The Gunsmith 385 Read online

  “Sure, go ahead,” Barry said with his nose in his cup. If for no other reason, he’d keep O’Brien around for his coffee.

  “The money,” O’Brien said, “how’d we do?”

  Barry looked at O’Brien. So far he was only the second one to ask about the money.

  “Not as well as I thought we’d do,” he said.

  “Well, I mean, how much is that?”

  “About four thousand.”

  “Four thousand?” O’Brien repeated.

  “Shhh,” Barry said. “Quiet.”

  The Irishman lowered his voice.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “If you’re splittin’ it two ways, yeah,” Barry said, “but not if you’re splittin’ it five ways.”

  “I get ya,” O’Brien said. He leaned in and lowered his voice even more. “How many ways are we gonna split it?”

  “Well . . . if you don’t tell anybody about it,” Barry said, “it could be two ways.”

  “I get it,” O’Brien said. “You can count on me.”

  “Good,” Barry said, “I knew I could. How about some more of that coffee?”

  “Sure, boss,” O’Brien said. “You want breakfast?”

  “No,” he said, “we’re gonna get an early start.”

  “You think there’s a posse after us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but we’re not gonna take any chances.”

  “I getcha.”

  Behind them they heard the other men beginning to stir. Barry was pretty sure Hastings and O’Brien would keep quiet about their conversations. It remained to be seen if the other men would even ask. So far, though, he still had all the money in his possession.

  And that was the way he wanted to keep it.

  * * *

  Clint woke early, washed, and dressed without waking Delia. They each knew what they had to do. They had discussed it during the night, so there was no need to go through it again.

  He left the hotel, carrying his saddlebags, rifle, and the Greener. He intended to travel light and fast, so all he’d need was his canteen and some beef jerky. He’d pick up his clean laundry the next time he came into town.

  He stopped at the doctor’s office first.

  “He slept through the night,” Doc Evans said, “and seems a bit stronger this morning. I’m hopeful.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “He’s asleep again,” Evans said. “That’s the best thing for him.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Are you going after them?” Evans asked.

  “Right now.”

  “Alone?”

  “I don’t have time to get up a posse,” Clint said. “Can you think of anybody who would go with me?”

  “Truthfully, no,” he said. “All we have here are storekeepers and clerks, Mr. Adams. I don’t think you could get up a posse even if the bank had been robbed.”

  “Then I guess I’m on my own,” Clint said.

  “I’d go with you, but—”

  “You’ve got your job to do here, Doc,” Clint said. “Just pull him through.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Clint headed for the door and said, “That makes two of us.”

  SIXTEEN

  Clint picked up the trail outside of town. He’d checked out the ground in front of the saloon, and although the five horses’ tracks were in among many others, he’d noticed a couple of things that might help him.

  Just outside of town he found a cluster of tracks and got down on one knee to examine them. Sure enough, he found a horse with only three shoes. He didn’t know the reason—maybe it had just thrown the fourth one—but this track had also been in front of the saloon. It could have belonged to a customer, but since it was in with the others, he chose to believe that it belonged to one of the robbers.

  Satisfied that he had a trail to follow, he mounted up and headed out.

  * * *

  Travis watched as Clint Adams studied the ground. He knew Adams was a competent tracker, but was sure that he was much better. If the Gunsmith had accepted his offer of help, they’d be on their way already.

  Adams remained on one knee for some time, then stood up, mounted up, and rode off, going north.

  Travis rode down to where Adams had dismounted and took a look for himself, also dismounting. Immediately, he spotted the horse with three shoes. He, too, had seen that track in front of Rick’s Place. Could have belonged to a customer, but like Clint, he chose to believe otherwise.

  He mounted up and rode after Clint.

  * * *

  Clint rode ten miles and stopped. Here he found the tracks of both horses and men. They had not camped here, but they had stopped, probably to get their breath, or split the money, or simply discuss their options.

  If Barry and his men knew enough to know that Rick kept money on hand, they knew enough about the town to figure out that there was no posse after them. That is, unless he was giving them more credit than they deserved.

  The tracks of the three-shoed horse confirmed that, so far, he was on the right trail.

  He walked around a bit then, satisfied that the tracks had told him all they were going to, mounted up, and headed off again.

  * * *

  Travis once again was not actually following Clint so much as he was trailing him. He also came to the cluster of tracks that showed that the gang had stopped to rest. So far Adams was doing okay in tracking this gang, but the time would come when the tracks dried up. Then what would he do?

  Travis mounted up and continued on at a leisurely pace. There was no reason to rush.

  * * *

  Clint made camp, secure in the thought that he was on the right track. As much as he would have liked to continue, there was no point in risking Eclipse’s safety, as well as his own, riding in the dark.

  He built a fire, made some coffee. He always had some in his saddlebags, even when he was traveling light. He broke off a piece of beef jerky to have for his supper when the coffee was ready.

  “I’ve got beans,” Travis said from the darkness.

  “You’ve been out there long enough,” Clint said.

  “I got a frying pan. You got plates?”

  “Come on in.”

  Travis came into the firelight, leading his horse.

  “Hold on,” Clint said.

  The young man stopped.

  “If I let you stay, you going to take off on me again in the morning?”

  “I guess that depends on whether or not you accept my second offer of help,” Travis said.

  “All right,” Clint said, “give me the beans and take care of your horse. We’ll talk about it over supper.”

  Travis tossed Clint the pan and beans, and he poured them into the frying pan while Travis saw to his horse. Of course, they’d done this once before, but maybe this time it would end differently.

  Travis came over and Clint handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Whoee,” Travis said after sipping it.

  “It’s good coffee,” Clint said.

  “Good and strong.”

  “Same thing. Beans are ready.”

  He scooped them onto the plates, handed one to Travis with one of the two forks he always carried. Very often a fork came in much handier than a frying pan. He had broken up the beef jerky and heated it up with the beans.

  “It looks to me like you’re on the right trail,” Travis said.

  “Thanks for the confirmation.”

  “What are you gonna do when the trail runs out?” Travis asked.

  “Deal with that when the time comes.”

  “I can help with that.”

  “Again,” Clint said, “why do you want to help me?”

  “I have an interest in you.”

  “Yeah, and w
e still haven’t gotten to the bottom of that, have we?”

  “We can deal with that later,” Travis said. “Why don’t you just let me help you track these men down?”

  “If I do that, I have to know that you can watch my back,” Clint said.

  “I can do that.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Clint said, “show me what you can do with a gun. Then we’ll talk.”

  “You want me to target shoot?”

  “For a start,” Clint said. “For now we better just finished eating and get some sleep. I want to get an early start.”

  “Want to set a watch?”

  “Why?” Clint asked. “Nobody’s hunting us. Just get some sleep.”

  “I’ll do the dishes,” Travis said.

  “Sure,” Clint said. “Right now, that’s about all I know you can do.”

  SEVENTEEN

  In the morning they had coffee and jerky and got the horses ready.

  “You wanted me to shoot some targets, didn’t you?” Travis asked.

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “pick something out.”

  Travis looked off into the distance.

  “Moving or stationary?”

  “Stationary, to start.”

  “How about that branch?”

  Clint squinted.

  “Where?”

  “That cottonwood.”

  “That’s a hundred feet.”

  “Yeah,” Travis said, “but I’m just using my hand gun, right?”

  “Okay.”

  Travis drew and fired without hesitation. The branch flew off the tree.

  “Not bad.”

  “And now it’s your turn,” Travis said, holstering his gun firmly.

  “I’ve got nothing to prove,” Clint said, “and replace that spent round before you holster your gun. That kind of carelessness can get you killed.”

  Travis looked chagrined, but also angry—probably with himself. He drew the gun, ejected the spent shell, replaced it, and holstered it again.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “I am for now,” Clint said. “Let’s start moving. But the time may come when you’ll have to prove yourself again.”

  “And I suppose you never have to prove yourself?” Travis asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “You already know who I am.”

  “And why not?”

  Clint looked at him.

  “Because you already know who I am,” he said, “don’t you, Travis?”

  They mounted up, located the trail again, and started to follow it.

  * * *

  Tom Barry led his gang into the small town of Bronson, in the lower portion of North Texas. It would take them days to get as far as Fort Worth. From there they could hop a train to anywhere, if necessary.

  He reined his horse in and stopped before actually entering the town.

  “Davis!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ride back a ways, make sure there’s no posse chasin’ us,” Barry said.

  “Aw, hell,” Davis said, “I was lookin’ forward to gettin’ my ashes hauled.”

  “Your ashes will have to wait,” Barry said. “Ride back about ten miles. If you don’t see anybody, come back and get your ashes hauled.”

  “Okay,” Davis said. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  He turned his horse and rode back the way they had come. Barry started his horse forward and led his other men into Bronson.

  “How long are we gonna stay here?” Hastings asked.

  “Not long.”

  “Long enough for a meal and a whore?” Irish O’Brien asked him.

  “Yeah,” Barry said, “that long.”

  “Long enough for Davis to catch up?” Kane asked.

  Barry looked at Kane, then looked away and said, “Yeah, maybe.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Clint and Travis followed the gang’s tracks to a town called Bronson.

  “They keep goin’ in this direction, they’ll get to Fort Worth,” Travis said.

  “I know,” Clint said. “If that happens, they can hop a train and be gone in any direction.”

  When they reached the main street, the tracks got lost among all the others, as well as the ruts in the street caused by wagon traffic.

  “We’ll have to check the livery stables, hotels, and saloons,” Travis commented.

  “And the sheriff’s office.”

  Travis looked at Clint.

  “I’ll leave that to you. I’ll check the liveries and meet you in that saloon there,” he said, indicating one that said ELLINGTON’S SALOON above the door.

  “Then we can check the hotels after we have a beer,” Clint said.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  * * *

  They split up there, and Clint rode over to the sheriff’s office.

  The office had seen better days. The door had two bullet holes and a cracked pane of glass in it. The town seemed kind of quiet, so maybe the holes were from the good ol’ days. He opened the door and stepped in.

  There was a musty smell inside, as if the place hadn’t seen a broom or an open window for some time. Sitting behind the scarred desk, which leaned to one side because of a broken leg, was a man who fit the scene. In his fifties, overweight, and sleepy looking, he stared at his visitor, as if hoping Clint had come through the wrong door.

  “Help ya?”

  “You can if you’re the sheriff.”

  “I’m the sheriff,” the man said wearily. “No deputies to speak of. I was just taking a load off my feet for a few minutes. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m tracking a gang that hit a saloon in Labyrinth, Texas.”

  “Labyrinth? Where’s that?”

  That was another reason Clint liked spending time in Labyrinth. It was pretty much unknown even to Texas folks.

  “South of here.”

  “They hit a saloon, you say?” the lawman asked. “Not the bank?”

  “No, a saloon.”

  “Don’t think I’d take a posse out to chase down some fellas who shot up a saloon.”

  “They killed the bartender, the local sheriff, and wounded the saloon owner, who’s a friend of mine.”

  “Must be a good friend.”

  “He is.”

  “Not dead?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Rick Hartman.”

  The sheriff frowned.

  “I know that name,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “And who’re you?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  The lawman sat up straighter.

  “I know that name, too,” he said. “The Gunsmith, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wanta be the fella you’re trackin’,” the sheriff said. “What’s his name?”

  “Tom Barry,” Clint said. “He’s riding with four others.”

  “And you tracked them here?”

  Clint nodded.

  “Their trail leads right to your main street.”

  “Hm,” the man said, rubbing his jaw again, “can’t say I seen five men ride in together.”

  No wonder, Clint thought. There was no way the man could see the street from where he was sitting, and he had a feeling the lawman didn’t often move from there.

  “I’ve got one man with me and we’re going to be checking the liveries, hotels, and saloons.”

  “That won’t take long,” the man said. “We got one livery, one hotel, and two saloons.”

  “Well, somebody must have seen them.”

  “Yeah, but are they gonna say so?”

  “I intend to find out.”

  “Okay, I’ll be her—I mean, I’ll be around if you need anything. Name’s J
eff Faraday.”

  “Sheriff Faraday,” Clint said. “I don’t think I’ll need any help. I just wanted you to know I’m in town, and I guess you could say I was looking for trouble.”

  “Whatever happens is between you and this Barry fella,” the lawman said. “Just don’t shoot any innocent citizens.”

  “I’ll try my best not to,” Clint said.

  He turned and walked out without another word.

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Last thing he needed was trouble from the likes of the Gunsmith.

  NINETEEN

  Clint met Travis at the saloon. The younger man was already at the bar with a beer. There were about half a dozen others in the place, who looked at Clint curiously when he walked in. He figured it was because he was the second stranger to walk in during the past five or ten minutes.

  “Beer,” Clint said to the bored-looking bartender.

  “Sheriff know anythin’?” Travis asked.

  “Not a thing,” Clint said, “but I think that’s his normal state.”

  “So he’s not gonna be any help.”

  “Nope. What about here?”

  “Didn’t ask,” he answered. “The liveryman said he hasn’t seen five men anytime in the past week. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “He seemed real nervous.”

  “Okay, let’s check here first, then we’ll go back to the stable.”

  He turned and waved the bartender over.

  “We’re looking for five men who may have ridden into town in the past three or four days.”

  “I don’t know nothin’,” the man said.

  “Does that mean you didn’t see them,” Clint asked, “or you saw them and you’re not talking?”

  “It means,” the man said, “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

  He turned and walked away. Clint studied him for a moment. He was a big man in his thirties, probably used to getting respect because he had thick shoulders and big hands. Clint wasn’t impressed, but he also wasn’t foolish enough to try to match strength with the man. He thought he could take him, but he didn’t want to spend the time, or risk the damage.

  He looked at Travis, who raised his eyebrows and then called out, “Hey, bartender.”