Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) (6 page)

Garver figured if Wycliffe wasn't at Little Jim's, he'd be with his favorite whore. He found her room and banged on the door.

Inside the room Patty was riding Wycliffe, his stiff penis stuffed all the way up inside her. Her head was back, exposing her long, smooth neck, and her eyes were practically rolled up inside her head.

Wycliffe's hands were on her tiny breasts, thumbing the brown nipples. The wide aureoles reminded him of fried eggs.

She was starting to gasp as her time approached, and then there was a knock on the door. Actually, it was more of a banging.

“No!” Patty yelled. She opened her eyes and glared down at him. “Don't you dare!”

“Come on, then!” he said, grabbing her hips. “Finish up.”

“Damn you!” she said. She pressed her hands down flat on his chest and began to ride him harder, looking for her relief, but now she was distracted.

“Ahhh!” she screamed, and climbed off him as the banging started again. “See who it is, damn it!”

Wycliffe had been very near his own completion, and as he got off the bed and stalked to the door, his penis was well out in front of him—long, and hard, and throbbing.

When he opened the door, the man outside jumped back.

 

“Watch that thing!” Garver said, stepping back as Wycliffe opened the door. “You could poke somebody's eyes out!”

“Garver,” Wycliffe said, “what the hell.”

“I wanted to talk, but are you busy?” Garver looked past him at the naked, angry whore on the bed.

“Look,” Wycliffe said, “give me ten minutes—”

“Oooh!” Patty growled.

“Okay,” Wycliffe amended, “a half hour and then I'll meet you at Little Jim's.”

“Yeah, okay,” Garver said, “but try to make it twenty minutes, will you?”

He looked down at Wycliffe's erection, rolled his eyes, and walked away. He hoped the man wouldn't catch it in the door when he closed it.

 

“Back already?” Jim asked as Garver entered.

“Waitin' for Wycliffe,” he said.

“He with Patty?”

Garver nodded. Jim put a beer in front of him.

“Okay then,” Jim said, leaning his elbows on the bar, “while you're here, let's discuss this Big Jim idea.”

Garver nodded wearily, lifted his beer to his mouth.

“You gotta keep yer friends from bangin' on the door when we're fuckin', Al,” Patty complained.

“I'll do my best.”

She was lying on her back, catching her breath, sated now and not so mad. It had taken him twenty-five minutes to take her where she wanted to go.

“Come back when you're done,” she said.

“More?” he asked.

She smiled at him.

“I got the day off from Miss Lily's.”

Wycliffe nodded and said, “I'll be back.”

What else was there to do in this town but eat, drink, and fuck until Garver's plan was ready?

Clint walked Dixon back to the post office, waited while the man unlocked the door.

“I got some whiskey inside,” Dixon said.

“No,” Clint said, “not for me.”

“What you gonna do with the rest of your day?” Dixon asked.

“I guess I'll find a poker game,” Clint said.

“Why don't you come out to the ranch tonight and spend the night? That way you'll already be there come mornin', and ready to go find some mustangs.”

“I'll think it over,” Clint said. “If I decide to come out, I'll meet you here; otherwise go ahead and ride home without me.”

“Okay, but I'll be leavin' right at five,” Dixon said. “I'm gonna fix some supper and eat at my own table tonight.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Clint said. “No matter what happens, I'll see you in the morning.”

“Right. Good luck. You're gonna need it the way you play.”

“I'm a lot better than I used to be in our buffalo hunting days.”

Dixon opened the door, said, “You'd have to be,” and ducked inside, slamming the door behind him.

 

When Wycliffe entered Little Jim's, both Jim and Garver turned to look at him. There was one other man at the bar holding a beer. Little Jim leaned over and said, “Sit down!”

The man immediately picked up his beer and moved to a table.

“Beer?” Jim asked Wycliffe.

“Yep.”

Garver looked at the time.

“Thirty-five minutes?”

“I couldn't leave the girl unsatisfied, could I?” Wycliffe asked, accepting a beer from Jim.

“No, of course not,” Garver said. “Never let it be said you didn't leave whores satisfied.”

“Hey,” Wycliffe said, lifting the beer, “whores are people, too.”

“If you say so.”

Wycliffe drank down half his beer.

“What's on your mind this time?” he asked Garver.

“Clint Adams was following me today.”

“Why?” Wycliffe asked.

Garver shrugged and replied, “He said he was curious when he saw me walking down the street with the bank manager. Now, how do you think he knew that Harold Birzer was the bank manager?”

“He asked somebody?” Wycliffe said.

“Maybe,” Garver said, “but why?”

“Maybe he really was curious,” Jim said.

“What else is he doin' here?” Wycliffe asked.

“I don't know what he's doin' here,” Garver said, “but I don't want him payin' too much attention to me.”

“So what?” Wycliffe asked. “Now you want me to kill him?”

Garver thought it over for a moment, then said, “Maybe. First, I have to be sure. If he's gonna get in the way, then yes, I'll want him killed. The two of you could probably do it, but I'd advise that you get some help. So between the two of you, come up with a couple of other names, hmm? Because if it's got to be done, I want it done right the first time.”

“When?” Jim asked.

“I'll let you know.”

He turned and walked out.

 

Garver stopped just outside the batwing doors and took a deep breath. He didn't want to make the wrong decision, so he was going to have to think about this long and hard.

He decided to go ahead and start his rounds.

 

“Whataya think?” Wycliffe asked Jim.

Jim shrugged.

“One way or another we're gonna kill the Gunsmith,” he said. “I don't mind lettin' Garver call it.”

“Whataya think about needin' two other men?”

Again, Jim shrugged.

“I don't mind,” he said. “After all, Garver's gonna be payin' the freight, right?”

“Right.”

“Another beer?” Jim asked.

“Sure,” Wycliffe said, pushing the empty mug over, “fill'er up.”

Clint found a poker game in the Tumbleweed and spent the afternoon taking money from the locals. Not much, though, since it was just a way to spend the time.

He gave some thought to Dixon's offer of spending the night out at the ranch. It probably made sense, but he would have had to meet Dixon at the post office at five, and it was already five-thirty.

Players had come in and out of the game over the past three hours, but it made no difference. Clint kept winning three out of every four hands. Most of them took it in good spirits, but for about half an hour one of the players had been fuming and complaining not about losing, but about Clint constantly winning.

“It don't make sense,” he said. “How can one man win so much?”

“You shoulda been here all afternoon like me,” Sam Wilton said. He was the only player who was still there from the time Clint first sat down, and he didn't much care that he was losing. It was more important to him who he was losing to. He was a merchant in town who had taken the afternoon off to play poker with the Gunsmith. He didn't care what it cost him.

“Naw, naw,” the other man said. He was wearing trail clothes with some dust on them, so Clint figured he'd ridden into town not too long ago. “It ain't natural. No man can be that lucky.”

“I don't think it's luck, friend,” Wilton said. “It's just that he's that good, and the rest of us can't play for shit.”

The other two men at the table laughed, but the complainer didn't find it funny.

“Maybe you can't play for shit, none of you,” he said, “but I know this game. And I know when someone's cheating.”

It got very quiet then. They all knew the one thing you didn't want to say at a poker table was the word “cheating.” And you sure didn't want to accuse anybody of it. And you sure as hell didn't want to accuse a man like Clint Adams of doing it.

“Now, ease up, friend,” Wilton said. “Nobody here wants any trouble.”

“Shut up, old man,” the complainer said. “I ain't talkin' to you.”

Wilton sat back and fell silent. He did not have a gun, and the complainer did.

“What's your name, friend?” Clint asked.

“I'm Johnny Crespo,” the man said proudly.

“Well, Johnny,” Clint said, “I think the best thing for you to do is get up from the table and go to the bar. I'll buy you a beer and you can drink it and calm down.”

“Look, Adams, I know who you are and I ain't impressed,” Crespo said. “In case you didn't hear me, I'm Johnny Crespo.”

“I heard.”

“That don't mean nothin' to you?”

Clint actually looked at Crespo for the first time.

“Not a thing.”

“Well then, you ain't from around here,” Crespo said. “People around here know my name.”

“Probably,” Clint said, “because you're a bigmouth.”

They had become the center of attention, and now that brought some laughs from the onlookers.

Crespo stood up so fast he shook the table and knocked over his chair. His hand hovered just over his gun.

“You makin' fun of me, Adams?” he demanded.

“That's exactly what I'm doing, Johnny,” Clint said.

“You better stand up and go for your gun!”

“Not a good idea, John—”

“I ain't funnin' with ya!” Crespo shouted, his face turning red.

Clint stared at the younger man.

“You really want to die while you're still in your twenties, Johnny?”

“It ain't me is gonna die,” Crespo said.

“Okay,” Clint said, “let's test that out.”

“Whataya mean?”

“Let's try something,” Clint said. “I'm going to stand up. Don't get trigger happy.”

Clint stood up, kept his right hand away from his gun.

“Somebody give Johnny a beer,” Clint said. “A full mug.”

“I don't wanna beer.”

“Just go along with me on this, Johnny,” Clint said.

One of the girls brought a full beer to Crespo.

“Take it in your left hand, Johnny, and just hold it.”

Johnny did so.

“Now, sweetie, bring me one, will you?” he asked the girl.

“Sure, Mr. Adams.”

She was a pretty little brunette with round, pale shoulders and an impressive bosom. She went to the bar, came back, and handed Clint a beer, which he held in his left hand.

“Okay,” Clint said.

“What the hell—”

“Here's the deal,” Clint said. “We see who can shoot the beer mug out of the other man's hand first. That'll show us who is faster, and what would've happened if we'd slapped leather for real.”

Around the room people started taking bets.

“I'll let you move first, Johnny.”

Crespo licked his lips. The beer in his left hand shook a bit, spilling some on the floor. Clint's beer was as still as stone.

Suddenly, Crespo went for his gun, but before he could clear leather, the beer mug in his left hand shattered. Clint's bullet kept going and broke some glasses behind the bar, but the bartender had moved aside to safety.

Clint sipped from his beer, which still had not spilled a drop.

“Too bad, Johnny,” he said, holstering his gun. “You would have died of a bad case of the slows.”

Some more laughter from the room, and Johnny Crespo turned and stormed out of the Tumbleweed Saloon.

Clint had replaced the spent shells in his gun with live ones, cashed out of the poker game, and was standing at the bar with a beer when the sheriff showed up.