The Last Buffalo Hunt Read online

  “The Gunsmith?” Holliver asked.

  “It don’t matter who he is,” Lukas insisted. “Whoever he is, he’s gonna bleed when we shoot him.”

  “If you shoot me,” Clint said.

  They looked at him—except for the two men who were now watching Jones.

  “You think you’re fast enough to kill the four of us before one of us gets you?” Lukas demanded.

  “Fast has got nothing to do with it,” Clint said. “Look at your men.”

  Lukas looked.

  “They’re sweating,” Clint said. “The palms of their hands are wet. They’re going to rush their shots. I’m not.”

  Lukas seemed to be thinking things over.

  “How bad do you want to give my friend a bath?” Clint asked.

  Lukas looked at his men.

  “Not bad enough to die over it,” Holliver said.

  The other men nodded.

  “All right,” Lukas said. “Okay. Back off.” He looked at Clint. “You and your friend better get yerselves out of town.”

  “I don’t know about my friend,” Clint said, “but I’m leaving.”

  “Me, too,” Jones said. “After one more beer.”

  “Yeah,” Clint agreed, “one more beer.”

  Lukas abruptly headed for the door, and his men followed him. The last two men backed out, keeping their eyes on Clint and Jones.

  When they were gone, Jones lowered his Big Fifty and looked at the bartender.

  “Two beers,” he said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  He put two beers on the table. Jones grabbed both mugs in one hand, held the Big Fifty in the other, and walked to Clint’s table. The people around them leaned away, making faces. Some of them got up and left.

  Jones put the beers down on the table, leaned his rifle against the wall, and then sat opposite Clint.

  Clint pulled one of the beers over to him and said, “How are you, Crapface?”

  “I guess I’m fine now,” Jones said.

  Calling him “Crapface” was no insult to the smaller man, because he had long ago decided that was his name. The scabs and pockmarks on his face had earned him that name from a young age. As he grew older, he accepted it.

  “What are you doin’ here?” he asked Clint.

  “Just passing through,” Clint said. “Thought I’d stop for a beer… or two.” Then he raised his mug in his hand. “Or three.”

  “Three sounds good to me.” Crapface took a long pull on his cold beer. “You think those fellas are gonna be waitin’ outside for us?”

  “Probably.”

  “Any more?”

  “You got me,” Clint said. “I only saw those six come in.”

  “Probably all there is,” Jones said. “We could go out the back.”

  “We could.”

  “But you won’t?”

  “I can’t afford to,” Clint said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Crapface said, “that reputation of yours. Wouldn’t want people to think you were scared.”

  “I can’t afford that,” Clint said.

  “I know, I know,” Crapface said. “Every two-bit gun hand would come out of the woodwork for a chance at you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” Jones said, “I suppose I could go out the back way.”

  “There’s that.”

  Jones sat back.

  “Let’s catch up first,” the buffalo hunter said. “What’s been going on with you?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Kill or be killed?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How would you like to do somethin’ where you know nobody’s tryin’ to kill you?”

  Clint studied the other man’s face. Crapface’s age had always been a mystery. At this point he knew the man had to be at least forty-five, but he could have been sixty-five or seventy.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “A hunt.”

  Clint shook his head.

  “There are no more buffalo.”

  Jones raised his index finger.

  “One last hunt,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Texas panhandle.”

  “With who?”

  “Me, a few others,” Jones said.

  “How many buffalo?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jones said. “I’ve heard different counts. Two hundred. Three hundred. Five hundred. I decided the only way for me to find out is to go there.”

  Clint thought about it. It had been years since he’d been on a real buffalo hunt. It was on a hunt years ago that he first met Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp, the men who had become his most trusted friends.

  “Are you headed there now?” Clint asked.

  “I am.”

  Clint sipped his beer.

  “Come with me,” Jones said. “What have you got to lose?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jones extended his beer mug and Clint clinked it with his.

  “Now we only have to get by those men outside,” Jones said.

  “They’re still going to be nervous,” Clint said.

  “I’ll go out the back, get up high,” Jones said. “You gonna walk out into the street?”

  Clint nodded.

  “I’m glad I don’t have your… rules.”

  “They’re not rules,” Clint said.

  FOUR

  When the six men got outside, Vic Miller said, “I sure would’ve liked to try that Gunsmith.”

  “We are.”

  “Huh?” Miller said.

  “What?” Tom Holliver said.

  “We’re gonna wait out here for him,” Lukas said, “and take him when he comes out.”

  “How the hell are we gonna do that?” Hank Dennis asked.

  “Spread out,” Lukas said. “Two of you to the right, two to the left. Find positions behind cover.”

  “We gonna bushwhack him?” Sam Walden asked.

  “We’re gonna bushwhack him, but make it look like we didn’t bushwack him.”

  “And how do we do that?” Gary Vernon asked.

  “You and me, Gary,” Lukas said, “we’re gonna stand in the street, make it look fair.”

  “In the street?” Vernon asked. “Me?”

  “You and me,” Lukas said.

  Vernon looked at the other four men, who all looked away.

  Jones left.

  Clint waited ten minutes, letting the little buffalo hunter get set.

  The people around him felt great relief as the smell began to dissipate.

  Clint got up and walked to the front of the saloon. The other patrons all stayed where they were and watched him.

  “How can you stand the smell?” the bartender asked him.

  “You get used to it,” Clint said. “Besides, I spent a lot of time around buffalo when I was younger.”

  Clint looked out the window.

  “They’ll be out there, ya know,” the bartender said. “You made ’em look stupid.”

  “Bushwhackers?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “He won’t be no help,” the bartender said. “He’ll come around when it’s all over.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You goin’ out?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your friend?”

  “He’ll back my play.”

  “So two against six.”

  “Will it be only six?” Clint asked. “Or do they have more friends?”

  “Are you really the Gunsmith?”

  “Yes.”

  The barman shook his head.

  “They won’t get any other help,” he said. “Just the six of them.”

  “Any of them any good with a gun?”

  “Lukas thinks he is. He was the big mouth. But usually they just act as a gang.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “thanks for the help.”

  “Well,” the bartender said, “ain’t like I wanna get y
ou mad at me.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Clint said. “I reserve my anger for people who shoot at me.”

  “Good to know.”

  Clint walked to the batwing doors and stopped. From there he couldn’t see anybody.

  “Good luck,” the bartender said.

  FIVE

  Clint stepped through the batwing doors.

  “Took you long enough, Adams,” Dan Lukas said.

  The ranch hand was standing in the street with one other man. Either he couldn’t get the other four to stand with him, or they were spread out behind cover. Clint voted for the latter. He doubted Lukas would be standing in the street with only one man to back him.

  “Sorry if I kept you waiting,” Clint said.

  “You made me look like a fool in there,” Lukas said. “In front of my friends.”

  “You pretty much made a fool of yourself,” Clint said. “You didn’t need any help. And I’m willing to bet you don’t have any friends in there.” He waved. “I’ll bet all your friends are out here, hiding behind a barrel or in an alley.”

  “Whatsa matter?” Lukas said. “You don’t like these odds? Two to one?”

  “Cut the shit, Lukas,” Clint said. “That’s your name, right? Lukas? If you’re gonna make a move, make it. And you… get ready to draw or run.”

  Vernon swallowed hard.

  “Wipe your palms on your pants,” Clint told him.

  Vernon did it.

  “Don’t listen to him, Gary,” Lukas said.

  Crapface Jones had managed to get himself up onto the roof of the saloon. From there he had clear sight of Clint Adams standing in the street facing two of the ranch hands. He didn’t know their names, but that didn’t matter much to him.

  He sighted down the long barrel of his well-cared-for Big Fifty, scanned the street, and one by one picked out the locations of the other men. Eventually, he had all six of them spotted.

  Now all he had to do was assign them numbers, so he knew who he was going to take first.

  Clint didn’t know where the little buffalo hunter was, but he knew wherever he was, he was looking down the barrel of his .50 caliber rifle. He knew Crapface had his back.

  The other ranch hands all had sweating palms, and as Gary Vernon wiped his dry on his trousers, they did the same thing. Their orders were to watch Lukas and move when he moved. Their target was the Gunsmith, but they were all wondering where the smelly buffalo hunter with the Big Fifty was.

  A bullet from that gun could tear a man in half.

  Clint watched Lukas’s face and knew that, no matter what happened, the man was going to draw. No question about it. He was that stupid. The only question was how stupid the other five were.

  Just then he heard it.

  Crapface had just cocked the hammer on the Big Fifty. That wasn’t a sound you could mistake. And the street was quiet enough for it to carry.

  “Okay, ranch hand,” Clint said to Lukas. “Let’s see how many of your friends we can get killed.”

  SIX

  Dan Lukas drew.

  Crapface blew a hole through Gary Vernon’s chest. Pieces of Vernon flew all over the street.

  Clint drew and fired one round into the chest of Dan Lukas. The ranch hand never got his gun out of his holster. He toppled over backward and hit the street with an audible thud.

  The shots faded, and it got quiet again.

  Clint and Crapface waited to see what the other four men were going to do. Clint knew his friend had reloaded, because once again he heard the hammer cock.

  “The rest of you men come on out,” Clint said. “Make your play or go back to your ranch.”

  Crapface had reloaded and watched as the four men stepped out from hiding. He assumed one of the dead men in the street was their leader. They stared down at him.

  * * *

  “Come closer,” Clint said. “Take a good look. This is what stupidity got both of them. Now how stupid do you want to be?”

  The four men stared down at the dead Lukas and blasted-apart Vernon.

  “You men want to go for your guns?”

  The four of them stared at him and Hank Dennis said, “No, sir.”

  “Then walk away, get on your horses, and leave town.”

  They turned to start walking away.

  “Wait!”

  They stopped.

  “Leave your guns in the middle of the street.”

  The four men exchanged looks and then, one by one, they took their guns from their holsters and dropped them into the street.

  “Now don’t get brave with your rifles when you mount up,” Clint told them.

  “No, sir,” Vic Miller said.

  “Then get!”

  They all looked up at the roof of the saloon, where Crapface was watching them over the barrel of his long gun.

  Then they walked to their horses in front of the saloon, mounted up, and left.

  That’s when the sheriff showed up.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  Clint turned, saw the man with the badge approaching them.

  “Just a disagreement, Sheriff.”

  The man stopped and looked down at the two dead men. Then he looked at Clint. He looked to be in his forties, probably had a few years behind the badge.

  “I knew them,” he said.

  “If you knew them, then you know they weren’t part of a very friendly bunch.”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “The others just rode out.”

  “I might have to talk to them,” the sheriff said. “To find out what happened.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of men in the saloon who could help you.”

  “I knew them,” the lawman said again, “but I don’t know you.”

  “Then I’ll bet you don’t know my friend either,” Clint said.

  “Friend?”

  Clint pointed up at Crapface, who was still holding his rifle ready. Since the four ranch hands had ridden out of town, Clint waved at Crapface to come down, then looked at the lawman.

  “I think I could use a name from you,” the sheriff said.

  “My name’s Clint Adams, Sheriff,” Clint said. “That’s my friend, Tyrone Jones.”

  “Well,” the sheriff said, “the Gunsmith. Maybe that’s all the explanation I need.”

  “Why don’t we go to your office,” Clint said. “Maybe my friend and I could make it clear.”

  Crapface had made his way down to the street and was approaching the two men.

  “All right,” the sheriff said, “we’ll go to my office, but I’ll need to get these bodies off the street first.”

  SEVEN

  After the sheriff got some men to take the bodies over to the undertaker, he led Clint and Crapface to his office. Once inside, he went around behind his desk and sat down.

  “Lukas and his bunch are kind of wild,” the lawman said. “But I don’t know that they deserved to die in the street like that.”

  “Any man who braces me in the street and won’t back down deserves to die in the street,” Clint said. “They had plenty of chances to change their minds. The other four were in hiding, but they were smarter. They decided to take the chance I gave them to leave.”

  “And him?” the sheriff asked.

  “It all started with me,” Crapface said. “Them six wanted to do to me what I heard they did to you.”

  That caused the sheriff to bristle, but he didn’t deny anything.

  “I wasn’t about to take a beatin’,” Crapface said. “Clint stepped in to help me.”

  “Did you fellas ride in together?”

  “No,” Clint said. “We just happen to be going in the same direction.”

  “You mean this was a coincidence?”

  Clint made a face and said, “Yes.”

  “I’m gonna have to explain to Mr. Jeffson how two of his men got killed.”

  “Mr. Jeffson?” Clint said.

  “He owns the ranch where all them boys work.”


  “Well then, they’ll tell him what happened,” Clint said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” the sheriff said. “Maybe they’ll tell him one thing, and I’ll tell them another. I’ll just let him know how it really happened.”

  “You want us to go with you?” Clint asked.

  The sheriff looked at Crapface and made a face, as if the smell was getting to him.

  “No,” he said. “That’s okay. You fellas just better move on.”

  “Just like that?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah, pretty much,” the sheriff said. “I believe you about how things happened. I know how Lukas and them boys operate. So you fellas can just mount up and ride out.”

  Clint looked at Crapface.

  “It suits me,” the buffalo hunter said.

  Clint looked at the lawman and said, “Okay, then.” He stood up. “We’ll ride out.”

  “Good.”

  The sheriff and Crapface also stood.

  “But I’ve got one thing to say,” Clint went on.

  “What’s that?” the lawman asked.

  “If I ever find out there’s paper out on either one of us, that we’re wanted—I’ll be coming back here for you. Understand?”

  “I get it,” the sheriff said. “Don’t worry, I won’t cross you.”

  “Make sure you don’t.”

  Clint and Crapface walked to the door, and Clint looked back at the man standing behind the desk.

  “Don’t worry,” the sheriff said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “See that you do.”

  Outside Crapface said, “You think he’ll keep his word?” “I think he will.”

  “But you still wanna stay around?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I don’t. If we stay, this could drag on for a long time.”

  “So then we better get out of here. Where’s your horse?”

  “In front of the saloon.”

  “Mine, too,” Crapface said. “Let’s go.”

  They walked to the saloon, mounted up, and rode out of town.

  After a few miles Crapface asked, “Where are you headed?”

  “Don’t know,” Clint said.

  “Then come with me.”

  “To the panhandle?”

  “To hunt buffalo,” Crapface said. “Again. How long has it been?”

  “A long time.”

  “So?”

  Clint studied his friend for a few moments, then shrugged and said, “Why not?”