The Gunsmith 387 (11 page)

Clint went to his room and moved directly to his window, which overlooked the front of the hotel. He looked for the three Mexicans but didn't see them. He did, however, see two other men, who looked like gringos.

They didn't seem to know each other, but one of them looked like he had come out of the hotel. They walked past each other without seeming to acknowledge one another, which was odd for two gringos in a Mexican town. When you came across a countryman in a foreign country, you tended to talk, if not bond. These two had ignored each other.

Or had they?

He left the room and hurried down to the lobby. The clerk looked up quickly as he approached.

“Was anybody in here looking for me?”

The clerk hesitated, and stammered.

“Well . . . he told me not to tell.”

“It's okay,” Clint said. “You can tell me. What did he want?”

“He just said you were friends, and he wanted to surprise you.”

“How nice. Thanks.”

“Did I do anything wrong, señor?” the clerk asked nervously.

“No,” Clint said, “nothing at all.”

He left the hotel.

He looked both ways on the street, did not see anyone. Not the Mexicans, not the gringos. Only some of the town citizens, and not many of them.

Clint headed for the sheriff's office.

 * * * 

As he entered the office, Domingo Vazquez looked up from his desk.

“Clint.”

“Domingo,” he said, “do you know anything about two gringos being in town?”

“You mean other than you?”

“Naturally.”

“Just one other,” Vazquez said. “A sloppy-looking gringo at that.”

“Well, I saw a sloppy-looking one, but I also saw another one.”

“Were they together?”

“They took great pains not to seem to be together,” Clint said.

Vazquez frowned.

“This is not your trouble, is it?” Clint asked. “Were any of the escaped prisoners gringos?”

“No, they were not,” Vazquez said. “Perhaps these two are here for you.”

“Speaking of somebody being here for me, I had another run-in with those three Mexicans.”

“Yes?”

“I dissuaded them again.”

“Any bloodshed?”

“None.”

“Well, that's good.” Vazquez stood up, took his sombrero from a peg on the wall. “I suppose I should look into these two gringos.”

They walked outside together.

“What will you be doing?” he asked.

“Not sure,” Clint said. “Maybe I'll go and have a talk with somebody who might be able to shed some light on everything.”

“Will you tell me who that would be?” Sheriff Vazquez asked.

“I will,” Clint said, “as soon as I figure it out.”

They split up.

Clint went to the Cantina Carmelita. He knew who he wanted to talk to, he just didn't want to tell Vazquez. He didn't want the lawman around for the conversation.

It seemed all the
muy malo
men in town worked for Ernesto Paz, so it was Paz he decided to talk to.

He stopped at the bar and ordered a beer.

“Is Señor Paz in?” he asked when the bartender brought the beer.

“Sí, señor.”

“Would you tell him I'd like to see him, please?” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”

“Of course, señor,” the bartender said. “I know who you are.”

The bartender left the bar and walked to the back of the room. The thing about the Carmelita was that it was so big it was always doing a good business, no matter what time it was. Clint looked around at the bored faces in the place. He didn't see any of the three Mexicans he'd encountered twice in front of his hotel, or either of the two gringos he'd seen in the street earlier.

The bartender returned and said, “
Por favor
, this way, please, señor.”

“Gracias.”

He followed the bartender to the door in the back, where the man said, “You may go in, señor.”

“Thanks.”

Clint had been in many saloon offices in the United States. This one was hardly any different, with a desk, some chairs, some files, and Ernesto Paz sitting behind the desk.

There were many experiences Clint had repeated over and over again in his life. This was one of them.

“Ah, Mr. Adams,” Paz said. “Please, have a seat.”

Clint sat across from Paz.

“Some brandy?”

“No, thanks,” Clint said. “I'm fine.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You can call your men off,” Clint said. “I don't know what your goal was in sending them to harass me, but it has to stop. There may be some real trouble headed this way, and I can't be wasting my time with them.”

“Well, I am disturbed to hear that trouble is coming,” Paz said, “but I don't understand what you are saying about my men. What men?”

“One of them is named Santana,” Clint said.

“How do you know his name?” Paz asked.

“He introduced himself.”

Ernesto Paz looked annoyed that the man had volunteered his name.

“You know Santana, don't you?”

He saw Ernesto very briefly consider lying, before he spoke.

“Sí, he works for me.”

“So why would he come after me himself?” Clint asked. “You sent him, didn't you?”

“I did not,” Paz lied. “Perhaps he wanted to test his mettle against the famous gringo, the Gunsmith.”

“Well, if that was it, he didn't do a very good job of it,” Clint said. “Look, whether you sent him or not, he works for you. So you tell him I don't have time for him. If he braces me again, I'll kill him. Got it?”

“I have it, señor,” Paz said. “I will pass your words on to Santana.”

Clint stood up.

“If I have to kill him, or one of his compadres, I'll hold you responsible, and I'll be back to see you.”

Paz stiffened. So far all that Clint had seen in the man was an amiable attitude. Suddenly he was cold.

“I do not take well to threats, señor.”

“Then don't consider it a threat, Señor Paz,” Clint said. “Consider it a promise.”

Clint did not wait for the man to say anything in return. He'd made his point, and he walked out.

Rydell and Chance approached the church.

“There he is,” Chance said.

“Where?”

“There,” Chance said, pointing.

“I see a bunch of peasants, most of them old men, and a priest.”

“Right.”

Cord Rydell looked at Chance and said, “What the hell, Hal?”

“Look at the priest, Cord,” Chance said. “That's him.”

“I gotta get a closer look.”

They walked up to the church together. The people stopped working to look at them. The priest turned and stared at the two of them.

“Jesus Christ,” Rydell said. “It is you.”

“I don't know—”

“Don't deny it,” Rydell said. “Just go inside and get your gun.”

“I can't do that,” Father Flynn said.

“Why not?”

“I'm a priest.”

“That's crap.”

“No,” Father Flynn said, “I really am a priest.”

Rydell stared at him.

“This is a dodge.”

“No, it isn't,” Father Flynn said, “I have been ordained.”

“I don't care,” Rydell said. “I ain't sayin' you ain't a priest. I'm sayin' you became a priest as a dodge.”

“What do you want?”

“I've been hired to kill you,” Rydell said. “You left behind some people who hate you.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“That won't do,” Rydell said.

“Then draw your weapons and kill me,” Father Flynn said, spreading his arms.

“We will,” Rydell said, “but I'm tellin' you to go inside and put on your gun.”

“I don't have a gun.”

“That's crap, too,” Rydell said. “Even if I retired, I'd keep my gun. You have, too.”

“I can't put a gun on again.”

“I tell you what,” Rydell said. “If you don't put on your gun, we're gonna kill you anyway—but first I'll kill all of them.” He pointed at the men who had been working on the church.

“You can't.”

“I will!”

From behind the church a man named Enrique heard all of this. The two gringo gunmen had not seen him, so he turned and ran to town.

 * * * 

Clint was coming out of the Carmelita when he saw a man running down the street.

“Señor, señor,” he said breathlessly.

“Take it easy,” Clint said. “What's wrong?”

“Señor, I saw you at the church,” the man said. “You are friends with Father Flynn?”

“I am,” Clint said, rather than explain his real relationship with the priest.

“They are going to kill him, señor.”

“Who? Who's going to kill him?”

“Two gringo gunmen,” he said.

“What's your name?”

“Enrique, señor.”

“Enrique, go and tell the sheriff what you told me.”

“Señor, you will not let them kill the priest?”

“I'm sure going to try,” Clint said. “Now go!”

Enrique ran toward the sheriff's office, while Clint took off running toward the church.

When Clint came within sight of the church, he stopped. The two gringos were outside, with a bunch of Father Flynn's parishioners. Father Flynn, however, was nowhere to be seen. Clint assumed the priest had been allowed to go inside the church to get his gun.

He circled around behind the church so he could enter from the back. Once inside he found his way to the priest's sacristy, and then his office, where he found Father Flynn sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.

“Father.”

Flynn looked up with an anguished look on his face.

“I can't,” he said. “I can't kill . . . but if I don't, they will kill my people.”

“So I heard.”

“Wha—how did you—”

“A man named Enrique came and got me.”

“I wondered where he was,” Flynn said. “I thought he was hiding.”

“I sent him to get the sheriff.”

“He probably won't get here in time.”

“All right, look . . . Father. I'll go out there for you.”

Father Flynn lifted his face from his hands and stared at Clint.

“I will . . . but you're going to owe me a favor.”

“A favor,” Flynn said. “What kind of favor?”

“I'll tell you when the time comes.”

Flynn was about to say something else when a voice came from outside.

“Time's up, Father,” the man shouted. “I'm gonna shoot the first one.”

“All right, all right!” Flynn said. “I owe you a favor. Anything! Just don't let them shoot any of my people.”

“All right,” Clint said. “Stay here.”

He turned and walked to the front of the church.

 * * * 

“What if he don't come out?” Chance asked Rydell.

“He'll come out,” Rydell said. “He ain't gonna let us kill any of these people. Not if he's really a priest.”

“Yeah, but what if he don't care? What if he went out the back door and he's gone?”

A look came into Rydell's eye, but it disappeared when a man stepped out of the church.

“That ain't the priest,” Chance said.

“No,” Rydell said, recognizing the man from in front of the hotel, “it ain't.”

 * * * 

Clint stepped out, saw the two men right away, standing with some of Father Flynn's parishioners.

“Okay, you can let them go now,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Why's that, friend?”

“Father Flynn isn't coming out,” Clint answered. “You get me instead.”

“How's that?”

“Father Flynn is a priest,” Clint said. “He can't strap on a gun.”

“We're not here for Father Flynn,” Rydell said. “We're here for the man he used to be.”

“Well, that man's dead,” Clint said. “Instead, you get me.”

“Who is this fella?” Chance asked. “You ever see him before, Cord?”

“Yeah,” Cord said, “I saw him in front of the hotel. He faced down three Mexicans.”

“That a fact? Kill any of 'em?”

“No, just dumped one in the dirt and then invited them all to go for their guns.”

“And none of them did?”

“Nope.”

“So who is he?”

“I don't know,” Rydell said, “and I don't care. We gotta go through him to get to the priest.”

“We can do that,” Chance said.

“Yeah, we can.”

“No,” Clint said, stepping away from the doorway, “you can't.”

“Move,” Rydell said to the peasants, waving them away.

They ran off, but not so far that they couldn't watch.

Rydell moved away from the church, as did Chance. Clint could see these two had done this before. They made sure there was a lot of space between them.

“You're makin' a big mistake, mister,” Rydell said. “This ain't your affair.”

“I'm making it my affair.”

“But why?”

“I've got to go to confession,” Clint said. “Can't do that with a dead priest, can I?”

“Mister,” Rydell said, “I'll let the priest live just long enough to give you the last rites. How's that?”

“Stop talking,” Clint said.

The two men went for their guns.

Clint didn't know their names, never did learn them. Rydell was slightly faster; Clint could see that as they both reached for their iron. So he drew and shot Rydell first, through the chest. He knew it was a killing shot without even checking. He immediately turned his attention to the other man—Chance—and shot him in the stomach before he could clear leather.

Chance's eyes went wide as the bullet punched him. All the air went out of his lungs. He never did get the gun out. He went down onto his butt in a seated position, a frown on his face. He looked down at his belly, which was leaking blood, tried to cover it with both hands, but instead his hands dropped to his sides, and he fell over sideways, face in the dirt.

Clint walked over to them and checked. They were both dead.

“Señor,” Enrique said, running up to him. “You did it.”

Clint looked at him, looked around for Vazquez.

“Where's the sheriff?”

“I could not find him, señor.”

“All right,” Clint said. “Go inside and get Father Flynn.”

“Sí, señor.”

As Enrique entered the church, Clint ejected the two spent shells, reloaded the gun, and holstered it. The other men came back toward him slowly, unsure of what to do.

“You fellas can go back to work,” he said.

They stared at him.

“Uh . . .
trabajo
,” he said, “back to work!”

Suddenly, they understood, and went back to what they had been doing.