The Gunsmith 387 Read online

  “Then he will kill me,” she hissed.

  “He ain’t gonna kill nobody,” Chance told her. “Don’t worry about it. Whataya say, Cord?”

  “I say we need more tacos.”

  THREE

  Rodrigo huddled with his three compadres while the older girl, Raquel, came out with another platter of tacos for the two gringos.

  “Who is this guy?” Rydell asked Raquel.

  “He is a bad man, señor,” she said. “And he considers Belinda to be his woman.”

  “Well, she don’t exactly look like his woman right now,” Rydell said. “What about you? You belong to anybody?”

  “I belong to no man,” she said.

  “Good, then nobody is gonna come through the door and challenge me for you.”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “But they will kill you, señor,” she said. “You and your amigo. You should leave.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rydell said. “Just get yourself to cover and wait for me.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  She hurried away from the table and into the kitchen.

  “Get ready, partner,” Rydell told Chance.

  “I’m ready.”

  Eventually, the four Mexicans turned their backs to the bar to face the two gringos. The bartender quickly vacated the area behind the bar. The other patrons in the place left their tables and sought cover. Two men actually flipped their table over and crouched behind it.

  “Hey, gringo!” Rodrigo yelled.

  The two Americans assumed he was speaking directly to Chance.

  “You talkin’ to me?” Chance asked.

  “Sí, you,” Rodrigo said. “You have your arm around my woman.”

  “Do I?” Chance looked around. “I don’t see your woman here.” He squeezed her. “Only mine.”

  “You are very funny,” Rodrigo said. “Do you know who I am?”

  “No idea,” Chance said.

  “I am Rodrigo Saltillo Maria Castellanos.”

  “Still never heard of you.”

  “I am what you gringos would call a bad man,” Rodrigo said proudly.

  “Well,” Chance said, “I can see that you’re an ugly man. But you’ll have to prove you’re a bad man.”

  Rodrigo Castellanos was, indeed, an ugly man. The teeth he had that were not gold were black, and he had many facial scars. This indicated to Rydell and Chance that the man was probably a knife fighter. He wore two pistols, a bandelero, and several knives. The men with him, each uglier than the one before, were similarly armed.

  “Ho, ho,” Rodrigo said to his friends, “it sounds like the gringo thinks he is a bad man. But maybe not as bad as Rodrigo, eh?”

  They all laughed.

  “What do you say, gringo?” Rodrigo asked. “Are you as bad as Rodrigo?”

  “Probably,” Chance said. “What do you think, Cord?”

  “Probably badder,” Rydell said.

  “Then we shall prove it,” Rodrigo said. “We will fight for Belinda.”

  “Fight for a woman?” Chance asked. “There are lots of women, Rodrigo. Go and find another one.”

  “I am afraid, señor, that I want this one.”

  “Well, amigo, I’ve got this one,” Chance said.

  “So we will fight,” Rodrigo said, “with knives. The best man gets the girl, eh?”

  Chance looked at Rydell, who nodded.

  “Okay,” Chance said, “we’ll fight for her.” He finally released the girl, who ran for cover. Chance stood up from the table.

  Rodrigo smiled and took two of his knives out of their sheaths.

  “I think you should use knives,” Chance said, “but I’ll use my gun.”

  He drew his gun and shot Rodrigo Castellanos in the chest. Rodrigo’s mouth opened, his eyes popped, and he fell over. The knives fell from his hands and clattered to the ground.

  The motion froze the other three Mexicans, and by the time they started for their guns, Rydell was also standing, and he and Chance were both firing. The Mexicans went down in a hail of lead.

  Chance walked over to Rodrigo’s body, kicked it once to make sure he was dead, then looked around the room, spread his arms, and said, “I win.”

  At that moment another man entered the cantina, gun in hand. Chance turned and quickly fired. His bullet hit the man in the chest, knocking him over.

  Rydell walked over to the new dead man and looked down at him.

  “Whoops,” he said, looking at his friend. “El jefe.”

  “What?”

  “You killed the local sheriff, partner,” Rydell said. “Looks like we can forget about spending time with these señoritas.”

  FOUR

  Clint and Avery finished eating, but were working on a second pot of coffee.

  “What has you so pensive, my friend?” Avery asked.

  Clint decided to tell Avery what had been on his mind so much of late. The older man listened intently, not interrupting.

  “You’re a strange man,” he said when Clint was done.

  “How so?”

  “You don’t mind when people try to kill you because of your reputation,” Avery said, “but you’re upset that they’re tryin’ to kill you because of something more personal.”

  “That does sound odd,” Clint said, “but it’s right.”

  “Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”

  “When Travis came after me, it was very personal,” Clint said. “After that it was hired killers, and no, I don’t know who it was.”

  “How will you find out?”

  “The next set of killers he sends,” Clint said, “I’ll make sure to take one alive.”

  “In tryin’ to take a killer alive,” Avery said, “you could end up getting yourself killed.”

  “That’s true,” Clint said, “but it’s the only way I’m going to find out.”

  “Well,” Avery said, “I wish you luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Avery looked down at the beach and said, “Soon there will be a child running around down there, playing.” He looked at his friend. “Maybe more than one.”

  “You think Lita’s carrying twins?” Clint asked.

  “No, I mean we will have more,” Avery said. “Many, many more. A passle of kids.”

  Clint didn’t say anything.

  “You think I’m too old to have a passle of kids?” the older man asked.

  “To tell you the truth,” Clint said “I thought you were too old to have one, but you proved me wrong. So I wouldn’t bet against a passle.”

  Avery laughed.

  “Five boys and five girls,” he said.

  “Who has five boys and five girls?” Lita asked, coming out of the house. “Who has ten kids?”

  “We’re gonna have ten kids,” Avery said.

  “Oh no,” she said, “and are you going to help carry them?”

  “Not me,” he said, putting his arm around her and holding her close, “I’m an old man.”

  “Not so very old,” she said, leaning over and rubbing her nose up against his.

  “I think I should be going,” Clint said, sliding his chair back.

  “No, no,” Lita said, “stay.”

  “No, I’ve got to get back,” Clint said.

  “I thought you were down here doin’ nothin’,” Avery said.

  “Well, that’s right,” Clint said, standing up, “but I’ve got a lot of nothing to do.”

  “You should let me find you a girl while you are here,” Lita said.

  “That’s okay, Lita,” he said, “I found a girl in town.”

  “That is not a girl,” she told him. “That is a puta.”

  “She can’t be a whore,” Clint said, “because I don’t go to whores.”
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br />   Lita looked embarrassed, disengaged herself from her husband, and went inside.

  “Sorry about that,” Avery said. “Lita doesn’t like the woman you’ve chosen to spend time with.”

  “What does she have against Carmen?” Clint asked. “She’s a waitress, not a whore.”

  “Who knows what these women think?” Avery asked.

  Clint shook hands with Avery.

  “Come by again,” Avery said. “For supper next time.”

  “I’ll be back,” Clint said. “I promise.”

  He waved and went down the stairs to the beach.

  FIVE

  Rydell slapped Raquel’s big ass, then flipped the woman over and pawed her equally fulsome breasts. He leaned down to bite her dark brown nipples while she wrapped her fingers in his hair.

  “You are not worried about killing five men?” she asked. “Including the sheriff?”

  “Well,” he said with his face between her tits, “I did think we’d have to leave right away, but the sheriff’s dead. Who do we have to worry about?”

  He kissed her then, roughly, her lips already swollen from other brutal kisses. He was a brutal man, and she knew she would be bruised when he was finished, but she would also know for days to come that she had been taken by a man, and not one of Rodrigo’s filthy bandidos.

  Rydell roughly spread her meaty thighs, positioned his swollen cock at the moist lips of her pussy, and then drove himself into her, causing her to gasp.

  She clutched him to her with her arms and legs as he proceeded to fuck her hard . . .

  * * *

  Down the hall, Chance was doing much the same to little Belinda, who had been excited by all the shooting, especially since it had been over her.

  Chance carried her into the room, her arms and legs wrapped around him, her breasts pressed to his chest, her mouth nibbling his neck.

  “You killed them,” she said breathlessly, “for me.”

  “I killed them over you,” he said, “but for me.”

  He dropped her on the bed and roughly stripped off her clothes. Her darkness inflamed him—dark brown nipples, dark skin, and dark, bushy hair between her legs. He pulled off his boots, dropped his pants and drawers, and leaped onto the bed with her. In moments he had driven his hard cock into her and was taking her in hard thrusts. She pulled off his shirt and then held on tight to him, her teeth sinking into his shoulder.

  Over her own cries, Belinda could hear Raquel crying out from her room down the hall, and that excited her even more. Her excitement soaked into the sheets beneath them . . .

  * * *

  Rydell and Chance had agreed they had nothing and no one to fear, now that the sheriff was dead. They had asked the bartender if there were any deputies and he had shaken his head no.

  “Well,” Rydell said, “we ate, and we did some shootin’. We might as well do what we came here to do.”

  They had each grabbed a woman by the arm and pulled them into the back hall.

  When they were done, they met each other at the bar and had a beer. The cantina was empty, except for the bartender, who still looked worried.

  “You sure had that gal screamin’ her head off, Cord,” Chance said. “I could hardly hear mine at all.”

  “I could hear yours,” Rydell said. “She had a big voice for a little gal.”

  “And she was a wet one, lemme tell you,” Chance said. He drank half his beer down and looked around. “Where is everybody?”

  Rydell looked around, too, then turned to the nervous bartender.

  “Que pasa?” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Señor,” the man said, “I am just a poor merchant.”

  Rydell put his beer down and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt.

  “What’s goin’ on?” he demanded again.

  “T-They are outside, waiting for you.”

  “I thought you said there was no deputies.”

  “They are not deputies, señor,” the man said, “they are just . . . citizens.”

  “Gonna try to bushwack us on our way out, eh?” Chance asked.

  “Lo siento,” the man said. “I am sorry, señor, but . . .”

  Rydell released the man and looked at Chance.

  “Well, partner,” he said, “you better make sure your gun is loaded.”

  “My gun is always loaded, Cord,” Chance said, “you know that. How do you want to play this? Just walk on out?”

  Rydell rubbed his jaw, looked at the bartender again.

  “How many men out there?”

  “Perhaps seis,” he said.

  “Six,” Rydell said.

  “They any good with guns?” Chance asked the bartender.

  “As I said, señor,” the man answered, “they are citizens, storekeepers.” He shrugged. “They shoot like storekeepers.”

  Chance looked at Rydell and grinned.

  “Whataya say, partner?” he asked. “Just walk on out there?”

  “Why not?” Rydell replied. “We can use the practice.”

  * * *

  The two gunmen stepped out of the cantina, their hands on their belts.

  “Where are they?” Chance asked.

  “Maybe they changed their minds,” Rydell said.

  “Cowards,” Chance said. “First they want to bushwhack us, and then they changed their minds?”

  “Well, remember what the bartender said,” Rydell replied. “We’re dealin’ with storekeepers.”

  “They could be waitin’ until we step into the street,” Chance said.

  “That’s possible,” Rydell said. “I’ll watch the rooftops, you watch the doorways across the street.”

  “Okay.”

  Together they went to the edge of the boardwalk, then stepped down into the street, as if to mount up.

  Rifle barrels appeared on the rooftops and from doorways and windows across the street.

  “Got ’em?” Rydell asked.

  “I got ’em.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Chance smiled. Both men drew their guns and started firing with deadly accuracy.

  SIX

  It didn’t take long.

  The storekeepers not only shot like storekeepers, they were inept. Several of them fell from the rooftops when they were hit, while others staggered out the doors, or fell through the windows.

  The bartender was foolish enough to come running through the batwing doors carrying his rifle, so Chance turned and shot him as well.

  Then it was quiet.

  The two gringo gunmen ejected their spent shells, reloaded their guns, and holstered them.

  They looked at their horses. The Mexicans were such bad shots even the horses had not been hit.

  The two men mounted up and looked around. The two girls came to the batwing doors. They didn’t seem to be upset by all the bodies, or even the body of the bartender lying right in front of the doors.

  “Vaya con Dios,” Raquel called out, and both of the women waved.

  “What a town,” Chance said.

  Rydell agreed with a shake of his head.

  “If all Mexicans shoot like this, we won’t have any trouble takin’ our man.”

  “When we find him,” Rydell reminded his partner.

  “I’m leavin’ that part up to you, partner,” Chance said. “I got confidence in you.”

  “Appreciate that, Chance.”

  Chance looked behind him as they rode out of town.

  “If all the Mexican women are like those two . . .”

  “I know what you mean,” Rydell said with a smile.

  * * *

  Clint sat in a chair in front of his hotel and watched the people go by. It was the way he had spent most of his days since coming to town. That is, except for the time he spent on
the beach, either walking or visiting his friend Avery.

  He was glad to find his friend so happy, but wondered how much further Avery would be able to go after this first child was born. Avery had never seemed like the kind of man who wanted kids. Clint himself had never had the urge to father one child, let alone a brood. He hoped Avery wouldn’t be too disappointed if there was just the one.

  He had never regretted not having fathered any children. It was just not in the cards for the Gunsmith.

  SEVEN

  Clint was still sitting in front of the hotel when Sheriff Domingo Vazquez came walking up to him.

  “Señor Adams.”

  “Sheriff,” Clint said. “Care to join me?”

  “I do not mind,” Vazquez said. He pulled another chair over and sat next to Clint. He took two cigars from his pocket and handed one to Clint, then held a match for him before lighting his own. Clint did not smoke much, but rarely turned down a free cigar.

  “Gracias, amigo,” he said.

  “Por nada,” Vazquez said.

  When Clint first came to town, Vazquez had braced him, advising him that he would not stand for trouble in his town, not even from the American legend called the Gunsmith. Clint had promised the man he had no intention of causing any trouble.

  To the sheriff’s surprise, Clint had kept his words, had avoided trouble at all costs. During the course of his stay, the two had formed a tentative friendship, occasionally sharing a cigar or a drink.

  “It has been very quiet of late,” Vazquez said.

  “Don’t you like it when it’s quiet?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “It usually means something bad is going to happen,” Vazquez said. “I prefer to have a little trouble each day. I can handle that.”

  “You seem to me the kind of man who can handle any kind of trouble.”

  Vazquez was a handsome man in his late thirties, with a small, well-cared-for mustache and—when he wasn’t wearing his sombrero—slicked-back black hair. He carried himself with the air of a confident man—never more so than when he had braced Clint the first time. Clint had sensed that while the man was careful, he was not afraid.