Five Points Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  Caught Off Guard

  Clint nodded, and the three of them went out the door. They were halfway down the stairs when the shots started. Clint heard them, then pushed Bethany to the side and hit the ground. He rolled down the steps the rest of the way, banging his left elbow painfully, but producing his gun with his right hand.

  He came up on one knee, looking for the shooter or shooters, but they were gone. One barrage was all they had the nerve for.

  He looked up the stairs at Appo, who seemed to be in shock. His face was white as a sheet.

  “You okay?” Clint asked.

  “I think so.” Appo patted his body. “I’m—I’m not shot.”

  “Where’s Beth—” Clint said, looking around and stopping short when he spotted her . . .

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  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

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  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.

  FIVE POINTS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / June 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

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  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-4406-3716-2

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  ONE

  Clint Adams sat back in his chair and stared across the table at his friend Talbot Roper. Roper was an ex-Pinkerton who had gone out on his own ten years ago and had made a name for himself as possibly the best private detective in the country—perhaps the world. But they were about to get into a debate on that subject.

  Also seated at the table was a mutual friend, Bat Masterson. They had all just finished a sumptuous meal in the dining room of the Denver House Hotel, where Clint was staying, and were now waiting for their coffee and desserts to be served.

  “How long are you staying this time?” Roper asked Clint, who had just arrived in Denver the day before.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I just thought it was time to soak up some Denver culture.”

  “That means he’s lookin’ for a poker gamer,” Bat Masterson said with a laugh.

  “I’m shocked to find you in town,” Clint said to Roper. “Usually you’re out on some big case.”

  “At the moment I’m out of big cases,” Roper said.

  “Maybe the best detective in the country has solved them all?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t know about the best detective in the country, ” Roper said.

  “You sayin’ you’re not the best?” Masterson asked. “Humility from the great detective?”

  “No,” Roper said. “I’m just saying that maybe I’m the best private detective in the country, but not the best detective.”

  “What other kind is there?” Bat asked.

  Roper took the time to light up a cigar before he answered. He offered his two friends one, but they demurred.

  “There’s a friend of mine in New York by the name of Thomas Byrnes. He’s a police detective, and it seems he’s making quite a name for himself whipping the New York City Police Department into shape.”

  “Ah,” Bat said. “So you’re sayin’ he’s a better organizer than you are.”

  “That’s for sure,” Roper said. “But he’s a pretty damned good detective as well.”

  “And what about your ol
d friend Mr. Pinkerton?” Bat asked.

  Clint rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t get him started on ol’ Allan.”

  “Me?” Roper asked. “You’re the one he doesn’t like.”

  “You’re the one who worked for him, learned everything you could, and then went out on your own. He’s hated you ever since.”

  “Hates me because I left his agency and took some big clients with me,” Roper pointed out. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Maybe,” Clint said, as the waiter arrived with the coffee and pie, “because I would never work for him in the first place.”

  “Smart man,” Bat said. “That sonofabitch wouldn’t know how to tell the truth if his life depended on it.”

  “Probably because of all the lying he had to do during the war,” Roper said.

  “Oh yeah,” Bat said, “the war’s a good reason for everythin’, isn’t it?”

  “How did we get on this subject?” Clint asked, cutting into his peach pie. “I thought we were talking about the best detectives in the country?”

  “I still say it’s our friend here,” Bat said. “Although, if you had worked for Pinkerton and got yourself some trainin’, Clint, I’d put my money on you.”

  “Not me—”

  “Bat has a point,” Roper said. “You have all the instincts, Clint, and we’ve worked together often enough for me to know that you’d make a hell of a detective.”

  “Same with poker,” Bat said. “If you devoted all your time to that, you’d be better at it than Luke Short.”

  “Better than you, Bat?” Roper asked.

  Bat laughed.

  “Let’s not get carried away.”

  They all laughed and enjoyed their desserts.

  In the lobby of the hotel, Clint asked Roper, “Are you in town for long?”

  “I told you,” Roper said. “I’ve got nothin’ to do. If you want to go to the theater, just let me know.”

  “If I wanted to go to the theater, it wouldn’t be with you, my friend,” Clint said. “It would be with a woman.”

  “Okay,” Roper said. “If you want a woman, let me know.”

  “I think I can get my own women, Tal,” Clint said, “but thanks.”

  “Bat,” Roper said, “you going to be in town gambling? Or writing?”

  “Maybe neither, maybe both,” Bat said. “I haven’t decided.”

  “Well, let me know if you fellas want to have dinner again,” Roper said. “Good night, and good luck with the cards.”

  “He doesn’t gamble, does he?” Bat asked Clint.

  “Not a lick,” Clint said. “It never interested him.”

  “Too bad,” Bat said. “He would’ve been good at it.”

  “You know, Bat,” Clint said. “He’s good at what he’s good at, you’re good at what you’re good at, and—”

  “I get the picture, Clint,” Bat said. “We should all just keep doin’ what we’re good at.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you want to go and find a poker game?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I think I’ll take a walk and maybe have a drink.”

  “I’ve got a game if you want one,” Bat said. “Some fellas over at George’s Weekly are playin’.”

  “Newspapermen?” Clint asked. “They should keep doing what they’re good at. You going to fleece them?”

  “What a terrible word,” Bat said. “I’m gonna school them.”

  TWO

  When Clint came downstairs the next morning, the desk clerk called him over.

  “This came for you, sir,” the man said, handing Clint an envelope.

  “Who brought it?”

  “A runner, sir,” the man said. “Just a dirty street urchin.”

  Must have been from Roper, he thought. The detective often used street kids to run errands.

  “Thank you.”

  He walked away from the desk, opened the envelope, and fished out the contents. He was looking at two tickets to a show at the Palace Variety Theater. And there was a handwritten note: Find yourself a girl and have some fun. Tal.

  Clint smiled and put the tickets in his pocket. They were for the next evening. He’d find a woman to take with him by then.

  He left the hotel to go in search of breakfast, which he preferred this morning to eat someplace other than the hotel dining room.

  “See? I told you. It’s him.”

  Bethany excitedly squeezed Ben’s arm.

  “All right, so it’s him,” Ben said. “What about it?”

  “Do you know what a touch he’d be? How exciting? ”

  “Forget it,” Ben said. “You’d be lookin’ for trouble. Besides, we got work to do.”

  “You have work to do,” she said, poking him in the chest. “My work doesn’t even start until yours ends, remember? You better get going.”

  He pointed his finger at her.

  “Beth, don’t get into trouble, hear? Ma wouldn’t like it.”

  “You’re afraid of your ma, Ben,” Bethany reminded him, “but I’m not.” She laughed.

  “Bethany—”

  “Oh, go,” she said, pushing him. “Go to work. Don’t worry about me. I’ll amuse myself.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Ben left the hotel. When he got to the street, he turned right. Bethany went out after him, spotted his retreating back, then turned left and hurried along, hoping to catch up to Clint Adams.

  When Ben reached Mrs. Wellington’s house, he knocked on the door. When she opened it, she smiled. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman and when she smiled, she looked younger than her fifty-odd years.

  “Ben, you came.”

  “I said I would, Libby,” he replied.

  “Come in, my beautiful boy, come in,” she said.

  He followed her in and closed the door behind him.

  As usual the house was stuffy—but filled with so many valuable things.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, “not after last time.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Last time I was . . . rude.”

  “No, no,” she said. “It’s all right. I was . . . foolish. Would you like some tea?”

  “I would love some tea, Libby.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Excellent. We’ll have some tea and talk.”

  “Yes,” he said, “we’ll talk.”

  Bethany caught up to Clint Adams as he was going into a small restaurant. She waited. When she was sure he was seated, she went and looked in the window. He was alone, ordering breakfast.

  She caught her reflection in the window. She was nineteen and pretty, but not beautiful. Clint Adams only liked beautiful women—at least that was what she’d heard.

  She knew she had a few days to play with. Ben wasn’t going to be able to get what they wanted from Mrs. Wellington until he gave her what she wanted. He hadn’t been ready to do it last time, but he was supposed to be ready now.

  Maybe.

  She had time, though. Time to watch Clint Adams, time to wait for her chance. If she could successfully pick the Gunsmith’s pocket, she would make a name for herself back home in New York. Even Ben’s mother would have to admit that. That old witch would have to give her some respect, then.

  She’d have to.

  THREE

  The next night Clint took a woman named Laura Bedford to the theater with him. He had met her the previous night in the hotel bar. They’d had a drink together, then another, and then he’d told her he had two tickets to the theater, and if she was still going to be in town he’d like to take her. She’d agreed.

  She met him in the lobby, breathtaking in a red gown. She wore a shawl around her shoulders, and it covered her well, but hinted of dark cleavage beneath. She was tall, made even taller by the fact that she had piled her chestnut hair atop her head.

  The show was a lively musical that ended with a big production number that sent everyone away with their toes still tapping.

  “A late dinner?” he asked Laur
a.

  “Yes, I’m famished.”

  Clint had asked Bat Masterson to recommend a restaurant he could take Laura Bedford to. Bat had suggested a place called Brentwood’s Steak House. As it turned out, it was a good choice.

  “This is marvelous,” Laura said, taking a second bite of her steak. “How did you find this place?”

  “It was recommended to me by a friend.”

  “The same friend who gave you the tickets?”

  “No,” he said, “that was a different friend.”

  “You have a lot of friends in Denver?”

  “A few,” he said. “I come here from time to time.”

  “To get away from the old West?” she asked.

  He looked at her, surprised.

  “Yes, I recognized your name when you introduced yourself last night,” she said. “I know who you are.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I would have accepted your invitation even if you weren’t the infamous Gunsmith. You’re very charming.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long are you planning to stay in Denver?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “As you said, I’m taking a break from the old West. Although, I think the old West is sort of getting away from us. Don’t you think?”

  “Progress, Mr. Adams,” she said. “There’s really no way to stop it, is there?”

  “No, Miss Bedford,” he said, “there isn’t.”

  After dinner they grabbed a hansom cab back to the Denver House, where they went to the bar for a night-cap. Clint had a beer, and Laura Bedford had a snifter of brandy.

  “Well, I have to thank you for a lovely evening,” she said while they sat and had their drinks.

  “Well, it’s not quite over yet, is it?” Clint asked.

  “No,” she said, “not quite.” She swirled the brandy that was left in her glass. “This is a little early for a man like you to be calling it a night, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “A man like me?”

  “Someone who leads as exciting a life as you do,” she said. “Don’t you have to go and meet some friends for a poker game, or some kind of gambling? Maybe get into a fight or two?”

  “My fighting days have moved along with progress, I’m afraid,” he said. “And no, I don’t have a poker game tonight.”

  “So that means you’re free?” she asked. “Um, like for the whole . . . night?”