The Sapphire Gun (19 page)

“If the assassins are here, or if there's any left alive, isn't Johnny already far away from them?”

“These seem to be more than just hired guns. They're more organized. They just might be able to send someone out to another state with a telegram placed at the right time or a signal passed to the right person.”

“Don't you think they would have been to this house already?”

Glancing over at the body laying not too far away, Clint said, “Probably.”

“Then if these killers are so smart, why would they come back?”

Clint thought for a few seconds, but was unable to come up with a good answer. The best he could do was “Good point.”

“How's the new room?” the man behind the desk asked.

Clint was walking through the hotel lobby carrying a small bundle of ham sandwiches he'd gotten from the place's kitchen. Compared with how he'd started his day, he was a new man. His wound was cleaned and bandaged. He'd stretched out and rested his eyes for a bit. He was even feeling good enough to smile back at the clerk when he said, “Just fine. Any problem with our arrangement?”

“Not at all. You sure we can't convince you to run for sheriff?”

Laughing, Clint walked to the stairs that led to the second floor. “I'll think it over.”

“You do that! Oh, and don't forget this. It was just brought over.”

Clint walked back to the desk and took the folded paper the clerk was holding out to him. He got it open, saw the letterhead, and asked, “This is a telegram and it just arrived? Isn't the Western Union office closed by now?”

“It is, but they sent a runner out to make deliveries before it got too late. Things are kind of a mess over at that office.”

“Yeah, I suppose they are.” After reading more of what was written on the paper, Clint grinned.

“Nothing bad, I hope,” the clerk said.

“Not at all. Thanks.”

When Clint got to his room and opened the door, he found Victoria waiting there for him. She was dressed in a thin white slip, and she immediately rushed over to take the sandwiches from him.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Look at what's in your hands. That should answer your question.”

“You were just supposed to get some water. Actually, you weren't supposed to even do that.”

“Relax. This cut on my back isn't anything worth all this fuss.”

“It's more than just a cut,” she muttered. Still, even she couldn't justify saying much more since she'd been the one to clean up the crease on Clint's back and wrap it in bandages. The bullet had torn a bloody gash down his body, but it was only a nasty-looking flesh wound.

“Someone's bringing the water,” Clint said. “And along the way, I got hungry. I got something for you, too.”

That brightened Victoria's face a bit. “Really? What did you get me?”

“Ham sandwiches. It's all they had left in the kitchen. They offered to toss a steak on the fire, but I wouldn't let them go through the trouble.”

Victoria laughed and unwrapped the sandwiches. “Folks around here really want you to stay. You'd make a fine sheriff.” Looking up at him, she added, “And it wouldn't be too hard. This place hasn't seen so much gun-fire since . . . well . . . ever.”

“All the excitement's just riled everyone up.”

“That and Sheriff Snetski is looking to hire himself out to anyone willing to pay.”

Clint took a sandwich, bit into it, and winced. “I don't know if there's any real reason Western Union would want to buy a crooked sheriff. They do just fine on their own. Besides, when push came to shove they hired the Pinkertons to represent their interests.”

Victoria's eyes shot open and she jumped up from where she'd been sitting on the edge of the bed. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. The Pinkerton man's here. He arrived while you were sleeping.”

“I was only resting my eyes.”

“I guess you always snore like that when you rest your eyes,” she said to chide him. “Anyway, the sheriff's been showing a stranger around to where that sign fell down and that man was shot. He's dressed in a nice suit and everyone's been saying he's a Pinkerton. You want to go see him?”

“Eh, if he wants to talk to me, he should be able to find me. That's what those Pinkertons do.”

“You don't seem too worked up about it anymore.”

“My part in this is done,” Clint said plainly.

“And when did you decide that?”

“As soon as I read this.” With a grin, Clint produced the telegram that he'd been given at the front desk.

The telegram read:

 
“What boat?” Victoria asked.

“Doesn't even matter. What does matter is that he's on it, and if he didn't run into any assassins by now, he's out of their reach.”

“You're sure that's from him?”

Clint nodded. “He and I are the only ones knowing he was headed for a boat. I hoped to draw enough fire for him to get there safely and he's there. My job's done.”

Frowning, Victoria asked, “So that means you'll be leaving soon?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Well then, I guess we should make the best out of what time we have left.” As she said that, Victoria took the sandwich from Clint's hand and tossed it onto a nearby table. She unbuttoned her blouse and reached for the lantern on the wall.

As the light faded away, Clint could feel her pulling him closer to the bed. His eyes weren't adjusted to the dark just yet, but he could hear the rustle of her clothes being pulled off. Soon, he could feel the tug of her hands on his belt. Just as his jeans were being pulled down, there was a knock on the door.

“That's probably our water,” he said.

“If we're quiet, they'll just leave it.”

Clint was more than willing to do just that, but he waited until he actually heard the sound of something being set in the hall just outside the door and the receding footsteps that followed. Opening the door a crack, Clint saw the pitcher of water as well as the maid who was already heading for the stairs.

“All right,” Clint said as he closed the door, locked it, and turned toward the bed. “Where were we?”

Even after he'd adjusted to the dark, Clint still couldn't see much more than shapes amid the shadows. The curtains were drawn. The moon was barely a sliver outside. There wasn't even enough light trickling in from the cracks in the doorway to be of any use.

But Clint didn't need to see anything. His other senses had more than enough to keep him busy. He could smell the scent of Victoria's skin and hair as she undressed him and pulled him down onto the bed. He could feel the smooth texture of her breasts and belly as he moved his hands along the front of her body.

His fingers drifted through the downy patch of hair between her legs, and soon he could taste the tender lips of her pussy. He heard her moan and then call his name urgently.

“Come up here, Clint,” she whispered. “I want you inside of me.”

Clint climbed onto the bed and felt her legs open and then wrap around him. His cock was already rigid, and the moment he felt it brush against her damp pussy, it got even harder. Victoria's fingers gently closed around his shaft and guided him into her. With one push, he was in, and he slid all the way until he completely filled her.

She made a contented sound that was close to a purr, and her fingernails scraped across Clint's shoulders. He pumped in and out of her, taking a slow, easy rhythm so he could savor every last moment. Propping himself on one elbow, Clint used his other hand to fondle her breasts. He teased her nipples until she began writhing beneath him.

“What was that?” she whispered.

Clint's thumb was drawing a line between her breasts when he said, “I thought you liked that.”

“Not that. I mean the sound. Did you hear it?”

Clint stopped what he was doing and listened.

“It sounds like it's coming from the old room.”

“Yeah,” Clint replied. “That's what I'm thinking.”

Upon his return, Clint had asked to be moved into the room next to the one he'd had before. The manager at the front desk had been perfectly happy to fill the request and even filled Clint's second request, which was to keep the old room written in the ledger.

In a matter of seconds, Clint was up, dressed, and had his Colt in hand. “Stay here,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

In the darkness, Clint was just able to see Victoria nodding.

Clint opened the door gently so as not to make a sound. He tiptoed to the neighboring door, saw it was slightly ajar, and placed his free hand flat against it just above the handle. Once he'd steeled himself, Clint pushed the door open and jumped inside.

Crouching between the bed and the window, Eli snapped his head around in surprise. He also had a gun in hand, but he didn't move right away.

For the space of a few heartbeats, both men stood where they were and stared at each other.

Clint had switched rooms to guard against this very thing.

Eli had gone from setting a trap to springing one in the blink of an eye.

Now both men had to decide what they were going to do about it.

Eli was the first to move. He fired a quick shot while turning toward the window and then used his gun to smash out the glass.

The room filled with the thunder of that shot, but the bullet buried itself in the wall well away from where Clint was standing.

“Oh no you don't,” Clint said as he launched himself through the air and over the bed. Clint's stomach slammed against the mattress and his left hand clenched around Eli's belt.

Although Eli's forward momentum carried Clint a little ways across the bed, it wasn't enough to get him out the window. Clint pulled his arm back and dragged Eli away from the window, until the black man knocked against the small table beside the bed.

Clint swung his legs over the mattress and jumped onto the floor. Eli brought his pistol around to aim at Clint's head, but Clint grabbed the man's gun hand and forced it toward the ceiling. Eli's pistol barked once more and put a hole over their heads. As he felt Eli's grip tightening again around the pistol's grip, Clint forced his arm in another direction.

Eli gritted his teeth and struggled to get away from Clint. He was simply out-manned, which was why he'd tried to run in the first place. Clint outweighed Eli by at least fifty pounds, and a lot of that was muscle. It wasn't easy, but Clint was able to force Eli's arm down toward the broken window.

When he felt the first touch of broken glass against his arm, Eli turned to look at what Clint was doing. He saw his arm lowering onto a jagged shard of glass. That put some more urgency into Eli's efforts, which got him to raise his arm a bit. That burst of strength didn't last long before Clint leaned in and muscled through it.

The glass sliced into Eli's arm like a hot knife through butter. Clint tightened his grip and pushed down a bit more, until he felt Eli's grip loosen. As soon as the gun dropped from Eli's hand, Clint pulled his arm off the glass and threw Eli to the corner of the room.

With the pain flooding through his arm, and the exertion of the struggle taking hold, Eli didn't do much more than slouch against the wall. He grabbed the sheets off the bed and pressed them to his arm. “I was gonna run,” Eli said. “I wasn't gonna shoot you.”

“That's only because you knew you wouldn't walk out of here alive if you did.”

Eli shook his head weakly. “I could've shot you in the street, but I didn't.”

“Why not?” Clint asked.

Now that he'd caught his breath, Eli looked up at Clint and showed him a tired smile. “I signed on with them killers just to get out of jail. I did what I had to do until I got a chance to be rid of 'em.”

“What about now?”

“Now . . . jail's looking pretty good.”

Clint lifted Eli to his feet and used the sheets to tie his wrists together behind his back. When he stepped into the hallway with Eli in tow, Clint leaned toward his new room and found Victoria peeking through the cracked-open door. He told her, “I'm all right. I'll be right back.”

Once downstairs, Clint saw the manager of the hotel rushing out to meet him. “I sent for the—” was all he got out before the front door swung open.

The sheriff stomped inside, and another man wearing a dark suit was following him. “What's going on here?” the sheriff asked. “Was there shots fired?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint replied. “And here's the man who fired them.” With that, Clint shoved Eli toward the lawman.

The man in the suit practically shoved the sheriff aside. “Does this man know about the assassins who killed the Western Union men?”

“Oh yes,” Clint said.

“Then I'll take him.”

Clint handed Eli over gratefully. “He's all yours.”

“Your name?”

“Clint Adams.”

The man in the suit nodded. “I've heard a lot about you. David Roper. I'm with the Pinkerton Agency.”

“I suppose you'll want to drag me over the coals with some more questions?”

Roper shook his head. “I've heard so much about you, I'm sick of you.” Grinning, he added, “Everyone in town said you weren't doing anything but trying to help around here. Every shot you fired was in self-defense and you can do no wrong. I'd appreciate it if you stopped by to fill me in, but it can wait until morning.”