The Gunsmith 385 (6 page)

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 Jeff 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.”

The big bartender turned and looked at Clint, clearly annoyed, then came back.

“Are you gonna give me trouble, friend?” the barman demanded.

Clint drew his gun and stuck the barrel underneath the man's chin.

“I'm going to give you a lot of trouble,” he said.

Clint heard chairs scrape the floor behind him, then heard Travis say, “Stand easy, gents. We're just lookin' for the answers to some questions, that's all.”

Clint was depending on Travis to keep the others at bay long enough for him to get those answers.

Travis said to the bartender, “If I was you, I'd answer my friend's question. They're still scraping the last bartender's brains off the ceiling.”

“Now,” Clint said, “five men would have ridden in here together in the past three or four days. Chances are they would have been looking for a drink. Think hard.”

“Hey, take it easy, mister,” the man said. His eyes were wide as he tried to look down at the gun. “F-Four men rode in here and had some drinks, and then a fifth one came in looking for them.”

“Looking for them?”

“Y-Yeah,” the bartender said. “Near as I can figure, they rode out without him. He was really mad! He said they wasn't gonna cheat him outta his cut.”

“When was this?”

“T-Two days ago.”

“Two?”

“M-Maybe a day and a half.”

Clint removed the gun barrel from the man's chin. The indentation of an “0” was left behind.

“Which way did they go?” Clint asked.

“I—I didn't look when they left,” the man said, “but I think they went north.”

“That what you told the other man?”

“Yessir.”

“How far behind them was he?”

“A f-few hours.”

“Okay.”

Clint holstered his gun, then looked behind him. Several men had risen from their chairs, but Travis's gun was keeping them in place.

“Go ahead,” Clint said to Travis. “I'll watch your back.”

Travis began backing toward the batwing doors, but kept his gun out.

“Anybody want to try?” Clint asked. “Go ahead. I'm just mad enough to kill somebody. No?”

None of the men moved for their guns.

“Then sit down!” Clint snapped.

They all sat.

“First man out that door gets shot,” Clint said. “Don't anybody move until you hear us ride out. Got it?”

“W-We got it, mister,” the bartender said.

Travis was at the door and said, “Okay.”

Clint turned his back on the men and walked to the door, where Travis stood holding one wing open, his gun still in his hand.

 * * * 

Outside the saloon Travis holstered his gun.

“What now?” he asked.

“You did good in there,” Clint said.

“You think the bartender told the truth?”

“It's not unusual for thieves to fall out,” Clint said. “Yeah, I think he told the truth. Looks like Tom Barry is starting to get rid of his men so he doesn't have to split with them.”

“You don't think his other men see what he's doin'?” Travis asked.

“All they see is a bigger cut for themselves,” Clint said. “They're not looking beyond that.”

“So I guess we're not gettin' a hot meal here, huh?” Travis asked.

“No,” Clint said. “We'll stop at the mercantile for a few things and continue north. Maybe we'll catch up to the fifth man. He might help us with the rest.”

“Unless he catches up to the rest of them first.”

“If they have a falling-out that leads to gunplay,” Clint said, “that can only help us.”

“We should probably get movin' before somebody inside gets brave,” Travis said.

“Good point,” Clint said.

As they mounted up, he thought he'd at least found out something he'd been wondering about. Travis could, indeed, watch his back when the time came.

TWENTY

They bought a few supplies, then split them so one man wouldn't have to carry everything.

Outside of town, to the north, they once again picked up the trail of the three-shoed horse.

“Looks to me like it doesn't belong to the fifth man,” Travis said.

“Good, so that horse is still with the rest of them,” Clint said.

“Could be the following man's horse, the fifth man,” Travis said, “but I don't think so.”

Clint was mounted, while Travis was down on one knee on the ground.

“Okay, I buy it,” Clint said. “Let's move.”

Travis mounted up and they started out again.

 * * * 

When they realized they weren't going to catch up to anyone before dark, they decided to camp.

This time they were able to prepare some bacon and beans, along with Clint's trail coffee. They sat on opposite sides of the fire to eat.

“That's some horse you got there,” Travis said. “If you weren't takin' it easy, I doubt mine would be able to keep up with him.”

“There's no need to push hard, not yet anyway,” Clint said. “When the time comes, you'll just have to do the best you can to keep up.”

“Well, my roan ain't so bad,” Travis said. “He's got a lot of experience.”

“He looks like a decent animal,” Clint admitted.

They cleaned up after eating, then Clint made another pot of coffee. They sat and had another cup each.

“Tell me somethin',” Travis said.

“What?”

“Would you have shot that bartender?”

“Just for not talking to me?” Clint asked. “No.”

“Not even to help your friend?”

“Killing that bartender in cold blood wouldn't get me to Tom Barry any faster,” Clint said. “I'm not a cold-blooded killer. If you've learned anything about me in all this time you've been trailing me, you should have learned that.”

“I have,” Travis said. “I just wanted to see what you'd say.”

“I'll always say what I'm thinking,” Clint said. “The truth.”

Travis sat quietly and drank his coffee.

 * * * 

In another camp, miles ahead, Zeke Kane asked Barry, “You think Davis is gonna catch up?”

“I told him to make sure we weren't bein' followed,” Barry said. “I warned him we weren't gonna wait for him, that he'd have to ride hard to catch up.” This was a lie.

“He'll make it,” O'Brien said to Kane.

“I guess,” Kane said.

“We'll set watches for tonight, like usual,” Barry said. “Don't anybody shoot poor Davis if he comes ridin' in. Zeke, you're up first.”

“Sure, boss.”

Kane set his plate down and went to fetch his rifle.

“What do we do if Davis does catch up?” O'Brien asked Barry.

“We'll just tell him we had to keep movin',” Barry said. “He'll buy that. Check on the horses, Irish.”

“Right.”

That left Barry at the fire with Hastings.

“When do we get rid of them?” Hastings asked.

“As soon as we make sure we're not being followed,” Barry said.

“And then we split the money?”

“That's right,” Barry lied, “and then we split the money.”

TWENTY-ONE

The next day Travis was able to distinguish the tracks of the fifth man.

“He's following them, the way we are,” he said. “See? His tracks overlay theirs.” He was down on one knee, bent over reading the tracks.

“Okay,” Clint said. “How far ahead of us is he?”

“I'd say . . . five hours.”

“And the rest of them?”

“A day's ride.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said, “it may be time to push it.”

“Looks like he's pushing it,” Travis said. “From the length of the strides, I'd say they're walking, and he's riding hard.” He looked back over his shoulder at Clint. “He keeps pushing that horse, he'll ride it into the ground.”

“Okay, so we push, but not as hard,” Clint said.

Travis stood up, took his reins from Clint, and mounted up.

“I think this old roan can keep up if you don't try to break any speed records.”

“Eclipse is built for stamina, not speed.”

“Where did you get that horse anyway?” Travis asked.

“It was a gift from a great man,” Clint said. He didn't know if Travis would even recognize the name “P. T. Barnum.”

“Guess you must've done him a great service.”

“We did each other some good,” Clint said. “Come on, let's move.”

 * * * 

The horse went down, and Cameron Davis went flying over his head. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud and lay there a few minutes, trying to catch his breath. By the time he rolled over and stood up to check on his horse, the animal was dead.

“Goddamnit!” he screamed. He threw a couple of punches at the air for good measure, then bent over when the movements caused him some back pain.

Now he'd never catch up to those cheatin' bastards!

He removed his rifle and saddlebags from the fallen horse. He couldn't have gotten the saddle off if he wanted to, wouldn't have been able to carry it if he did. He looked off into the distance and saw a barn. He started walking toward it. Maybe he could get a horse there.

 * * * 

Barry figured if Davis hadn't caught up to them by now, he probably wouldn't. They could afford to stop in the next town, rest the horses, have a meal and a night in a real bed, maybe have a woman, and then move on.

The town was Waco. Big enough to have everything they needed.

Hastings came riding up alongside him.

“The boys wanna know if we're gonna stop,” he said.

“Tell 'em yeah, we'll stop overnight. They can do what they want.”

“Suits me,” Hastings said. “I just want a beer and a steak.”

“You got it,” Barry said.

As Hastings rode back to tell the other men, Barry put his hand on the saddlebag that had the four thousand in it. Waco might be the place he could get away from the others. He'd have to wait and see if the chance came up.

 * * * 

“We closin' the gap,” Travis said, mounting up again. “His horse is shortening stride. It's gonna go down anytime now.”

“So unless he finds another one, we'll catch up to him before he catches up to the rest of the gang.”

They were riding along and Travis suddenly stood in his stirrups and said, “Maybe sooner than you think.”

“Wha—”

“Up there, see it?” Travis said, pointing.

Clint looked into the distance, saw what he thought was a rock, then realized it wasn't.

It was a horse.