The Gunsmith 385 (12 page)

FORTY-ONE

Clint remembered passing three saloons on the way into town. He didn't know which one Travis had gone to, so he just started walking. He figured he'd stop into the first one he came to.

 * * * 

Travis entered the Big Sky Saloon, stopped just inside the door. It was about three-quarters full, and he stood there and looked around for big ears or a bowler hat.

“Help you, cowboy?” a saloon girl asked.

She was a cute blonde, and she put her hand on Travis's arm. It was his gun arm, so he moved away slowly, so as not to insult her.

“I'm looking for Pete Stacker or Charlie Beck. Are they here?”

“No, they're not, but they usually come in.”

“You haven't seen them at all today?”

“Nope, sorry. What do you want with those two drunks?” she asked.

“Just some information,” Travis said.

“What kind of information can those two have?” the girl asked, rolling her eyes.

“I'll just keep lookin',” Travis said. “Thanks.”

“Come on back when you're done,” she said, waving at him.

“Sure,” he said, and left the saloon.

 * * * 

Clint saw Travis coming out of the Big Sky Saloon, assumed he'd had no luck inside. He started to raise his hand to call to him when the shots rang out . . .

 * * * 

“Do it now,” Barry said.

They had taken cover in front of the hardware store, behind some crates.

“In the back?” Hastings said.

“What'd you think, we were gonna face him?”

“Well, yeah.”

“He'd kill both of us,” Barry said. “Is that what you want?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then kill him now.” Barry drew his gun and pointed.

Hastings did the same thing, and they fired . . .

 * * * 

The shots whizzed by Clint, just missing his ear and his shoulder. Clint had pivoted just a bit to wave at Travis, and the move had saved his life.

It also helped that Hastings's hand was shaking, and Tom Barry was just not a very good shot.

Clint rolled a second later, drawing his gun . . .

 * * * 

Travis heard the shots, saw Clint go down and thought he was shot. He drew his gun, looking around for the shooters. When he spotted them, he snapped off a shot in their direction, hoping it would give Clint time to find cover.

 * * * 

“Did we get 'im? Did we get 'im?” Hastings asked. “He went down.”

“I don't know,” Barry said. “Just keep shooting, goddamnit!”

 * * * 

Travis saw where the shots were coming from and called out to Clint.

“Clint! They're in front of the hardware store!” He pointed.

Clint nodded, waved, and turned. He motioned for Travis to stay on that side of the street, while he crossed over to the other side.

 * * * 

“Who's that?” Hastings said.

“I don't know.”

“They spotted us. We gotta get out of here.”

Barry grabbed Hastings's arm. “If you run, I'll shoot you myself. We've got a job to do.”

“But—”

“You stay here,” Barry said. “If we split up, we'll have a better chance.”

“Where you goin'?”

“Across the street.” Barry pointed his finger at Hastings. “If you run, I'll kill you.”

Before Hastings could answer, Barry took off running across the street.

“Yeah,” Hastings said, “you'll kill me . . . if we both survive.”

FORTY-TWO

Clint saw one of the men run across the street to his side. That left him facing one, and Travis the other. The odds were even.

He moved toward the man, keeping close to the storefronts. If he could keep this one alive, he could get him to give up Collingswood.

 * * * 

Travis saw the same thing Clint did, that they were both down to a one-against-one situation. Keeping to the shadows as much as he could, he moved toward the hardware store.

 * * * 

Barry saw Clint Adams coming toward him. The situation was not going the way he had planned. He looked across the street at Hastings, who had remained behind the crates. Maybe Hastings could keep them busy while he got away.

To hell with this. What good was Collingswood's money if he wasn't alive to spend it? Besides, he still had the four thousand.

So the man who told Hastings he'd kill him if he turned and ran . . . turned and ran.

 * * * 

Hastings looked across the street, saw Barry bolt and run, and cursed the man silently. The sonofabitch was leaving him to get killed.

He stood up, wanting to take a shot at Barry's fleeing back, but as he did, somebody took a shot at him.

 * * * 

Travis saw the man stand, thought he was going to fire at Clint, so he fired a quick shot to get his attention.

The man turned toward him, tossed his gun into the street, and put his hands in the air.

“Okay, okay,” he shouted, “I'm not armed!”

Travis looked across the street, saw Clint running.

“Come on,” he said to the man, “let's take a walk.”

 * * * 

Clint saw the man start running and took off after him. If he wasn't going to stand and fight, maybe Clint could take him alive.

Barry ran to the end of the street and down an alley. He was hoping to outrun Clint, but he heard footsteps right behind him. He came to the back of the alley and found he'd run himself into a dead end. There was no way out.

He turned and grabbed for his gun.

“Don't!” Clint shouted, but it was too late. Barry, trapped and scared, panicked and kept right on going for his gun.

Clint fired twice, hitting Barry both times. Barry pulled the trigger of his gun, fired a round into the ground.

Clint ran to the fallen man, hoping to get a few words out of him.

“Damn you . . .” Barry coughed.

“You're Barry, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“You shot Rick Hartman, didn't you?”

“Damn right . . . I did.”

“Who put you up to it,” Clint asked. “Come on, who hired you?”

Barry said, “Fuck—” and the rest was drowned out by a fountain of blood.

 * * * 

Clint walked back to the main street, made his way to the sheriff's office. There were no bodies in the street. Either Travis was chasing the other man, or had already taken him to the sheriff's office.

He hoped the former was true.

FORTY-THREE

As he entered the sheriff's office, he saw Travis, but not the other man or the sheriff.

“How'd it go?” Travis asked.

“He gave me no choice,” Clint said. “The fool went for his gun. How about you?”

Travis crooked his finger at Clint and led him to the cell block. There was a man in one of the cells.

“Meet Tracy Hastings. Hastings, meet the Gunsmith.”

The man came off the cot and grabbed the bars.

“What happened to Tom Barry?”

“He's dead.”

“Good,” Hastings said. “That sonofabitch told me he'd kill me if I ran, and then he did it.”

“Well, he paid the price,” Clint said. “So the rest is up to you.”

“Whataya mean?”

“I want to know who hired you to shoot Rick Hartman,” Clint said.

“Barry knew that,” Hastings said. “Not me.”

“Come on,” Clint said, “you were both out at the Rocking W. You know Collingswood hired Barry, and Barry brought you into it.”

“Then what do you need me for?”

“I need you to tell the sheriff that Collingswood hired you,” Clint said.

“But . . . you're wearing a badge.”

“Catchings is local,” Clint said. “I'll need you to tell him.”

“And then what?”

“And then he and I will go out and arrest Collingswood.”

Hastings looked surprised.

“You mean it?”

“Yes.”

“You'd do that?”

“I would.”

“But will the local sheriff go along?”

“He will.” Clint hoped he would.

Hastings gave the proposal some thought, then said, “Okay. I'll do it. Where is he?”

“He should be here any minute,” Clint said.

“Do I get fed?” Hastings asked. “I ain't ate nothing all day.”

“You'll get fed,” Clint promised.

He and Travis walked out into the office.

“Where's the sheriff?” Travis asked.

“That's what I'm wondering,” Clint said. “Maybe he found Beck or Stacker.”

“We don't really need them now that we have this fella,” Travis said.

“Maybe not,” Clint said, “but he doesn't know that. Why don't you stay here with Hastings and I'll go and find him?”

“Suits me,” Travis said. “Be careful. They tried to bushwhack you, and there may be more out there.”

“I got you,” Clint said. “I'll be back as soon as I can. You be careful, too.”

“See you soon.”

Clint left the office to go and look for Sheriff Catchings.

 * * * 

He went to the three saloons in town. In all three they claimed not to have seen the sheriff all night, and not to have seen either Stacker or Beck.

As he left the third saloon, he wondered how it could be true that none of the three men had been seen in any of the saloons. He was starting to have a bad feeling.

He decided to check the livery stable to see if the liveryman had seen any of the three. When he got there, the doors were open, but nobody was around. He wondered if, in this town, they left the stables open at night for late arrivals.

He went inside, took a brief look around, turned to leave, then stopped and sniffed the air. What he smelled could have been left over from the shots he had fired earlier, but he didn't think so. He turned and started looking through the stable more thoroughly. He found the body lying in the hay in one of the stalls. He was about to turn the man over when someone yelled, “Who's in here?”

Clint turned and looked at the liveryman, who entered carrying a lamp.

“Oh, it's you,” he said. “You need your horse?”

“No,” Clint said, “I need you to tell me who this is.” He pointed.

The man walked over and said,” Jesus Christ,” when he saw the body. “Who is that?”

“I'm going to turn him over and you're going to tell me that. Okay?”

“Sure, okay,” the old man said.

Clint stepped into the stall, leaned over, and turned the dead man over. When he saw the darkness of the man's skin, he knew, but he stepped back and said, “Who is it?”

“That's Charlie Beck.”

“That's what I thought.”

“There's his hat.” The old man pointed to a corner of the stall. What happened to him?”

“He was shot.”

“I heard some shots, but I thought they were down the street.”

“They were,” Clint said. “I'm betting whoever shot Charlie used them to cover his play.”

“Why would anybody wanna kill ol' Charlie?” the old man asked.

“You live here,” Clint said. “You tell me.”

“He's just a drunk most of the time,” the man said, “and an errand boy.”

“Errand boy for who?”

“Anybody with a dollar.”

“How about a fella named Collingswood?”

The old liveryman looked surprised.

“That's a lotta dollars,” the man said.

“Well,” Clint said, “I better find the sheriff and let him know.”

“I'll watch the body,” the old man said, as if anyone would want to take it away.

Clint left the livery with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

FORTY-FOUR

When he got back to the sheriff's office, Catchings was there.

“Where you been?” he asked.

“I've been looking for you,” Clint said. “Everybody in the saloons said you weren't there.”

“I didn't find Charlie or Pete.”

“I did,” Clint said. “I found Charlie—dead.”

“What? Where?” Travis asked.

“How?” Catchings asked.

“He's in the livery, shot to death,” Clint said. “I don't think we heard the shot over our shots.”

“Somebody didn't want him to talk,” Travis said.

“Sheriff,” Clint said, “where were you when all the shots were being fired?”

“Other end of town, I guess,” Catchings said. “Lucky you managed to take one alive.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “lucky.”

“What's he got to say?”

“Why don't we ask him?” Clint said. “We were waiting for you to come back.”

“Let's talk to 'im, then.”

Clint and Travis followed Catchings into the cell block. Clint watched Hastings closely to see if he recognized Catchings when they walked in, but his face didn't show any sign of it.

“You're in a lot of trouble, my friend,” the sheriff said. “Tryin' to shoot a man in the back is as cowardly as it gets.”

Clint wondered how Catchings knew they'd tried to shoot him in the back if he was at the other end of town when the shooting took place.

“That was Barry's idea,” Hastings said, “not mine.”

“And you just wanted to face the Gunsmith? Is that it?” Travis asked.

“I didn't wanna have nothin' to do with him, but . . .” Hastings let it trail off.

“But what?”

“There was too much money involved.”

“How much?” Clint asked.

“Well, I don't know. Barry wouldn't tell me. But he said we were gonna get paid a lot.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “so who was going to pay you all this money?”

“Some rich fella named Collingswood,” Hastings said, “has a ranch just outside of town.” Clint looked at the sheriff and said, “You need anything else?”

“Nope,” Catchings said. “Let's ride out there and get him.”

 * * * 

Catchings wanted Travis to stay behind with Hastings, but he refused. When he suggested waiting until morning, instead of riding out there in the dark, Clint refused. So the three of them mounted up and rode out to the ranch.

Clint and Travis had a few minutes to talk while the sheriff fetched his horse.

“What do you think?” Travis asked.

“I don't trust Catchings,” Clint said. “How did he know they tried to shoot me in the back if he was at the other end of town, as he claims? And he sure wanted you to stay behind.”

“And get you out to the ranch alone,” Travis said.

“This may get bloody,” Clint said.

“I'm ready.”

When Catchings joined them, they quieted down and rode out to the ranch in silence.

 * * * 

Just before they reached the ranch, Catchings held up his hand and reined in.

“When we go in, you better let me do the talking,” he told them.

“What talkin'?” Travis asked. “We're gonna arrest him, right?”

“We gotta do it right,” Catchings said. “I don't want the mayor to be able to cut him loose.”

“You can start out doing the talking,” Clint said, “but if it starts to go bad, I'm stepping in. I'm not letting this man get away.”

The sheriff began to speak, but Clint didn't wait. He started for the ranch at a gallop.

 * * * 

“Three riders,” Dad said, sticking his head into Collingswood's den.

“Who?”

“It's too dark to tell.”

“Three,” Collingswood said. “It could be the sheriff with Barry and Hastings.”

“If they killed the Gunsmith,” Dad said. “If not, it could be the sheriff with Adams and that other fella.”

“You're right,” Collingswood said. “Get Watson and Lewis.”

“Right.”

“And arm yourself, Dad.”

“Right.”

The old man left the room. Instead of putting a derringer into his pocket, Collingswood took a Colt from his desk. He stuck it in his belt, then closed his smoking jacket over it.