The Pinkerton Job Read online

Tom Horn was lying on his right side on a table as they entered, favoring his heavily bandaged left thigh.

  “Looks like you saved my leg, Siringo,” he said, “and maybe my life.”

  “You’re welcome, if that’s a thank-you,” Siringo said.

  “Is that Clint Adams with you?”

  “Hello, Tom. Glad you’re not dead.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Horn said. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I was passing through and heard the news,” Clint said. “Thought I’d come and check up on the two of you.”

  “I’m fine,” Horn said. “All I need is a new pair of britches and we can get back on the trail.”

  “Not so fast, Horn,” Siringo said. “The doc doesn’t want you on a horse for a week.”

  “He’s crazy,” Horn said. “You know how far ahead of us Sandusky will be by then.”

  “Sure,” Siringo said, “I’m no dummy. A week further than today.”

  “That’s right,” Horn said. “You give me a day, maybe two, and we’ll get back on their trail.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Siringo said. “Right now I’m gonna go and talk to the sheriff.”

  “What’s he got to do with anythin’?”

  “He’s the local law,” Siringo said. “I just wanna fill him in.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll be right here,” Horn said.

  “I’ll get us some hotel rooms and help you get over there later,” Siringo said.

  “You gonna be around, Adams?” Horn asked.

  “I’ve got noplace to go,” Clint said. “I can hang around awhile.”

  “We’ll have a drink,” Horn said.

  “I’ll see you in a little while, Tom,” Siringo said.

  Horn’s face was etched with pain as he said, “I’ll be fine.”

  Siringo and Clint left Dr. Epton’s office together. They had gotten directions from the doctor to the sheriff’s office and headed over there.

  “This sheriff doesn’t sound like he’d going to be much use,” Clint said.

  “That’s okay,” Siringo said. “The Pinkertons just like their men to stay in touch with local law enforcement.”

  “So this is definitely as Pinkerton job?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Horn’s a Pinkerton now?”

  “No,” Siringo said, “he’s working with me, but not for the agency.”

  “You paying him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You must have needed him badly.”

  “He’s the best tracker I know.”

  They reached the sheriff’s office and Clint said, “Well, let’s go inside. I’m looking forward to hearing this story.”

  FOUR

  Sheriff Nick Kerwin listened patiently while Siringo told him what happened when he and Tom Horn caught up to the Sandusky gang.

  “So basically,” the man said, “you’re tellin’ me Tom Horn rode you right into a trap.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m sayin’,” Siringo said. “I’m sayin’ Tom tracked them down and found them, but just as they were meeting up with some others.”

  “So when you found them,” Kerwin said, “there were twice as many as you expected.”

  “Right.”

  “And they shot the shit out of you.”

  “Well . . . you could put it that way, I guess,” Siringo agreed reluctantly.

  “And what do you want me to do about it?”

  Clint figured whatever Siringo said to that question, he wasn’t going to get much out of this man, just as the doctor had warned. They had found the fiftyish sheriff sitting with his feet up on his desk, and he had removed them only grudgingly to see what they wanted.

  “Nothin’,” Siringo said. “I’m not askin’ you to do anythin’. I’m just lettin’ you know what happened in your county.”

  “And who brought you in?”

  “Some hands from the Double-Z found us and were good enough to bring us to the doctor’s.”

  “How bad hurt were ya?”

  “I got a scratch, Horn’s liable to be laid up awhile.”

  “Here in town?”

  “Where else?” Siringo asked. “I can’t move him.”

  “I hope there ain’t no trouble with you fellas,” Kerwin said. “I don’t need no trouble in my town.”

  “We don’t intend to cause any trouble.”

  The sheriff looked at Clint, who, up to this point, had not been introduced.

  “And you? What’s your part in all this?”

  “I don’t have a part, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I’m passing through and heard what happened. Siringo and Horn are both . . . acquaintances of mine, so I thought I’d check in and see what happened.”

  “And are you stayin’ around town, too?”

  “I am,” Clint said, “for a few days.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  The sheriff hesitated, then asked, “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right,” Siringo said with great satisfaction. “The Gunsmith.”

  “Aw, look,” Kerwin said to Clint, “I really don’t want no trouble in town, I just—”

  “I’m not lookin’ for trouble, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I just want to make sure my friends are okay.”

  “Yeah, but you three in one town at the same time? You don’t gotta look for trouble, it’ll find you.”

  “That wouldn’t be our fault, would it, Sheriff?” Siringo asked.

  “You’re not telling us to leave town, are you, Sheriff?” Clint asked.

  “Naw, naw,” Kerwin said quickly and nervously, “I ain’t tellin’ ya that. I just . . . don’t want no trouble.”

  Clint knew that what the sheriff wanted was not to have to do any work.

  “Well, Sheriff,” Clint said, “how about we just promise not to look for any? Would that do?”

  “Well,” Kerwin said unhappily, “I guess that’ll have to do.”

  FIVE

  Outside the sheriff’s office, Clint said, “Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

  “Good, I could use one,” Siringo said.

  “There’s a saloon over there,” Clint said, pointing. He had, in fact, just spotted it.

  The place was small, with no crowd inside, but it had what they wanted, a bar and a beer.

  Once they had a beer each, Clint turned to Siringo and said, “Now tell me what you didn’t tell the sheriff.”

  “About what?”

  Clint sipped his beer and regarded Siringo over the top of his mug.

  “All right,” Siringo said. “The Pinkertons were hired to get rid of some rustlers in Santa Fe County. They sent me. I found out who they were, and recruited Horn to track them. That’s all true.”

  Clint remained silent, waiting.

  “Okay,” Siringo said. “Harlan Sandusky killed a man named Lew Hancock. Lew was a friend of mine.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last month.”

  “Before or after the Pinks were hired?”

  “It happened before we were hired,” Siringo said. “I found out about it when I went to Santa Fe.”

  “So this is personal.”

  “No,” Siringo said, “I’m doin’ this because the Pinkertons sent me. But yeah, I do want to see Sandusky pay for killin’ Lew.”

  “Does Horn know about Lew?”

  “No,” Siringo said, “and I don’t wanna tell him.”

  “He won’t hear it from me.”

  Siringo finished his beer and said, “Thanks. Now let me buy you one.”

  Clint nodded, set his empty mug down on the bar.

  “Let’s get a table,” Siringo said, and led the way to the back.

  Once they’d s
at down, Clint asked, “What are you going to do now?”

  “I got some choices,” Siringo said. “I can wait for Horn to heal and then get back on the trail.”

  “Or?”

  “I can go without him.”

  “Track them alone?”

  Siringo nodded.

  “What about the odds?” Clint asked.

  “The odds were against me when I started.”

  “But you and Horn rode into a buzzsaw,” Clint said. “There were more of them than you thought. And now they know you’re coming.”

  “They think we’re dead,” Siringo said. “They won’t expect us to be coming again.”

  “Where are they headed?” Clint asked.

  “Not sure,” Siringo said. “Maybe Mexico.”

  “If they think you’re dead,” Clint said, “maybe they’ll go back to Santa Fe to keep rustling.”

  “That could be,” Siringo agreed.

  “You’ve got another option, you know,” Clint said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You can take me in place of Horn.”

  “You?” Siringo asked. “Why would you do that?”

  Clint shrugged and said, “I’ve got nothing else to do. With me, you could leave tomorrow.”

  Siringo rubbed his jaw.

  “I’d have to talk to Horn,” he said. “Pay him off. Then we’d have to decide on a price.”

  “I’m not asking you to pay me.”

  “I’m sayin’ the Pinkertons will pay you.”

  “I don’t really want their money either, Charlie,” Clint said. “Just say the word and you’ve got a partner.”

  “I appreciate that, Clint,” Siringo said. “I really would like to get right back on their trail.”

  “How many we talking about?”

  “We started tracking six,” Siringo said. “They easily got a dozen now.”

  “That many men,” Clint said, “they’ll be easier to track.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” Siringo finished his second beer. “I better go and see how Horn’s doin’, get us some hotel rooms.”

  “Yeah, I’ll need a room, too, for tonight. Why don’t I check us all in while you go see Horn?”

  “That works for me,” Siringo said, and they both stood and left the saloon.

  Just outside the batwing doors they parted company.

  “I’ll meet you at the hotel,” Siringo said.

  Clint nodded. Siringo headed for the doctor’s office and Clint to the nearest hotel. Neither of them saw Sheriff Kerwin watching them from his window.

  SIX

  “You ain’t leavin’ me here,” Tom Horn said stubbornly. “I don’t mind if Adams comes along. We can use his gun. But I ain’t stayin’ here.”

  “Tom,” Siringo said, “I’ve got to get back on their trail as soon as possible.”

  “Fine,” Horn said. “Let me rest up tonight and I’ll get on a horse tomorrow.”

  “You can’t,” Siringo said. “You’ll bleed to death.”

  “I ain’t gonna bleed to death,” Horn said. “I’m too damn ornery to die. You get them hotel rooms?”

  “Clint is gettin’ them now.”

  “Well, get me over there, then, so I can rest up,” Horn said. “Help me off this table.”

  Siringo helped Horn down, wondering how the man was going to get on a horse when he couldn’t even get off the table and stand up by himself.

  * * *

  Clint was standing outside the hotel when Siringo came along, with Horn leaning on him.

  “Here are your keys,” he said, handing them to Siringo. “You need any more help?”

  “No, we got it,” Horn said. “I just need to rest tonight. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  Clint looked at Siringo, who just shrugged.

  “Glad to hear you’re comin’ along, Clint,” Horn said, “but like I told Charlie, I ain’t stayin’ behind.”

  “I guess it’s your decision, Tom.”

  “I’ll get Tom into his room and come back down,” Siringo said.

  Clint nodded, and sat in a wooden chair in front of the hotel to wait.

  When Charlie Siringo came back out, he sat next to Clint.

  “He’s stubborn,” he said. “He’s gonna get on a horse if it kills him.”

  “Like I said, the decision is his.”

  “If he decides to go, are you still gonna come?” Siringo asked.

  “Sure,” Clint said. “You’ll both still be outnumbered. And you may need help with him.”

  “He might slow us down.”

  “Oh,” Clint said, “I think if Tom Horn gets himself on a horse, he’s not going to slow us down.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I think I am.”

  * * *

  After Siringo left Tom Horn on the bed in his room and went out, Horn got himself to his feet. He almost fell over, but put the weight on his right leg and kept himself up. The doctor had wrapped the thigh wound tight, and Horn thought he’d be able to sit a horse without opening the wound.

  He walked to the window to look out, then walked back to the bed. By the time he sat back down on the bed, he was sweating. And hungry. Siringo was supposed to bring him something to eat, and he didn’t want to be sweating when that happened.

  He got himself back on the bed, with his legs up, and started to get his breath back.

  He meant what he said to Siringo, and to Clint Adams. He was going to be back on a horse by tomorrow. No damn bullet was going to keep him from finishing this job, and finding that sonofabitch who shot him.

  SEVEN

  Before turning in, Clint and Siringo agreed to meet in the lobby in the morning, and have breakfast together. Siringo then went to a nearby café to get something for Horn to eat, and brought it to his room.

  “I thought you needed a steak,” he said as he entered carrying a tray that was covered by a red-and-white-checkered napkin.

  “It’s about time,” Horn said. “I’m starvin’.”

  Siringo removed the napkin, revealing a steak-and-potato plate, a knife and fork, with a bottle whiskey lying on its side.

  “Ah,” Horn said, picking up the bottle, “this’ll help, too. Get two glasses.”

  Siringo walked over to a chest of drawers that had a pitcher, a basin, and two glasses on it. By the time he returned to the bed, Horn was attacking the steak with his knife and fork. He poured two fingers into a glass, handed it to Horn, and the man drained it and held it out for more. Siringo poured two more fingers, then set the bottle aside. Horn took the second glass of whiskey, but put it next to his plate and continued eating. He had a good appetite.

  “How’s the leg?” Siringo asked.

  “It hurts,” Horn said truthfully. “But I’ll live.”

  “Well, I hope so,” Siringo said. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  “You still thinkin’ about leavin’ without me?” Horn asked.

  “I think it’s gonna be up to you,” Siringo said. “If you can get on a horse, then the three of us will ride out of here tomorrow.”

  “Clint will still come along?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good,” Horn said. “We can use his gun.”

  “But if you can’t get yourself on a horse tomorrow,” Siringo went on, “then I suggest Clint and I leave and you rest a few more days before you follow us.”

  Horn chewed his steak and thought about that.

  “From your point of view, it makes sense,” he finally admitted.

  “We’ll even make it easy for you to follow us,” Siringo added.

  “That won’t be a problem,” Horn said, “but let’s wait and see what happens in the mornin’.”

  Siringo was thinking that, come morning,
Horn probably wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed.

  Horn devoured his food, then downed the second glass of whiskey.

  “What did you and Clint decide?”

  “He and I are gonna meet in the lobby for breakfast,” Siringo said. “Then we’ll come and check on you. After that, we’ll all decide what we’re gonna do. I don’t wanna leave you behind, Tom, but if it’s the best thing for you . . .”

  “I get it, Charlie,” Horn said. “I get it. My own damned fault for bein’ stupid enough to stop a bullet. I want to find the bastard who pulled the trigger.”

  “If we get them all,” Siringo said, “it means we got the one who did it.”

  “We’ll get ’em,” Horn said, wincing as he changed position. “Let me have another shot, Charlie.”

  Siringo poured him another shot, then set the bottle down across the room.

  “My room is down the hall,” Siringo said. “Scream if you want somethin’.”

  “Oh, I’ll scream,” Horn said, sleepily setting the tray aside. He was asleep before Siringo went out the door.

  * * *

  Clint went to his room, marveling at how things had changed over the course of the day. He’d only stopped in Las Vegas to restock, never expected to run into somebody he knew, let alone two. And then to hear that they had been shot up. He was glad to see that Charlie Siringo was all right, and hoped Tom Horn would not be foolish enough to try and mount a horse the next day, not with that wound to his thigh.

  Clint, being the kind of friend he was, could not let Siringo continue his hunt of the gang alone—not when he was tracking almost a dozen men. He had no choice but to offer to go along—whether Horn traveled or not.

  Clint read from a Mark Twain collection of short stories for a while, then turned in. He heard someone walking down the hall before he went to sleep, then a door closed, and he assumed that it was Siringo. After that, all was quiet.

  * * *

  Siringo went to his own room and peeled off his clothes. He wished he’d had time to take a bath and get some clean clothes, but that wasn’t to be. He slapped as much dirt from his clothes as he could, then set them on the wooden chair in the corner.

  Whether Horn was ready or not, he intended to ride out of Las Vegas the next morning. He’d meant what he said to Horn. The man could follow after him and Clint when he was ready. He would probably catch up to them before they caught the gang. Hopefully, Sandusky thought they were dead, and would not recruit any more men. Going up against a dozen would be bad enough, but not as daunting as it might have been with Clint Adams along. Among the three of them, Siringo knew they had all the talent to make the perfect Pinkerton. Clint would fill in what Siringo and Horn were missing—a deadly accurate hand with a gun. Siringo and Horn could shoot, but they did not have the talent Clint Adams had.