The Two-Gun Kid 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

  FORTY-TWO - HARD ACE SALOON, ELLSWORTH, KANSAS

  FORTY-THREE

  Young Love

  “You what?” Clint asked as they left the building.

  “I love Lola.”

  “No, you don’t,” Clint said. “You love what she has between her legs.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Well, she’s right,” Clint said, “and so am I. Come on, we have some riding to do.”

  “Riding?” Roscoe asked. “Ain’t we gonna stay in a hotel?”

  “Look around you, Bookbinder,” Clint said. “There is no hotel here.”

  “So we gotta sleep on the ground again?”

  “That’s right. And you’re going to have the first watch.”

  “B-but . . . I’m exhausted.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, smiling, “I’m sure you are.”

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  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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 TWO-GUN KID

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / February 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.

  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.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-68687-0

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  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  ONE

  When Clint entered the Hard Ace Saloon, business was good. So good, in fact, that hardly anyone paid attention to him as he walked to the bar. He attracted a little attention when he elbowed himself a space, but after getting a look at his face, the men on either side of him made room. They knew he was not in the mood to be trifled with.

  There were two bartenders working the busy bar, half a dozen saloon girls working the floor, and enough patrons in the place that some were waiting in line for a turn at the blackjack, faro, and roulette tables. Up on stage several girls were singing, dancing, and swishing their skirts to the music supplied by a piano player in the corner.

  Yet, among all this turmoil, Clint was able to easily pick out the table of men he was concerned with. There were five of them, but that didn’t concern him. He fully intended to kill all five of them.

  He ordered a beer and accepted it from the bartender with a curt nod. The man was too busy to try any small talk, but Clint would not have responded to it anyway.

  He turned his back to the bar, leaned on it, and nursed his beer while he watched the five men drink, laugh, grope the girls, and slap each other on the back. They were having a grand old time, completely unaware that—possibly within minutes—they’d all be dead.

  But before he killed them, he was going to make sure they knew why they were dying . . .

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER . . .

  When Clint rode into Evolution, Kansas, he wasn’t looking to kill anyone. All he wanted was a bath, a drink, a meal, a poker game, and a bed. All in one day, if he could get it.

  Evolution appeared to be in the midst of just that—change. It was a mixture of old, dilapidated, falling-down wooden structures and brand-spanking-new buildings made of both wood and brick. It was the same with the people. Some were old and worn out, others young and new—but this was the same in every town, wasn’t it?

  No, it wasn’t. Dying towns were usually inhabited by dying people—or people who had stopped living. He could tell from the expressions on
many of these people’s faces that they were far from finished with living.

  Today, this was a good place to be.

  He dropped Eclipse off at the livery, found himself a hotel and a bath, and then made his way to the nearest saloon for a cold beer.

  He entered the Silver Spur, which was in one of those brand-new buildings. Even the inside smelled new, having not yet absorbed all the booze and sweat and smoke that it eventually would.

  The bartender brought him his beer and asked, “Passin’ through?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Lookin’ for a place to settle?” he asked. “This here town’s growin’ every day.”

  “I can see that,” Clint said, “but I’m not looking for a place.”

  “Drifter, huh?”

  “I guess you could say that,” Clint said, although it wasn’t the word he would have used to describe himself. But he didn’t have a viable alternative at the moment, so he didn’t argue.

  There was no one else demanding the bartender’s attention, so he started telling Clint about the new bank, the new feed store, the new school, and that brought him to the new schoolteacher.

  “Now, they didn’t have no schoolmarm’s like this’n when I was in school, no sir.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man went on. “Why, put a dress on her—a fancy dress, I mean—and she’d fit right in here with the saloon girls.” He leaned forward and lowered his face, even though none of the saloon girls were around at the moment. “In fact, she’d put these girls to shame, she would.”

  “That pretty, huh?”

  “Better than that,” the bartender said, straightening up, “better than pretty. Fact is, a lot of the wives in town don’t like her much.”

  “Why’s that?” Clint asked, just making conversation.

  “Too many of their husbands have been volunteering to walk the kids to school.”

  “Ah,” Clint said, “I got you.”

  “I mean, the ladies in town usually don’t like the whores in town, but hereabouts it’s the schoolteacher.”

  “In this nice little town, huh?”

  “Hey, this is a nice town,” the bartender argued, “and it ain’t so little. It’s gettin’ bigger by the day.”

  “Who’s the law here?” Clint asked.

  “Sheriff Greenwood.”

  “How long has he been wearing the badge?”

  “Here? A few months. Before that I don’t know. We heard he had some experience, but only the mayor and the town council know how much.”

  “Didn’t the town vote him in?”

  The bartender shrugged

  “Didn’t have much of a choice,” he said. “Nobody else was running.”

  Which meant the mayor and the town council shoved Sheriff Greenwood down the town’s throat.

  “Politicians,” Clint said.

  “Yeah,” the bartender said.

  “Another beer, please,” Clint said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  When the barman put the second beer in front of him, Clint asked, “When does the town liven up?”

  “What kind of livenin’ up are you lookin’ for?” the man asked.

  “Poker.”

  “Oh, after supper,” the man said. “There’s always a few games goin’ on in here.”

  “Private games?”

  “Open to anyone,” the bartender said.

  “Any house-dealt games?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s wrong with house-dealt games?”

  “The house always has the edge.”

  “And who has the edge in a private game?”

  Clint grinned and said, “I do.”

  TWO

  Clint was on his second beer when men started drifting into the saloon looking for a drink and a card game. Some of them were looking for a drink and a girl. Still others were just looking for trouble.

  “Here they come,” the bartender said. “Girls’ll be out in a minute. Should be a game startin’ up soon enough. Want me to get you in?”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll watch awhile and then get myself in.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  Clint watched as chairs were pulled up to tables and decks of cards were fanned out. The girls came down from upstairs, flashing their legs from beneath their skirts, and started carrying drinks to tables. In one corner the cover was pulled off a faro table and the dealer began to set up for a night’s business.

  When a young man wearing two guns walked in, Clint noticed him right away. He was on the prod, looking for trouble, and he thought he could handle it with two guns. Clint knew the type. This kid was young, probably hadn’t even started to shave yet.

  “Hey, here comes the Two-Gun Kid,” somebody at the bar said.

  “Yeah, ain’t he pretty?” someone else said.

  The kid did look a bit girly, with his smooth skin and his new clothes.

  Clint waved the bartender over.

  “You know that kid?”

  “Everybody knows that kid,” the man said. “Thinks he’s a gunfighter.”

  “Does he always dress like that?”

  “Yup,” the bartender said. “Two guns, new clothes; when he gets closer, you’ll smell the toilet water.”

  “Why’s he come in here like that?”

  “Because he’s always lookin’ for trouble, that’s why,” the barman said. “He’s waitin’ for somebody to say somethin’ so he can throw down on him.”

  “Has he ever?” Clint asked. “Used his guns on a man, I mean.”

  “He says he has.”

  “Anybody know for sure?”

  “Him.”

  The boy looked around, then walked over to the bar and slammed his hand down.

  “Whiskey, bartender.”

  As the bartender went to serve him, Clint could see what the man meant about the toilet water. The scent was almost making his eyes water.

  Next to him the two men were nudging each other and laughing. Both were dressed in trail-worn clothes and wearing equally worn guns and holsters.

  “Lookee there,” one of them said, “the sweet thing is drinkin’ whiskey.”

  “Maybe we should make him buy us a drink, too,” the other one said.

  Clint watched as the two men walked down to where the boy was watching the bartender pour him a drink. When he was done, he moved back to stand in front of Clint.

  “You know those two?” Clint asked.

  “Never saw them before,” the bartender said. “Passin’ through, like you.”

  “What’s the boy’s name?” Clint asked.

  “Roscoe.”

  “Those two are going to push him,” Clint said.

  “That’s what Roscoe wants,” the bartender said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie.”

  “Charlie, I think you might be needing the sheriff in here.”

  “Maybe,” Charlie said, “and maybe we should see if Roscoe is full of hot air, or if he can really handle himself.”

  “I can tell you just by looking at him and those other two,” Clint said, “they’ll kill him.”

  “Maybe they just wanna have a little bit of fun,” Charlie said. “Might do Roscoe some good.”

  Clint didn’t think so. If Roscoe was the kind of kid Charlie was saying he was, looking for a fight, then he’d push it and force these two to kill him.

  Damn, Clint thought, why don’t I just mind my own business?

  The two men, Zack and Lee, partners for a couple of years, approached Roscoe as he stood at the bar, nursing his whiskey.

  “That ain’t no way to drink whiskey, boy,” Lee said. “Ya gotta down it all at once, feel the burn as it goes down.”

  “Here,” Zack said, “we’ll show ya. Barkeep, three drinks over here.”

  “I don’t need another drink,” Roscoe said, “and I don’t need no lessons on how to drink.”

  “You ne
ed lessons on somethin’,” Lee said as the bartender poured out three shots of whiskey and then scurried away.

  “Like, maybe, how ta dress,” Zack said.

  “And what’s that smell?” Lee asked, sniffing the air. “Boy, you smell like a whore.”

  “Looks kinda like a whore, too, don’tcha think, Lee?” Zack asked. “Looks like a whore I fucked in the ass last time we was in Wichita.”

  “How about it, boy?” Lee asked. “You ever been fucked in the ass?”

  Roscoe pushed away from the bar with such force that the drinks on the bar spilled. He turned and faced the two men.

  “You fellas come in here lookin’ for a fight, ya found the right guy,” he said tightly. His hands hovered over his guns, which were pearl-handled.

  “Lookee here, Lee,” Zack said, “the little whore’s gonna shoot us with his pretty guns.”

  Roscoe grinned at the two men and said, “Slap leather.”

  That’s when Clint moved . . .

  THREE

  Other patrons became aware of what was happening and cleared out. Nobody wanted to get hit with any flying lead, but at the same time nobody wanted to miss the action. So those who were standing at the bar moved away, while men sitting at the tables stood up and moved out of the line of fire.

  Clint was the only one who moved toward the action.

  “Now, hold on, boy,” he said, stepping between the antagonists.

  “Get outta the way, mister,” Roscoe said. “These yahoos insulted me, and they’re gonna pay.”

  “Are you sure, son?” Clint asked. “Two against one, that’s not very good odds, is it?”

  “I can take ’em,” Roscoe said confidently.

  Zack and Lee were smirking.

  “Who’re you, his daddy?” Lee asked.

  “I don’t even know the boy,” Clint said, “but I know you fellas.”

  “We ain’t never met you before,” Zack said.

  “I know your type, though.”