The Gunsmith 387 Read online

  “Ah,” Vazquez said, you flatter me, señor. I do my job, to be sure.”

  “Perhaps that is why it’s so quiet,” Clint suggested.

  “Sí, perhaps,” Vazquez said. “It may also be because you are here.”

  “Me?”

  The lawman nodded.

  “Sí,” he said, “many of the townspeople are afraid of you. They are afraid if they cause trouble, you will step in.”

  “I’ve never given any of them reason to fear me,” he said, “and stepping in when there’s trouble is your job, Sheriff, not mine.”

  “Indeed it is, señor,” Vazquez said. “I am simply telling you what I hear.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Clint said. “Maybe I should be on my way and allow you to have your days of little trouble.”

  “It is too late for that, señor.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “There have already been many quiet days,” Vazquez said. “Certainly there is big trouble coming. I do not know when, but it is surely coming. That is my experience. So you see, should you decide to leave, it would not solve the problem.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Clint asked.

  “I was just looking to pass the time with some conversation, señor,” Vazquez said. “And perhaps invite you to dine with me this evening.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Jefe,” Clint said, “but I already have an invitation to dine.”

  “Ah, the lovely Miss Garcia?”

  “Actually no . . .”

  “Then your good friend who lives on the beach?”

  “Yes.” Avery had told him to come back “next time” for supper. He was simply stretching the point.

  “Then I will not try to tempt you away,” Vazquez said, rising. “Perhaps another evening?”

  “Perhaps,” Clint agreed.

  “Very well,” Vazquez said, “then I wish you a good rest of the day.”

  “Thank you for the cigar.”

  “Por nada, señor,” Vazquez said.

  The sheriff walked away and Clint wondered if there had been something else in that conversation besides the obvious.

  * * *

  After Vazquez left Clint, he walked to the Cantina Carmelita and entered. He went to the bar and ordered a beer. Before long, the owner of the drinking and gambling establishment came over and joined him.

  “And so?” Ernesto Paz asked.

  “He will not be leaving anytime soon.”

  “That is good, isn’t it?”

  “It can be, I suppose.”

  “Why would he leave?” Paz asked. “No one bothers him, he has a woman, and a friend . . . perhaps two friends?”

  “You flatter me, Ernesto,” Vazquez said. “Clint Adams is much too careful to make friends so quickly. I would say we have a careful, cordial relationship.”

  “Well, whatever it is, you’ll have to take advantage of it when the time comes.”

  Paz turned and walked away. Vazquez watched until the man entered his office, then turned and left without finishing his beer.

  EIGHT

  For his supper, Clint went to the small Rosa’s Cantina—which served only food, not liquor or gambling—where Carmen was a waitress.

  “I wondered if you were coming tonight,” Carmen said with a smile.

  “Any tables available?” he asked.

  They looked around. In point of fact, there were only two tables that were taken.

  “I think we can seat you, sir,” she said, playing along. “Would you like your regular table?”

  “That would be fine.”

  Smiling, she led him to a small table against the back wall.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Sí.”

  “I will be right back.”

  She went to the kitchen and returned momentarily with a pot of coffee and a white mug. She poured steaming black coffee into the mug for him and then asked, “What would you like for your supper?”

  “What is Rosa preparing tonight?” he asked.

  “Whatever you want, señior,” she said. “You are a special customer.”

  “Steak?” he asked.

  “Ah, with Mexican spices,” she said. “I will tell her.”

  She returned a short time later with a perfectly prepared steak, redolent with Mexican spices, along with sweet onions, rice, and refried beans.

  “Thank you, Carmen,” he said.

  “Do not thank me,” she said. “Thank Rosa.” She leaned in close and added, “You can thank me later.”

  She smiled again and left him to his meal.

  * * *

  While he was eating, a man entered, looked around, saw him, and walked over to him.

  “Padre,” Clint said.

  “May I sit?” the man asked.

  The tall, slender man dressed in black sat down across from Clint. He had a long face made longer by age and the fact that he once weighed many more pounds. Despite the weight loss, though, Clint had recognized him on the street one day. And the man knew it. That was almost a week ago, and this was the first time the man had approached him since.

  “What name are you going by?” Clint asked.

  “Father Flynn.”

  Clint smiled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “An Irish priest in a Mexican town.”

  “This was as far away as I thought I could get.”

  “From what?”

  “My old life.”

  “I see. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Clint waved to Carmen. She brought another cup and poured it full.

  “Anything else, Padre?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  He did not speak again until she walked away.

  “Is that what you’re doing?” Father Flynn asked.

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Hiding from your old life.”

  “I have only one life . . . Father.”

  “So then you’re hiding from that one.”

  Clint chewed his steak and said, “Not hiding, actually. Just . . . taking a break.”

  “Well, I am hiding,” Father Flynn said, “from a life I’ve left far behind me. When I saw you on the street last week, I knew you recognized me. My first instinct was to flee.”

  “Run away again? To where this time?”

  “That was the question,” Father Flynn said, sipping his coffee. “I couldn’t think of anywhere to go, so I thought I would just talk with you.”

  “About what?”

  “About what you would say about me when you return to the U.S.?”

  “Why should I say anything?”

  “Do people still wonder about me?”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “And you don’t have any desire to tell anyone you found me?” Father Flynn asked. “To a friend maybe?”

  “No,” Clint said.

  “Can I believe that?”

  “We were never friends, Father,” Clint said, “but I think you know that I keep my word.”

  The priest put his coffee cup down and stared across the table at Clint.

  “Yes, I do know that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No apology necessary.”

  Father Flynn pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “Will you come to my church?” he asked.

  Clint swallowed the piece of steak he’d been chewing and said, “Let’s not push it, Father Flynn.”

  NINE

  Clint finished his meal, promised to return when Carmen was ready to go home. They would either go to the small house she had at the north end of town, or to his hotel room.

  After leaving Rosa’s, he went to Cantina Carmelita. It w
as the biggest place in town to drink, and it offered various forms of gambling. Clint, in an attempt to distance himself from his life for a while, had stayed away from the poker tables. All he did when he was there was nurse a beer or two, and relax.

  “Cerveza,” he said to the bartender.

  “Sí, señor.”

  Clint had come a long way from home to find some peace, and so far, even though the people in town knew who he was, no one had tried him. Aside from a word or two with bartenders or waiters, he did most of his talking with Avery, Carmen, and Sheriff Vazquez.

  Also Ernesto Paz, who owned the Carmelita.

  While he was nursing his first beer, the well-dressed cantina owner came up to him and smiled broadly.

  “Welcome, Señor Adams,” he said. “Welcome back to my humble establishment.”

  In most U.S. towns, the Carmelita would have been considered humble, but not here in Laguna Niguel.

  “You are very modest, Señor Paz,” Clint said. “You have a fine place here.”

  “Gracias,” Paz said. He was not tall, probably about five-nine, around forty years old, and always impeccably dressed. “Would you consider playing some poker tonight? I can promise you some good competition.”

  “No, thank you,” Clint said. “I’m not playing much these days.”

  “Understood,” Paz said, putting his hands up, palms out, “I will not try to pressure you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But if you should change your mind,” Paz added, “I would be happy to arrange a private game.”

  “I’ll let you know, Señor Paz.”

  “Excellent,” Paz said. “I will let you enjoy your beer in peace, then.”

  Paz pressed his hands together as if in prayer, and backed away.

  Paz usually asked Clint once a day if he wanted to play poker. Clint had been refusing since he’d arrived there. You’d think the man would get the hint.

  * * *

  Clint was on his second beer when Sheriff Vazquez put in an appearance. He smiled and came across the room. The bartender had a beer on the bar by the time he got there.

  “Gracias, Raul.”

  He took a big drink and smiled at Clint.

  “Has Paz bothered you again about poker?”

  “He asked.”

  “He is desperate to say the Gunsmith played poker in his establishment.”

  “Sorry I can’t help him.”

  “I have told him that, but he does not listen to me.”

  “I was wondering something,” Clint said. “I never asked you if you had deputies.”

  “Por qué?” Vazquez asked. “Do you want to be a deputy?”

  “No, I was just wondering about this bit of trouble you’re expecting.”

  “Well, I have two deputies,” Vazquez said. “They are . . . how do you say . . . okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said.

  “But if, as you say, big trouble comes, I am not sure their guns will be very helpful.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Clint was waiting for the lawman to ask him again about being a deputy, but the question didn’t come. Instead, the sheriff eyed the crowded interior of the place while he finished his beer.

  “Well,” he said, setting down the empty mug, “things look quiet enough in here. I must get on with the rest of my rounds. Have a nice evening, señor.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  The lawman left and Clint turned his attention back to his second beer.

  TEN

  Clint was waiting out front when Carmen came out and locked the door of the cantina behind her.

  “Where’s Rosa?” he asked. “Why doesn’t she lock up?”

  “Rosa always leaves first.”

  “You know, I’ve never seen her.”

  “Oh, you don’t want to,” Carmen said. “She is very ugly.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “It is very true,” she said. “She is a wonderful cook, but she looks so bad that she just stays hidden in the kitchen all day.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “She is very happy,” Carmen said, linking her arm in his. “Where shall we go tonight?”

  “My hotel,” he said.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “I like your hotel room.”

  Actually, his hotel room was larger than her little house, but it was all she could afford on what she was paid at the cantina. Carmen was beautiful, but she wouldn’t use her beauty to make money, not serving drinks or working in a cathouse.

  They walked to the Hotel Especiale, which was the larger of the two hotels in town. Clint’s room was on the top floor. They walked through the large, well-furnished lobby to the stairs, and the clerk nodded knowingly at Clint.

  “I love walking through this lobby,” she said. “I just wish I was dressed nicer.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  They went up the stairs to his room. He unlocked the door and let her go in first. It was a two-room suite, the best the hotel had to offer, and the cost was a fraction of what it would have been in the States.

  She turned around to face him and said, “I should take a bath.”

  “You can do that tomorrow,” he said. “In the morning.”

  “But I smell like, well, food.”

  He walked to her, put his arms around her, and pulled her close. He could feel her warmth through her dress.

  “I like the way you smell after work,” he said, putting his nose in her hair.

  “You just like me because I smell like steak,” she said, snuggling up against him.

  “You smell like Carmen,” he said, “always.”

  She lifted her face to him and he kissed her, gently at first, and then more ardently. While he was kissing her, he worked her dress off her shoulders and down around her waist. Her full, bare breasts were hot and smooth. He kissed her neck, and her shoulders, worked his way down to her breasts, nibbled on her nipples. She sighed, held his head there. Her brown nipples swelled in his mouth.

  He walked her to the other room, to the bed, where he sat her down and worked her dress off completely. She had a lovely, streamlined body, with small, rounded breasts and slim hips. She was an elegant girl who really didn’t know it.

  He kissed her, then stood up, removed his gun, and hung it on the bedpost. Carmen went to work on his trousers and before long had them down around his ankles. She took his cock in her hands, stroked it, leaned forward, and kissed it. She moaned, licked him, and then took him into her mouth. She sucked him, rubbing her hands up and down his legs, taking his bare ass in her hands and pulling him to her so hard he staggered because his pants were around his ankles.

  So she sat him down on the bed, removed his boots and trousers, then laid him on his back and straddled him. Dangling her pert breasts in his face, she took him inside her steaming depths and began to ride him. He moved his hips with hers, kept his hands all over her, and they moved faster and faster until he bucked her off, slipped her over, spread her legs, and drove himself into her. He grabbed her ankles, spread her even more, and fucked her while she spoke Spanish to him, inflaming him . . .

  * * *

  Later they lay together on the bed and she asked, “Did you see your friend down by the beach?”

  “I did. I had a late breakfast with Avery and his wife. She’s pregnant.”

  “She does not like me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she calls me a whore.”

  “No—”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I have heard her, my friends have heard her.”

  “Well . . . why?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “So please. Do not ever invite me to go there with you.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “But you must continue to see your f
riend.”

  “I will.”

  “He must be very happy about the baby.”

  “He is,” Clint said. “I’m surprised he was able to do that, though. At his age. I think even he’s surprised.”

  “We are not surprised about that in Mexico,” she said. “Our men become even more potent with age.”

  “That’s good,” Clint said. “Maybe he caught some of that.”

  She slid her hand down between his legs and took hold of him.

  “Hmm,” she said, “I think perhaps you have caught it as well.”

  “Then let’s test it out, why don’t we?”

  ELEVEN

  Cord Rydell and Hal Chance rode through several more towns after their experience in El Diablo. They heard no news about the shootings there.

  “Maybe news don’t travel fast,” Chance said.

  “Suits me,” Rydell said. “Whether we have to shoot it out again or not, suits me.”

  “These Mexicans sure can’t shoot,” Chance said. “Not the storekeepers or the bandidos.”

  “Well, so far we ain’t met up with any Federales or lawmen,” Rydell said.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to worry much about them either.”

  “We’ll see,” Rydell said. “Don’t kid yourself. I’ve run into some pretty good lawmen down here.”

  “Like who?”

  “Never mind,” Rydell said. “Just don’t underestimate the law.”

  Chance laughed. “Like that lawman in El Diablo?”

  “You never gave him a chance,” Rydell said.

  “Yeah, and that’s the way I like to treat my lawmen. Make ’em dead.”

  “There’s the cantina,” Rydell said. “Let’s see if we can get in and out without killin’ anybody this time.”

  “Hey, I just need to find me a señorita—”

  “No girls this time,” Rydell said. “This is business.”

  “Ah, Cord—”

  “You heard me.”

  “What if your man ain’t there and we have to wait?” Chance asked.

  “You can have food and drink,” Rydell said, “no girls.”

  “Ahhh . . .”

  They dismounted, tied their horses off, and went inside.