The Gunsmith 385 (4 page)

TEN

Tom Barry signaled his men to stop and reined in his horse about ten miles from town.

“Anybody hit?” he asked.

“I don't think anybody in town got off a shot, boss,” Hastings said.

“We're good,” O'Brien said.

“Okay, then let's ride,” Barry said . . .

 * * * 

They did not stop to camp until dusk.

O'Brien built the fire.

Kane picketed the horses.

Davis fetched some water.

Hastings stood off to one side with Barry.

“Think we got a posse on our trail?” Hastings asked.

“Why would we?” Barry asked. “Ain't like we robbed their bank.”

“No,” Hastings said, “but we killed a bartender, and their sheriff.”

“We'll set up a watch, then,” Barry said. “Just in case.”

Hastings asked the other question that had been on his mind.

“How much money did we get?”

“Not enough,” Barry said tightly.

“We did get some, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Barry said, “but not enough to make it worth the risk.”

“How much?”

Barry looked unhappy. He took the money from his pockets, and inside his shirt.

“Those hundred-dollar bills?” Hastings asked with interest.

“Some,” Barry said, “but like I said, not enough.”

“But how much, Tom?” Hastings asked.

“Okay,” Barry said, “this is between you and me. Don't tell the others.”

“I ain't gonna tell them nothin'.”

“There's four thousand here.”

“Four thous—” Hastings started, then lowered his voice. “Four thousand? That's a lot of money.”

“Split two ways it's a lot of money,” Barry said. “Not split five ways.”

“How you gonna keep it from them?” Hastings asked.

“Well,” Barry said, “so far you're the only one to ask, but I'll figure somethin' out. Meanwhile, just keep quiet. We'll camp here and get movin' at dawn, just in case there is a posse.”

“Okay,” Hastings said. Davis was returning with the water, so they fell quiet at that point.

 * * * 

“He what?” Clint asked.

As they entered the office, the mayor poured two whiskeys and invited Clint to sit. Then he gave him the news.

“Rick has you listed as co-owner of Rick's Place,” Jackson said. “So in his absence, you're in charge.”

“I can't stay around here and run the saloon,” Clint said. “I have to track down the men who shot him.”

“Then you'll have to find someone else to run it while he's laid up, and while you're gone.”

Clint sipped his whiskey.

“Who would that be?”

“Well, I would've said Henry the bartender, but he's dead, so . . .”

“I have to ride out tomorrow,” Clint said, “or they'll have much too much of a head start. How am I going to find someone before then?”

Jackson shrugged, then said, “You have another option, you know.”

“What's that?”

“Well, I hesitate to say this, but you could close the place down.”

Clint considered that for a moment.

“I could do that,” he said then. “That'd be better than turning it over to someone who'd run it into the ground.”

“Of course,” Jackson said, “closing it will put a lot of people out of work.”

Clint frowned. Rick would never do that to his people.

“I'll have to think about it.”

“You do that.”

“Are you sure about this?” Clint asked. “How do you know Rick's business? That I'm listed as an owner?”

“I'm not only the mayor,” Jackson said, “I'm a lawyer—Rick's lawyer.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Maybe you better follow the doctor's suggestion,” Jackson said. “Get something to eat, and then get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “maybe I better.” He finished the whiskey and set the glass down on the edge of the desk. “Thanks for the drink, and the information.”

“Sure,” Mayor Jackson said. “If there's anything else I can do, just let me know.”

Clint nodded, and left the office.

ELEVEN

Clint had a quick meal in a small café, then walked over to Rick's Place. The front door was unlocked. He walked in and saw that there were a few people at the bar, a few more seated. Behind the bar were two of the girls, one of whom was Delia.

Clint approached the bar.

“Clint,” she said, “this is Jennifer. Can you tell us what happened?”

“Five men broke in this morning, shot and killed Henry, and shot Rick.”

“Oh my God,” Jennifer said, her hands going to her mouth. “Is he dead?”

“No, Rick is over at the doc's,” he said. “Doc Evans got the bullet out, but he doesn't know yet if Rick will make it.”

“With Rick hurt and Henry dead, what do we do?” Delia asked.

“Who's in charge?” Jennifer asked.

“Apparently,” he said, “I am. According to Mayor Jackson, that is.”

“So what are we going to do?” Delia asked.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “I'm going to hit the trail tomorrow to track down the men who hit Rick. That means I can either shut the place down, or leave somebody in charge.”

“Who?” Jennifer asked.

“Which are you going to do?” Delia asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “Look, we'll just keep it open today if you girls are okay tending bar until I make up my mind.”

“The other girls will be in soon,” Delia said. “We can handle it.”

“I'll be in Rick's office for a while.”

He walked to the back and went inside. A file drawer was open, an empty cash box was on the floor, and there was blood on the floor. Other than that, there was no indication that anything had happened in the office that morning.

He picked up the cash box and walked around behind the desk and sat, setting the box down on top. He knew Rick kept a cut-down colt in the top drawer, but when he looked, it was not there. He went through some of the other drawers, but didn't know what he was looking for, so he found nothing. He was just groping.

He sat back in the chair, took off his hat, and rubbed his forehead. What was he supposed to do now? He knew Rick would want to keep the place open for his employees. There had to be another male bartender around.

There was a knock on the door at that point.

“Come in.”

Delia opened the door, entered, and closed it.

“The other girls are here,” she said. “We're going to divvy up the jobs, and alternate behind the bar.”

“Whose idea was that?”

“Mine.”

“Is there another male bartender?”

“Henry worked all the time,” she said. “There is a relief bartender, but he only worked sometimes.”

“Is he any good?”

“Rick hired him, and liked him.”

“Can you find him?”

“I'm sure we can.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “bring him in. Delia, what if I left you in charge?”

“Why me?” she asked.

“You're smart and—don't get insulted—you're a little older than the others. Will that be a problem between you and the other girls?”

“I—I don't think so.”

“I can leave it up to you,” he said. “Run the place as long as you can after I leave. If it gets to be too much, shut it down.”

“I think I can handle it,” she said, “with the other girls. Don't worry about it, just do what you have to do.”

“Thanks, Delia.”

“You're not leaving 'til morning, right?” she asked.

“Right.”

“Can I . . . come by your room tonight?” she asked. “I think you'll need company.”

“I think so, too,” he said. “Thanks.”

“I'll go back to work and tell the other girls,” she said, and left.

“If any of them want to talk to me, I'm available,” he said, thinking somebody might have a complaint about the decision.

“I'll tell them,” she said, “but I don't think they'll be a problem.”

As she left, he sat back in his friend's chair, then decided he couldn't wait any longer. He wanted to go and check on Rick's condition again.

He left the office and started for the door, but stopped short when he recognized a man who was standing at the bar, holding a beer.

Travis.

His stalker.

TWELVE

Watching from his vantage point, Travis had observed the activity in town. He knew there had been some shooting, and somebody was dead. He saw the man shot down in the street, had seen the glint of light off the tin on his chest. And he had recognized Clint Adams when he came running up to the scene, and then went into the saloon. He'd watched as Rick had been carried to the doctor's office, although he didn't know who he was.

He had broken camp, saddled his horse, and ridden into town. By keeping his ears open, drinking in a couple of smaller saloons, he was able to figure out what had happened.

That was when he decided to go to Rick's Place and have a beer.

 * * * 

“What brings you here?” Clint asked, joining him at the bar.

“Beer,” Travis said. “Also heard there was some excitement in town.”

“Some, yeah.”

“Seems to me I been hearing that you're gonna go out after the men who shot up the town. Five men, right?”

“That's the number we got from a couple of witnesses,” Clint said.

“Well,” Travis said, “seems to me you'd need some help chasing them down.”

“Is that right?”

“I heard the sheriff's dead, and there's no deputies.”

“That was the case, yeah,” Clint said. He took the badge out of his pocket. “They asked me to carry this.”

“Well then,” Travis said, “you'll be needin' a deputy, won't you?”

“You volunteering?”

“Anybody else step up?”

“Not so far.”

“Then you don't have much to pick from, do you?”

“But why would you want to do it?” Clint asked. “You're not from this town, you don't know the people involved.”

“I know you,” Travis said.

“No, you don't.”

“Okay,” Travis said, “from what I've observed, you're gonna go after these men alone, and five-to-one odds, that ain't good for anybody.”

“If I take somebody with me,” Clint said, “it would have to be somebody I knew I could trust to watch my back. You I don't know.”

Travis shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” he said. He looked pointedly at the badge in Clint's hand. “You're the law.”

Clint put the badge back in his pocket. He looked at Delia, who had been watching and listening with interest.

“Delia,” he said, “give the man what he wants from the bar on the house.” Then he looked at Travis. “Drink your fill and then go.”

“I'm gone,” Travis assured him.

Clint looked at Delia again.

“I'm going to go and check on Rick's condition, and then I'll be in the sheriff's office.”

“Okay.”

Clint left the saloon and headed for the doctor's office.

 * * * 

“He's resting comfortably,” the doctor said. “That's about all I can say.”

“Is he awake?” Clint asked. “Can I talk to him?”

“Let me check.”

Clint waited while the doctor went into the other room. When he came back, he said, “You can talk to him for a minute.”

“That's all I'll need,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

Clint went into the other room and saw his friend lying in a bed. He'd been through this kind of scene more than he liked to remember in the past. Rick looked pale, but his eyes were open and—most important—he was breathing.

“Hey,” Rick said.

“Rick,” Clint said. “How're you feeling?”

“Rocky,” his friend said. “I've been waitin' for you.”

“Waiting for me? Why?”

“I don't know how long I'll be awake,” Rick said, “or alive. I've got to tell you what I know while I can. You are going after them, right?”

“I am,” Clint said. “First thing in the morning.”

“Well”—Rick licked his lips to moisten them—“one of them called the other one Tom, and I knew I'd seen him in the saloon about a week ago, maybe ten days.”

“This Tom?”

“Yeah,” Rick said. “He was the leader, and he'd been in here before. When I heard his first name, I got it. His name's Tom Barry.”

“Barry,” Clint said. “I don't know that name.”

“Well, he's the leader,” Rick said. “The others do what he says.”

“So they're a gang.”

“That's what I figure.”

“Why did a gang come to town and hit your place rather than a bank?”

“You—you can ask them that when you see them.”

“I will. Anything else I can do?”

“Keep . . . keep the place open.”

“I am,” Clint said. “Delia and the girls are going to take care of it.”

“They're good girls,” Rick said, his eyes fluttering, “they'll do fine.”

“I think so.”

Rick nodded weakly.

“Hey,” Clint said, “before you go to sleep, you've got to tell me which one shot you.”

No answer.

“Rick?”

Still no answer, and from the way he was breathing, Clint could see that he had fallen asleep.

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “I'll just make them all pay. All five of them.”

THIRTEEN

Clint sat behind the desk in the sheriff's office. It was funny—all he'd had when he rode into town was his horse, and now he had two offices, this one and Rick's in the saloon.

First he went through the wanted posters to see if he could find anything for a man named Tom Barry. Normally, he would have sent Rick a telegram to ask him to find out about Barry, but with Rick laid up, he had only one other source. On his way from the doctor's office to the sheriff's office, he had stopped in the telegraph office and sent a message to his friend Talbot Roper, a private detective working out of Denver. If anyone could get him information on the man, Roper could.

He found nothing in the posters. Next he went to the gun rack to see what the lawman had, but there was nothing there that was better than his own Winchester. He remembered, though, that there was a Greener behind the bar at Rick's Place. If it was still there, he could borrow that and take it with him. Fire a shotgun like that into a group of five men and you would immediately cut down the odds.

He left the sheriff's office. Unable to lock the door behind him, he didn't think anyone would go in and steal anything. At least, he hoped no one would. The gun rack was locked, but the key was in the top drawer of the desk. He'd have to suggest to the mayor that they have someone at least sit in the office during the day.

He went to the saloon to check on that Greener.

 * * * 

The place was busy. It was as if word had gone out that Rick was alive, so people thought it was all right to come back.

There was a man behind the bar with Jennifer. Clint looked around, saw Delia working the room with the two other girls.

He stepped to the bar and Jennifer smiled.

“Hi. How's Rick?” she asked.

“He's holding on,” he said.

“Beer?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“This is Cable,” she said, indicating the young man. “He was Henry's relief bartender. That is, when Henry thought he needed relief.”

“Which was hardly ever,” Cable said. “Hello, Mr. Adams. I heard you're in charge now.”

Clint accepted the beer from Jennifer and said to Cable, “That's right. You think you're ready to hire on as the full-time bartender, son?”

“You bet I am.”

“Okay, consider yourself hired.”

“Thanks.”

Delia came over and said, “How's Rick?”

“Okay, so far. I came back for the shotgun behind the bar. If it's still there.”

“Somebody picked it up off the floor after . . . well, after this morning. It's there.”

She went around the bar, brought the shotgun out, and handed it to him.

“I'm going to take this with me,” he said. “I'll bring it back.”

“Hey,” she said, “you're in charge. It's yours.”

“Right. I'm heading for my hotel now, Delia. Going to get some sleep.”

“I'll come by later if I can,” she said. “Things are pretty busy here.”

“I know. I'll see you later, or tomorrow.”

Delia nodded and went back to work. Clint left the saloon.

 * * * 

He was beat by the time he got to his hotel, so he took off his boots, stripped down, and got into bed. In moments he was asleep, with his gun hanging on the bedpost.