The Gunsmith 387 (10 page)

As Clint approached the church, he saw Father Flynn outside, in the clothes of a peasant, on his knees at the base of one of the church walls. When he saw Clint approaching, he stood up, brushing the dirt off his hands by rubbing them together.

“You look like one of the locals,” Clint said.

“Jesus was a plain man.”

“Right,” Clint said. “A . . . carpenter?”

“That's right.”

There were other men working on different sections of the wall.

“Can we talk? In private?”

“Keep working,” Father Flynn called out. “I will be back.”

“Sí, Padre,” one of them said.

“Come inside,” Father Flynn said. “I have some lemonade.”

“No more whiskey?”

“I have to save it,” the priest said. “I might not have the money to buy any more.”

“Maybe,” Clint said, “I can make a donation.”

“That would be most welcome.”

Clint followed Father Flynn into the church, down the side aisle to the front, and into the sacristy. They then walked beyond it, and into what he assumed was the priest's office. On the desk was a pitcher of lemonade and several glasses. Father Flynn poured two and handed one to Clint. It was ice cold in his hand.

“What's on your mind?”

“I'm thinking I may need someone to back my play.”

Father Flynn stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth.

“And you decided to ask a priest?”

“I'm asking the man I used to know.”

“The man you used to know is dead, Adams,” Flynn said. “I can't help you.”

“Don't even want to hear what the play is?” Clint asked.

“It doesn't matter,” Flynn said. He drank some lemonade, then just stood there and looked at Clint.

“Tell me that if I search this room, I won't find your gun,” Clint said.

Flynn didn't answer. Clint knew he was right. Flynn's gun and holster were somewhere in the room.

“Why would you keep it unless you thought you might have to use it again someday?”

“It would have to be an extreme case,” Flynn said, “to get me to even consider it.”

“I think I'm being set up for something, Father.”

“Then get out while you can,” the priest said. “If you know it's going to happen and you don't get out, then you're a fool.”

“Well, color me a fool, then,” Clint said, “because I can't leave. There are other people to consider.”

“There always are with you,” Flynn said.

“Do you know Avery Castle?”

“I've heard of him.”

“He has a house on the beach,” Clint said. “I would think you'd have seen him around.”

“He's not one of my flock,” Flynn said, “and I don't spend much time at the beach.”

“He has a pregnant wife.”

“And they are two of the people who may also be involved?” Flynn asked.

“Yes.”

“Is your main problem with Sheriff Vazquez?”

“It is.”

Flynn shook his head. “He has a big reputation in Mexico.”

“So I've heard.”

Flynn put his glass down. “I've got to get back to work.”

“Vazquez told me he locked up some bank robbers and murderers a few years ago, and now they've escaped from jail and may be on the way here.”

“So?”

“I'm trying to figure out whether or not he's telling me the truth.”

“He's made a lot of arrests.”

“Was there such a robbery a few years back?” Clint asked him.

“I wasn't here then.”

“Some of your parishioners would probably know,” Clint said. “Could you ask around for me?”

“I can do that much,” Flynn said, “since you warned me of the sheriff's interest in me.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

Father Flynn walked Clint outside, where some of his flock were still working on the wall.

“If I get any answers,” Flynn said, “I'll send them along to your hotel with a messenger.”

“Thanks . . . Father.”

Clint walked away, then turned and watched as Father Flynn joined the members of his flock kneeling at the base of the church wall.

He assumed that a threat to the welfare of his church would qualify as an extreme case.

Rydell saw Chance's name in the hotel register, which confirmed how stupid he was, signing his own name. Rydell signed in as Tom Brown. “John Smith” would have been just too obvious.

He dropped his gear in his room, then walked down the hall to Chance's room and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

He went down to the front desk.

“Have you seen Mr. Chance today?”

“Chance?” the clerk asked, frowning.

“The gringo who rode in yesterday.”

“Ah, room six,” the clerk said. “Yes, I saw him early today, señor, going out just before you arrived. Is he a friend of yours?”

“No, no,” Rydell said, “don't even know him. I just saw another gringo name in the register and thought I'd say hello.”

“Well, he did ask me for directions to a, uh, certain house in town,” the man said.

“Ah,” Rydell said, “I understand. And where would that house be . . .”

 * * * 

Chance was walking around town, but again he didn't see anyone matching the description they had. There were, however, two places he hadn't looked yet. One was the church, and the other was the beach, where, apparently, some people actually had houses. He didn't understand living near the water like that, but then he'd never even seen the ocean. Might as well take a look now, though . . .

 * * * 

Clint walked back to town, wondering what he should do next. He'd talked with both Avery and Father Flynn, pretty much the only people in town he would be honest with. He knew who they were, and they knew who he was. There was really nothing to hide.

As he was approaching his hotel, he saw the same three men who had approached him the day before about the chair. One of them was sitting in it. Apparently, they were going to try him again. He wasn't feeling as charitable as he had been the day before. Maybe dispatching this trio would keep anyone else from bothering him.

He continued on to the front of the hotel.

 * * * 

Rydell was walking down the street, heading for the cathouse to look for Chance, when he saw three men facing one in front of the town's second hotel. He stopped to watch, with interest.

 * * * 

As Clint approached the hotel, the seated man—the spokesman from last time—remained seated as the other two turned to face him.

“Sorry, amigo,” the seated man said, “today the chair is mine.”

“Don't mention it,” Clint said. “Today I'm not interested in sitting.”

“Are you interested in going into the hotel?” the man asked.

“That's what I'm aiming to do.”

One of the other men put his foot up on a post, effectively blocking Clint's entry through the front door.

“
Lo siento
, señor,” he said, obviously
not
sorry.

“Move your leg, friend,” Clint said.

“Did you hear the gringo, Armando?” the seated man asked. “He told you to move your leg.”

Armando looked at Clint with a grin and said, “No spikka da English.”

All three men laughed until Clint grabbed the man's leg and pulled him off the boardwalk, dropping him unceremoniously onto his butt in the street.

The man glared up at Clint with fury in his eyes, and his hand started for his gun.

“Go ahead and do it,” Clint said. Then he pointed to the standing man. “You put your hand near your gun and I'll kill you first.”

Hastily, the man moved his hand as far away from his gun as he could without detaching his arm.

Clint looked down at the man on the ground.

“You want to use that? Then stand up,” he said. “Otherwise just stay where you are.”

The man thought it over, then his shoulders slumped and he remained on the ground.

For the first time Clint turned his full attention to the man in the chair.

“What's your name?”

“I am Santana, señor.”

“You want to take a shot, Santana?”

“No, señor,” the man said. “I am just sitting here.”

Clint walked past all three men carefully and entered the hotel lobby. From there he watched the one man get up from the ground, and then all three men cross the street and walk away—though how far he didn't know.

“Señor,” the desk clerk said.

“Yes?”

“That was Santana, señor.”

“I know,” Clint said. “He introduced himself.”

“He is
muy malo
, señor. Very bad man.”

“I'm hearing that about more and more men in town,” Clint said. “Is there anyone in this town who isn't
muy malo
? First Sheriff Vazquez, then Santana. What about Ernesto Paz?”

“Sí, señor,” the clerk said. “Señor Paz is very bad.”

“And these very bad men, do they ever face each other?” Clint asked.

“That would be silly, señor.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, because they are all connected.”

“In what way?”

“Simple,” the clerk said with a shrug. “They work for Señor Paz.”

“I thought Vazquez worked for the town.”

“Oh no, sir,” the clerk said. “Señor Paz named Señor Vazquez as the sheriff.”

“There was no election?”

“No, señor.”

That was very interesting.

“What happened to the previous sheriff?”

“Well . . .” The clerk seemed reluctant to answer that question.

“Come on, now,” Clint said. “After everything you've told me, you're not going to keep that back, are you?”

“I suppose not, señor.”

“Then what did happen to the former sheriff?”

The clerk shrugged and said, “Señor Vazquez killed him.”

“How?”

“Out there, in the street,” the clerk said. “He is, uh—”

“
Muy malo?
”

“Sí, señor,” the clerk said, “and very deadly with
la pistola
.”

“So I've heard. Now I've got another question.”

“Sí, señor?”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because, señor,” the clerk said, “you are the Gunsmith, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then señor,” the clerk said, “you are also
muy malo
, are you not?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “yeah, I guess I am.”

From across the street, Rydell watched the action, and watched as the three Mexicans walked away, defeated by the gringo.

He thought he knew who the gringo was, but he wanted to make sure.

He crossed the street and peered in the hotel window. The gringo was talking to the desk clerk. He watched and waited. Eventually the gringo nodded, walked away, and mounted the stairs, presumably going to his room.

Rydell entered the hotel and went to the desk.

“Señor, may I help you?” the clerk asked. “Do you need a room?”

“I have a room, thanks, in the other hotel.”

“Oh, señor,” the clerk said, “our rooms are so much better.”

“I'm sure they are, but I'm fine. All I need is a bed,” Rydell said.

“We have better beds.”

“I saw a man come in here, and I think he was a friend of mine,” Rydell said, ignoring the man's sales pitch.

“Señor?”

“A tall man, just now,” Rydell said.

“Ah, you mean Señor Adams.”

“Yes, that's him. Clint Adams, right?”

“Sí, señor,” the clerk said. “He is
muy malo
. A very bad man.”

“That's what I've heard,” Rydell said. “Thanks.”

“Do you want his room number?”

“No, that's okay,” Rydell said. “I'll surprise him when I come down.”

He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back.

“Don't tell him I was askin',” Rydell said. “I want to surprise him, okay?”

“Of course, señor.”

Rydell nodded and left the hotel. As he came out, he spotted a man hurrying down the street, and went to meet him.

 * * * 

After scouting the beach and the church, Hal Chance came running back to town. He had to find Rydell and tell him what he'd found.

When he got to the main street, he saw Rydell come out of the town's second hotel. He rushed to intercept him.

“Cord!”

“Not here!” Rydell said, going past him. “Meet me at the cantina.”

“But which one?”

“The smallest one,” Rydell said, and continued on.

 * * * 

Rydell found the smallest cantina in town. It served drinks, but no food, no girls, and no gambling. For that reason, it also had practically no business.

Perfect.

He ordered a beer and settled down to wait.

 * * * 

Chance checked two cantinas before he found the right one. Rydell was standing at the bar. He went and stood next to him, ordered a beer from the bartender. They waited for the bartender to walk away before they spoke.

“I found him!” Chance said.

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Today. This morning.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, he had somebody with him.”

“Did he see you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dead sure.”

“You better be.”

“So what do we do?”

“You're gonna take me and show me,” Rydell said. “When I'm sure, then we'll move.”

“Okay.” Chance started away from the bar but Rydell stopped him.

“Not now! Finish your beer. Relax,” he ordered. “This has to look natural.”

“Okay,” Chance said, “I get it.”

“What about the local law?”

“Supposed to be a really hard man,” Chance said.

“Have you met him?”

Chance hesitated.

“Aw, Chance . . .” Rydell said.

“I couldn't help it,” Chance said. “I was having a drink in the big cantina and he walked up to me.”

“Did you make eye contact?”

“Just once, when I had to.”

“Does he suspect you?”

“He's a lawman,” Chance said, “I'm a stranger. I'm sure he suspects me. But there's no paper on me, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Guess you better avoid him, huh?”

They both knew there was paper out on Rydell in both Texas and Arizona.

“I will.”

They finished their beers.

“Okay, you go out first. Wait for me at the end of the street, in a doorway or alley or something.”

“Right.”

Hal Chance pushed away his empty beer mug and left the cantina.

“Another, señor?” the bartender asked.

“No,” Rydell said. “What do I owe you?”

Rydell paid what he owed and left the cantina. He found Chance waiting in a doorway.

“Okay,” he said, “show me.”

“This way.”

They left the doorway and Chance led the way.