Way with a Gun Read online

  “In what way?”

  “What if the mine was a bonanza?”

  “He didn’t care,” she said. “He only wanted to make enough to open this place.”

  Clint looked around. The place was simple, clean, had about ten tables. It did not look like a man’s dream come true.

  “Wait until you taste the steak,” she told him, touching his hand. “You’ll see.”

  And she was right. When the steaks came they were great. As good as any he’d had in restaurants in Denver or San Francisco.

  The owner was a man in his fifties named Danny Flynn, who told Clint that of all the jobs he’d ever had he hated mining the most.

  “Even though you were taking gold out of the mine?” Clint asked.

  “It didn’t matter,” Flynn said with an Irish accent. “I hated what I was doing, so I only did it long enough to get me to where I could do what I love to do.”

  “Cook.”

  “I’m a natural, laddie,” Flynn said. “You’ve tasted my food. It would be a sin to waste the talent God’s seen fit to give me.”

  “Oh, I agree,” Clint said. “I admire the decision you made. I don’t know that I could have walked away from the gold.”

  “Well,” Flynn said a bit sheepishly, “I didn’t really walk away from all that much gold.”

  “The mine played out?”

  Flynn nodded. “Just a few months after I sold it.”

  “And the new owners?”

  “They took some gold out—probably more than I did—but it was no bonanza, let me tell you. It would not have been worth my time.” He spread his arms. “I’m very happy with what I have here.”

  By the time he finished telling his story, the place— which had been empty when Clint and Angela first arrived—had filled to the point where almost every table was occupied. Clint was starting to think that maybe Danny Flynn had not given up a gold mine after all.

  During dessert the subject got down to sex. The flirting was apparently done with. It was time for plain talk, with no games.

  “Of course I’ve had sex,” she told him. “But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about your reputation with the ladies.”

  “I didn’t know I had a reputation with the ladies,” he said.

  “You think all people talk about is how fast the Gunsmith is with a gun?” she asked. “Then you haven’t heard your own stories, have you?”

  “To tell you the truth, I try not to listen to them,” he told her.

  “Well, believe me,” she said, “that reputation is considerable.” She leaned forward, placed her elbows on the table, and lowered her voice. “In fact, that’s the one I’m interested in right now.”

  “Are you telling me that’s what you want to interview me about?” he asked.

  “Actually,” she said, touching the back of his hand, “I was thinking about . . . research.”

  Clint sat back and stared at her.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, also sitting back. “Too bold?”

  “No,” he said, “no, not at all. Unexpectedly bold, I guess, but certainly not too bold.”

  “Shall we get out of here then?” she asked. “I’m guessing you don’t plan to be in town for very long, so I might as well take advantage of this bold streak I’m suddenly showing.”

  “Actually, you’re right,” he said. “I was planning on leaving tomorrow.”

  Clint paid the check, insisting on it since he’d invited her, and they walked out together. They headed for his hotel arm in arm.

  “I have a proposition for you,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If I can convince you not to leave tomorrow,” she said, “you’ll give me that interview.”

  “Angela,” he said, “I really am going to leave in the morning.”

  “Then where’s the harm?” she asked. “Let’s make it a wager . . . or a challenge.”

  Clint thought a moment, then said, “Why not?”

  FOUR

  And so here it was, two days later, and she had won her sexual challenge. He’d stayed because of her prowess in bed. He didn’t know where or how she had learned the things she knew, and didn’t care. He was having a hell of a two days, and it was worth an interview.

  He grunted as he slammed into her, and she gasped, either from pleasure or from pain, he wasn’t sure, but he was too far gone to care. Her face was pressed into his neck, her hard breasts pressing into his chest every time he brought his hips forward. He could feel the heels of her feet in the small of his back, just above his buttocks.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned into the hollow of his neck. “Yes, harder . . .”

  Not pain then . . .

  Back in the bed, Clint said, “I was afraid I was going to break your back.”

  “Haven’t you figured out by now I’m not fragile?” she said. “I thought you’d realize that after we broke the dresser.”

  He looked over at the drawers that were on the floor because the dresser had collapsed beneath their weight.

  “So are you still planning to leave tomorrow morning now?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow I definitely have to go, Angela.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Don’t even think about giving me another challenge,” he warned her.

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” she said. “I think we should go out to supper later, and do my interview, and then finish up here with a night to remember.” She slid her hand down over his belly to grasp his semierect penis. “I want to make sure you remember me when you leave here.”

  As his cock began to swell in her hand, he said, “I don’t think there’ll be any problem with that.”

  “Well,” she said, rolling toward him and sliding a leg over his thigh, “I just want to make sure.”

  FIVE

  The three men across the street from the hotel were getting impatient.

  “What the hell is he doin’ in there?” Bob Lasker asked.

  “Didn’t ya see him in the window?” the second man, Larry Cameron, said. “He’s got him a woman in there who can go for days.”

  The third man, their boss, said, “We’ll just have to wait as long as it takes. You two know your roles, right?”

  “We got it,” Cameron said. “You only told us four times already.”

  “I just wanna make sure you got this right,” the boss said. “I got a lot ridin’ on this.”

  “So do we,” Lasker said. “Yer payin’ us a lot of money.”

  “If we get this done,” the boss added.

  “Oh,” Lasker said, “we’ll get ’er done, don’t you worry.”

  “Yeah,” Cameron said, “all we need is for him ta come out.”

  Clint strapped on his gun and said to Angela, “My legs are weak.”

  “Is that all?” she asked, standing in front of the mirror. “After being in this room with you for two days, I think my reputation is gone.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, “I’m the one who lured you here. Do you care?”

  She turned and smiled at him. “Not at all. And after I print my interview, maybe people will realize that I’m somebody to be reckoned with.”

  “Well,” he said, “if I can help that happen, I’m very happy.”

  She turned, her shirt tucked into her skirt, both of which were the same color as her boots. Her hair was perfect, every strand in place.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Good enough to eat.”

  “We better get out of this room while we can,” she said. “You can talk to me like that later, when we get back.”

  He held the door open and said, “After you, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Clint closed the door behind them and followed her down the hall, hoping his legs would get him to the restaurant. He wasn’t as young as he used to be.

  The moment they stepped out the front door of the hotel, Clint knew something was wrong. He could feel it, and he’d been depending on his
instincts for too many years to disregard it.

  “Go back inside,” he told Angela.

  “What? Why—”

  “Don’t ask any questions,” he said, giving her a push. “Just go inside. I’ll explain later.”

  But of course, if he was right, there would be no need to explain. She’d see for herself, and it would be better than any interview.

  Once he knew Angela was safely inside the hotel lobby, he stepped down off the boardwalk into the street. There were two men directly across the street, staring at him. But they were waiting, not approaching him right away. Waiting for what . . . another man to move into position maybe? Like in a window, or on a rooftop? This wouldn’t be the first time somebody tried to bushwhack him and make it look like a fair fight. Of course, once the Gunsmith was dead, who would care if he had a bullet in his back?

  Clint would care.

  The hair on his neck stood up as the two men across the street straightened up, still staring at him and waiting.

  This was good. They weren’t ready and didn’t know what to do.

  He crossed the street to them.

  “What do we do?” Cameron asked.

  “We do what we came here to do.”

  “What about Lasker?” Cameron asked. “What if he’s not in position?”

  “Lasker is just insurance, Cameron,” the other man said. “We can do this.”

  “We can?”

  “He’s only one man.”

  “Yeah,” Cameron said, “with a legend attached.”

  “Don’t think about that part,” his boss told him. “Just think about the man.”

  SIX

  The two men remained on the boardwalk as Clint reached them, still standing in the street.

  “You boys looking for me?” Clint asked.

  “What would make you think that?” one of them said. The other looked at the first man, which told Clint that he was the one in charge. Also, the second man’s eyes kept flicking up toward a rooftop behind Clint. When this was over, Clint would have him to thank for still being alive.

  “You’ve been standing across the street from my hotel all day,” Clint said. “From the way you wear your guns, it’s plain to me that you make your living with them. Although, you’d think professionals would keep their guns in better condition.”

  “Our guns work fine,” the first man said.

  “Well, okay then,” Clint said. “Do what you came to do. I’m hungry.”

  Now both men’s eyes went to a rooftop directly behind Clint—probably the hotel itself—and Clint saw the first man give an almost imperceptible nod.

  In one motion Clint drew, turned at the waist, and fired one shot. The bullet struck the man on the rooftop square in the chest. He dropped his rifle and then fell. The weapon hit the ground in front of the hotel before he did.

  Clint turned back just as the two men were grabbing for their guns. He fired twice, killing them both instantly.

  Even though he knew they were dead, he walked to the bodies, plucked their guns from their holsters, and tossed them away. Then he crossed the street and kicked the rifle away from the body of the first man he’d killed. Only when that was done did he eject the spent shells from his gun and replace them with live ammo. He was holstering his own gun when Angela came out of the hotel, followed by several guests and the desk clerk.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “That was amazing. You killed three men with three shots, and one of them was on the roof of the hotel.”

  “You saw it all?” Clint asked.

  “Everything.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “because here comes the sheriff. You can help me explain what happened.”

  Sheriff Ames Edwards regarded both Clint and Angela across his desk.

  “I’ve got three dead men at the undertaker’s,” he said.

  Clint didn’t reply. Angela followed his lead.

  Edwards was in his fifties, had been a lawman a long time, and knew very well who Clint was. In fact, he’d known as soon as Clint had ridden into town.

  “I knew this would happen when you first rode in,” Edwards said. “Time for you to leave town, Adams.”

  “What a coincidence,” Clint said. “Just what I had in mind. But there’s something I need first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to know who those three were.”

  Edwards opened his top drawer and took out a few items.

  “One’s unidentified,” he said. “According to the contents of their pockets—and their saddlebags—one of the others is named Bob Lasker.”

  “I don’t know him,” Clint said. “What about the third one?”

  “He had a telegram in his pocket,” the lawman said. “I’m assuming it’s to him. His name was Newly Yates.”

  “Yates . . .” Clint said.

  “That name sound familiar?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “but from where?”

  “He’s one of you,” the sheriff said.

  “One of me?”

  “He makes his way with his gun,” Edwards said. “He’s for hire.”

  “Wait a minute,” Clint said. “He’s a bushwhacker.

  Don’t compare him to me. I’ve never killed a man who wasn’t facing me and trying to kill me.”

  “So you say,” Edwards said. “When are you leaving town?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “I’d prefer you leave now.”

  “You want to make that an order?” Clint asked. “And then enforce it?”

  The two men stared at each other, and then Edwards said, “First thing in the morning then.”

  Clint stood up, reached for the telegram on the desk.

  “What are you doin’?” Edwards asked as Clint picked it up.

  “I killed him,” Clint said, folding the telegram and putting it in his shirt pocket. “I figure I’m entitled to it.”

  He turned and put his hand out to help Angela to her feet. They left the office together.

  SEVEN

  Clint and Angela were seated with steaks in front of them before she started asking questions.

  “What did those men want?”

  “Other than to kill me? I don’t know.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Normally, I’d say it was just someone looking for a reputation,” Clint said. “They saw me in town and decided to try me.”

  “But not this time?”

  “No,” he said. “Newly Yates hires out. That means there’s a good chance someone hired him to kill me.”

  “And that bothers you more than if it was just someone trying to get a reputation?”

  “Yes,” he said. “If he was hired, it makes it personal. If that’s the case, I’d like to know who hates me enough to hire someone to kill me.”

  “But, if he’s a professional as you say, why was there a man on the roof behind you—and how did you know he was there?”

  Clint studied her for a moment, then said, “If you’re going to keep asking questions, we’re going to call this our interview.”

  She frowned.

  “You can either go over old ground, or cover this particular incident,” he said.

  “With your insight?”

  “With whatever I can offer, yes.”

  “All right.” She produced a pad and pencil. “How did you know the man with the rifle was there? How did you even know there was trouble?”

  Clint explained the situation to her as clearly as he could. He’d “felt” that there was trouble, and the two men in the street had given away the presence of the man on the roof.

  “They couldn’t not look at him,” he told her. “That told me he was there, and where he was.”

  “Wait,” she said, “I want to hear more about you feeling there was trouble. That was why you pushed me back into the hotel? Because of some . . . some instinct?”

  “That’s exactly right,” he said. “It’s an instinct I’ve come to trust, and it’s never let me down.�
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  She asked a dozen more questions, writing down all the answers, filling page after page until finally she ran out of pencil lead.

  “Clint,” she said when they were finished talking and eating, “I would love to come back to your hotel with you tonight, but if I’m going to have this story ready by morning—”

  “I understand, Angela,” he said. “You’re a journalist. That comes first.”

  “I’m afraid it has to.”

  In truth, he wasn’t disappointed. After killing three men, he really wasn’t in the mood for sex.

  Outside the restaurant, he asked, “Can I walk you home?”

  “I’m not going home,” she said. “I’m going right to the office to start on this, and that’s only a few doors down.”

  “All right then,” he said. “I’ll say good-bye now. I will be leaving in the morning, as I told you and the sheriff.”

  “B-but, what are you going to do? I mean, about these men, about finding out who hired them?”

  He didn’t want the answers to those questions in the newspaper, so he said, “I don’t know. I’ll use my time on the trail to figure that out.”

  She kissed him quickly then and said, “I have to run.”

  He hugged her and said, “It was a pleasure, Miss Desmond.”

  “It was definitely that.”

  She started to walk away, then turned quickly and asked, “Do you want to give me an address so I can send you a copy?”

  “Oh,” he said, “I think this is a story that will be picked up by other newspapers.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  He nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing it.”

  She smiled happily, then turned and almost ran down the street to her office.

  In his room, Clint took out the telegram he’d taken from the sheriff. It was short and said something about Yates being “first,” but he’d better hurry up and make his move. The “others” were waiting. It was signed with one name, “Tell.”

  “Tell,” Clint said aloud. It sounded familiar. And with Yates being “first,” did that have anything to do with the attempt?