The Gunsmith 385 (3 page)

SEVEN

Clint spent the entire night and much of the morning in bed with Delia. He'd been on the trail a long time. A woman was one of the things he had missed, so he made the most of having one in bed with him—and one who was so energetic about it.

He woke up first, saw Delia lying on her back next to him, no sheet on her. Feeling himself stirred by the sight of her, he forced himself out of bed. His stomach was growling, and another thing he had missed while on the trail was a breakfast of steak and eggs.

He washed with the water from the pitcher and basin on the chest of drawers, doing it as quietly as he could, and then got dressed. Before he left, she stirred and rolled over onto her right side, presenting him with a fine view of her ass.

He forced himself out the door.

He walked to a small café that was located halfway between his hotel and Rick's Place. Sometimes, when he was in Labyrinth, he joined Rick for breakfast at the saloon, prepared in his kitchen. Today, however, he chose to eat alone.

 * * * 

Five men rode into town from the north, moved slowly toward Rick's Place, reined in outside.

“O'Brien,” Tom Barry said, “stay here, keep watch, and take care of the horses.”

“Sure, boss.”

Tom Barry had been hired to do a job. When he was in town a couple of weeks before, he'd spent a lot of time at Rick's Place. He was impressed with the amount of business the saloon did, and had come back with his gang to relieve Rick Hartman of some of his hard-earned cash. Keeping his ears open, he had first heard the name “Hartman,” then discovered that the man had a low opinion of banks. To Barry, that meant large sums of money kept on the premises. The saloon and gambling hall was an easier target than a bank.

Barry had ridden out and met with his gang at a prearranged place in North Texas. He laid out the job, told them what he knew about Labyrinth . . .

 * * * 

“They got one lawman, a sheriff with no deputies, and the saloon ain't got no security to speak of. One night I saw the bartender break up a fight, and he did it by hisself.”

“So what yer stayin' is,” Cameron Davis said, “it's easy pickin's.”

“The easiest.”

“So whatta we waitin' fer?” Tracy Hastings asked . . .

 * * * 

Barry dismounted, followed by three of his four men. The fifth, Irish O'Brien, remained mounted and kept an eye out for possible trouble.

Barry walked to the front door, his three men behind him. The door was locked, but he'd expected that. He knocked, rather than pounded, as he did not want to attract anyone's attention, except for somebody on the inside.

He knocked again and the door was finally opened by a tall man in his forties, who stared out at them without expression.

“We're closed,” he said.

Barry produced his gun and pointed it at the man's face.

“I don't think so,” he said. “I think you're open.”

The man stared at the gun barrel, still no expression on his face.

“Back away, bartender,” Barry said. “We're comin' in.”

“That'd be a mistake,” the bartender said.

“I don't think so,” Barry said, “but let's just see. Back up!”

The man did as he was told. Barry moved in with him, and the other three eased in behind him past the batwings, closing the door again.

“What's this?” Rick Hartman asked.

He was seated at a table with breakfast in front of him. The other tables were either covered, or had chairs stacked on them.

“Just stay nice and relaxed, Hartman,” Barry said.

“I know you,” Rick said.

“I don't think so.”

“Yeah, I don't forget faces,” Rick said. “You were in here a week or so ago, more than once. And as I recall, you drank, but didn't gamble.”

“You're right,” Barry said. “You do have a pretty good memory.”

“What's this all about?” Rick asked. “We overcharge you for a beer?”

“No, your prices are just fine,” Barry said. “In fact, I think they're so good that you probably have a nice amount of cash lying around somewhere.”

“You're right, I do,” Rick said. “it's called . . . a bank.”

“Nah, nah,” Barry said, waving the comment off with the barrel of his gun. “What I heard when I was here is that you don't like banks. Don't trust 'em. I don't blame you. I don't trust 'em either. I like 'em, but I don't trust 'em.”

“Well,” Rick said, “I guess you heard wrong.”

“We'll see,” Barry said. “Hey, bartender, I see you tryin' to sneak behind that bar. You make it and you're dead.”

Henry, the bartender, stopped.

Barry turned and looked at his men.

“One of you go back there and see what our friend is so anxious to get his hands on.”

Cam Davis went behind the bar and reached underneath.

“Well, lookee here,” he said, holding a shotgun up. “A Greener. Mean-lookin' thing. This woulda cut you in half, Tom.”

Barry gave the man a dirty look. They all had instructions not to mention any names while inside.

“Keep your eye on the bartender,” Barry said. He looked at Hastings. “Watch the door.” The other man, Zeke Kane, just leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

“Okay,” Barry said, looking at Rick, “let's go.”

“Where?”

Barry shrugged.

“Wherever the money is.”

“I told you,” Rick said. “It's in the bank.”

Barry turned to Cam Davis and nodded. Davis moved over and rammed the butt of the shogun into Henry's gut. The bartender doubled over, coughing and clutching his stomach.

“That's not gonna get my money out of the bank for you,” Rick said.

Barry looked up at the ceiling.

“Anybody else in the building?” he asked.

“Nope,” Rick said, “just me and Henry.”

“What about your girls?”

“They don't have rooms upstairs,” Rick said. “It's not that kind of place.”

“Your dealers?”

“Same thing,” Rick said. “They live elsewhere.”

“Okay, then,” Barry said, “let's go to your office and have a look.”

“You're wastin' your time,” Rick said.

“We'll see about that,” Barry said. To his men he said, “Stay here, watch the bartender and the bar.”

“Right . . . boss.”

He waved with his gun barrel again and said, “Let's go, Hartman.”

EIGHT

Rick led the way to his office door, opened it, and went in.

“Slow,” Barry said.

Rick slowed down, stopped.

“Where's the money?” Barry knew Hartman would stick to his story, but he was hoping a glance would give the location away. No luck. Rick Hartman just stared straight ahead.

“Just stand still.”

Barry walked to Rick's desk, opened the drawers, found the gun in the top-right-hand one. He took it out and tucked it into his belt, then opened the others. No money.

“Come over here and sit behind your desk.”

Rick obeyed, and Barry moved away so the man wouldn't make a grab for his gun.

“Just sit still while I have a look around.”

“Look all you want,” Rick said.

Barry proceeded to search, knocking books off shelves in search of a safe. When he got to the file cabinet, he found the drawers locked.

“Key.”

This was the first time Rick showed any emotion. He pressed his lips together as he reached into his vest pocket and came out with a key.

“Just put it there on the edge of the desk.”

Rick reached out, put the key down.

“Now sit back.”

He obeyed.

Barry came forward, grabbed the key, and walked to the file cabinet. Holding his gun in his left hand, he put the key in the lock with his right and turned it. Once the drawers were unlocked, he put the key on top of the cabinet and then started opening them. When he opened the bottom drawer, he saw a cash box.

“Well—” he said, straightening, but in that moment he saw Rick Hartman spring at him and he fired . . .

Out in the saloon they heard the shot and the bartender started to run for the office door.

“Hey, hold it!” Davis yelled.

Kane didn't wait, though. He pushed off the wall, drew his gun, and fired at the bartender's back.

 * * * 

Tom Barry came out of the office, carrying a fistful of cash.

“What happened?” Hastings asked.

“We gotta go,” Barry said. “He came at me and I hadda stop him.” He stopped short when he saw the bartender. “What happened here?”

“He started running toward the office,” Hastings said. “Kane stopped him.”

“Is that all the cash there is?” Davis asked.

“I stuffed some in my pockets,” Barry said. “Don't know how much we got, but we got to get out of here. We can count it later.”

They ran for the front door, opened it, and ran out. O'Brien was holding the reins of all the horses, who were skittish.

“What happened?” he yelled.

“We gotta go!” Barry said.

They started to mount their horses.

“Hey, hold it!” someone yelled.

They turned and saw a man wearing a badge running toward them with his gun out.

“Kill 'im!” Barry shouted.

Hastings was still holding the Greener, so he turned it on the lawman and pulled both triggers.

 * * * 

Clint was only halfway through his steak and eggs when he heard what sounded like shots. He looked around, but none of the other diners seemed to notice. Even the waiter went about his business.

Then somebody definitely let go with both barrels of a shotgun and everybody noticed.

Clint jumped up from his seat and was out the door in seconds, but then he stopped.

Where had the shots come from?

“It's over by the saloon,” someone yelled.

“Which saloon?” Clint shouted.

“Rick's!”

Clint started running, got to the front of the saloon in time to see five horsemen riding off. They rounded a corner and were gone before he could get off a shot.

He looked around for a horse, but there wasn't one. It was early, and there were no horses on the street.

Just a man lying in the dirt.

Clint ran over, saw that it was the local lawman. It took only a moment to determine that the man was dead, cut down by a shotgun. He looked at the saloon, saw the door sitting open.

Jesus, he thought, Rick.

He ran for the saloon.

As he entered the saloon, he saw the bartender lying on the floor, bleeding from a wound in his back. He looked around, but didn't see Rick. However, the door to Rick's office was open, so he ran to it and entered. He found his friend on the floor, bleeding from a chest wound.

Alive.

He heard someone come to the door behind him.

“Get the doctor!” he shouted. “Fast.”

He looked around for something to use to stanch the flow of blood, finally just took off his own shirt and pressed it to the wound.

He was still holding it there when the doctor arrived.

NINE

Clint was waiting in the outer room of the doctor's office while the sawbones worked on Rick, who was still breathing when they got him there.

“You saved his life by stopping the blood,” the doctor said. “Now it's my turn.”

“The sheriff and bartender are dead,” Clint said. “We need you to keep Rick alive so we can find out who did this.”

“Plus,” the doctor said, “he's your friend.”

“Yes,” Clint said, “there's that.”

He was still sitting there in the third hour when the door opened and several men walked in. He recognized the mayor, Seth Jackson. The others must have been members of the town council.

Clint stood up.

“How is he?” the mayor asked. In his forties, he was a young politician, newly elected just the year before.

“The doctor is still working on him,” Clint said.

“We took the bartender and the sheriff over to the undertaker's,” Jackson said. “Do you know these gentlemen?”

“No,” Clint said.

“Harry Morgan, Dave Wilder, and George Mahill,” Jackson said. “Members of the town council.”

“Gents. What can I do for you?”

“Wear this,” Jackson said, holding out the sheriff's star.

“Whoa,” Clint said, “there's no deputy?”

“No.”

“Then hire one,” Clint said. “Or better yet, hire a new sheriff.”

“That's what we're trying to do right now,” Jackson said.

“Not me,” Clint said. “Isn't there somebody else?”

“Nobody with your qualifications,” Jackson said. “And certainly nobody with your vested interests.”

“I know what my interests are,” Clint said. “What are yours?”

“Somebody has to track these miscreants down.”

“Why?” Clint asked. “Why are you so interested? It's not like they robbed the bank.”

“They robbed and shot one of this town's most prominent citizens,” Jackson said. “Rick's Place brings a lot of people to this town.”

“While they're here,” George Mahill said, “they spend money in other places, as well.”

“Like George's general store,” Harry Morgan said.

“And your hardware store,” Mahill said to Morgan.

“Plus the fact that Rick Hartman is also our friend,” Dave Wilder said.

Clint didn't know for sure if any of these men were friends with Rick, but certainly the rest of what they said was true.

“Well,” Clint said, “I have to tell you all that as soon as I know Rick is out of danger, I do plan on tracking down the men who shot him.”

“Good,” Jackson said.

“But I'm not going to wear that,” Clint added, pointing to the badge.

“Then don't wear it,” Mayor Jackson said. “Put it in your pocket. At some point, it's going to come in handy having official standing.”

“What kind of official standing will I have after I ride out of the county?”

“A badge is a badge,” Jackson said. He held it out to him again.

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said, taking it. “I'll put it in my pocket.”

“Very good.”

A door opened, interrupting them. Dr. Evans stepped out, wiping his hands on a towel.

“How is he?” Clint asked.

“I've done all I can,” the doctor said. “I got the bullet out and repaired the damage. Now the rest is up to him.”

“When will we know something?” Clint asked.

“Maybe by morning.”

The news did nothing to raise Clint's spirits.

“Hey,” the doctor said, “he's alive. You've been here a long time. Get something to eat, get some rest. Hell, get a drink.”

“Jesus,” Clint said, “what happens with the saloon now? Who's in charge?” He looked at the mayor.

“Maybe you and I should talk privately,” Jackson said. “Come with me to my office, I'll give you a drink.”

Clint looked at the doctor.

“Go,” he said. “I'll find you if there's any news.”

“Okay,” Clint said.

He stepped outside with the mayor and the other members of the council.

“You gents better get back to work,” Jackson said. “I have to talk to our new sheriff.”

The men grumbled, but left.

“I'm not really the new sheriff, you know,” Clint said.

“However you want to look at this is fine with me,” the mayor said. “But the fact is, you've got the badge at the moment.”

The tin felt heavy in his shirt pocket.

“Come on,” Jackson said, “we need to talk.”