The Gunsmith 385 (8 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

In the morning Laura made eggs for them to the best of her abilities. They were a little dry, but hot.

“These eggs are really—” Davis started to complain, but a hard look from Clint changed his mind. “Good.”

“If you had just asked me to sell you a horse, I probably would have,” Laura said. “And then I might have even cooked you a meal.”

Davis was young, just a little older than Travis, and probably did very well with the ladies. Clint wondered what else he would have gotten if he had been the only man there.

“That brings up a problem,” Travis said.

“What's that?” Clint asked.

“We need a horse for Davis.”

Clint looked at the man and said, “Well, we could make him walk.”

“Aw no . . .” Davis said.

“I can lend you a horse,” Laura said. “You can leave it for me at the livery in Millard.”

Clint and Travis exchanged a glance.

“I guess that means we're goin' to Millard,” Travis said.

“Or,” Clint said, “one of us could go to Millard and the other could stay on the trail.”

“And which one of us do you have staying on the trail?” Travis asked.

“Well, me, of course,” Clint said.

“And so you'll catch up to them and have nobody to watch your back.”

“You'll catch up to me before then,” Clint said.

“Maybe.”

“All right, then,” Clint said, “we'll both go to Millard. It's not that big a detour.”

“I could take him to Millard,” Laura said.

They both looked at her.

Sure,” she said. “Tie him up and throw him in the back of my buckboard. I'll take him to the sheriff and tell him what happened.”

“Do you have a gun?” Travis asked.

“A rifle,” she said. “I was out in the barn when he got here, and my rifle was in the house, or I would've run him off. Believe me, I can take care of myself.”

Again, Clint and Travis exchanged a glance.

“Hey, the lady can take me,” Davis said. “I won't try nothin'.”

“If you do,” she said, “it's the last thing you'll ever try.”

“What do you think?” Travis asked.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “I have to go to town for supplies anyway. What harm can he do tied up?”

“We wouldn't lose any time this way,” Clint said.

“But I'll do it under one condition.”

“What's that?” Clint asked.

“That you stop here on your way back and tell me what happened.”

“It's a deal,” Clint said.

“Then we better all get ready to go,” Travis said.

 * * * 

About twenty minutes later Clint and Travis dumped Davis, trussed up even better than he had been overnight, into the back of Laura's buckboard. She was sitting in her seat with her rifle propped next to her.

“Now don't stop anywhere along the way,” Clint said. “Just get him to town as quickly as you can.”

“Don't worry,” she said, “I can handle this.”

They went to the livery and brought their saddled horses out. They rode part of the way with her, but when the road forked, she headed for Millard, and they headed north.

TWENTY-SIX

Sitting at a table in the Queen of Hearts Saloon in Waco, Tom Barry nursed a beer and tried to figure out how to get rid of his men.

Kane and O'Brien were standing at the bar. Hastings was off someplace with some whore. It occurred to Barry that if he could get Kane and O'Brien killed in a bar fight, he wouldn't have to worry about them anymore. And he could tell Hastings it wasn't his fault.

He looked around him, spotted two tables with poker games going on. Both games had house dealers. At one table the chips were pretty much evenly distributed. The other table, however, presented a different story. One player had most of the chips in front of him. Three of the other players didn't seem to mind that much, as if their attitude was “ho hum, just another night of losing money . . .”

One man, however, was not as resigned as the others. Barry could see that if he was any madder, he'd have steam coming out of his ears.

This was his man.

Barry watched and listened, saw the man throw his cards down and exclaim, “How the hell—I just can't figure it.” He was getting furious.

All Barry had to do was wait . . .

 * * * 

Tracy Hastings stared out the window of the whorehouse. He knew down deep that after Tom Barry managed to get rid of both Kane and Irish O'Brien, he'd get rid of him, too. And for only four thousand dollars. The best thing for him to do would be to ride out now and forget about it. Only he couldn't. He didn't want to let Barry get the better of him.

“Hey, baby,” the whore said from behind him. “You gonna leave me like this?”

He turned and looked at her. She had a wide ass, big pendulous breasts, was forty if she was a day, but it had been a while since he'd been with a woman. She had nice skin, and she smelled good. He'd been right in the middle of fucking her when he started to think. When he started to think, his dick got soft.

“Come on, baby,” she said, “I'll get it hard for you again. I know just how to do it.”

“I bet you do,” Hastings said.

“Don't make me come over there and grab you by your tallywacker,” she said. “Bring it over here and I'll suck it dry.”

He felt it twitch. He loved it when a whore talked dirty to him.

“Whatever you're thinkin' about,” she said, “why don't you think about it later.”

“Okay,” he said, turning to face her, “you got me convinced.”

 * * * 

“Where's Hastings?” Kane asked.

“He's at the whorehouse.”

“Why ain't we at the whorehouse?” Kane asked.

“Because we wanted whiskey first.”

“What the hell is wrong with us?”

“Damned if I know.”

“How long we stayin' here?” Kane asked.

“Barry said overnight.”

“Then we better go get fucked,” Kane said.

“I agree.”

They drained their glasses and slapped them down on the bar.

 * * * 

Sometimes, Tom Barry thought, things just work in your favor. As soon as Kane and O'Brien left the saloon, the fella at the poker table won a few hands.

It was perfect.

 * * * 

Clint and Travis camped about thirty miles outside Waco.

“If we rode all night, we could make it,” Travis said.

“I want them bad,” Clint said, “but not bad enough to risk my neck, and my horse, at night. Why don't you go ahead and I'll meet you there.”

“Because I'm here to cover your back,” Travis said. “I can't do that if I ride ahead of you, can I?”

“Then shut up and drink the coffee and eat the beans,” Clint said.

“I'll eat the beans,” Travis said, “but I'm not going to drink any more of your coffee. I think I'll just drink water out of my canteen.”

“Suit yourself,” Clint said, picking up the pot. “More for me.”

“How the hell have your insides not just rotted away?” Travis asked.

“They probably have,” Clint said. “They probably already have.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

The poker player took the break Barry was waiting for. As he got up from the table and walked to the bar, so did Tom Barry.

As the man ordered a drink, Barry sidled up alongside him and said, “I'll have one, too, on my friend here.”

The man looked at him and asked, “Why would I buy you a drink? I don't know you.”

“You're gonna buy me a drink because I've got somethin' to tell you. Somethin' you're gonna find real interestin'.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It is.”

The man studied him for a moment, then looked at the bartender. “Steve, get the man a drink.”

“My name's Tom Barry,” Barry said.

“Drew Stubbs,” the gambler said. “What's on your mind?”

Barry took the whiskey from the bartender.

“Seems your luck has changed, all of a sudden.”

“So?”

“Ever wonder how that happens?”

“No,” Stubbs said. “I play enough to know that it does, though.”

“Well,” Barry said, “today I can tell you why.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It is.”

“Okay, then . . . why?”

Barry drained his glass and held it up.

“Give him another, Steve,” Stubbs said. “This better be good.”

“Oh,” Barry said, “it will be.”

Stubbs listened to what Barry had to say, then looked at the bartender.

“What about it, Steve?”

“Well, he's right about one thing,” the bartender said. “There was two fellas standing right here.”

Stubbs turned and looked at the card table. He saw that someone could easily see his cards from here.

“Did they signal anybody?” he asked.

“I wouldn't know,” the barman said, “but then if they was sendin' signals, they wouldn't do it so anybody could see, would they?”

“No,” Stubbs said, “they wouldn't.”

Stubbs looked at Barry, but spoke to the bartender.

“And did my luck change as soon as they left?”

“Seemed to,” the bartender said.

“Shit,” Stubbs said.

“I told you it'd be interestin',” Barry said.

Stubbs looked at Steve and asked, “Where are the boys?”

“Whorehouse.”

“And what were these two fellas talkin' about before they left?”

“Going to the whorehouse,” Steve said. “In fact, they asked me where it was.”

Stubbs drank his whiskey down and said, “Perfect.”

 * * * 

Kane was in a room at the whorehouse with a little blonde, while O'Brien had picked out an Irish-looking girl who said he could call her Sinead. She had long brown hair, long legs, and pert little tits.

Kane had the blonde on her belly, was rubbing his long, skinny dick on her ass cheeks, when the door slammed open.

“What the—” he said, looking over his shoulder. Three men entered the room, guns drawn.

“This is what we do to cheaters in Waco,” one of them said.

He grabbed Kane by his long hair and pulled him off the bed, dragging him to the floor.

“What the hell—” he started, but that's as far as he got before they cut his throat.

 * * * 

In a room down the hall, O'Brien didn't hear the ruckus. He was too busy watching the Irish-looking girl. She was undressing in slow motion, first uncovering her hard, brown nipples, and then the big bush between her legs. That done, she ran her hands over her own body, sliding one hand down between her legs.

O'Brien had a raging erection when the door to the room slammed open.

“Hey, what do you think—”

Three men entered, guns in their hands. One of them already had blood on him as he drew a knife.

O'Brien made a grab for his gun, but it was too far away.

“This is what happens to cheaters,” the man with the knife said.

O'Brien felt a hand beneath his chin, and then intense pain before . . .

 * * * 

In still another room Tracy Hastings heard the activity, got off the bed, and opened the door to his room only slightly. He saw three men in the hall, one of them covered with blood. He waited until they had gone down the steps before he opened the door and ran down the hall, naked. He looked into the room with the open door, saw a frightened girl on the bed, and Irish O'Brien on the floor with his throat cut.

“What happened?” he asked the girl.

She stared at him and said, “I don't know nothin'!”

He moved farther down the hall, found another open door. Another girl, this one blond, was on the bed with her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. On the floor Kane lay in a pool of blood, a great, yawning wound where his throat used to be.

“Jesus,” he said. He looked at the girl. “What the hell happened in here?”

“T-They just came in and . . . and killed him,” she said.

“Who?”

“I—I don't know,” she said.

“You didn't recognize them?”

The girl stared at him for a moment, then lifted her chin and said, “I don't know nothin'.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Clint and Travis rode into Waco in the afternoon. Clint had decided to stop first at the sheriff's office. Travis had no objection.

They reined in and tied their horses in front, knocked on the door, and entered.

A man was coming out of the cell block carrying a tray. He stopped and looked at them.

“Feeding time at the zoo,” he said. “Lunch.”

“Are you the sheriff?” Clint asked.

“I am. Sheriff Mike Dalman.” He was gray-haired, solidly built, in his fifties. “What can I do for you?” He put the tray down on his desk, hung the cell keys on a wooden peg. His gun was also hanging there.

“My name's Clint Adams,” Clint said. “This is my partner, Travis.”

“Adams?” the sheriff said. “The Gunsmith?”

“That's right,” Travis said.

“What are you doin' in Waco?”

“We tracked four men here,” Clint said.

“Tracked? Are you lawmen? Or bounty hunters?”

“Neither,” Clint said. “They shot and robbed a friend of mine in Labyrinth, Texas.”

“Labyrinth? Where's that?”

“South Texas.”

“He dead?”

“Not when I left.”

“If he's dead, it's murder.”

“I know that.”

“You know the names of the men you're trackin'?” Dalman asked.

Over breakfast Davis had given them the names of the men riding with Tom Barry.

“Tracy Hastings, Irish O'Brien, and Zeke Kane. They're riding with a man named Tom Barry.”

“O'Brien and Kane, huh?”

“That's right.”

“Well, you won't have to worry about them anymore,” Dalman said.

“Why's that?”

“They're dead.”

“Who killed 'em?” Travis asked.

The sheriff jerked his thumb back into the cells and said, “The fellas I got locked up in there.”

“Why?” Clint asked. “What happened?”

“Well, I've got a fella named Stubbs in there who thinks that O'Brien and Kane were cheating him at cards.”

“They were playin' cards?” Travis asked.

“No, they were standin' behind him at the bar, signaling to someone what his cards were. He didn't take kindly to that, so he and two of his compadres cut their throats.”

“In the saloon?” Travis asked.

“No, the whorehouse,” Dalman said. “I arrested them for murder.”

“Why did they think O'Brien and Kane were cheating?” Clint asked.

“Apparently, that's what Stubbs was told.”

“By who?”

“A fella named Tom Barry.”

“Barry gave up his own men?” Travis asked.

“He's down to one,” Clint said. “He's only got Hastings to get rid of and then he can keep the money for himself.”

“Typical,” the sheriff said. “Thieves fallin' out.”

“Can I talk to the prisoners?” Clint asked.

“Sure, I don't see why not,” Dalman said. “Go ahead in.”

“Thanks.”

“Leave your guns with me,” Dalman said.

Travis started to take his off, but Clint said, “I can't give up my gun, Sheriff. You understand. I'll stay away from the bars.”

Dalman frowned, then said, “Yeah, okay.”

Travis took his hands away from his gun belt, and followed Clint into the cell block.

There were three men, each in a cell, all three lying on their cots.

“Hello, gents,” Clint said. “I hear you fellas took care of some card cheats.”

One man lifted his head to look at him. The others remained as they were, one on his side, the other on his back with his arm across his eyes.

“What's it to you?” the man asked.

“Which one are you?” Clint asked.

“Stubbs.”

“Ah, the card player.”

“I play, yeah. What of it?”

“I understand how mad a cheater can make you, Drew, but cutting their throats was not the way to go.”

Stubbs stuck his prominent chin out and said, “I got mad.”

“Or somebody got you mad,” Clint said.

Stubbs didn't say anything.

“Seems a fella named Barry got you all riled up,” Clint said.

“So?”

“So I'm looking for Tom Barry.”

“Well, you better find him before I do,” Drew Stubbs growled.

“That looks pretty likely,” Clint said. “I'm out here and you're in there.”

Stubbs stuck his chin out again.

“When I track him down,” Clint said, “I can give him your best.”

“Before you do what?”

“Kill him.”

Stubbs rubbed his jaw now and said, “That don't sound too bad. Whataya need from me?”

“Anything you can give us,” Clint said. “Something he said, maybe.”

“He just told me the names of the men who were cheating me,” Stubbs said.

“And you believed him?”

“Why not?” Stubbs demanded. “I was losing while they were there, and I started to win after they left. What would you think?”

“That my luck had changed, period. Nobody's fault,” Clint said. “But hey, that's just me. Did he tell you who they were passing signals to?” Clint asked.

Stubbs looked uncomfortable with that question.

“Um, no, he didn't.”

“Because really, that's the person who was cheating you, wasn't it?”

“I suppose.”

“So Barry was probably lying to you.”

Stubbs frowned.

“You mean . . . they wasn't really cheatin', after all?” he asked.

“No, maybe they weren't.”

“So I killed two innocent men?”

“Well, they weren't innocent,” Clint said. “In fact, there might even be a reward—but you'd have to get out jail to collect it.”

“Can you get me out?” he asked, tightening his hands on the bars.

“Hey,” one of the other men said, “us, too.”

“Sorry,” Clint said, “there's nothing I can do to get any of you out. You're going to have to stand trial. But like I said, I can give Barry your best.”

“Even if I can't help you?” Stubbs said. “I don't know nothin'.”

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I'll do it anyway.”

“Then do me a real favor, mister.”

“What's that?”

“When you catch up to the sonofabitch,” Stubbs said, “give him my worst.”