Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657)

Table of Contents

 

 

As the door slammed open, Clint reacted instantly from reflex. He lifted the girl off him and dropped her on the other side of the bed, so she'd be protected. Then he grabbed his gun from the holster on the bedpost. By the time the two men burst into the room, he had his gun trained on the door.

As Joe and Johnny Crespo rushed into the room, they saw that their idea had not been such a good one, after all. But they had their guns in their hands, and there was only one way to react. They pulled their triggers.

The brothers' shots, fired in haste, sprayed the room. Clint calmly fired back, striking each brother in the chest, precisely in the heart. They both fell to the floor, dead.

The girl—Amy or Delores, whichever name she wanted to use—stuck her head up from behind the bed and said, “Is it over?”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

 

THE LETTER OF THE LAW

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Jove edition / January 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

 

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ISBN : 978-1-101-55365-7

 

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As Clint rode into the town of Adobe Walls, in Hutchison County, Texas, his mind went back to the original settlement some miles away, the site of the Second Battle of Adobe Walls, where he and a band of 28 settlers held off 700 Indians for 3 days until Billy Dixon—longtime buffalo hunter and scout—completely demoralized the enemy by borrowing a Sharps Big .50 and shooting an Indian cleanly off his horse from a distance of almost a mile away. It became known as “The Shot of the Century.”

Since then, Billy Dixon had gone on to become an Army scout and eventually win the Congressional Medal of Honor for another famous battle known as the Buffalo Wallow Fight.

Clint had heard that Dixon, retired from the Army and—apparently—from carrying a gun, had taken a job in the town of Adobe Walls. Since he was nearby, he decided to stop in and see his friend and catch up.

Fully intending to stop in town for a few days, Clint rode directly to the livery stable and turned his horse, Eclipse, over to the liveryman, who—as always—was suitably impressed.

The few minutes in a new town were always spent the same way. Clint sometimes wished there was a way to skip all that—the livery, then carrying saddle and rifle to a nearby hotel to register and get a room. Most of the time the rooms were little more than satisfactory, unless he had been sleeping on the trail for an extended period of time. In that case, almost any bed was an improvement over the hard ground. And while he enjoyed trail food, he usually rode into town—any town—in search of a good steak.

He went through all the motions, and then stopped into the first saloon he saw for a good beer and some advice . . .

“What can I getcha?” the barkeep asked.

“A cold beer.”

“Comin' up.”

The bartender, a young man with a spring in his step, set a brimming mug down in front of Clint without spilling a drop.

“New in town, huh?”

“That's right.”

“My name's Chris. Can I help you with anythin' else? A woman maybe?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I can pretty much get you anythin' you want in this town—”

“I'm just interested in seeing your postmaster.”

“The postmaster? We got one of them?”

“I believe you do,” Clint said.

The man frowned and scratched his head.

“What's a postmaster do?”

“He runs the post office,” Clint said. When Chris still looked confused, he added, “He takes care of the mail.”

“Oh, the mail!” Chris said. “Is that what he's called? Postmaster?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I'll be damned.”

“So about the only thing you can help me with is finding the post office.”

The bartender looked confused again.

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I'll find it myself.”

“Well, if there's anything else you want,” Chris said, “you just let me know.”

“I sure will,” Clint said, “seeing as how you've been so helpful this time.”

Clint left the saloon after one beer and went in search of the post office. He could have asked the hotel clerk, but he didn't think of it at the time. In the end he simply stopped a likely-looking woman—someone who looked like she sent and received mail—and asked where the post office was.

“It's three streets that way,” she said, pointing.

“Thank you.”

“Would you be lookin' for some company later?”

He stared at her. He'd stopped her because she looked respectable. Now he looked harder. She was blond, in her thirties, with a knowing glint in her eye. A prostitute, and making an offer to him right on the street.

“Um, I don't think so.”

“Well,” she said, “if you're in town long enough and you decide you do, come and find me at Miss Lily's. My name's Peggy.”

“Peggy,” he said. “I'll remember. Thanks for the directions.”

“Any time.”

She flounced off and he followed her directions to a small storefront that housed the U.S. Post Office. Next to the door was a wooden shingle that said, WILLIAM DIXON, POSTMASTER.

He went inside.

A mustached man was standing behind a wooden counter, sorting through mail and sliding it into the appropriate slots behind him. He was in shirtsleeves, held up by garters, and wearing a visor.

Clint waited a few minutes for him to turn around, but when he didn't, he said, “Hey, Billy.”

“With you in a minute,” Dixon said over his shoulder—then he seemed to notice that someone had called him “Billy” and not “William.” He turned his head and looked over his shoulder this time.

“Clint?”

Clint smiled.

“Clint Adams?”

He put down the mail in his hands and turned around to face Clint.

“By God, it is you!” he exclaimed. He came out from behind the counter and rushed forward, grabbed Clint's hand, and began pumping it.

“How you doing, Billy?”

“Great, great,” Dixon said. “How the hell are you?”

“Good.”

“It's been a while.”

“Yeah, it has,” Clint said. “Never expected to find you working at the post office, though.”

“I'm not working at the post office,” Dixon said. “I'm running the post office.”

Clint looked Dixon up and down. Late thirties now, looked to be in good shape. No apparent injuries. And no gun.