Crossing the Line (7 page)

Delilah shook her head. “Nothing that's rightfully coming to him, that's for certain. He had words with Carl a few times during the tournament, but I don't know what was said. All Carl would tell me was that it was a personal matter.”

“Do you think they'll try to hurt him?”

“I hope not.”

Clint stepped away from her and into the street. “That's not good enough.”

“Excuse me, Carl,” Clint said as he planted his feet and squared his shoulders to all four men. “Mind if I have a word with you?”

Carl glanced in Clint's direction, but stopped when he got a good look at who'd asked the question. A smile started to come across his face, but quickly disappeared. “Now might not be such a good time, Mister Adams.”

“Yeah,” George said. “Now's not a good time. Keep your nose out of our business.”

“What business is that?” Clint asked. “Hounding an unarmed man? I guess it's not enough that he's not carrying a gun, but you've also got to outnumber him three to one. That's some real brave business you're conducting.”

George furrowed his brow and gritted his teeth. “I said get out of my sight, so that's what you'd best do.”

“I don't take orders from you,” Clint said.

Judging by the expression on George's face, he didn't cross paths with too many men who defied him with such ease. “You don't, huh? Then how about following a polite suggestion? Get the fuck out of my sight . . . please.”

The other two men with George found that amusing. They liked it even more when Clint said, “All right. Since you said please, I suppose we can part ways. Just be sure to mind your manners.”

With that, Clint tipped his hat and walked away. Delilah tried talking to him, but Clint simply took her by the arm and dragged her along.

George and his two followers watched Clint for a bit, but let him go when Carl started walking down the street again. “Hey!” George snapped. “I ain't through with you! Get back here. Hey boy! I told you to get back here.”

Carl shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and hunched over. In a matter of seconds, George slapped a hand down upon his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. “You owe me for when you cheated me at that goddamn faro game.”

“Nobody cheated you,” Carl said.

“I been getting cheated at faro and now I'm getting cheated at poker, so don't try to tell me any different!”

“I can't speak for what's been done at the poker table, but my faro game is fair and square.”

“Oh, is it now? What do you think the owner of that place will say when I tell him his nigger bean counter has been cheating a good customer?”

“Wh- . . . when he finds out you're the customer, he'll know better than to believe that mess of lies.”

George reacted to that as if he'd been suddenly rapped on the nose. The two men flanking him bristled like dogs protecting a fresh kill.

“You got something to say to Mister Pace, then you say it to him,” Carl said. “Now I've got to be on my way.”

“You ain't goin' anywhere,” George said as he spun Carl around and then buried his fist into the man's stomach.

Carl doubled over and expelled a gust of air. The biggest of George's companions delivered a quick kick to Carl's face, and the other one pulled a knife from a sheath that hung from his belt. He raised the blade up over his head and would have brought it down again if his progress hadn't been stopped by someone grabbing that wrist in a tight grip.

“Now this isn't at all polite,” Clint said as he twisted the man's hand and forced him to drop the knife he'd been holding. Without letting go of that wrist, Clint brought the man's arm up and back before stomping his heel into the guy's shin. Not only did the man howl in pain from the stomp, but he was taken off his balance enough to send him toppling over backward.

As soon as the knife hit the street, Clint kicked it under the boardwalk. Like a dog that had been cut loose, George's second partner lunged at him. Rather than sidestep the charging man, Clint lunged straight at him with an outstretched arm. Not only did he get to the charging man quicker than expected, but Clint hit him with enough force to knock him clean off his feet. The impact sent a painful wave all the way up through his shoulder, but Clint didn't let that dim the fierceness in his eyes.

“This ain't your business, Adams!” George bellowed. “But you're about to force my hand.”

“About to force your hand?” Clint replied. “I thought I did that well enough by dropping your two associates here.”

George's hand drifted toward his gun. “My boys and I weren't gonna make this a shooting matter.”

“And I wasn't going to put a bullet into your back,” Clint pointed out. “You push this any farther and you and your men will take more than a few bruises home to remind you what happened tonight.”

“Walk away,” George warned.

Looking over to Carl, Clint watched the quiet man straighten up and hold his midsection. “What's all this about, anyway?”

George sneered and said, “This one owes me for—”

“I wasn't talking to you!” Clint barked in a voice that rolled down the street and practically cut George off at the knees. Shifting his eyes back to Carl, Clint lowered his voice to a more civil tone and asked, “What's this about, Carl?”

“He wants more chips for the tournament,” Carl replied.

“So maybe he should learn to play better poker.”

“He wants me to put them on his stack so they're waiting for him when the next round starts. He says he'll forget about talking to Mister Pace if I do that.”

Clint nodded slowly and looked over to George. “So, after all this talk about being cheated, you want someone to help you cheat? That would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” George said. “If I wasn't cheated before, I'd be in better shape now. Leastways, I wouldn't have to scrape and crawl to put together the entry fee.”

“If you couldn't afford seventy-five dollars, you shouldn't be in the tournament.”

“That's what I said,” Carl chimed in.

George vehemently turned on the black man and snarled, “You can't say a damn thing to me, boy! I'll have your help or I'll have your hide.”

“You'll shut your damn mouth and go home,” Clint said. “Or do I need to kick you and your boys around some more to put you in the right frame of mind?”

The other two men had gotten up and stood facing Clint. They looked ready for a fight, but they weren't about to jump without being told to do so. Even as he backed away, George stabbed his finger at Carl as he said, “I know where to find you, asshole. I won't ask for any help with the tournament, because you'd probably just go squealing to Mister Pace anyhow. But I will have the money back that you cheated from me. I'll have it in cash or I'll make your bitch sister work it off for me the hard way.”

Shaking his head, Clint asked, “Are you really too stupid to know when to quit?”

Nodding smugly, George motioned to his two associates and said, “Come on. Let's leave these two lovebirds alone.”

The three men put on a tough act for the first few steps. Once they got a little farther away, they were more than happy to rush around a corner and out of Clint's line of fire.

Carl walked along the side of the street, shaking his head and muttering, “I really wish you hadn't done that.”

Walking beside him, Clint replied, “Would you rather I just stand back and let them kill you?”

“They wouldn't have killed me. Just scared me.”

“One of them drew a knife.”

Stopping and hunching over, Carl wrapped his arms across his belly as if he was about to vomit.

“What are you carrying?” Clint asked.

“Nothing.”

“What is it? Are you carrying something George and those others were after?”

Dropping his voice to a harsh whisper, Carl said, “It's some of the money from the tournament fees. Mister Pace trusts me to take them to the bank because nobody pays me any attention anyhow. He says it's like I'm invisible around here.”

Now that he'd spotted the bundle tucked under Carl's jacket, Clint asked, “How much are you carrying?”

“Little more than half of the fees.”

“And he doesn't let you carry a gun?”

Carl shook his head. “I tried carrying a gun when I first came to town. That just stirred up more trouble than it was worth. Mister Pace is right. I am invisible around here. Folks hardly tolerate me, so there's no reason for anyone to assume I'd be trusted with any money.”

“Mind if I walk with you to the bank?”

“Guess not.”

Clint fell into step with the other man and looked about. The streets were all but empty, and the folks who did see Carl mostly nodded at him. “From what I can tell, people around here like you well enough.”

“I suppose.”

“Is this what you came to me for earlier?” Clint asked. “To make sure you get that money to the bank?”

“Not as such. I didn't know I'd be doing this until about a half hour ago. It did have to do with what happened, though.”

“You mean with George.”

Carl nodded. “Him and his kind kick me around because they know nobody around here will do anything to stop him. Folks may wave or smile real kindly at me when they're crossing the street, but nobody's gonna lift a finger against someone like him if he decides to rob me. A man like that George will rob me as long as he knows it's open season. Now he says he's coming after my kin.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Why would he do any of it? 'Cause he can get away with it.”

Clint would have liked to say that wasn't enough of an explanation. He would have liked to say that a man would need more reason than that to terrorize someone or their family. The simple truth of the matter was that he'd seen a lot worse happen on account of much flimsier excuses. One of George's friends had already tried to stab Carl, so it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine things getting worse.

“Let's drop off that cash,” Clint said. “Hopefully George is skulking around somewhere so he'll see you're not carrying anything. Next time, maybe you should carry a gun when you're doing something like this.”

“That's just the thing, Mister Adams. That's what I came to you for the last time.”

“And I told you before, I'm not a gun for hire.”

“I don't want to hire you as a gunman,” Carl insisted. “I want you to teach me how to use a gun. From what I hear, you know an awful lot on the subject.”

Clint could already see the bank at the end of the street. It was a tall, narrow building with a small front window. The place had either had trouble before or was simply ready for it, because light from one of the torches on the street cast a glimmer upon steel bars behind the glass. “You can save your money. We're almost there.”

Carl kept his head down and didn't say anything until they reached the bank. When he got there, he took the bundle of money from his jacket and tapped on the front door. A few seconds later, a little old man scurried from a back room holding a candle in a dented metal holder. He opened the door and snatched the bundle like a rat grabbing a morsel that had been dropped from the dinner table. Without so much as a how-do-you-do, he shut the door and locked it.

“This isn't the job I wanted you to do.”

“I know,” Clint sighed. “I just don't see what you think I can do for you. There's nothing I can teach you about a gun that'll help with George. At best, you'll get quick enough to draw and accurate enough to kill him. After that, you get strung up for murder.”

“A man should be able to defend his family,” Carl said.

“Then go home and defend them like any other man. Get a hunting rifle or a shotgun. For a rodent like George, all you'll need to do is fire a shot over his head to send him running. You just need to stand up for yourself and make some noise, not spill blood.”

Shaking his head, Carl grumbled, “I can't just make noise. Nobody around here listens. If I stand up to the wrong man, I get locked up. If I make too much of a fuss after that, I get strung up. I need to learn how to handle a gun, Mister Adams, and I need to learn real quick. The only man that can do that is someone like the Gunsmith. I'll pay you for your time or even work out a trade. I got plenty of smithing tools back home. They belonged to my uncle and they're in good enough condition. Any gunsmith would do well to have them.”

“I suppose I could use some good tools.”

“Really?” Carl asked as he put on a wide, hopeful smile.

“Sure. Let's see what you've got.”

Carl told him it was a short walk to his house, but Clint wound up covering twice as much ground as he'd anticipated. Delilah only let him out of her sight after making sure to tell him about a dozen times to rest up and prepare for the following day. By the time he finally arrived at the little cabin on the farthest edge of town, Clint was ready to get his rest in the closest convenient pile of straw.

Despite being within a stone's throw of town, Carl's house felt more like a small ranch on its own little piece of property. Only one side of the house faced the town of Trickle Creek, while the rest of it looked out onto open country, a small rise, and a crooked, sorry excuse for a stream that may very well have been the town's name-sake. Even at this late hour, someone was at the door to greet the two men before they got close enough to open it for themselves.