Way with a Gun (4 page)

When he completed his meal, he paid the bill and went back to his hotel. In his room, he once again unfolded the telegram, which was becoming flimsy from all the handling. He also had the feeling from reading it that Newly Yates and his men had not been “hired” to kill him. They'd come at him for some other reason. Not because they'd been hired, and not just because they were seeking a reputation. Something else was going on.

But what?

He read for a while—the Mark Twain book he was carrying with him—then closed the book and turned in early. He wanted to get an early start in the morning.

Harvey Grote was the town drunk. But everybody liked Harvey, and did what they could for him when they could. For instance, the man who owned the café where Clint had eaten often fed Harvey, although he never let him actually enter the café.

Usually, Harvey ate outside, or in the back room. On this night he had been sitting in the back room, eating some scraps, when he saw a man enter the dining room. He choked on his scraps and stared, remaining in the back room until that man left. Only then did Harvey leave the back room by the back door, and run to a house at the south edge of town.

He banged on the door for several minutes before a man answered.

“Harvey, what the hell are you doin'—”

“I gotta talk to ya, Sheriff,” Harvey said. “It's real important.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Sheriff,” the man said, “I'm always drunk, you know that, but I ain't so drunk that I don't know I saw what I just saw.”

“Harvey, I'm havin' dinner with my wife.”

“I know, Sheriff,” Harvey said, “I figgered, but this is real important.”

“Is that Harvey Grote?” a woman's voice called.

“Yes, Miriam,” Sheriff Andrew Taylor said. “I'll get rid of him—”

“Let him in,” Miriam Taylor said. “I'll fix him a plate.”

Sheriff Taylor said to Harvey, “You're lucky I'm married to a saint,” and let him in.

“Okay, Harvey,” Sheriff Taylor said, “how do you know this?”

“I was there, Sheriff,” Harvey said around the chicken and dumplings that were in his mouth. This was a hell of a lot better than the scraps he got from the café. “I saw him come in, and I saw him go out.”

“No, Harve,” Taylor said. “I mean, how do you know it was him?”

“I saw him kill three men in Abilene.”

“He's a killer?” Miriam asked.

They was tryin' ta kill
him,
ma'am,” Harvey said. “He give them every chance to walk away, but they wouldn't.”

“I see.” She looked at her husband. “This sounds like the kind of man you need, Andrew.”

“He's obviously just passin' through,” Taylor said. “Why would he decide to stay?”

“Because you're the law, sweetheart,” Miriam said. “You could make him stay.”

“We can talk about this later, dear,” he said, nodding his head toward Harvey.

The town drunk finished his food and thanked Miriam effusively for it. He was then walked to the door and shown out, thanked by the sheriff for his information.

“You have to do something,” Miriam said as Taylor returned to the kitchen.

“Even if Harvey is right,” Taylor said, “there's no way I can stop Adams from leavin' if he wants.”

“Yes, there is,” Miriam said.

“Like what?”

“Like arresting him.”

“And what good would it do to put him in a cell?”

“Then talk to him,” she said. “Ask him for help.”

“Why would he—”

“Why wouldn't he?” she asked. “You won't know until you ask him.”

“All right,” he said, “tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow he may be gone,” she said. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

She nodded. “Now.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

He sighed, strapped on his gun, kissed his wife, and left the house.

The halfhearted knock on Clint's door woke him. Not that he was sleeping that soundly. It was too early for him to turn in, and his body was telling him that.

He went to the door after pulling on his trousers, holding his gun in his right hand behind his back. He was surprised when he saw the badge on the man standing in the hall.

“Are you Clint Adams?”

“What did I do?” he asked. “I just got to town a few hours ago.”

“You didn't do nothin', Mr. Adams. I'm Sheriff Andrew Taylor. Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?”

“I haven't done anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

“All right,” Clint said. “Come in.”

He walked away from the door, slid his gun back into the holster that was hanging on the bedpost, then turned to face the lawman, who had come in and closed the door behind him.

“I really don't know how to start,” the lawman said. Abruptly, he removed his hat and held it in front of him.

“Why not start at the beginning?” Clint asked.

“Actually,” Taylor said, “that's too far back. I might as well just be frank with you.”

“That would be refreshing.”

“I need your help,” Taylor said, “and by that I mean, I need your gun. In three days' time a gang is coming to town, led by Ned Pine. Do you know that name?”

“Afraid I don't.”

“Well, you probably wouldn't. Ned's tryin' to make a name for himself. So far he's only known locally.”

“So what's he going to do?” Clint asked. “Take the town over? Level it?”

“Well,” Taylor said, “the message he sent me said that if I was still here when him and his boys arrived, they were gonna kill me. See, he's givin' me a chance to run.”

“How many men has he got riding with him?”

“Close to a dozen.”

“And how many deputies do you have?”

“I had two,” Taylor said, “but they resigned when they heard what Pine is plannin'.”

“And you haven't been able to hire any new ones?” Clint asked.

“No.”

“Nobody in town will help you?”

“That's right.”

Clint shrugged. “I'd say take the chance he's giving you and run.”

“That's what my wife says.”

“Sounds like a smart woman,” Clint said. “I'd listen to her.”

“That would be the smart thing to do,” Sheriff Taylor admitted.

“You'd still be alive, and your wife would still have a husband,” Clint said. “Any kids?”

“None. We've been married about five years, no kids yet.”

“Do you want kids?”

“Yeah,” he said, “we both want 'em.”

“Well, you've got to be alive to have kids.”

“I know that.” He was rotating his hat in his hands. “I told my wife. . . .”

“Told her what?”

“She's the one told me to come and talk to you,” Taylor said. “I told her you have no reason to help me.”

“You're right.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So you don't intend to leave, do you?”

“I can't,” Taylor said. “I take my job very seriously. I plan to wear a badge for a long time. I'd never get a job anywhere else if word got around that I ran.”

“You any good with that gun?”

“Fair.”

“You still got three days to find some help.”

“I know it,” the lawman said. “I've been sending telegrams. I got a brother might show up in time. He's in California. Might not show up.”

“He any good with a gun?”

“He's a gambler,” Taylor said. “A bad one, and he's worse with a gun.”

“Doesn't sound like he'd be much help.”

“Probably not,” Taylor said. “My stubbornness would probably get him killed as well as myself.”

“Still sounds like you should run,” Clint said. “Doesn't sound like the town is going to back you, so why should you risk your life for them?”

“Ain't for them,” Taylor said, putting on his hat. “It's for this.”

He tapped his badge with a fingernail.

“I wore a badge for a while, when I was younger,” Clint said. “It was situations like this that made me take it off for good.”

“I don't blame you.” Taylor reached for the doorknob. “Well, thanks for listening. Enjoy the town, but if I was you I'd be gone in two days. Just a warning.”

“Thanks,” Clint said. “I'm just passing through, so that shouldn't be a problem.”

Taylor nodded, went out the door.

Clint was awake now. He walked to the window, which overlooked the front of the hotel, and watched the lawman leave and walk away up the street. Over the years he'd known a lot of lawmen like Andrew Taylor. Too stubborn to do the right thing, because the right thing would be seen as the cowardly thing.

Clint had known a good man with a gun to hold off a mob. But a gang with guns, that was a tough one. He didn't know any single man—not Wyatt Earp, not Bat Masterson, not Hickok—who could face twelve men alone.

He felt sorry for Taylor, and sorrier for his wife, but there wasn't any reason for him to take a hand in the sheriff's problem. On top of not knowing the man, he'd never known two men to stand off a dozen and live through it.

He'd be as big a fool as Sheriff Taylor if he decided to try.

Clint was dressing the next morning when there was another knock on his door—more forceful than the sheriff's knock the night before. He doubted it was the lawman. He'd made himself perfectly clear the night before. He strapped on his gun and walked to the door. When he opened it, he found an attractive brunette in her early thirties standing there, glaring at him. She was wearing a gingham dress with a high neck. He doubted it was deliberate, but the cut of the dress showed off her full bosom.

“Mrs. Taylor?”

She looked shocked. “How did you know?”

“From what your husband told me last night,” he replied, “I should have expected you. Do you mind if we talk over breakfast?”

“I have had my breakfast, Mr. Adams.”

“Well, I haven't.” He stepped out into the hall, forcing her to step back, and closed the door behind him. “If you want to talk to me, you're going to have to take me someplace to eat.”

“Well . . . very well. There's a small café not far from here that's pretty good.”

Fine,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The café was half full, and the people who were there gave the sheriff's wife odd looks as she entered and sat with a strange man.

“I'm sorry,” Clint said. “I guess I'm ruining your reputation.”

“Don't worry about my reputation, sir,” she said. “I'm more concerned with my husband's life, and these good people don't give a fig about that.”

“Mrs. Taylor,” Clint said, “did your husband tell you what I advised him last night?”

“Yes, he did,” she said. “You gave him the same advice I did. He's not going to take it from either of us. Besides, he did not come to you for advice.”

“Well,” Clint said, “that was all I had to give him, I'm afraid.”

“No,” Miriam Taylor said, “you had a lot more to offer him.”

Clint was about to answer when a waiter appeared. Quickly, Clint said, “Steak, eggs, and coffee.”

When he was gone, Clint asked, “What are you talking about, Mrs. Taylor?”

“Your gun,” she said. “You hire your gun out, don't you?”

“No, I don't.”

That stopped her for a moment. She sat back and stared at him.

“What do you mean, no?” she asked. “You're a gunfighter, aren't you? By the very definition you hire your gun ou—”

“Mrs. Taylor—what's your first name?”

“Wha—it's Miriam. But why do you—”

“Miriam,” he said, “since we're getting intimate here, I figure I'm entitled to call you by your first name.”

“Wha—I—how dare you? We're not getting intimate,” she stammered.

“We are if you're calling me a gunfighter,” he said. “See, that means I have to correct you and tell you what I actually am.”

“I don't—are you claiming that you are not a gunfighter?”

“I'm not claiming anything, Miriam,” he said. “I'm telling you I'm not a gunfighter.”

“But—then what are you?”

“See?” he said. “You're getting intimate.”

She sat back in her chair again and stared at him.

“I think I know what you are, Mr. Adams.”

“And what's that. Miriam?”

She leaned forward and said, “Impossible!”

Miriam Taylor did not storm off, as Clint thought she might. She was still there when the waiter brought his breakfast. He had to admire her not only for her loyalty to her husband, but for her beauty.

“Well?” she asked, her arms folded beneath her full breasts.

“What? I'm sorry, did you ask me something?”

“You said you were going to tell me what you are,” she said. “I'm waiting.”

“I'm just a man, Miriam,” he said. “That's all.”

“But . . . you do have a reputation with a gun.”

“Yes.”

“And you are very good with it, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I'm a man who is very good with a gun.”