The Three Mercenaries Page 11

  “I don’t think so.”

  Clint hesitated, then said, “I don’t think I should tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He might think I’m lying,” Clint said. “But if you tell him . . .”

  “What if you are lying?” the bartender said.

  “Hmm? Why would I?”

  “To get me to tell the judge that you know her.”

  Clint shrugged.

  “Don’t tell him, then.”

  “I can’t do that,” the bartender said. “If he ever found out . . .”

  “It’s up to you, then,” Clint said. “Bring me another beer while you’re trying to make up your mind, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  The bartender set a fresh beer in front of him, and then disappeared.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Clint was in his room, sitting on the hard bed, reading, when somebody knocked on his door. He grabbed his gun and walked to it.

  “Who is it?”

  “Judge Roy Bean.”

  He opened the door.

  The judge held out a bottle of whiskey.

  “Tell me,” he said, “all about it.”

  * * *

  They sat up all night, drinking the whiskey, talking about Lily Langtry. Clint told him almost everything he knew about her—except how she looked naked. But Roy Bean didn’t want to know that. He worshiped her like a goddess, so he’d never want to hear anything like that.

  So Clint told him everything else he knew about the dear lady, and then made up some things. By the time the sun came up, he knew he’d be able to keep that hotel room for as long as he wanted.

  Roy Bean looked at the window and said, “It’s morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “We both need some sleep,” the judge said. “Come to the Jersey Lily in a few hours and we’ll have breakfast.”

  The judge stood up.

  “But . . . I have to check out.”

  The judge walked to the door, turned, and said, “Don’t be an ass.”

  * * *

  Clint went to the Jersey Lily for a late breakfast with the judge.

  But before that, still several hours away, Piper poured coffee for himself, Harker, and Autry.

  “We could have kept going,” he said. “We’d be eating breakfast right now.”

  “And one of our horses would have a broken leg,” Autry said. “It’s just as well we camped. We’ll be there before noon, and we can have lunch.”

  “How far behind us do you think Montoya and his men are?” Piper asked.

  “Depends,” Harker said.

  “On what?” Piper asked.

  “Whether or not they rode to my house to see if I really went home.”

  “If they did that,” Autry said, “and they saw you weren’t there, they’d figure it out. That we didn’t really split up.”

  “They might,” Harker said. “It’s more likely they’re tracking Clint, following his trail.”

  “Which he’s not trying to hide at all,” Piper pointed out.

  “Let’s hope he’s not being too obvious about it,” Autry said.

  “What do you think?” Piper asked.

  * * *

  Clint and Judge Roy Bean had a full ham-and-eggs breakfast, complete with fresh buttered biscuits and potatoes.

  “Are you a steak-and-eggs man?” the judge asked while they ate.

  “I am,” Clint said. “It’s my preferred breakfast.”

  “Well, you’ll have it tomorrow morning,” Bean assured him.

  “I thought you had to go to Fort Stockton for steak,” Clint asked.

  “I’m havin’ it brought in,” Bean said.

  The night before, in his room, Bean had told Clint how many times he had seen Lily Langtry perform. He also told him how many times he had almost spoken to the Jersey Lily, only to back down.

  “I don’t mind admittin’,” Judge Roy Bean had said, “I was scared.”

  So, as someone who was afraid to speak to the woman he worshiped, the fact that Clint knew her—and he had told Bean enough about her to convince him that he was telling the truth—went a long way toward making him welcome in Langtry, no matter who was on his trail.

  “I appreciate that, Judge,” Clint said, “but I still don’t intend to bring a firefight into your town.”

  “If Inocencio Montoya tries to take you in Langtry,” Judge Roy Bean said, “I’ll throw his aristocratic ass into my jail.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Clint admitted.

  At that moment the batwings of the Jersey Lily opened and three men walked in.

  “Yours?” the judge asked.

  Clint nodded and said, “Mine.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint waved Piper, Autry, and Harker over and introduced them to Judge Roy Bean.

  Harker—the only one of them who had ever heard of the judge—said, “A pleasure, your honor.”

  Piper and Autry were looking at the remnants of the meal on the table.

  “Would you gents like some food?” the judge asked.

  “Oh, yes, your honor, we would,” Piper said.

  “Grab a table,” Bean said. “I’ll have my man bring you some ham and eggs.”

  “Thanks, Judge,” Clint said.

  Bean nodded and went to the kitchen. The three mercenaries grabbed a table and Clint joined them.

  “Any sign of Montoya and his men?” he asked them.

  “No,” Harker said, “not yet anyway. But we knew where we were headin’, and they’re trackin’ you. We probably just traveled faster than they did.”

  The bartender came with coffee and poured for all four of them. There were no other customers in the saloon. Clint nodded his thanks to the man.

  “They should be here sometime today,” Harker said. “Unless they get lost.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Piper said.

  “What’s the plan?” Autry asked.

  “Well,” Clint said, “I did have some ideas, but things have changed a bit.”

  “How so?” Autry asked.

  “We suddenly have the Law West of the Pecos on our side,” he explained.

  “The judge?” Harker asked.

  Clint nodded.

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “I didn’t,” Clint said. “Lily Langtry did.”

  * * *

  In the kitchen Roy Bean said to the bartender, “Get ahold of Leroy.”

  “Sir?”

  “I want him to ride out and watch for riders,” Bean said. “I want to know when those Mexicans are comin’.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  The table was covered with food within a few minutes, and the three mercenaries dug in.

  “Been a long time since I had me an American breakfast,” Piper commented.

  “Me, too,” Autry said.

  “That’s what you get for livin’ in Mexico,” Harker said with a big smile. “I eat like this all the time.”

  “If I ate like this all the time,” Piper said, “my horse wouldn’t be able to carry me.”

  Harker slapped his stomach and said happily, “I never put on weight.”

  “You’re lucky,” Autry said. “With my size, I can easily get to three hundred pounds.”

  They all looked at him.

  “Well, not now,” Autry said.

  “What’s your new plan?” Harker asked.

  “Judge Bean isn’t happy about Mexicans crossing into Texas and coming to his county,” Clint said.

  “Did you tell him they’re not about to care what the law thinks?” Piper asked.

  “Especially Del Plata and his men,” Autry added.

  “Well,” Clint said, “the judge seems to think he can handle
anything with his gavel.”

  “The way I hear it,” Harker said, “he pretty much can.”

  “Then I’ll talk to him,” Clint said, “and see what he has to say.”

  “Ain’t you gonna eat somethin’?” Piper asked. “It’s almost all gone.”

  “Well, I, uh—” Clint said, looking at the remains of the eggs and ham and biscuits. “Oh, what the hell. I’m not worried about gaining weight.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Later that afternoon Montoya reined in his horse and pointed ahead at Victorio.

  “Victorio!” Del Plata shouted.

  The tracker stopped, turned, and then rode back to them.

  “That town up ahead,” Montoya said. “What is it called?”

  “Langtry, patrón.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone ever been there?” Montoya called out.

  No one had.

  “What do you want to do, señor?” Del Plata asked.

  “I want you to send your man ahead to have a look at the town,” Montoya said. “I want to know if it has any law, how big it is . . . and if Clint Adams is there.”

  “Sí, patrón,” Del Plata said. “Perhaps I should go with him?”

  “No,” Montoya said, “just one man. I do not want any undue attention.”

  Del Plata nodded, and looked at Victorio.

  “Did you hear?”

  “Sí, Jefe.”

  “Then go and do it,” Del Plata ordered. “Come right back here with what you find out.”

  “Sí, Jefe.”

  Victorio rode on toward Langtry.

  * * *

  Clint was sitting with Piper, Autry, and Harker when a skinny man came running into the saloon.

  “Where’s the judge?” he asked the bartender.

  “In his office.”

  The man ran to the judge’s door and opened it without knocking.

  “They’re here!” he yelled.

  Clint got up and walked to the opened door, looked in. The man was standing before the judge’s desk.

  “How many?” the judge asked.

  “A lot,” Leroy said, “but they’re sending one man ahead.”

  “To scout,” Clint said.

  Judge Bean looked past Leroy to Clint.

  “They’ll want to make sure I’m here,” Clint said, “and that I’m alone.”

  “We can show them that,” the judge said.

  “Maybe if I leave—”

  “No,” Bean said, “that won’t be necessary. We can show them what they want to see.”

  “They’ll also be checking on how many men you have.”

  Judge Bean stood up.

  “We can handle that, too. You can go, Leroy.”

  “You want me to do anything else, Judge?”

  “Just tell the men to be on call.”

  “Okay.”

  Leroy turned and rushed past Clint.

  “The men?”

  “You’ll see when the time comes,” Judge Bean said. “For now we’d better get your men out of sight.”

  * * *

  When Victorio entered the Jersey Lily, Clint was sitting at a table alone. The only other person in the saloon was the bartender.

  The Mexican went to the bar and said, “Cerveza, por favor.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The bartender set a beer on the bar.

  “Quiet town,” Victorio said.

  “Very quiet.”

  Victorio drank some beer, risked a look over his shoulder at Clint, who pretended not to notice. He seemed to be concentrating on the beer mug in front of him.

  “You do not have much crime, then?” Victorio asked.

  “No crime,” the bartender said, “no law.”

  “No jefe? Uh, sheriff?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “We don’t need one.”

  “That . . . is very good for you.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Victorio drank down his beer, paid for it, and left the saloon.

  Judge Bean came out of his office.

  “So now we wait,” he said.

  “We wait,” Clint agreed.

  “Come with me,” Bean said to Clint. “I want to show you something.”

  * * *

  Outside the saloon, Victorio looked around. There was no one on the streets. It was quiet. Almost dead.

  Langtry seemed to be a ghost town.

  He mounted his horse and rode out.

  * * *

  Montoya and the rest were right where he left them.

  “No law, patrón,” Victorio said. “It does not even look like there are any people. It is like a . . . a ghost town.”

  “What did you see exactly?” Montoya asked.

  “Just a bartender in a saloon.”

  “Any customers?”

  “One.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Victorio told them.

  “It is him,” Montoya said.

  “Are you sure, patrón?” Del Plata asked.

  “Well,” Montoya said, “we are going to ride into Langtry and find out.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  “They’re comin’ in,” Leroy said. “All of ’em.”

  “All right, Leroy,” Judge Bean said. “Take your position.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He left the Jersey Lily, carrying his rifle.

  “Are you sure you have enough?” Clint asked.

  “It’s not how many,” Bean said. “It’s all in the positioning. Speaking of which . . .”

  “I should get into position, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, Judge—”

  “Don’t,” Judge Roy Bean said. “Any friend of Lily Langtry’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint went out.

  * * *

  Montoya and his men rode into Langtry. Immediately, they saw what Victorio had seen—empty streets, a quiet little town. There was also a man sitting in a chair in front of the Jersey Lily.

  “That’s him,” Montoya said. “That’s Clint Adams.”

  “So,” Del Plata said, “that is the famous Gunsmith.”

  “Sí.”

  “How do you want to do this?”

  “I want him dead,” Montoya said, “and I want to pull the trigger.”

  “Well then, señor,” Del Plata said, “unless you want to do it from here with a rifle, we better get closer.” Del Plata turned to his men. “No one fires unless the patrón does. Comprende?”

  Not only did his men nod, but the rest did as well.

  * * *

  Clint watched as the large group of riders—easily twenty-five, so they hadn’t lost any during the ride—approached him. He supposed he should have been flattered.

  The only way they were able to all stand in front of the saloon was by gathering in the center of the street. Front and center, though, were Inocencio Montoya and his Mexican mercenary, Roberto Del Plata.

  “Adams,” Montoya said. “You didn’t run very far.”

  “I didn’t run at all, Montoya,” Clint said. “Here I am.”

  “Alone?” Montoya asked. “Where are your paid killers? Did they desert you?”

  “Not at all,” Clint said. He had one foot planted against a wooden post, was leaning back slightly, but he had his gun clear for a quick grab, if it came to that. “They’re around.”

  Montoya couldn’t control his eyes. He looked around, didn’t see any of the American mercenaries.

  Montoya brought his eyes back to Clint, who was seemingly unconcerned.

  “I told you what was going to happen to you for shooting my son,” Mon
toya said.

  “Yes, you did,” Clint replied. “You said I’d have to face you and your family. Looks like your family got a little bigger since then.”

  “You are a professional gunman,” Montoya said, “and you did warn me that I would lose some family members if I came after you.”

  “And you will,” Clint said, “but first you’ll lose your own life, Montoya, because you’re the first one I’ll kill. Even if I only get one of you, it will be you.”

  Montoya didn’t like that, but he stood his ground. Del Plata was giving Clint a good, long, hard study.

  “Stand up,” Montoya said. “The time has come.”

  “Here?” Clint asked. “In town? This town has done nothing to you. Why would you shoot it up?”

  “You chose this town, Adams,” Montoya said, “I did not.”

  “You’re right, Montoya,” Clint said, “I did choose the place . . . and perhaps you should think about that. We’re not in Mexico now, where the law doesn’t apply to you.”

  “What does it matter?” Montoya asked. “There is no law here.”

  “But there is,” Clint said.

  Montoya turned his head to look directly at Del Plata’s man, Victorio.

  “In fact, allow me to introduce you to the local law—in fact, the Law West of the Pecos—Judge Roy Bean.”

  Roy Bean stepped out from between the Jersey Lily batwings and stood next to Clint. He was still in shirtsleeves and suspenders, wearing his stovepipe hat, with a slim cigar sticking out of his mouth. He was also wearing a pistol in a holster.

  “Señor Montoya.”

  “You are a judge?” Montoya asked in disbelief.

  “I sure am.” Bean took something from his belt. “In fact, here’s my gavel. See?” He held the gavel up.

  “That means nothing,” Montoya said.

  “Well,” Bean said, “maybe you’ll take the word of our sheriff?”

  The batwings opened again and a man wearing a badge stepped out. Clint had been surprised when Roy Bean told him that the bartender was not only his bailiff, but the sheriff of Langtry as well.

  “Sheriff Benson,” Roy Bean said, “meet Señor Montoya.”

  The sheriff simply nodded. He was holding a rifle in his hands.

  Montoya turned to Del Plata and said something in Spanish. Clint thought he must have been complaining that he thought there was no law in Langtry.