Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) (3 page)

“Yeah, most of the men around here want the action of the girls and the games, so you can usually get a table or bar space here.”

“So,” Clint asked, “how long do you think you'll be doing this postmaster job?”

 

Lenny Wilson finally found Al Wycliffe holed up in a room with a whore. It wasn't a hotel or a whorehouse, but the girl's own room. Somebody told him they saw Wycliffe with the girl and where she lived.

The girl was a tall, skinny whore named Patty. She worked in the whorehouse, but she had special “clients” that she took home with her, and Wycliffe was one of them.

Wycliffe liked Patty because she was tall and had amazingly long legs. He especially liked to hold her by the ankles, spread her, and fuck her like that. Those legs seemed to reach all the way to the ceiling, and it excited him to spread-eagle her like that.

Wycliffe was a big man, and while Patty didn't mind it when he did that to her, sometimes she thought he'd get carried away and break her in two. It actually wouldn't have been a bad way to go, though, because when he held her that way, his big dick seemed to hit her in just the right spot when he drove it into her. And he was the only man who fucked her in this fashion.

They were both thoroughly engrossed in what they were doing when the knock came on the door.

Wycliffe grabbed his gun from a nearby table, turned, and fired a shot through the door, then put the gun down and grabbed Patty's ankles again.

 

Outside the door as he knocked, Lenny Wilson—nobody's fool—stepped to the side just as a bullet punched through the door.

“Jesus, Al!” he shouted.

“Go away!” Wycliffe yelled back from inside.

“But I got a message for you from the sheriff!” Lenny called back.

No answer.

“If I don't deliver it, he's gonna give me hell!”

Lenny heard voices from inside, low at first, and then raised . . .

 

“Jesus, Al,” Patty said, glaring up at her lover, “can't you get him to go away? I'm tryin' to concentrate here!”

“I'm tryin',” he said.

“Well,” she said, “whatever you do about him, don't you dare stop doin' what you're doin' to me!”

“Damn it! he thought.

“What the hell is it, Lenny?” he called, still fucking Patty. “Just yell it out.”

From outside the door Lenny yelled, “The sheriff says you should hold off on your plans, and come and see him as soon as you can.”

“Okay,” Wycliffe said. “You delivered the message. Now get outta here!”

“Oh, baby, yeah,” Patty said, “come on, harder, do it harder . . .”

“I'll do it harder all right, bitch,” he growled back at her.

Wycliffe knew that Patty used whore talk on her clients, but when she spoke to him during sex, he knew she meant what she said.

He gripped her ankles tighter and started to ram his hard cock into her sopping pussy faster, and faster, and harder . . .

 

Lenny listened at the door for a few moments, heard the sound of two people grunting. Then he moved to the door and pressed his eye to the hole Al Wycliffe had shot in it.

He could see Wycliffe from the back, covered with coarse hair, holding an ankle in each hand, butt cheeks clenching and unclenching as he drove himself into the girl.

Lenny watched for a while, massaging his own crotch, and when he had an erection, he turned away from the door and hurried out of the building.

As soon as he told the sheriff he'd delivered his message, he was going to head over to Miss Lily's whorehouse. She had one girl he could afford when he really needed one. She wasn't that pretty, she had a harelip, and she was flat as a board, but she had a wet pussy, and at the moment, that was all he cared about.

Lenny Wilson rushed into the sheriff's office and said, “I found 'im, and gave him yer message.”

He turned and started to go back out the door, but Garver yelled, “Whoa, hey, hold it.”

Lenny stopped.

“Did he say he was comin'?”

“Um, he didn't say . . . when.”

“What was he doin' when you found him?”

“Fuckin' that skinny whore, Patty.”

“Great,” Garver sad. “He could be doin' that all night.”

“I delivered yer message,” Lenny said anxiously. “Can I go?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Garver said, waving the man away, “you can go. Go on, get outta here!”

Lenny rushed out the door, slamming it behind him.

Probably heading for the nearest saloon, Garver speculated. Come to think of it, he could use a drink himself.

Sheriff Garver drank in only one saloon in town. It was the other saloon that had no games, so while Clint and Dixon were at the Big Tap, Garver was down the street in Little Jim's Saloon.

Little Jim himself tended bar. There was nothing misleading about his name. He was about five-three, weighed about one-forty. He ruled his place with an iron hand and nobody ever crossed him—except the occasional stranger. Garver had once seen him single-handedly clean three guys out of his place with his bare hands—they were six-footers, and had guns. It didn't matter.

“Sheriff,” Jim said as Garver stopped at the bar. “Beer or whiskey?”

“Beer tonight, Jim.”

“Comin' up.”

At the moment there were only three other men in the saloon. Jim didn't care. He didn't use the saloon to make money. He used it to have something to do. His mother always told him that idle hands were the devil's workshop, and she was right. If he didn't have something to do, he always ended up killing somebody.

“Heard the Gunsmith was in town,” Jim said, setting the beer down in front of the lawman.

“That's right,” Garver said. “How did you know?”

Jim just gave the sheriff a blank look. He knew everything that went on in town.

“Also heard you was lookin' for Wycliffe.”

“That's right.”

“Well, he's probably pokin' Patty about now. Usually comes in here when he's done.”

Garver nodded.

“Adams stayin' long?” Jim asked.

“Don't know,” Garver said. “He's got a friend in town.”

“Yeah,” Jim said around a toothpick, “Billy Dixon.”

Garver shook his head.

“You know everythin',” he said.

“That's right,” Jim said. “I know Adams bein' in town changes things.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Then maybe somebody should kill him.”

“You volunteerin'?”

“Sheriff,” Jim said, “you know I never volunteer for nothin'.”

“I know that.”

“But that don't mean I wouldn't do it.”

“What did you tell Garver?” Dixon asked.

Clint looked up from his beer.

“Nothing,” he said. “Well, I told him I was here to see you, and that I'd probably be here a few days.”

“And?”

“And that I wasn't looking for trouble.”

“Are you ever?” Dixon asked. “That don't mean it don't find you. Word's gonna get around, you know. In fact, it probably already has.”

“I can't do anything about that,” Clint said. “I don't look for trouble, Billy, but that doesn't mean I'm not ready when it comes.”

“I know that,” Dixon said.

“You worried about the sheriff trying something?” Clint asked.

“I don't know,” Dixon said with a shrug. “I don't know him that well.”

“You know him well enough to call him dirty.”

“That's just from things I've heard,” Dixon said. “You know who people talk to the most in town?”

“Bartenders.”

“And after that? The postmaster.”

“Ah.”

“They complain about their husbands, their wives, their kids, the mayor, and the sheriff.”

“What's wrong with the mayor?”

“He's crooked, too.”

“That figures. Don't tell me you're on the town council.”

“No,” Dixon said, “that I wouldn't do. Postmaster and rancher. That's it. And speaking of the ranch, I got to get back.”

They both walked outside, stopped just in front.

“Try one of the other saloons,” Dixon suggested. “You'll find a poker game.”

“I'll give them a try,” Clint said.

“My horse is behind the post office,” Dixon said. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Clint said, “I'll come by to mail a letter.”

Dixon smiled. The two men shook hands and went their own way.

 

Across the street Al Wycliffe walked into the saloon, found Garver standing at the bar.

“You lookin' for me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Garver said. “Have a beer.”

Wycliffe looked at the bartender and nodded. Little Jim wouldn't have moved otherwise.

“What's on your mind?”

“You got my message?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Wycliffe said. “It didn't come at a very good time, but I got it. What's this about changing plans?”

“I had a visitor today,” the lawman said. “A guest in our fair town.”

“And who is that?”

“Clint Adams.”

Wycliffe stopped with his beer halfway to his mouth. “The Gunsmith is here?”

“That's right.”

“Where is he?”

“Right now? I don't know. But in a couple of days he'll be gone.”

“In a couple of days,” Wycliffe said, “he'll be dead.”

“Now wait,” Garver said. “I didn't call you here to send you after the Gunsmith.”

“You don't have to send me,” Wycliffe said. “I'll go after him and kill him all on my own.”

“You want to die that bad?” Garver asked.

“I want a rep that bad,” Wycliffe said.

Garver turned and faced the larger man, showing no sign of backing down.

“Hey, listen,” he said. “You're workin' for me, which means you do what I tell you to do. That means you want to go after the Gunsmith, you do it on your own time.”

“What if I do that?” Wycliffe asked. “You can get somebody to replace me.”

Garver slapped Wycliffe on his broad chest.

“Look, Al, this is too big, too important. I need you—alive.”

“If it's so important, why you callin' it off, then?” Wycliffe asked.

“It's too dangerous with Adams in town.”

“So I kill Adams, and it ain't dangerous anymore,” Wycliffe said.

Little Jim was listening intently. Garver looked over at him, as if asking for support.

“It sounds good to me,” Jim said. “If you want, I'll kill Adams for ya.”

“No,” Garver said, shaking his head. Then he looked at Wycliffe and repeated, “No. Nobody kills Adams. Okay, okay, we'll go ahead with the plan.”

“Really?” Jim asked. “We're goin' ahead?”

“Yeah.”

“And nobody will know?” Little Jim asked. “I won't have to give up my place?”

“I don't know why you'd want to keep this place,” Garver said, “but no, you won't have to give it up.”

“Good.”

“So when do we go?” Wycliffe asked.

“I'll let you know,” Garver said, “but it'll be soon. I just have to talk to a guy tomorrow.”

Wycliffe pushed his empty mug over to Little Jim and said, “Gimme another one.”

“You, Sheriff?” Jim asked.

“No,” Garver said, “not me. I've got something to do.”

Little Jim drew Wycliffe another beer and pushed it over to him.

Garver walked to the end of the bar and signaled for Jim to come over.

“What?” Jim asked.

“Under no circumstances,” the lawman said, “are you to let him go and try to kill Clint Adams.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Do better than that.”

“Where is Adams stayin'?”

“Why?”

“I need to know what hotel to keep Al away from.”

“Keep him away from the Stetson.”

“Like I said,” Jim replied, “I'll do my best.”

As Billy Dixon left town and headed for his ranch, Clint walked into the Tumbleweed Saloon. The young bartender saw him and waved him over.

“You interested in—” the man started, but Clint cut him off.

“I'm interested in a beer,” he said. “That's it.”