Bandit Gold Read online

  Other Books By J.R. Roberts

  Macklin’s Women

  The Chinese Gunmen

  The Woman Hunt

  The Guns of Abilene

  Three Guns for Glory

  Leadtown

  The Longhorn War

  Quanah’s Revenge

  Heavyweight Gun

  New Orleans Fire

  One-Handed Gun

  The Canadian Payroll

  Draw to an Inside Death

  Dead Man’s Hand

  Bandit Gold

  Buckins and Six

  Silver War

  High Noon at Lancaster

  Bandido Blood

  Dodge City Gang

  Sasquatch Hunt

  Bullets and Ballots

  Riverboat Gang

  Bandit Gold

  J.R. Roberts

  SPEAKING VOLUMES, LLC

  NAPLES, FLORIDA

  2013

  THE GUNSMITH

  #15 BANDIT GOLD

  Copyright © 1983 by Robert J. Randisi

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  9781612323886

  Table of Contents

  Other Books By J.R. Roberts

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  To

  Ms. Damaris Lowland

  Best Wishes Always

  Chapter One

  Hell is supposed to be the final destination of evil souls after death, but many citizens of Brownsville, Texas would have claimed that it had arrived in their town that summer. The afternoon heat created an inferno for the living—be they pure of heart or devoted sinner.

  Neither description aptly fit Clint Adams, but he had ridden into the furnace and had to suffer along with everybody else. Clint shifted his backside along the wooden seat of the wagon, feeling the sweat-soaked cloth cling to his buttocks. He held the reins loosely in one hand and used the other to dab his face and neck with a wetted-down neckerchief, allowing the team to set their own leisurely pace. Occasionally he’d glance back to see how Duke was holding up. The big black Arabian gelding, tied to the rear of the wagon, trotted along without any sign of fatigue. Still, white lather streaked the animal’s magnificent coat, evidence that he too needed to get out of the heat of the merciless Texas sun.

  “No more poker,” Clint vowed hoarsely, although he knew he’d never keep that promise.

  Well, it would be a while before he got into another high-stakes game with a tableful of players he didn’t know. He’d sat down to a card game of five-card stud in a saloon in Laredo and started off pretty well, winning enough hands to get overconfident. He broke two of his normally ironclad rules: He’d allowed himself to drink too much free liquor and paid too much attention to a stunning redhead who hovered by his side throughout the game.

  He’d gotten a bit careless and wound up losing enough of his bankroll to put himself in a bind. Well, that sort of thing happened from time to time. The old proverb about being unlucky at cards, however, held true after the game. The redhead and Clint spent an enjoyable night together before he left Laredo.

  Brownsville was a hell of a distance from Laredo, but it was still the closest honest-to-God city. That’s what Clint needed right now, a city full of people. Lots of people meant plenty of potential customers. One nice thing about Texas was that just about everybody owned a gun and most folks owned quite a few. That meant there’d be lots of firearms in need of parts, repairs or modifications. What better place for the “Gunsmith” to practice his trade?

  Clint sighed, thinking of the irony involved in how he’d gotten that title. He hadn’t been a real gunsmith when a newspaperman discovered that Deputy Sheriff Clint Adams, who had already acquired an unwanted reputation as being one of the fastest guns in the West, had an expertise for fixing and modifying firearms. Wishing to add color to his story, the newsman christened him the “Gunsmith” and he’d been trying to cope with the moniker ever since. He never tried to live up to it and he’d often tried to live it down, but he’d eventually decided he simply had to live with it.

  Brownsville had grown rapidly since the War Between the States to become one of the key cities in Texas. There were several large cattle ranches in the area and drives of white-faced Herefords from Baltimore were delivered to Corpus Christi and eventually found their way to Brownsville, making it the livestock capital of the Lone Star State.

  Saloons, tanneries, blacksmith shops and even haberdasheries made a good profit in Brownsville. It was located close enough to the border to attract business from Mexican cattle buyers and close enough to the Gulf to attract a lot of seaport trade, and with the addition of the railroad, business coming in and going out of the city had increased as well.

  The streets of Brownsville were flanked by an assortment of buildings, some of them four stories high. However, the severe heat had driven most of the citizens indoors. To Clint, Brownsville seemed to be the biggest ghost town in the world. An old man in a rocking chair sat on a plankwalk, apparently napping—if he hadn’t suffered from sunstroke. The only other living creatures in Clint’s view were four men on horseback, approaching from the opposite end of town.

  Clint’s wagon rolled past a brick bank with bars in its windows and moved on to one of the local saloons. He noticed some slight movement beyond the batwings and a soft whistle drew his attention to an open window at the floor above. A young, painted-faced whore smiled down at him.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” Clint greeted with a polite tip of his low-crowned stetson.

  Actually, the only commodity offered in the saloon that appealed to Clint was a couple of beers to wash out the trail dust. He glanced at the sheriff’s office on the opposite side of the street and debated giving it a visit first.

  No real reason to. It was just a habit of courtesy he’d developed over the years to let the local law know he was in town. The beers seemed like a better idea, due to his hard-earned thirst, but first he’d have to take care of Duke and his rig.

  Clint spotted a livery stable and headed toward it. The four men on horseback drew closer. They were a scruffy-looking group, covered with dust and smeared by sweat and dirt. The horsemen gazed intently at the Gunsmith as though expecting trouble from him, but Clint merely nodded. His expression didn’t reveal the fact that he’d recognized a familiar face among the group. A face he’d seen on wanted posters in three states.r />
  “How do you fellers like Brownsville so far?” a beefy, red-faced horseman inquired, tugging at the brim of his Montana peak hat.

  “What I’d like is some goddamn beer, Clem,” a lanky fellow with large tobacco-stained teeth answered.

  Clem Burns, the Gunsmith thought, his suspicions now confirmed. Burns was a bank robber who didn’t mind killing anyone who got in his way. Clint glanced over the faces of the other three horsemen. Besides the lanky character with the ugly teeth, there was a bearded, bearlike man who didn’t appear to be too familiar with soap and water, and a towheaded youngster with blond peach fuzz on his cheeks. The kid had big, innocent blue eyes, which the Gunsmith realized probably concealed the soul of a cold-blooded killer.

  “Yeah, Clem,” the bearded man complained. “It’s hot enough to fry a horntoad. Let’s get a beer afore we get on with the job.”

  “Reckon we got time for a brew,” Burns answered. He sounded like a bullfrog with an Alabama accent.

  Clint didn’t let the men know he’d paid any attention to their conversation. He calmly steered his rig to the livery stable. An old man emerged from the building, dressed in a pair of overalls and a long-john shirt with big wet stains under both arms.

  “Howdy, son,” the liveryman greeted him with a toothless smile.

  Clint said howdy back and turned over his rig and horses to the old-timer. “Take extra care to see that my gear on the wagon isn’t disturbed, and I want you to treat that big black gelding to the best you’ve got. All right?”

  “Sure, son,” the old man nodded eagerly when Clint handed him a five dollar bill.

  “I’ll be back in a little while to give you a hand and check on my belongings,” Clint added. “Right now, I have to see the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff?” the old-timer frowned. “Somethin’ wrong, young feller?”

  “Not yet,” the Gunsmith replied as he headed for the lawman’s office.

  Chapter Two

  Sheriff Matt Wilson looked up from his desk when he heard the door open. His great red walrus mustache accented his frown when he saw the tall, slim stranger. Clint’s dust-laced denim didn’t disturb him, nor did he jump to any conclusions about the scar that marked the Gunsmith’s otherwise pleasant features. Wilson’s reaction was based on the gunbelt strapped around Clint’s lean waist. The holster was strapped low on his right thigh and the metal of the Colt revolver encased in it was obviously clean and freshly oiled.

  The Gunsmith recognized the lawman’s reaction and realized Wilson had mistaken him for a gunfighter. He offered a smile and extended his hand as he approached the desk.

  “Sheriff, my name is Clint Adams,” he began.

  Wilson’s eyes expanded in their sockets. “Do tell?” he eagerly took Clint’s hand and shook it. “You’re the Gunsmith?”

  “Some people call me that,” Clint admitted.

  “I’ve heard that whenever you come to a place you check in with the law and let ’em know about it,” the sheriff grinned, obviously pleased to meet someone he’d clearly admired for years. “I know you get into trouble from time to time, but way I hear it is you never start none, so you’re welcome to stay here in Brownsville as long as you like.”

  “I appreciate that, Sheriff,” Clint nodded. “But I think you ought to know something.”

  Wilson’s smile fell. “What’s that?”

  “I think there’s a pretty good chance there’s going to be an attempt to rob your bank.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Wilson whispered. “You sure?”

  “I just saw Clem Burns and three other hardcases head over to the saloon. They were talking about having a beer before the ‘job’ and Burn’s profession is robbing banks.”

  “Shit!” the sheriff groaned. “My deputies are clean on the other side of town makin’ their rounds!”

  The Gunsmith had already moved to the window and watched as the blond kid and the bearded man emerged from the saloon. The pair took three horses by the reins and led the animals into an alley situated between the saloon and a tannery. Wilson joined Clint at the window.

  “That’s two of them,” the Gunsmith told him.

  “Well, they ain’t headin’ toward the bank,” Wilson remarked. “Could be you’ve made a mistake, friend.”

  Clint shook his head. “That alley leads behind the saloon and that means they can just move over to the rear of the bank. Think of it this way, Sheriff—this office is right across the street from the bank. If you looked out and saw four horses hitched in front of it, you’d be apt to suspect there might be a robbery in progress. If there’s only one horse, well, how many men would be bold enough to try to hold up a bank alone? So those two took the horses around back, out of view, but close enough to come to the aid of their partners if any shooting starts.”

  “By God,” the sheriff whispered. “Reckon you got a point, Adams.”

  “Call me Clint.”

  “Sure, Clint,” Wilson agreed. “How do you figure we should handle this?”

  “Well, it’s your town, Sheriff,” Clint began. “But might I suggest that you get a rifle, an accurate one that you’re familiar with, and station yourself here at the door of this office and cover me.”

  “What are you going to do?” the sheriff asked.

  “I’ll head over to the saloon and then move around to the back of the bank and see if I can get the drop on those two. If they’ll surrender, then maybe we can catch Burns in the act and take care of this business without any call for gunplay. How’s that sound?”

  “Er ... well....” Wilson shrugged. “Just fine....”

  The Gunsmith opened the door and left the sheriffs office, hoping the lawman would prove to be more competent with a rifle than he seemed to be with strategy. Clint strolled to the saloon without glancing toward the bank or back at the sheriffs office. As Clint was about to enter the saloon, the batwings parted and Clem Burns, carrying a saddlebag over his shoulder, stepped onto the plankwalk, followed by the lanky outlaw, nearly brushing into the Gunsmith. Burns hurried to the hitching-rail and untied the reins of a big sorrel stallion.

  Clint barely gave the men a second glance as he pushed through the batwings and strode into the barroom. The saloon was larger than most, with a number of card tables, chairs and a typical sawdust floor. Clint noticed a piano in one corner, but the handful of weary customers didn’t merit the efforts of the player, a heavyset black man who sat at his bench sipping beer. There was also a small roulette table.

  In the evenings, the saloon probably had some pretty interesting games of chance to choose from, Clint guessed. It was too bad he’d sworn off gambling—for a while. Maybe if he got a large enough bankroll built up, he’d give the place a try. The Gunsmith walked to the long, leather-topped bar.

  “What’ll it be?” a stocky man with a craggy face, stationed behind the counter inquired. His attitude seemed to suggest he would have preferred not to be disturbed with customers. Maybe someone else works nights, Clint thought, hoping so for the sake of the saloon’s business.

  “Would you show me where the back or side door to this place is, friend?” the Gunsmith replied.

  “What?” the bartender’s eyes narrowed. “You just come in here, mister!”

  Clint nodded. “And I hope to come back soon and enjoy a beer or two and some more of your sparkling company, but right now I’d like to know where that other door is.”

  “Get out the way you came.”

  “The sheriff sent me,” Clint said sharply. “Now, unless you don’t have any money in the bank next door, you’d better show me where that door is before the four men who just left this place rob it.”

  “Uh,”—the bartender swallowed hard—“it’s over that way.”

  The Gunsmith followed the man’s pointing finger and found the side door. He opened it and stepped into an alley located between the saloon and the bank. Staying close to the brick wall of the latter, Clint moved to the rear of the building and eased his Colt from its holster.<
br />
  The revolver wasn’t exactly a Colt anymore. Clint had modified it, altering the frame and the cylinder, the trigger mechanism and the hammer bar, until he’d converted the single-action model to fire double-action so that it didn’t have to be cocked between shots and could thus be fired more rapidly.

  With his converted Colt in hand, Clint peeked around the corner of the bank and saw the bearded outlaw and the blond kid with the three horses they’d escorted into the other alley a few minutes before. The older man held the reins to the animals while his young partner drew a Winchester carbine from a saddle boot and worked the lever to jack a shell into the chamber.

  “Figure there’ll be shootin’, Moe?” the kid asked, his grin suggesting he’d welcome such activity.

  “I hope not, boy,” the bearded hootowl replied, reaching for another carbine still in its scabbard.

  “That means we’ve got something in common, friend,” the Gunsmith announced as he stepped into the open, pointing his pistol at the pair. “I’d just as soon we don’t have any shooting either. If you fellows will just drop your guns and do as I tell you, there won’t be any.”

  When Clint saw the wild expression in the kid’s big blue eyes, he knew there’d be bloodshed. The boy must have figured the odds were about even since he had a gun in his hands, already cocked and ready to be fired. Uttering a strange sound, half gasp and half giggle, the kid swung the muzzle of his carbine toward Clint and braced the butt stock against his hip.

  The Gunsmith’s Colt roared. A big .45 caliber slug plowed into the youngster’s chest, the force of the heavy projectile knocking him backward to collide with the flanks of one of the horses. His Winchester clattered to the ground, unfired. The boy’s mouth hung open as he sank to his knees. His eyes were filled with the amazed expression of a fresh corpse—which was exactly what he’d become. Then he fell forward, face first.

  Moe had already started to whirl when the kid made his move. He was still drawing a .44 Remington revolver from its holster when Clint’s weapon boomed again. Moe cried out, his fingers flying from the butt of his hol-stered pistol as if it had just tried to bite him. His body hurtled back into the brick wall of the bank. Clint stared at the man’s clenched teeth, starkly visible in the center of his thick black beard, and watched his left hand slowly move toward the bullet would in his right shoulder.