The Gunsmith 387 Read online

  “What did he have to say about me?” he asked.

  “Just that you were more than what you seemed,” Clint answered.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s it.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “He doesn’t know anything,” Clint said, pouring himself some coffee, and some for Avery. “He has a feeling, and he puts lots of stock into his feelings.”

  Avery relaxed visibly, picked up his coffee cup, and sat back.

  “What else? What’s this about Father Flynn?”

  “He has the same feeling about him.”

  Avery frowned.

  “Flynn came to town a couple of years ago,” Avery said. “Several years after me.”

  “Anything funny about him?”

  “No,” Avery said. “He rode in wearing a collar, immediately took over the church, which had been abandoned up to that point.”

  “What kind of contact have you had with him?” Clint asked.

  “Not much. I don’t go to church. I’ve run into him a time or two at the mercantile when I’m picking up supplies, but that’s it.”

  Clint sipped his coffee. He did not say a thing to Avery about “Father Flynn” and had not said anything to the priest about Avery.

  “The sheriff hasn’t said or done anything to spook you,” Clint said.

  “No,” Avery said, “I have too much going here to get spooked. And I haven’t done anything he can hurt me with. It’s just that I’ve tried to keep a low profile. I don’t know what he’s basing his feeling on.”

  “Well, I could cultivate this newfound friendship and try to find out.”

  “Anything you learn would be appreciated, but don’t put yourself out on my account.”

  “No problem,” Clint said. “The sheriff is always anxious to talk with me.”

  “Tell me,” Avery said, “if this big trouble he feels is coming does show up, what will you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, standing up. “Like I told him, I might not even be here. Tell Lita thanks for the coffee.”

  “You’ll come back some night for supper?” Avery asked.

  “Definitely.”

  “Anytime. Don’t wait for an invitation. Lita cooks lots of food.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll be here.”

  Avery nodded and Clint went down the ladder, walked along the beach back to town.

  * * *

  The church was still in need of repair, even though Father Flynn had taken it over after it was abandoned, and had been working on it.

  As Clint entered, he saw the gaunt priest up near the altar, using a rag to clean some candlesticks. The church had a high, arched ceiling, many stained glass windows, a chipped and damaged crucifix over the altar, as well as chipped icons around the sides. Even in a state of disrepair, it was a beautiful building.

  He made his way down the center aisle.

  SIXTEEN

  “Welcome to the house of God,” Father Flynn said.

  “Still got those good ears, I see.”

  Father Flynn turned around to face Clint.

  “Old habits die hard. What brings you to God?”

  “Not so much God as you,” Clint said. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “The sacristy,” the priest said. “Come with me.”

  Still carrying the cleaning cloth, Father Flynn led Clint away from the altar and into the small room behind it where he usually dressed for mass.

  “A drink?” he asked, setting the cloth down.

  “Sacramental wine?” Clint asked.

  “Whiskey.”

  “I’ll have one, thanks.”

  Father Flynn opened a cabinet, took out a bottle and two shot glasses. He filled the glasses, returned the bottle to the shelf, and closed the cabinet. He handed Clint a glass and stepped back.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I had breakfast with the sheriff today.”

  “Vazquez,” Father Flynn said, nodding.

  “Have you had much contact with him?”

  “No, for obvious reasons, I think.”

  “Well, he’s expressed an interest in you.”

  “Has he? Me or Father Flynn?”

  “Well, that part of the conversation was about Father Flynn,” Clint admitted.

  “What did he say?”

  “That he thought you were more than you seemed to be.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s he base that on?”

  “A feeling.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That we were acquainted—he already knew we’d talked—but that I didn’t know anything about you.”

  “Thanks for that.” He drank his whiskey, put the glass down. Clint wondered if he’d go for the bottle again, but he didn’t. He finished his own and also put the glass down.

  “I just thought I’d come by and let you know.”

  “I appreciate the information,” Father Flynn said. “It’s not going to change my life any, but it’s good to know.”

  “The sheriff wants to be my friend,” Clint said, “so I may be able to hear something else.”

  “If you do, and you’re willing to pass it on, I’ll be grateful to hear it. Come, I’ll walk you out.”

  Father Flynn walked Clint to the front door of the church, and outside.

  “Buenas noches, Padre,” a woman said as she entered the church.

  “Many of the locals are helping me clean the church up,” Father Flynn said.

  Clint could see several men working on the grounds in front of the building, assumed there were more unseen on the sides and in the back.

  “Looks like you’ve found a home here, Father.”

  “It’s starting to feel that way.”

  “What about the Church?” Clint asked. “I mean, the officials, or whatever—”

  “The diocese is aware that I’m here.”

  Clint stared at the man. He’d assumed the collar was a dodge, but if the Catholic Diocese was aware of it, then “Father Flynn” must have actually been ordained.

  “I admire the change in lifestyle,” Clint said.

  “It was that or die,” Father Flynn said. “And I don’t mean by the gun. I just had an epiphany that if I didn’t change my life, I’d die and go to hell.”

  Clint had never had any such epiphany, but he admired the man for acting on his.

  “Again, if the sheriff lets anything else slip, I’ll pass it on.”

  Father Flynn shook hands with Clint and said, “Much obliged.”

  Clint nodded and walked away from the church. When he turned to look, Father Flynn had gone back inside. He hoped that nothing would happen.

  He walked back to town.

  * * *

  “Come,” Ernesto Paz said as someone knocked on his office door.

  It opened and Sheriff Vazquez entered.

  “Ah, Sheriff,” Paz said, “have a seat.”

  Vazquez removed his sombrero and sat across from Paz.

  “Que pasa, amigo?” Paz asked.

  “I had breakfast with our new friend, Clint Adams.”

  “What was that like?”

  “Cordial.”

  “Still doesn’t agree to help?”

  “Now he says he may not even be here.”

  “Is he planning to leave town?”

  “No, he just said by the time the trouble came, maybe he’d be gone.”

  “Maybe the trouble won’t come.”

  “Oh, it’s on its way,” Vazquez said. “My feelings are very rarely wrong.”

  Paz had to admit to himself that, in the past, the lawman’s feelings had proven to be correct.

  �
�I suppose we will have to just wait and see.”

  “I mentioned his friend Avery.”

  “And?”

  “He did not even blink.”

  “He has not lived as long as he has by blinking,” Paz said.

  “No. I also mentioned the priest.”

  “Why?”

  “They were seen together, and I have a feeling about the padre.”

  “You are having too many feelings these days, amigo.”

  “I would not argue that point,” Vazquez said. “I do not like these feelings, Ernesto.”

  Paz took a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from his desk and said, “That makes two of us.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “What’s wrong?” Hal Chance asked his partner, Cord Rydell, as Rydell reined in his horse.

  “Laguna Niguel is up ahead.”

  “So? Ain’t that where we’re goin’?”

  “It is. I’m just thinkin’ of the best way to go about this,” Rydell said.

  “The guy ain’t gonna recognize us, right? We ain’t never seen him, and he ain’t ever seen us, right?”

  “Right, but if we ride in together, two strangers, we might attract attention.”

  “And one stranger riding in, and then another, won’t attract attention?”

  “Yeah, it will,” Rydell said. “That’s why we’re gonna make camp out here.”

  “And then what?”

  “In the morning you’ll ride in, get a hotel room, and relax. Walk around town. Take a look at the cantinas. And size up the local law.”

  “Okay, what about you?”

  “I’m gonna scout around from out here, take a look at the beach. I’ll ride into town two days after you.”

  “Okay, two days sounds good.”

  “We have a description of our guy,” Rydell said. “If you see him, just find out where he’s stayin’, maybe even see what his daily routine is. But this is important, Hal.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t brace him alone,” Rydell said. “I don’t care what kind of advantage you think you might have, don’t try to take him alone. If you mess this up, it’s just gonna be harder in the end.”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “The other thing is, don’t let him see you. If you’re spotted, this is gonna be harder. Got it?”

  “I got it. Why don’t I just ride in now?”

  “No,” Rydell said, “I want to think about things overnight. I might come up with a better plan.”

  Chance was obviously impatient, but he gave in.

  “Yeah, okay. I get it.”

  “Good. Now let’s find a good place to camp, where we won’t be seen.”

  * * *

  Clint walked back to his hotel. Avery Castle and “Father Flynn” were entitled to live their own lives as they saw fit. He hoped that Sheriff Vazquez had no intentions of trying to change that.

  He was not surprised that Laguna Niguel had become a destination for Americans who were looking to change their lives. He himself had drifted there, although he had no intention of staying permanently.

  Rather than going into his hotel, he once again pulled up a chair and sat down in front. He wondered if Sheriff Vazquez’s “feeling” about trouble coming was any more than that. Did the sheriff have some solid information that he wasn’t giving out?

  Was there a gang of bandidos on their way to loot the town? It wasn’t likely Vazquez would go with two inexperienced deputies if that was the case. And he would try to recruit more than just one man.

  Clint had convinced himself that the trouble Vazquez was expecting was, indeed, just a feeling and not based on anything solid.

  He sat back, relaxed, and decided to spend the rest of the day right where he was, until supper.

  EIGHTEEN

  After Clint left Avery Castle’s beach house, Lita came out and sat with her husband.

  “Did Clint say something that disturbed you, my husband?” she asked.

  He reached out and placed his hand on hers.

  “Nothing for you to be alarmed about.”

  “Please,” she said, “do not treat me like a child. If something is wrong, if there is a burden you must bear, let me help you.”

  “Lita,” he said, putting his hand on her belly this time, not her hand, “you know I have a past.”

  “Yes, a past you do not wish to talk about,” she said, “and I respect that. But if Clint said something—”

  “He only said,” Avery said, cutting her off, “that the sheriff believes that I am more than I seem.”

  “What does he mean by that?”

  “He probably thinks that I am down here hiding from something in my past.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, but I might be. But even if I am, he does not know what it is,” Avery said. “There is nothing to worry about.”

  “Are you sure, my husband?”

  “I am positive,” Avery said. “We are going to live here a long time, my love, and raise many children.”

  She placed her hand over his, which was still on her belly. Then he slid his hands from beneath hers and said, “Now, go back into the house, woman. You probably have a messy kitchen to clean.”

  “Yes, husband.”

  She stood up and slowly walked inside the house.

  Avery stood up, walked to another section of the deck, and entered the house through a different door. He went into a room that was his. Lita never entered it, not even to clean.

  He closed the door behind him, opened the shutters on one window just to let a little light in. A wooden chest sat in a corner. He went to it, unlocked it with a key from his pocket. Right on top was a rolled-up holster. He took it out, unrolled it, and removed the Colt. It felt like an old friend in his hands, even though he hadn’t wielded it for over five years. He’d cleaned it occasionally, just in case, but he had not used it.

  He checked to make sure it was fully loaded. Hopefully, it would be able to remain in the trunk for years to come.

  There was a time, years ago, before the house was built, when he’d stood on the water’s edge, prepared to throw the gun out into the sea. But in the end he couldn’t do it. So it went into the trunk—as it did now. He put the gun back in the holster, rolled it up, returned it to the trunk, closed the lid, and locked it. Maybe he should throw the key into the ocean, but that would have been an empty gesture. So he put it in his pocket and went back outside to finish his coffee. Maybe add a little whiskey to sweeten it.

  * * *

  After Clint Adams left, Father Flynn entered his office and locked the door behind him. He sat at his desk and silently cursed, then asked for forgiveness.

  He had felt safe here until he saw Clint Adams in the street. Now Adams was telling him the sheriff was suspicious of him. Well, he was going to have to stick it out. He wasn’t leaving, not when he had done so much work to change himself, and so much work on the church. Both of them had needed a lot of work, and neither was done yet.

  Whatever happened, it would happen here, in his church.

  There was a knock on his door. He got up, walked to the door, and unlocked it.

  “Padre,” Quintero Herrera said, “we have some questions about the roof tiles.”

  Quintero was a carpenter, and had been for forty years. He and his sons were helping Father Flynn renovate the church, and part of that job was repairing the roof.

  “All right, Quintero,” Father Flynn said, “I’ll be right out.”

  Quintero nodded and said, “Sí, Padre.”

  Father Flynn closed the door behind Quintero, took a moment to compose himself, then opened it and followed the old man outside.

  * * *

  Rydell and Chance made camp in a clearing surrounded by rocks and trees.

  “We won’t be spotted from here, even
when we make a fire,” Rydell said. “Why don’t you go and find some wood?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  While Chance hunted up firewood, Rydell unsaddled the horses, rubbed them down, and gave them what little feed they had in their saddlebags. The ground around there didn’t yield much in the way of grass. He picketed the horses so they wouldn’t wander off, and went back to camp. By that time Chance had a fire going, and a pot of coffee on it.

  “Let’s just do beans,” Rydell said.

  “Suits me,” Chance said. “I’ll be in town eatin’ tacos tomorrow anyway.”

  “Sure,” Rydell said “and in three days the job will be done, and we’ll have all the food and girls we want.”

  Chance grinned and said, “That suits me just fine.”

  NINETEEN

  As dusk came, Clint decided not to go to Avery’s for supper—not on this night anyway. He also didn’t feel like going to Rosa’s. Instead, he decided to go where Vazquez had taken him, to Alberto’s place.

  On the way there he passed the livery he had entrusted Eclipse to. He hadn’t checked on the big Darley Arabian in a while, so he stopped in.

  “Ah, señor,” the elderly hostler said, “you are here to see your magnificent animal? To see if I have cared for him properly.”

  “Just stopping in for a visit,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t want the big fella to think I forgot about him.”

  “He is in his stall, eating,” the man said. “He eats more than any two horses.”

  “He does have a big appetite,” Clint agreed. “I’ll just take a look, let him know I’m here, and be on my way.”

  “As you say, señor,” the hostler said. “Stay as long as you like.”

  Clint walked through the stable until he came to Eclipse’s big behind in a stall.

  “Wow, I never noticed what a big ass you have, boy,” he said, entering the stall, running his hand over the animal’s back.

  Eclipse ignored him and kept feeding.

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said, “I know you’re busy, probably sore at me for ignoring you. Tell you what, we’ll go for a ride tomorrow. How about along the beach? Yeah, you’ll like that. I’ll come by and get you early.” He stroked the big gelding’s neck, then turned and left the stall, and the stable.