The Clint Adams Special Read online

  “Bring that lantern closer.”

  This time, George was eager to comply.

  “That doesn’t look like a fancy rifle,” George said. “Looks like a piece of trash. Uh . . . I’m sure it looked fine when you first worked on it but—”

  “Do me a favor,” Clint said. “Hang that lantern.”

  After a few seconds of fumbling, the lantern swung from a spot only slightly above their eye level.

  “Why are you still looking at that rifle?”

  “This is another one that was under the same tarp. Same modifications.”

  “Could it have been someone else who did the work on them?”

  “No,” Clint replied with certainty. “I remember working on these. Damn fine job, if I do say so myself.”

  Standing over by the smaller boxes in the back of the cramped space, George pried one open with his bare hands so he could shove his fingers inside and scoop out a bunch of coins.

  “Wait a second,” he said. “These are the same coins as the others we found. And if they’re part of the Preston fortune, that means those rifles belonged to Preston, too.”

  Clint was still examining the rifle in his hands. He brought it closer to the lantern so he could get a better look at a portion of the stock that was splintered and cracked.

  “Don’t you see?” George asked impatiently.

  “See what?”

  “These rifles must have belonged to Preston . . . or at least someone close to the Prestons. And if you’re the one who built them . . .”

  “Actually, I just modified them,” Clint said.

  “Whatever,” George said. “My point is that you must have met up with at least one of the Prestons!”

  Clint asked, “So what if I did?”

  “Then perhaps you know some places where they preferred to go. Perhaps someplace that was safe enough for you to work.” George snapped his fingers. “Where did they meet with you to commission the job you did on those rifles? Do you remember who you spoke to? Was it in Texas?”

  “Do me a favor.”

  Nodding excitedly, George replied, “Yeah? What?”

  “Cool your heels on this and let me get a look at these rifles in the daylight. For now, let’s start carrying some of these boxes out of here.”

  As Clint had hoped, the mention of looting the cave was more than enough to distract George’s attention. “I was thinking one of us could stay here and the other can go back to the entrance. That way, we each only have to walk half the length of that damn tunnel.”

  “Fine. I’ll take the second part of the chain and bring what you hand me into the main portion of the cave.”

  “Why?” George asked as he narrowed his eyes into slits. “You think I’ll ride off and leave you here if I’m the one closest to the horses?”

  Clint let out a haggard sigh. “We’ve come this far around so much gold without nipping at each other. Let’s not start now. It’s too damn hot and I’m too damn tired for it.”

  The suspicious expression on George’s face quickly shifted to one of embarrassment. “You’re right, Clint. Sorry about that.”

  “If you want to switch places, be my guest.”

  And in the blink of an eye, George’s embarrassed expression snapped right back into the more familiar enthusiastic one. “That sounds like a great plan. Let’s get started.”

  Clint wasn’t about to argue with that. The first thing he did was squeeze his way back through the winding tunnel that brought him back to where the horses were waiting. As soon as he poured some water from his canteen into a large groove in the floor, both horses lapped it up gratefully. He then secured their reins as best he could before working his way through the tunnel once again. Fortunately, he only needed to go halfway this time.

  After scraping through the same tunnel several times in a row, Clint stopped feeling every bump and bruise. The repetition also made the trip seem shorter each time. After a few hours, George shuffled all the way down the passage to meet Clint at the front of the cave.

  As soon as he got a look at his partner in the brighter light, George removed his hat and used the back of his hand to mop the sweat from his brow. “Damn! Do I look half as bad as you?”

  George’s face was filthy and streaked with slender lines of blood from spots where his scalp had been introduced to the cave wall. His shirt was torn and the portion of his arms that were revealed by the sleeves he’d rolled up were battered, bloodied, and bruised.

  Glancing down at his own forearms to find them similarly abused, Clint winced to feel plenty of sore spots on his face. “I imagine we’re both worse for wear.”

  “Yeah,” George said as he sat down on a pile of narrow boxes containing the gold coins. “But at least we got everything out of there.” He looked around at the stacks Clint had made. There were two short piles of rifles, a few small crates of dynamite, and just over a dozen of the narrow boxes containing the real apple of George’s eye. It didn’t seem to be as much as when it was all crammed into a smaller room, but that wasn’t George’s main concern.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “How the hell are we going to get all of this stuff back to town?”

  Clint smirked and helped himself to what was left of his water. “I was wondering when you were going to ask that. There’s way too much to be carried by two horses, especially when they need to ride over this kind of terrain. Add in the heat and dryness of the air and you’re looking at several trips back and forth. Unless . . .”

  George suddenly blinked and perked up. “A wagon!”

  “There you go.”

  “You could have mentioned something to me as I kept handing you those boxes.”

  “I could have. I just didn’t want you to slow down on account of you sulking from lack of planning.”

  “Truth be told, I didn’t think we’d find so much. Now that we have . . .”

  “Now that we have,” Clint said, “we’ll need a wagon. Surely you can get one back in town.”

  George nodded. “I know where to rent one.”

  “Then you go and rent it. I’ll stay here to guard the gold.”

  George gnashed his teeth. “You think those men will come back?”

  “Those men or possibly others. There’s a chance that these caves were chosen by Preston or whoever because there’s no fast way in or out. It takes time to raid this stash.”

  “Enough time for reinforcements to be sent.”

  Clint nodded. “Now you’re thinking. If you’re worried about me riding off as soon as you leave . . .”

  George stopped him with a quick wave. “If you wanted to double-cross me, you would have shot me by now.”

  “Or I could wait until the gold’s loaded onto the wagon.”

  Shrugging, George said, “Either way, it’s got to be loaded. I’m sick of this damn desert and I’m doubly sick of this cave. Let’s get this done and worry about the rest later.”

  FOURTEEN

  The main thing that seemed to be working in Clint’s favor at the moment was the fact that they’d gotten such an early start to their day. George had been gone long enough that he must have made it back into town already. Judging by how anxious he was, George could very well have found the cart he was after and started back into the desert. It would be some time before the wagon made it back to the caves, but Clint figured they could get it loaded and on its way back before it was too dark to travel. In the meantime, he had plenty to keep him busy.

  As soon as he’d rested for a spell, Clint picked up the rifle that he’d carried with him when he’d left the storeroom at the back of the cave. It was the rifle that had first caught his eye, and now that he could see it in the light of day, it was easy enough to recognize his own handiwork. The rifle had been built a few years ago, and when he disassembled it to examine each modification that had been made, he wince
d and shook his head.

  “Looks like I put this one together with my eyes closed,” he grumbled.

  If he’d seen the same craftsmanship on anyone else’s work, he would have appreciated it more. Since it was his own, however, he saw every last imperfection before noticing any of the finer points. He didn’t need to scrutinize the rifle for long before the memories began to flow from the back of his mind up to the front, where they could be seen again. Once he’d recalled what he could of putting the rifle together, Clint focused on the damage that had been done to it in the years that had followed.

  The stock was cracked after being smashed against a rock or possibly crushed after a fall. When he’d first seen the rifle, Clint thought sections of the barrel were rusted. Now that he had more light, he could see that it wasn’t rust after all. Rust didn’t scrape off so easily. Clint looked at the thumb he’d used to do the scraping, rubbed the dark flakes between his fingers, and then sniffed them carefully.

  “Blood,” he said. Looking at the rifle the way a doctor might look at a patient, he said, “What the hell happened to you?”

  He then turned his attention to the other rifles. Two of them just needed a good cleaning, but the rest were just as bad or even worse than the first one he’d found. Some had bent barrels that could have been trampled beneath a wagon. Others had damage on their stocks that had definitely been put there by gunfire. Nearly all of them were stained with at least a small amount of blood.

  “Well,” he said after setting the last rifle aside, “at least none of them suffered from a misfire.”

  Clint picked another of the rifles at random and disassembled that one. When he examined the parts this time, he looked for signs of how well the rifle had been maintained, how many times it had been fired, and what sort of punishment it had been given. Any gunsmith worth his salt would have been able to tell the rifle had been put through its paces. Since he knew the sort of material he’d used and the quality of the craftsmanship, Clint guessed the rifle had been fired enough times to have been through a war.

  “Preston,” he said to himself. “Preston.” When he looked over to Eclipse, Clint said, “Do you remember someone named Preston?”

  The Darley Arabian was used to Clint talking to him every now and then, but didn’t have any answers for him.

  “I know I’ve met a few Prestons over the years, but not the sort of men that George is talking about.” As he spoke to put his thoughts in order, Clint went through the process of putting the rifles back together again. It was a set of motions that were second nature to him and never failed to act as a sort of comfort. No matter what else was going on or what sort of chaos was around him, a rifle fit together in the same manner. There weren’t many things that remained so constant.

  Clint continued airing out his thoughts. “Jebediah Preston. Jeb. El General. The General. A few years ago . . . What? A major? A captain? Hell, for all I know, the rank is just something he gave to himself.”

  Having completed one rifle, Clint reached for the next one. That weapon’s barrel slipped from his fingers to clang against the stone floor.

  “Stone,” he whispered. “That’s it! Not Major. Martin. Martin Stone! I’ll be damned.”

  And in a rush, the memories started to flow through Clint’s mind.

  FIFTEEN

  SIX MILES SOUTH OF SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  TWO YEARS AGO

  Martin Stone was a proud Texan. When Clint was introduced to him, the first thing that stood out was his perfectly trimmed silvery gray hair and piercing eyes. Like many rich men, he carried himself as if anyone in his sight was beneath him. Somehow, he had enough charm to offset that. Of course, the generous fees he was willing to pay for Clint’s time went a long way in that regard.

  The spread near San Antonio was supposed to be a ranch, but it struck Clint as something closer to a small village. There were several houses on the middle of the property and several small businesses out toward the periphery. There was a blacksmith, a hotel, and even a saloon.

  Clint was there on business of his own. So far, that business seemed to be going very well.

  “This,” Martin Stone said as he held the modified rifle in front of him, “is some damn fine work.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Stone, but it’s really nothing too special.”

  “You shouldn’t be so modest, and please . . . call me Martin.”

  Sitting in a padded chair in the middle of all that sprawling Texas property with a glass of expensive whiskey in his hand, Clint wasn’t about to disagree. “Sure thing, Martin. I heard you were looking for rifles.”

  Martin took his seat behind a mahogany desk and set the rifle down onto a cloth that had been rolled out like a placemat. Placing a set of spectacles upon the bridge of his nose, he leaned down to study the weapon some more. “Who told you I wanted rifles?” he asked.

  “Fella in San Antonio by the name of Roth.”

  “Ben Roth,” Martin said without looking up from the rifle in front of him. “He’s one of my representatives.”

  “That explains why he told me to come here,” Clint replied.

  “He also should have told you I was interested in selling several rifles I have in my possession so I could purchase newer ones.”

  “He did. According to your representative, you want rifles that can punch a hole through a man with better accuracy at two hundred yards.”

  “That’s right,” Martin replied.

  “That rifle there should be able to do the job from around two hundred and fifty yards,” Clint told him. “Farther if the man firing it knows what he’s doing.”

  Martin shifted his eyes to look at Clint over the wire rim of his spectacles. “I can’t even tell what sort of rifle this is.”

  “Started out as a .44 carbine. Now it packs a little more punch. If you don’t like that, I can knock the caliber up a bit more. Of course, I’ll have to make the ammunition myself, but that’s not a problem.”

  “Why would I want that as opposed to purchasing newer rifles that suit my purpose?” Martin asked.

  “Because whatever you buy won’t suit your purposes better than that rifle right there.”

  Martin placed both hands flat upon his desk and sat up straight. After a few seconds, he removed the spectacles from his nose, put them into a case, and reached out to open a finely carved wooden box. “When I start into business with someone for the first time, I like to have a cigar. Do you care for one, Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Then you’ll bring your price down.”

  “How far?”

  Martin said, “Half.”

  Clint set his whiskey glass down and stood up. “I appreciate your time. Guess I’ll be on my way.”

  Martin only lifted one hand, but it was enough to get Clint to stop where he was. “Do you sell guns or just fix them?”

  “I’m a gunsmith. I can repair a broken firearm. That,” Clint said while pointing down to the rifle on Martin’s desk, “isn’t just a repair. That is a special order and I dare you to find one that fires any better.”

  “I suppose this is something you sell often?”

  “I made it special,” Clint replied. “And I can make more if you’re interested.”

  “How big of an order can you fill?”

  “As long as I’ve got the parts and as long as the price is enough to justify the time I’ll be spending, I can fill any order you need. Within reason, of course.”

  Martin picked up the rifle, felt the weight in his hands, and worked the lever. Every mechanism on the weapon moved as smooth as silk. Despite the fact that he was in the middle of a negotiation, Martin couldn’t keep himself from nodding in appreciation of the fine craftsmanship on display. “Does your price include the cost of the parts you’ll need?”

  “That’s the best part,” Clint told him. “That
rifle in front of you was made from some of the rifles your man in San Antonio was looking to sell.”

  Anger showed upon Martin’s face. “How many of my guns did he hand over to you?”

  “Two,” Clint replied. “But I bought them. Those parts, combined with some I brought along with me and my own skill in the trade, made that weapon.”

  Clint hadn’t done many special orders in a while, and when he’d heard about Martin Stone, he’d become inspired.

  Hearing that he hadn’t lost on the deal soothed Martin’s nerves somewhat. “You bought a few of the guns he was selling just so you could take them apart, piece them back together again, and sell them back to me?”

  “That’s what I do. The point being, if I were to piece together custom rifles for you, the parts would be an additional expense. You’ve already got most of the parts I’d need to fill the order your man in San Antonio was asking about.”

  “So if I didn’t have the parts, your fee would be even higher?” Martin leaned back as if he was recovering from a glancing right cross to the nose. “I sincerely hope you’re not taking me for a fool, Adams.”

  “Not at all. My services don’t come cheap. I’ve done plenty of business with plenty of folks. There’s a man up in West Texas who can answer any questions you might have about me.”

  “I prefer to see things for myself.”

  Clint leaned forward with both hands flat on top of Martin’s desk. “Then take that rifle and put it to the test against any other you want to buy around here. If you find something better, let me know and I’ll be on my way.”

  “How about you stay here as my guest,” Martin offered. “There are clean rooms in the saloon and the bar stocks the best beer and liquor you’re likely to find outside of Dallas.”

  “What about the restaurant? Do they serve a good steak?”

  “Best damn cut of beef in Texas,” Martin said without hesitation. “Spend a few days here. Your room and board will be seen to, as will your horse.”

  Now it was Clint’s turn to study the man across from him. “That’s a whole lot of generosity. What’s the catch?” he asked.