The Gunsmith 386 (7 page)

Clint found the Wagon Wheel Saloon at the end of town. It was in a building that looked like it was a good stiff breeze away from falling down. As he approached the batwings, he saw that one was hanging sideways on one hinge, ready to fall. He entered carefully, not wanting to be the one who knocked it off.

Inside he saw two people, a bartender and a customer. Even if there had been twenty more, though, he would have known that this customer was the man he was looking for.

Tall—beyond tall, probably close to seven feet—rangy, wearing a long black duster and a black hat with a feather in it. He was bent over a glass of whiskey, with a bottle close at hand. There was also a Winchester on the bar, which Clint assumed belonged to the big man.

The bartender was a broad, beefy man with hairy arms and dark circles under his eyes. He watched as Clint approached the bar.

“You're in the wrong place,” the bartender said.

“I'm looking for a beer.”

“Like I said,” the barman answered, “wrong place. There are other saloons.”

Clint looked around and said, “I like this one.”

“Why?”

“Because this is where I'm supposed to find Cain.”

“Who says?”

“Sheriff Ingram.”

“Why do you need him?”

“For work.”

“You payin'?”

“I am.”

“How much?”

“The goin' rate.”

“For what?”

“For what he does,” Clint said. “Tracking.”

“Who are you?”

“My name's Clint Adams,” Clint said. “I got bushwhacked outside of town. Ingram said he had Cain trying to track the men who tried to kill me. He figures one went to Kirby, and one stayed here.”

“So what do you need?”

“They stole my horse,” Clint said. “I want to get him back.”

“Bad business,” the big man said, “stealin' a man's horse.”

The voice was deep, came rumbling out of his mouth as if from a deep cave.

“Yeah, it is,” Clint replied, turning to face him.

When the man looked up, Clint saw that his eyes were green and startling, his lips thick and red. He had the red skin of an Indian, which made the eyes even more startling.

“Stole from where?”

“The vet's.”

“Doc Martin?”

“Yes.”

Cain stared at Clint, thinking, then said, “I will help you.”

“For how much?”

“I thought you said the going rate.”

“I did.”

“Then that.”

“Okay.”

Cain turned to the bar and poured himself another drink.

“Uh, when?” Clint asked.

“I thought you said you wanted a beer.”

“I do.”

“I can't track at night,” Cain said. He looked at the bartender. Give him a beer, Max.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“A cold one.”

Max hesitated, then said, “Yeah, okay.”

He put a beer on the bar for Clint.

“I appreciate the help,” he said to Cain.

“You are paying me,” Cain said. “That is appreciation enough.”

“Yeah, I guess . . .”

Cain looked at him.

“I know who you are,” he said, “and I know the sheriff sent you to me. Otherwise I would not have even spoken to you.”

“I still appreciate it.”

“Drink your beer,” Cain said. “I will meet you tomorrow morning at the vet's office.”

“Okay,” Clint said, assuming he'd been dismissed. He drank the beer and left the saloon.

Clint spent a restless night. He was worried about Eclipse. He assumed Dunn and Sands had taken the horse so that he'd follow them, try to get him back. But if they had already harmed him . . .

 • • • 

At first light he got dressed, still not having slept very much. He went downstairs to the dining room to have breakfast. While he was eating, Sheriff Ingram came in.

“Join me?” Clint asked.

“Don't mind if I do,” Ingram said.

Clint held up two fingers to the waiter, who brought over two plates of steak and eggs.

“I spoke to Cain,” the sheriff said.

“Before or after I did?” Clint asked.

“After,” Ingram said. “If you don't mind, I'll come along to Doc Martin's.”

“I don't mind,” Clint said. “I can use the help. I'm tracking two men, but there's no telling how many I'll find.”

“That's what I figured.”

 • • • 

After breakfast they walked over to Doc Martin's. Cain was already there, down on one knee in front of the big double doors on the side of the building. The doors were open, and the doc and his daughter, Andrea, were standing there, watching the big half-breed. They looked up as Clint and Ingram approached.

“Mornin', Doc, Andrea,” Ingram said.

“Mornin', Sheriff,” Martin said.

Andrea didn't speak, but she nodded at Clint.

Now the four of them watched as Cain read the ground.

“A lot of tracks here,” he said, but nobody replied. It seemed he was talking to himself.

He got to his feet, but stayed bent over as he seemed to follow some tracks into the street. Clint looked both ways anxiously. He was afraid the big man might get run over by a wagon, but there was no traffic coming.

Finally, Cain looked up at Clint, as if he were the only person there.

“Can you do it?” Clint asked.

“I don't know anyone else who could,” Cain said, “but I can. We'll need horses.”

Clint looked at Ingram.

“Can I use Dusty again?”

“He's yours,” the lawman said.

“I will get my horse and meet you back here,” Cain said.

“Okay.”

The big man walked away, his coat flapping behind him.

“He is a scary man,” Andrea said.

“Good,” Clint said, “I can use a scary man.”

“He's a helluva tracker, though,” Ingram said. “I'll get you that steeldust.”

Ingram walked away and Doc Martin said, “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee while you wait?”

“I'd like that, thanks.”

Clint went inside with the vet and his daughter.

 • • • 

While Cain was saddling his horse in the livery, the sheriff came walkin' in behind him, leading his horse.

“I need you to do somethin' for me, Cain.”

The half-breed turned to face the lawman.

“What is it?”

Ingram produced a deputy's badge.

“Wear this.”

“Why?”

“When you find these men the Gunsmith is lookin' for,” Ingram said, “I need you to keep him from killin' them.”

“I can do that.”

“I think it would be easier for you to do if you're official,” the sheriff said.

Cain stared at the badge.

“I know you don't like badges,” Ingram said. “Wear it as a favor to me.”

Cain studied the tin in Ingram's hand for a few more moments, then took it. He didn't, however, pin it on.

“I'll take it, and carry it,” he said, “but I won't put it on.”

“As long as when the time comes, you show it,” Ingram said.

Cain nodded and put the badge in his pocket.

 • • • 

“Do you really think this Indian can help you find Eclipse?” Andrea asked.

“He seems to know what he's doing,” Clint said, “so I hope so.”

“I hope so, too,” Doc Martin said. “I'm feelin' really guilty about this.”

“Don't,” Clint said. “Apparently this was well planned. In fact, I'm not really sure these two men could have planned it themselves.”

“You think someone is behind this?” Martin asked.

“Lately,” Clint said, “I feel like people are comin' at me, even more than they used to.”

“This is the life you've had to live with,” Martin said, “isn't it?”

“In the past,” Clint said, “they've come at me lookin' for a reputation. Lately, it seems more personal.”

“That must be a hard way to have to live,” Andrea said with a lot of sympathy in her voice.

“It is,” Clint said. “I seemed to be able to handle it better when I was younger. Now I just keep thinking, who hates me that much? And why?”

“You want to sweeten that a bit?” Martin asked, indicating the cup of coffee in Clint's hand.

“Why not?”

Martin took out a bottle of whiskey and poured a dollop into his coffee, and Clint's.

“What do you plan to do when you catch up to them?” the vet asked.

“You might think I want to kill them right away,” Clint said, “and I can't say I don't. When somebody tries to backshoot me, that's my first reaction. But I need to find out who put them up to this.”

“I can see that,” Martin said. “In fact, I can understand either way that you go.”

“But killing . . .” Andrea said, shaking her head.

“You can't understand that?” Clint asked.

“I can't understand killing another human being, no matter the reason,” she said.

“Well then,” Clint said, “I guess you just can't understand me at all.”

“I don't understand your whole life,” she said. “Your reputation just doesn't match the man I've met.”

“There's not much I can do about that,” Clint said. “The reputation is there, it's been there a long time. It's part of me.”

He could tell by the look on Andrea's face that she was still not getting it. That was okay, though. She didn't have to.

Clint was the one who had to understand himself.

Cain returned with his horse, a big Appaloosa. Moments later Ingram came walking up, leading Dusty, his steeldust.

Clint, Martin, and Andrea were waiting outside for them. Clint had the feeling that something had gone on between the two men while they were away. Of course, that could just be because they were friends—if they were, in fact, friends. Ingram certainly had respect for Cain's abilities, and Cain seemed to respect the lawman.

Ingram handed the reins to Clint, who mounted up. Sitting on his Appaloosa, Cain seemed to be even bigger.

“Do we need some supplies?” Clint asked.

“Don't know,” Cain said. “Let's just see where these tracks lead us.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Lead the way.”

“Good luck,” Doc Martin said.

“Let me know if you need anythin' from me,” Ingram told them.

“We will,” Clint said.

Cain started off, giving the horse his head as he stared down at the ground. Clint didn't know how he was picking out their particular set of wagon wheel tracks, but he followed.

 • • • 

Clint couldn't believe how Cain was able to follow the wagon tracks down the main street, which was filled with ruts and tracks from days of traffic.

When they reached the end of town, Cain drew his horse to a halt. Clint rode up alongside him and stopped.

“The tracks become more clear here.”

“How the hell did you follow them this far?”

“It's your horse,” Cain said. “He's trailin' along behind the wagon. I am following him.”

“What is there about his track that makes him easy to follow?” Clint asked. “I've never noticed a particular marking in his hooves myself.”

“It is the size,” Cain said. And that was all.

“Should we keep going?” Clint asked.

“I think,” Cain said, “we need some supplies.”

 • • • 

They returned to town for a few supplies, just enough so that they could make camp if they had to. They didn't bother checking in with Sheriff Ingram. They made their purchases at the mercantile, and then rode right out of town again.

At the edge of town, Cain once again located the tracks left by the wagon and Eclipse, and they took up the chase again.

 • • • 

Derrick Sands entered the cabin as Adam Dunn was pouring some coffee.

“So?” Dunn asked.

“That animal is a devil,” Sands said. “I don't know how we got it this far.”

“Well, the girl helped,” Dunn said. “She kept him calm.”

“Yeah, well, it ain't calm now.”

“Who's out there with him?”

“Sonora.”

“Good,” Dunn said, “he's our best handler.”

Sands sat down at the table, poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Do you really think this is the way to go?” he asked.

“Why not?” Dunn asked. “Adams needs that horse. The trail will lead him right here. And we have enough men to take care of him.”

“Yeah,” Sands said, “we thought we left enough men in Orwell to take care of him.”

“The problem there was, we weren't there,” Dunn said. “I'm sure it all went wrong because of that idiot you recruited.”

“Pierce?”

Dunn nodded.

“Yeah, you're probably right,” Sands said, “but he was the best I could do.”

“Well,” Dunn said, “the men we have now are better. Don't worry, it's all gonna work out.”

“I hope so,” Sands said. “I really wanna get paid for this job.”

“Don't worry, we will. We get him in this canyon and he won't have a chance.”

 • • • 

Clint was surprised—and yet he wasn't—when the trail led to Kirby, the town where Sands had sent Dunn a telegram.

“Did they stop here?” Clint asked. They had stopped just on the outside of town.

“I will have to look around,” Cain said. “I will see if they rode through town, or if they stopped somewhere.”

“I'll stop in and see the local law,” Clint said. “Do you know him?”

“No, I do not,” Cain said. “I do not even know his name.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “I'll go and introduce myself to him, tell him what's going on.”

“First you must decide if you trust him,” Cain said.

“I know that,” Clint said. “Believe me, I've learned not to trust a man just because he's wearing a badge.”

At the mention of a badge, Cain put his hand on his pocket for some reason, but didn't say anything.

“Where should we meet?” Clint asked.

“Saloon.” “Which one?”

“Whichever one has the least amount of people in it,” Cain said.

“Gotcha,” Clint said.

The two men split up there, Cain searching for more tracks, Clint looking for the sheriff's office.