood to hear it. Stories about the Gunsmith had spread far and wide for quite some time. Clint was no stranger to that. Sometimes, those stories worked in his favor when someone in a saloon wanted to buy him a beer for a job well done or bend his ear over a game of cards. Sometimes, those stories proved to be a pain in Clint's ass when they got other men worked up enough to take a shot at him for no good reason. Every now and then, a young would-be killer would try to make a name for himself by being the man to kill the Gunsmith. Clint didn't lump Carl into that category, but he also didn't appreciate being treated as a killer for hire.

“Mister Adams?” Carl squeaked.

Turning around, Clint saw a genuinely apologetic look on the other man's face. He reminded himself that Carl was simply working on some bad information, then asked, “Yeah?”

“I . . . I mean . . . sorry about that. About the misunderstanding and all.”

“No harm done. You have a good day.”

“Yeah. I suppose I'll try.”

Clint spent a little time in the stable with Eclipse. Although the fee he'd paid for the Darley Arabian to stay there had included feed, it obviously hadn't included much in the way of brushing. Since the liveryman had made himself scarce after getting paid, Clint ran a brush through Eclipse's mane and then walked toward his saddlebags. The moment Clint reached for the saddle, Eclipse began to fret.

“None of that, boy,” Clint said. “You're lucky you got the rest and greens you were after. If you start getting fuss ier, I may have to start looking for a new horse.”

Going by the way Eclipse stomped and shook his head, it was hard to be certain he didn't understand everything Clint was saying.

“Oh, for Christ's sake.” Clint grunted as he dropped the saddle and hunkered down next to the stallion's front hooves. “What's the matter with you?”

“Do you always talk to your horse so much?”

Clint had heard someone walking toward his stall, so he wasn't taken by surprise. He hadn't expected to hear Delilah's voice, however. Just to be sure, he looked up to see who'd spoken. It was Delilah, all right. She wasn't wearing the fancy clothes from the night before, but that didn't hamper her looks any. In fact, the simple brown skirt and white blouse were downright attractive. Then again, knowing what was under those garments allowed Clint to be attracted to her without stretching his imagination very far.

“Sure, I talk to my horse,” he replied. “Don't you?”

“I don't own a horse.”

“Then you shouldn't be so quick to judge.”

Delilah stepped close enough to reach out and pat the white spot on Eclipse's nose. Almost immediately, the stallion calmed down. “Do you think he understands what you say?”

Gripping a hoof under one arm, Clint looked up and said, “Of course. Otherwise, I'd be crazy to flap my gums so much.”

She chuckled and continued to rub Eclipse's muzzle. “He's a fine looking creature. Is something wrong with his foot?”

Clint let the hoof drop and went around to grab hold of the other front leg. Eclipse allowed him to grip his hoof without putting up too much of a struggle. “He's been awfully fidgety. I thought he was just tired after too many long rides, but I'm thinking it may be something else. Aw, come on!”

Huffing and grunting, Eclipse shifted his weight and pulled his leg free from Clint's grasp. When Clint tried to get hold of it again, Eclipse bobbed his head and protested loudly.

“Ease up!” Clint barked.

Grudgingly, Eclipse stayed still long enough for Clint to continue his examination.

“He didn't like that very much.” Delilah cooed. “Did you, boy?”

“No, he didn't,” Clint said through gritted teeth. “I'm thinking I may have been wrong right from the start. If there's something I missed, I'll feel awfully foolish for putting him up in a stable and paying extra for greens.”

“What could be wrong with him?” Delilah asked. “Is he sick?”

“Nah. The way he's fretting, it strikes me more as something like a cracked shoe or maybe a pebble jammed up in the wrong place.” After struggling a bit more, Clint let go of Eclipse's hoof and let out a tired breath. “Nothing here, though.”

After losing interest in Eclipse, Delilah asked, “You got a moment?”

Clint was crouched near Eclipse's left flank, doing his best to keep from getting knocked over by the fidgeting stallion. He looked up at Delilah and replied, “Sure, I'm not busy here or anything.”

“Really?”

“No,” he snapped as he grabbed hold of Eclipse's rear leg so he could examine that shoe. “What is it?”

Sighing at having to play second fiddle to a fussy horse, she said, “You can come back and play in the tournament, if you like.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure. You didn't really lose, you know.”

“Normally, when you get escorted away from a game at the wrong end of a shotgun, that means you're through playing.”

She shrugged and scraped at the swinging door that closed Eclipse's stall away from the rest of the stable. “This isn't the first time George has done something like this. Also, someone may have put in a good word for you with the management.”

“Someone, huh?”

“Could have been me,” she added with a wry grin. “After last night, I'm not so eager for you to leave.”

“What about the accusation of cheating?” Clint asked as he took hold of Eclipse's back leg and poked around the edges of that shoe. “Something like that doesn't usually set too well in a tournament.”

“The rest of the men at your table spoke up on your behalf,” Delilah said. “Jack has played in every tournament Pace's has hosted, and he's butted heads with George more than once.” Placing her hands upon her hips, Delilah locked eyes with Clint and stopped just short of stomping her foot. “Are you going to stay or not? I won't beg.”

“Really? That may be kind of interesting.”

Her expression softened and she tilted her head a bit. “You think so? Perhaps you'd like to see me begging on all fours?”

“That'd definitely be interesting.”

“Then stay and see the tournament through.”

Just then, Clint furrowed his brow. “Wait a second. Why are you so intent on getting me to stay?”

Once again picking at the stall's door, she replied, “I told you already. Last night was better than—”

“Spare me the compliments,” Clint cut in. “There's more to it than that.”

She chewed on her lip, perhaps to make herself look more appealing. Her efforts were having an effect on him, but Clint wasn't about to let her know as much. Delilah smiled at him, licked her lips, and then rolled her eyes. She must have thought she wasn't making a dent in his resolve because she dropped her act like a hot rock.

“You must really think a lot of yourself if you expect me to grovel just to keep you in town,” she snapped.

Clint got back to examining Eclipse's shoe and laughed under his breath. “I didn't even expect you to come this far to track me down.”

“So you think I'm dogging your trail just because you showed me a good time?”

“Isn't that what you just told me?”

Letting out a sigh, Delilah said, “I think you can win that tournament.”

“Now you believe in my card-playing skills? That's touching.”

“I also . . . may have . . . put some money down on that.”

“You bet on me to win the tournament?” Clint asked.

“Maybe just a little.” Seeing the look on his face, she added, “Maybe a lot.”

“How much?”

“A couple thousand.”

Clint let Eclipse's hoof slip from his hands as he jumped to his feet. “A couple thousand? Are you kidding me?”

Now Delilah's wounded innocent act came back in force. She clasped her hands in front of her, tilted her head, and batted her eyelashes as she stepped forward. To put icing on the cake, she even reached out to brush her hands against Clint's chest when she told him, “I know you can do it, Clint. Honestly.”

“Was this before or after George started getting sloppy with his cards?”

“Before.”

“So that's why you started helping me?” Clint asked.

She shook her head and showed him a smile that was just as naughty as it was nice. “Everything I told you before was true. I just thought we could make a good team.”

“So you just had a few thousand dollars lying around to bet on a stranger who could read your signals, huh?” Clint grunted. “That's very fortunate.”

“It's not cash. It's money owed to me by some of the regulars at my table. I wagered their markers on you, double or nothing.”

“What if I do stay and win?” Clint asked. “Do I get a cut of your wager?”

“Of course.” The longer she had to wait for her answer, the more her smile faded. Finally, she asked, “Well? What do you think?”

“I think I found the reason Eclipse was being so fussy.”

Since the liveryman was nowhere to be found, Clint searched for what he needed in the immediate area. He found the tools necessary for removing Eclipse's shoe in the far corner of an empty stall. It took a bit of work for Clint to get the shoe off, but once Eclipse knew what was going on he wasn't about to resist. When Clint finally got the shoe off and pried something from the Darley Arabian's hoof, he thought he heard Eclipse sigh with relief.

All this time, Delilah had stayed nearby. She offered to lend Clint a hand every now and then, but he got the impression that she was only making certain he wasn't about to leave. As Clint examined what he'd just pried loose, she got up from her stool and walked closer. “What is that?” she asked.

Holding up a small pair of tongs, Clint studied a thin wedge of metal that was rusted on one side and shiny on the other. “Could be damn near anything,” he told her. “Piece of a railroad tie. Chunk of a busted wheel rim. Maybe even shrapnel from an old cannon.”

“Really?” Delilah asked as her eyes widened and she leaned in for a closer look. “How interesting! You rode through a battle on your way here?”

“No, I didn't ride through a battle,” Clint scoffed as he pitched the metal out a nearby window so it wouldn't get underfoot of any of the horses within the stable. “It's like I said the first time. Could be anything. The important thing is that it's no longer stuck under Eclipse's shoe.”