The Gunsmith 385 (10 page)

THIRTY-THREE

When they reached Liberty, they reined in their horses in front of the telegraph office.

“I'll be right out,” Clint said.

“You think you're gonna get an answer that quick?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Fine. I'll stay with the horses.”

Clint went inside. Travis looked up and down the street of the small town. He found it remarkably clean, missing most of the ruts and puddles town streets usually sported. And none of the buildings looked as if they needed repairs. Somebody was keep the carpenters in this town real busy, he thought.

He kept himself alert for trouble, but somehow he doubted that much happened on the streets of Liberty.

 * * * 

Clint sent his telegram, told the key operator he'd wait for the answer.

“You think it's gonna come that quick?” the middle-aged clerk asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Suit yerself,” the man said. “Seen telegrams take days to get answers, but . . . whatever you say.”

Clint leaned on the counter and waited. Minutes after the key operator finished sending the message, the key began to clatter its reply.

“Sonofabitch,” the man said.

He wrote down the message and handed it to Clint.

“Damndest thing I ever seed,” he said.

“Thanks,” Clint said.

He carried the message outside.

 * * * 

Travis had dismounted and was leaning against a post, holding the reins of both horses. When he saw Clint come out, he straightened up.

“So?”

“Still alive and improving,” Clint said. “Also, things are going well at the saloon.”

“So,” Travis said, “you don't have to worry about what's goin' on back there. Only what's ahead of us.”

“Right.”

“So let's pick up the trail again and get this over with,” Travis suggested.

“Mount up,” Clint replied.

 * * * 

Dad knocked on the closed door and waited.

“What?” came the reply from inside.

“They're here.”

“What?”

“They're here.”

He waited. He heard footsteps approaching and then the door swung open. The man standing in the doorway was naked, and so was the woman on the bed behind him. He had a raging erection that was an angry red—as red as his face.

“What the hell are you bothering me for?” the man in the doorway asked.

“You wanted to know when they got here,” Dad said. “They're here.”

“They? Who's they?”

“That feller you hired, and his partner.”

“What partner?”

“I don't know,” the old man said. “He has a feller with him, and he says it's his partner.”

“So it's Barry?”

“Yeah, that's what I've been tellin' you,” the old man said. “He's here.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said. “Put them in the den, give 'em a drink, and tell 'em I'll be right there.”

“Okay,” the old man said, “whatever you say.”

He turned to walk down the hall as the door slammed on him.

 * * * 

Barry and Hastings remained in the entry foyer, but they could see a lot from there. Living room to the right with expensive furniture and a dining room to the left, with a long mahogany table.

“This is a helluva house,” Hastings said.

“Yep.”

“How much are we gettin' paid?”

“You'll see.”

“What about the four thousand?”

“We're splittin' that, too.”

“Jesus,” Hastings said. He was starting to see being rich in his future.

They both heard the old man coming down the stairs and fell silent.

“Come with me,” he said when he reached them.

They followed him to a room he said was the “den.” There was more expensive furniture, a lot of books on bookshelves, and a desk.

“He'll be right down,” the old man said. “Meanwhile, do you want a drink?”

“Yeah,” Hastings said, “whiskey.”

“No,” Barry said. “Some of that good brandy I had the last time I was here.”

“All right.”

The old man walked to a small bar, poured brandy from a decanter into two large snifters, and brought them to Barry and Hastings.

Hastings grabbed it, and Barry knew he was going to gulp it down.

“Don't!” he snapped.

“Whataya mean?”

“Don't gulp it down,” Barry said. “You gotta sip this stuff. It's real expensive, and real good goin' down.”

“Yeah?”

Barry nodded, and sipped his drink.

Hastings looked at the liquid in the glass, and then sipped it.

“Whataya think?” Barry asked.

“Yeah,” Hastings said, “it's okay.”

Barry nodded, sipped his again.

Hastings smelled his, sipped it again, then said, “All in all, though, I think I'd rather have a cold beer.”

THIRTY-FOUR

“You're what?” Tom Barry asked, not sure he'd heard right.

“I'm not paying you,” Arthur Collingswood said, pouring himself a brandy.

“Why the hell not?” Barry demanded.

Collingswood put the decanter down and turned to face the two men.

“You didn't do the job.”

“Whataya talkin' about,” Barry said. “I put a bullet right in his chest.”

“That may be so,” the man said, “but you didn't kill him.”

“I took his money.” Barry took the four thousand out of his saddlebag.

“How much?”

“Four thousand.”

“Keep it,” Collingswood said. “That's all you're going to get. He had a lot more there. You missed it.”

“I looked all over.”

“You panicked and ran, didn't you?” Collingswood asked. “And where are your other men?”

“They didn't make it,” Barry said. “It's just us.”

“Hastings, did he say your name was?”

“That's right,” Hastings said. Barry had made a hasty introduction when Collingswood entered, wearing what neither Barry nor Hastings knew was called a “smoking jacket.”

“Where were you when he went into Rick's Place?” the rich man asked.

“Right with him.”

“And with him when he shot Hartman?”

“No,” Hastings admitted. “That happened in Hartman's office. I was in the saloon.”

Collingswood sipped his brandy.

“And then what happened?”

“We got out of there.”

“And . . .”

“And one of our men shot the sheriff.”

Collingswood looked at Barry.

“Now him you killed.”

He walked around behind the desk and sat down.

“Look,” Barry said, “I shot him dead center in the chest. It ain't my fault he didn't die.”

“Oh? Who's fault is it, then?”

Barry didn't answer.

“And he's getting stronger,” Collingswood added.

“How do you know?”

“I've got people in town. And you know what else they tell me?”

“What?” Barry asked sourly. He wished he were holding a whiskey, and not brandy.

“You've got somebody after you.”

“A posse?”

Collingswood shook his head.

“One man.”

Barry laughed.

“One man? So what?”

“That man is Clint Adams.”

“The Gunsmith?” Hastings blurted out.

“That's right.”

“What's he got to do with this?” Barry demanded.

“He and Hartman are friends,” Collingswood said. “And he wants to catch whoever shot him. So you may very well have led him here.”

Barry looked around, as if he'd see Clint Adams standing right behind him.

“What the hell—”

“So here's what you're going to have to do to get paid,” Collingswood said.

“What?”

“You're going to have to kill the Gunsmith.”

Barry and Hastings looked at each other, their mouths open.

Collingsworth laughed and said, “Bet you wish you hadn't killed your other men.”

THIRTY-FIVE

They didn't have to ride very far out of town when they saw the ranch ahead of them.

“That's a big spread,” Travis said.

Clint nodded. The house had two stories, the barn was huge, and there were corrals everywhere, and some outbuildings. One of those buildings looked a lot like a bunkhouse.

“A big spread,” Clint said, “with a lot of men.”

“Well, the tracks lead right to it,” Travis said. “What do we do?”

“I think,” Clint said, “we need to find out who this place belongs to.”

“And then what?”

“And then send another telegram and find out if Rick knows who it is.”

“So we're goin' back to town?”

Clint nodded.

“We're going back to town.”

“Suits me,” Travis said, turning his horse. “I could use a hot meal.”

 * * * 

When they got back to town, they decided to play it low-key.

“We'll put up the horses and get a hotel,” Clint said.

“What if Barry and Hastings leave the ranch while we're here?” Travis asked.

“I can find them again,” Clint said. “Right now I want the man who hired them to shoot Rick.”

“Maybe they were only hired to rob him,” Travis said. “Maybe shootin' him was their own idea. Or maybe it just happened.”

“Nothing just happens, Travis,” Clint said. “People make things happen.”

They rode to the livery, left the horses, and walked to a hotel with their saddlebags and rifles. They registered, getting a room for each of them.

Clint's original plan was to go to the sheriff's office to find out who owned the big spread outside of town, but while they were checking in, Travis said to the clerk, “We passed a real big spread ridin' into town. Who owns it?”

“Oh, that's Mr. Collingswood's place,” the clerk answered. “The Rocking W.”

“The Rocking W?” Travis said.

“Yeah,” the young clerk said. “The brand is a W that rocks, like a rocking chair.”

“Huh,” Travis said.

“How long has that spread been there?” Clint asked.

“The place has been there for years, but Mr. Collingswood bought it about two years ago and really fixed the place up. He's a very rich man.”

“I guess so,” Travis said. “That's a heckuva place.”

“It sure is.”

“Why, I'll bet a man who lives in a place like that never comes to town.”

“That's where you're wrong,” the clerk said. “He comes to town all the time. Hell, he's on the town council.”

“Is that a fact,” Travis said.

“He's a very important citizen of this county,” the clerk said.

“I bet,” Travis said.

“Here are your keys.”

“Thanks,” Travis said.

“Thank you,” Clint said.

They went up the stairs together, and when they got to the hall, Clint asked, “Why did you do that?”

“What?”

“Ask all those questions.”

“Found out what we wanted to know, didn't we?”

“That may be so,” Clint said, “but now somebody knows we've been asking.”

“Well,” Travis said, “I guess I didn't think of that. Still, now we know who he is. You ever hear of him?”

“Never,” Clint said.

“Maybe your friend Rick has.”

“Maybe,” Clint said. “That's what we're going to have to find out.”

 * * * 

They left their things in their rooms and went out to find the telegraph office.

“Can't we eat first?” Travis asked.

“I want to get this done.”

As they approached the telegraph office, they spotted a café across the street.

“I tell you what,” Clint said. “You go in there and get a table, order me a steak. I'll be right along.”

“That suits me,” Travis said. “See you there.”

Clint nodded. They split up, Clint going to the telegraph office and Travis to the café.

 * * * 

Clint entered the office and wrote out his message. He knew he was taking a chance sending out a telegram that had the name “Collingswood” in it in a town where the man commanded such respect. But Travis had already put the word out that they were interested, so he went ahead.

The reply did not come as quickly as it had before.

“I'll be in the café across the street when the answer comes in,” Clint said. He gave the clerk an extra dollar. “Will you bring it over to me?”

“Sure will, mister.”

“Thanks.”

Clint crossed the street to the café, found it only half filled. Travis had gotten a table in the back, so Clint joined him. There was a lot of coffee on the table, so he poured himself a cup.

“I ordered steaks,” Travis said.

“Thanks.”

“What's the word?”

“No answer yet.”

“That worry you?” he asked. “You been getting answers pretty quick.”

“I'm trying not to worry,” Clint said. He sipped his coffee, made a face. “You told them to make it weak, didn't you?”

“I didn't say a word,” Travis said. “That's the way they make it.”

“Now I'm worried about the steaks.”

“They gonna bring you an answer here?”

“Yeah.”

“Then relax and eat.”

Clint sat back and said, “I'm going to try.”

THIRTY-SIX

They were sawing through their tough steaks with sharp knives when the telegraph clerk appeared in the door.

“Looks like your guy,” Travis said.

Clint looked up and waved at the man, who hurried across the floor.

“Here's your answer, Mr. Adams.”

“Thanks.” He gave the young clerk another dollar.

“Yessir!”

Clint looked down at the message.

“What's it say?”

“It's not what it says,” Clint said, “it's what it doesn't say.”

“Huh?”

“It says not to worry, Rick is fine.”

“So?”

“Why doesn't it say what the other ones said?” Clint asked.

“What do you mean?”

“This sounds like ‘something happened, but don't worry, Rick is okay.'” He put the telegram down on the table, pushed his half-eaten steak away.

“You gonna eat those potatoes?” Travis asked.

“No.”

“Steak's tough,” Travis said, “but the potatoes are okay.” He picked up Clint's plate, scraped the potatoes onto his own.

“So now you're gonna worry about this?”

“What if the whole point was to kill Rick?”

“We talked about that already.”

“Yeah, we did, but if that was the point, then maybe they tried again. And I should've been there to stop it.”

“You can stop it by stopping the man who's hirin' it done,” Travis said. “Ain't that what we decided, too?”

“Yeah, it is.” Clint pushed his chair back.

“Where you goin'?”

“I'm going to talk to the sheriff,” Clint said. “Might as well find out how much help we can expect from him.”

“Want me to come along?”

“No,” Clint said, “that's okay, finish your potatoes . . . and mine!”

He headed for the door.

 * * * 

He was about to enter the sheriff's office when the door opened and a man wearing a badge started to leave. They stopped just short of bumping each other. The badge was a sheriff's star, and the man wearing it was tall, rangy, and Clint's age.

“Whoa,” he said. “Sorry. You lookin' for me?”

“I am.”

“Just get to town?”

“That's right.”

“Well, is it important? I'm on my way—”

“It's about a man named Collingswood.”

“Arthur Collingswood?”

“That's right.”

The man frowned, examined Clint for a moment.

“He's an important man in this town.”

“So I hear.”

“So what's the Gunsmith want with Collingswood?”

“You know me?”

“I saw you once in Sante Fe. The Marlowe brothers tried to take you.”

“They were young,” Clint said. “That was sad.”

“Yeah, it was. You want some coffee?”

“I could use some,” Clint said. “I just had some in the café across from the telegraph office.”

“Oh, Christ, don't eat there.”

“Too late.”

“Come on in, but I gotta warn you,” the man said. “I make it strong.”

“Suits me.”

They went inside.

 * * * 

The sheriff introduced himself as Jack Catchings. Clint had never heard the name, but he had the feeling the man was a competent lawman.

Catchings poured some coffee, handed Clint a cup, and then sat behind his small desk. Clint sat across from him. The entire office seemed cramped.

“I know,” Catchings said as if reading Clint's mind, “it's like a shoe box. I've been promised a new one.”

“Promises, promises,” Clint said.

“Yeah, I know.” The sheriff sipped his coffee. Clint did the same. It was miles better than the café's. “Okay, so what's your business with Collingswood?”

“I think he hired some men to kill a friend of mine,” Clint said.

“What makes you think that?”

“I've been tracking them,” Clint said, “and they led me right to his door.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No,” Clint said, “I thought I'd come and see you first.”

“That was probably a good idea.”

“Has he got a lot of men out there?”

“He's got a few, and they're all good with a gun.”

“So this doesn't surprise you?”

“Mr. Adams,” Catchings said, “when you've been a lawman as long as I have, nothing surprises you anymore. I've seen it all. A rich man using his money to get what he wants is nothing new.”

“And a rich man using money to hire guns is nothing new either,” Clint said. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” Catching said. “What can I do? Collingswood is careful to pull all his dirty tricks away from here. He's not wanted for anything in my jurisdiction.”

“Well, I tailed two men there who have committed murder,” Clint said. “And they killed a lawman.”

Catchings frowned.

“That does make a difference.”

“I thought it might.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to ride out there before the two men have a chance to get away.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“You mean . . . like now?”

“Now would suit me,” Clint said.

“You got anybody with you?” Catchings asked. “A posse?”

“No,” Clint said, “I've got one man with me, to watch my back.”

“No posse?”

“No,” Clint said, “I didn't have the time to put one together.”

“So you don't have any official standing?”

“Would it make a difference if I did?” Clint asked. “I'd be out of my jurisdiction.”

“Yes, you would,” Catchings said, “but at least I'd be able to say I was assisting another lawman.”

“Is someone going to ask you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Catchings said. “The mayor will want to know. I'm afraid without some sort of official standing, I can't really—”

Clint took the sheriff's badge out of his shirt pocket and showed it to the man.

“Is this official enough?”

Catchings stared at the badge, then looked at Clint and said, “You're a sneaky sonofabitch, aren't you?”