The Legend of El Duque

A Deadly Lesson . . .

“I want you to hit the branch, but I want you to cut it in three. Start at the end, make three shots, and by the time you're done, the branch should be gone.”

Mano studied the tree for a few moments, then turned to face it.

“No fast draw, Mano,” Clint said. “Just show me what you can hit.”

“Sí, señor.”

He took a deep breath, drew his gun, then sighted down the barrel.

“Doing that, you're sure to miss,” Clint said.

“B-But I must take aim.”

“Don't aim,” Clint said, “point.”

Mano pointed his gun, but then dropped it.

“What you ask cannot be done.”

Clint drew and fired three times rapidly. The branch grew smaller with each shot, and finally was gone. He quickly reloaded his gun before holstering it.

“Madre de Dios!”
Mano said.

“Never holster your gun until you've replaced the spent shells,” Clint said, “or someday you'll draw your gun and find the hammer falling on an empty chamber.”

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THE LEGEND OF EL DUQUE

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-62237-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / May 2013

Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

ONE

W
YOMING

Bill Werter stared down at his prize bull and shook his head.

“He lived like a king,” he said. “It's a damn shame he had to die this way.”

His daughter, Elizabeth, looked up at her father and asked, “But what will we do? We need a bull.”

Werter looked at his twenty-year-old daughter and said, “Not only a bull, but a champion bull. We need a replacement for a king.”

The vet stood up and faced Werter.

“You can't bring another bull here,” he said, “or the same disease will kill it. You've got to wait until we get rid of it.”

“How do we do that, Doc?” Werter asked.

The vet looked down at the dead bull, then back at Werter.

“We'll have to dip them.”

“The whole herd?” Elizabeth asked.

Doc Tyler nodded. “Yep, all of 'em.”

“That's okay,” Werter said. “It'll take us time to find such a bull, and then get it here.” He looked at Tyler. “Start dippin' 'em. I'll get Ed and the men to work for you.”

“Okay, Bill.”

Werter and his daughter left the barn.

Outside, Ed Hagen and some of the ranch hands were waiting.

“The king is dead,” Werter said. “Ed, go inside. Doc Tyler will tell you what has to be done.”

“Okay, boss.”

“Take some of the boys,” Werter said. “I'm going into town. I'll be back later today.”

“Right.”

Hagen took some of the men into the barn. Werter stopped one of the men and said, “Saddle my horse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll come with you, Pa,” Elizabeth said.

“No,” Werter said. “Stay here. I'll be back later.”

“What are you gonna do, Pa?”

“Send some telegrams,” he said. “Find us a bull. Find us a new king.”

* * *

It took several weeks, but in the end Bill Werter found his replacement. All that remained was to get the bull to Wyoming. It was a long way to come, and for that job he needed a special man, one he could trust with the money, one who could successfully make the trek.

* * *

“I'll go,” Ed Hagen said.

“No,” Werter said, “I need you here.”

“One of the other men, then?” Hagen asked.

“Is there one I can trust to carry the money?” Werter asked. “And not be tempted to gamble it, or drink or whore it away?”

“No,” Hagen said, “we have no men that trustworthy. Maybe not even me.”

Werter looked across his desk at his loyal foreman and said, “I would trust you, Ed, but I need you here. And I'd go myself, but I'm too old to make the trip.”

“You're only sixty, Pa,” Elizabeth said from the door, where she'd been listening.

“And that is too old, my girl,” Werter said. “What are you doing eavesdropping at the door?”

“It's the only way I can find out things,” she said. “You won't confide in me, as you would a son.”

“Forgive me,” he said. “Come in and sit.”

She nodded, entered the room, and sat alongside Ed Hagen, who loved her. At thirty-eight, though, he thought himself too old for her, and so he never spoke of it.

“I'm going to need the both of you in the weeks and months ahead,” he said. “We've lost a lot of stock, and now our bull. But I've finally found us another one.”

“Another king?” she asked.

“No,” Werter said, “but a duke. El Duque, in fact.”

“And where is El Duque?” Elizabeth asked.

“Mexico.”

“Old Mexico?” Hagen asked.

Werter nodded.

“Mexico City.”

“That's a hell of a long way,” Hagen said.

“Well, outside of Mexico City, between there and a place called Queretaro.”

“And how do we get it here?” Hagen asked.

“By wagon, mostly,” Werter said, “some by rail. It's a long trip, there and back.”

“And who could make such a trip?” Elizabeth asked. “And be trusted?”

Werter thought a moment, then said, “I know a man . . .”

TWO

Telegrams had become a big part of Clint Adams's life.

Maybe it was because he had a habit of responding to them. Whenever a friend sent him one asking for help, he got on his horse and rode. That's what it meant to have the Gunsmith as a friend. He was always there when you needed him.

On the other hand, he had received many telegrams offering him money if he would do a job. Unfortunately, most of those people wanted to hire his gun, and no matter how much money they offered, his gun was not for hire.

But when he rode into Fulbright, Wyoming, he was responding to a telegram that was both coming from a friend, and offering him money. He wouldn't know if he was going to accept the money until he knew what the job was. And he wouldn't know that until he got out to Bill Werter's spread.

But it was getting on toward dusk as he rode into Fulbright, and riding out to the ranch would have to be put off until the next day.

The telegram had reached him not in Labyrinth, Texas, where it had been sent to, but in a town called Tucumcari, New Mexico. His friend Rick Hartman had forwarded it to him there, and he had been riding the better part of ten days. It was time to give Eclipse some rest, even if it was only overnight.

He stopped at the livery, made arrangements to have Eclipse cared for, and then made ready early in the morning.

After that he got himself a room at the first hotel he saw. The type of room or price didn't matter; it was just for the one night. He dropped his rifle and saddlebags in the room, and then went for a meal. He found a small café, went inside, and ordered a steak.

He had signed his real name in the hotel register. He knew there was a chance his meal would be interrupted by the law. He was right. He was halfway through his steak when a man wearing a badge appeared at the door.

There were only a few diners in the place, as supper was over and most of the townspeople had gone home. Or they were in a saloon.

As the man approached, Clint studied him. In his forties, wearing a sheriff's badge, a worn gun in a matching holster. He'd been on the job for some time—maybe not this particular town, but he'd been behind some kind of badge for years.

“Mr. Adams?” the man asked.

“That's right.”

“You mind if I sit?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Am I in trouble, or can I keep eating while we talk?”

“No, no,” the sheriff said, “you can keep eatin'. No trouble. I just wanna talk.”

“Then have a seat, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Can I offer you something?”

“No, thanks,” the lawman said, sitting across from Clint, “I already ate supper.”

“Coffee?”

The sheriff hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sure, coffee sounds good.”

Clint waved to the waiter and pointed to his coffee cup, then held up two fingers. Sign language to waiters and waitresses was universal.

“Here ya go, Sheriff,” the waiter said, putting a cup in front of him.

“Thanks, Nate.”

Clint filled the cup from his pot, then went back to his steak.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“My name's Lane. I keep track of folks comin' into town,” the sheriff said. “When I heard you checked into one of our hotels, I figured I'd just check in with you, see what your business is.”

“How'd you know I was here?”

“Closest place to eat to your hotel. I figured you'd be needin' a meal.”

“Good thinking,” Clint said. “You been wearin' a badge a long time.”

“This one for five years, but I been a lawman of one type or another for over twenty years.”

“I figured.”

“So, can you tell me what you're doin' here?”

“Sure,” Clint said. “I'm passing through.”

“On your way to where?”

“Bill Werter's place.”

“The Big W?”

Clint nodded.

“You a friend of Bill's?”

“I am.”

“Is this trip business or pleasure?”

“That's what Bill is going to tell me when I get out there,” Clint said.

“You don't know?”

“Not yet. Bill just asked me to come and see him.”

“Just like that, you came?”

“Just like that.”

The sheriff sat back, sipped his coffee.

“Your friend's got hisself a lot of trouble out there.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Disease.”

“His family?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“Cattle.”

“Texas fever?”

“You'd have to talk to the doc about that,” Sheriff Lane said, “and he's still out there, so you'll probably see him there.”

“Okay, I'll ask him,” Clint said. He finished his steak and pushed the plate away. “I'm going to get a beer to chase this down. You want to join me?”

“Sure,” Sheriff Lane said. “Let's go over to the Brass Bucket.”

“Big place?”

“The biggest.”

“Take me to a small saloon, with only a few people.”

“We got that, too,” Lane said. “Let's go.”