Fraternity of the Gun Page 11

  “What is that?”

  “Their most violent days are in the past.”

  “I see.”

  They sipped their drinks for a few minutes, then Clint asked, “Do you want me to find you someplace that’s still violent?”

  Irving smiled.

  “Not necessary,” he said. “I think violence is everywhere. If I really wanted to find it, I don’t think I would have much trouble.”

  “Probably not, but after Saint Louis—”

  “You would think I wouldn’t want any part of it, is that it?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “you were almost killed.”

  “Yes, I was,” Irving said. “Tell me, what was it like?”

  “What was what like?”

  “Killing those men?” Irving asked. “How did it feel?”

  “Why do you want to know that?” Clint asked.

  “Many of the characters I play have killed people,” Irving said. “I would just like to know how to play them better.”

  “It doesn’t feel good, Henry,” Clint said. “It doesn’t feel good at all.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “I only do it when I have to,” Clint said. “To stay alive.”

  “And keep others alive?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And when you save someone’s life, doesn’t that feel good?”

  “It does, but the killing . . .” Clint shook his head. “Never.”

  “Well,” Irving said, “I suppose I will have to take your word for that.”

  “I hope you do.”

  “What about those dead girls?” Irving asked.

  “What about them?”

  “Were there any in Saint Louis?”

  “I don’t know, Henry,” Clint said. “I didn’t check.”

  “I was just curious.”

  Clint put his brandy glass down, still half full, and stood up.

  “I’m going to turn in,” he said. “Tomorrow we head for Tombstone.”

  Irving got up and walked Clint to the door, his arm around Clint’s shoulders.

  “I’m looking forward to it, Clint,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

  FORTY-TWO

  TOMBSTONE, ARIZONA

  There were no dead girls in Saint Louis. At least, not the night Clint was there with Irving and Ellen Terry. He found that out the next morning, when he was sending telegrams.

  When the stage from Benson pulled into Tombstone, Clint got out, turned to help Ellen Terry down. It was early afternoon, and they were not to perform until the next evening.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “Is it over? Are we here?”

  “We’re here, Ellen.”

  “Thank God.”

  Henry Irving stepped down, began slapping dust from his suit.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  Clint turned, saw a man with a badge approaching him. There was another man behind him, wearing a dark suit.

  “I’m Marshal Cuthbert,” he said, putting his hand out. “This is Mayor Danvers.”

  Clint shook hands with both of them, and said, “This is Henry Irving, and Ellen Terry.”

  “Sir, ma’am,” the mayor said to them, executing a slight bow from the waist, “we’re honored to have you playing the Birdcage.”

  “We’re honored to be here, Mayor,” Irving said. “Aren’t we, Ellen?”

  “Oh, yes,” Terry said, “honored. Where is our hotel?”

  “Why, right here,” the mayor said. “We had the stage stop right in front of the Palace Hotel.”

  Terry looked at the two-story wooden building in front of her and asked, “This is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the marshal said, “this is it.”

  “Marshal,” Clint said, “I’ll take Mr. Irving and Miss Terry to their rooms. Can you have some men bring their baggage?”

  “Sure thing,” the marshal said.

  “We’d, uh, like to have supper with our guests later this evening,” the mayor said to Clint. “At Delmonico’s? Uh, you, too, Mr. Adams.”

  “What time?” Clint asked.

  “Oh . . . is six okay?”

  “We’ll be there, Mr. Mayor,” Clint said. “Thanks you.”

  Clint escorted the actors into the hotel.

  * * *

  There was only one suite, so they gave it to Ellen Terry. Henry Irving got a large room, Clint a small one.

  “You can freshen up and wait here for me,” he told both of them. “The mayor wants us to go to supper with him.”

  “Where are you going?” Terry asked.

  “I’m going to check for telegrams,” Clint said. “I’ll be back to pick you up.”

  “All right.”

  “And Henry.”

  “Yes?”

  “This is not the town to go walking in.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t violent,” Irving asked.

  “I said it’s most violent days were behind it,” Clint said. “That doesn’t mean you still couldn’t get yourself killed.”

  “I will make sure he stays inside, Clint.”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  Tombstone had changed quite a bit since its boom days. Clint had been there a couple years ago, and it hadn’t grown much since then, but it had changed quite a bit since the Earp days.

  He walked to where the telegraph office used to be and it was still there. He went inside and asked if there were any telegrams for him.

  “Got two here for ya, Mr. Adams,” the young clerk said.

  “Thank you.”

  The young man handed him the telegrams and said, “I heard you was here when the Earps were. Is that true?”

  “No time for stories now, son,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  He stepped outside and read the telegrams. He’d been hoping to find Bat Masterson in the vicinity, but one telegram told him that wasn’t to be. So he was going to have to protect Irving and Terry himself while they were in Tombstone—unless he ran into somebody he knew.

  The other telegram was from Washington. Trehearn had followed up on the two men Clint had killed in Saint Louis. They were from New York, identified only by code names. Agents had been dispatched there, and arrests had been made. But he warned Clint that others might already have been hired to keep pursuing the actors.

  That wasn’t good news. Chances were good it wouldn’t be a couple of New York thugs who would come after them this time. Chances were good it would be two or three guns who knew what they were doing.

  He headed back to the hotel.

  FORTY-THREE

  They all had steaks at Delmonico’s, even Ellen Terry. Turned out the mayor was a big Shakespeare fan, talked with Henry Irving all evening about different plays. The marshal was there, eating and looking bored. Every so often, though, he’d throw a look Ellen Terry’s way.

  Clint leaned over, as the man was sitting right next to him.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he asked the marshal.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, she sure is.”

  “You want to keep her alive?”

  “Huh?”

  “Somebody’s liable to try to kill one of them, or both, while we’re here,” Clint said.

  “What? Why?”

  “They tried in Saint Louis,” Clint said. “I’m not sure why. Some kind of conspiracy, it seems, perhaps to start an international incident between the two countries.”

  “What happened?”

  “The gunmen weren’t good enough,” Clint said, “but out here, I think they’ll send somebody better.”

  “Whataya want me to do?”

  “You got deputies?”

  “Two.”

  “Place the
m in the back of the theater,” Clint said.

  “What about the hotel?”

  “I’ll be in the hotel with them all night,” Clint said. “If you want, you can put one of your men in the lobby. But I’m worried about the Birdcage.”

  “Okay,” Marshal Cuthbert said. “My boys’ll be there and so will I. Where will you be?”

  “Backstage.”

  Cuthbert nodded and the mayor called for the check.

  * * *

  Clint did something that night he hadn’t done in any of the other cities. Instead of spending the night in his room, or Terry’s, he spent it out in the hallway, sitting up in a chair. That way nobody could get into their rooms, and Henry Irving couldn’t get out.

  Clint didn’t like all of Irving’s talk about violence. The man was just too damn fascinated by it, and it started Clint thinking about all the dead girls again. So he didn’t want Henry Irving taking any late-night walks.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The Birdcage hadn’t changed much, except for the fact that Doc Holliday wasn’t at his usual faro table. Clint also noticed that the whores had been given the night off.

  They had remained in their hotel rooms all day, and Clint had stayed in the building. The marshal had his deputies take turns in the hallway. They had kept them safe all day, and then they all accompanied them to the theater.

  The audience wasn’t large, but they seemed appreciative of Irving and Terry’s readings. Or maybe they were just taking their cue from the mayor, who applauded wildly after each one.

  From his position backstage, Clint could see the marshal in the front with the mayor, and the two deputies in the back. This was the smallest theater the actors had played in the United States, but the one with the most history.

  They finished their readings, took their bows, and came offstage in Clint’s direction. The audience kept applauding.

  “They liked us,” Terry said to Clint.

  “Of course they did.”

  “We should do an encore,” Irving said.

  “No,” Clint said. “Don’t press your luck.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Irving said. “They might not like it.”

  “I meant nobody shot at you tonight,” Clint said. “Let’s not press our luck.”

  * * *

  There were two men watching from the audience, not seated together. They each had a job to do. Evan Horn had the job of killing Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. He’d been told that if he could get only one, get the man. But watching the woman onstage, he wanted to get his hands on her.

  The other man’s name was Joe Kendall. He was a fast gun, had more than a dozen kills to his credit in fair fights. He was going after the Gunsmith. And he had no doubt that he’d get him.

  They applauded along with the rest of the crowd, and then filed out with them.

  * * *

  The marshal came up on the stage and joined Clint in the wings.

  “Where are your men?” Clint asked.

  “Breaking up fights out front,” Cuthbert said. “Where are Mr. Irving and Miss Terry?”

  “In their dressing rooms, getting ready to go back to the hotel.”

  “The mayor wants to eat with them again,” the marshal said. “Said he’s waiting out front.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll tell them. Let’s wait for the fights to stop and everyone to head home.”

  “I’ll go out front and make sure it’s clear for you to bring them out.”

  “Good, thanks.”

  As the marshal went back onto the stage and made his way out of the Birdcage, Clint walked to the dressing rooms. He knocked on Irving’s door.

  “The mayor wants to buy supper again,” he said as Irving opened his door.

  “That’s fine,” Irving said. “Let’s get Ellen and go.”

  They knocked on Terry’s door, then knocked again. Clint started to get worried when the door opened.

  “You’re very impatient,” she said. “Are we going to eat?”

  “With the mayor again,” Irving said.

  “Oh, that boring man?”

  “It’s his town,” Irving said, “and he’s buying supper.”

  “Steak again?” she asked.

  “You can order anything you want,” Clint said.

  “Then let’s go,” she said. “I’m starved.”

  They walked to the front of the theater and stepped outside. The only person there was the marshal.

  “The others are gone,” Cuthbert said. “The mayor’s waiting—”

  There was a shot and the marshal staggered, looked surprised, and fell to the ground.

  Clint drew his gun, stepped in front of Irving, and pulled Terry behind him.

  “Where did that come from?” Irving asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. He studied the buildings across the street, the rooftops, the shaded doorways. It was dark already, and there wasn’t much of a moon. The streetlights were feeble at best.

  “Stay behind me.” Clint said, “and back up to the front of the theater.”

  They got to the door, but when Irving tried it, it was locked.

  “Now what?” Irving asked.

  “We wait.”

  * * *

  “What do we do now?” Horn asked.

  “This is Tombstone, Evan,” Kendall said. “What do you think we do?”

  Horn looked at his colleague and said, “O.K. Corral?”

  “No, stupid,” Kendall said, “right here, on the street. The Tombstone way.”

  “But that’s the Gunsmith.”

  “You do your job,” Kendall said, “and I’ll do mine.”

  * * *

  “Adams!” a voice called out. “Holster your gun.”

  Clint stared across the street, but it was too dark.

  “Come on out,” he called back.

  “Holster it, and we’ll step out.”

  “Clint, don’t,” Terry said.

  “Just stay here,” Clint said. “In the dark. Henry, keep her here in the doorway.”

  Irving put his arm around Terry.

  Clint holstered his gun and stepped into the street.

  * * *

  Two men stepped out into the meager light, one slightly behind the other. Clint thought he knew what they had in mind. The first man would kill him, and then the other one would take care of Irving and Ellen Terry.

  They both had their guns holstered. Clint marveled at the ego of some men—most men.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” he said.

  “My name’s Kendall,” the first man said, “Joe Kendall. You know it?”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “Well, you have now,” Kendall said. “And after tonight, so will everyone else.”

  “Your friend better draw, too,” Clint said, “because I’m going to kill both of you.”

  “Hey, wait—” Horn said.

  But Kendall didn’t wait. He sealed both their fates by drawing his gun.

  “Clint!” Ellen Terry’s voice called out.

  Clint drew his gun, shot the first man in the chest. Kendall was shocked. He never got his gun out of his holster. It was still there when he hit the ground.

  Horn grabbed for his gun, but in his haste he shoved it deeper into his holster before trying to pull it out. He died that way, with his hand on his gun.

  Clint walked to both men, checked to make sure they were dead.

  Irving and Terry rushed to the fallen lawman. Clint joined them there. He was dead, shot in the back. Suddenly, there was the sound of running, and they were joined by a crowd, including the mayor, and the two deputies.

  “What happened?” the mayor asked. />
  “Let’s get off the street, Mr. Mayor,” Clint said, “and I’ll explain.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Clint got out of the carriage, turned to assist Ellen Terry down. Henry Irving had climbed out the other side. He walked around and joined them.

  “The luggage should be on board,” he told them.

  “Won’t you reconsider and come with us?” Ellen Terry asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “I’ve seen enough of New York, and the East, to last me awhile.”

  Their performances in San Francisco had been a triumph, and now they were returning to New York to catch the boat back to England.

  “But what if we’re still in danger?” Terry asked.

  “The conspirators have all been arrested—or killed,” Clint said. “They were a group of fanatics who called themselves the Color Guard, with names like Mr. Green and Mr. Blue. They had nothing against you personally—just your country, for reasons only they understood. They tried to hurt your nation by destroying its national treasures.”

  “How flattering to have been the focus of such intrigue,” Irving commented wryly. “But I’ve played many deranged individuals in my career—tragic heroes whose passion turns to madness. And what about you, Clint, and your fraternity of the gun? I presume you and your colleagues have faced many madmen.”

  “Of course,” Clint replied. “There are madmen everywhere.”

  “I cannot wait to leave this barbaric land,” Ellen said. “What if there are others who wish to harm us, Clint? Who will protect us on our trip back to New York?”

  “The United States government has someone waiting for you on the train. His name is Jim West. You can trust him,” Clint assured her. “He’s a good friend of mine.”

  Irving put his hand out to the Gunsmith.

  “Thank you for everything.” They shook hands.

  Ellen Terry wrapped her arms around Clint and kissed him soundly on the lips.

  “Good-bye, Clint Adams.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Terry.”

  He watched them board the train, and watched it pull out of the station. Then he turned and walked back to the carriage.

  “Portsmouth Square,” he told the driver. “Time for some gambling.”