The Gunsmith 387

When Bad Meets Bad . . .

“What do you say, gringo?” Rodrigo asked. “Are you as bad as Rodrigo?”

“Probably,” Chance said. “What do you think, Cord?”

“Probably badder,” Rydell said.

“Then we shall prove it,” Rodrigo said. “We will fight for Belinda.”

“Fight for a woman?” Chance asked. “There are lots of women, Rodrigo. Go and find another one.”

“I am afraid, señor, that I want this one.”

“Well, amigo, I've got this one,” Chance said.

“So we will fight,” Rodrigo said, “with knives. The best man gets the girl, eh?”

Chance looked at Rydell, who nodded.

“Okay,” Chance said, “we'll fight for her.” He finally released the girl, who ran for cover. Chance stood up from the table.

Rodrigo smiled and took two of his knives out of their sheaths.

“I think you should use knives,” Chance said, “but I'll use my gun.”

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MEXICO MAYHEM

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Robert J. Randisi.

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ISBN: 978-0-515-15444-3

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PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / March 2014

Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Gunsmith was mired in a state of depression.

He hadn't felt this way since he took refuge in a bottle following the death of his friend Wild Bill Hickok. He had a drink in front of him this time, but there was no danger of repeating the process. He had at least learned that much about himself.

But he was depressed.

Over the past few months, several attempts had been made on his life. In itself, not unusual. The past attempts on his life were countless. But they'd been attempts on his reputation, not his life. These recent attempts, they were personal. Someone had sent the killers against him—
him
, not the Gunsmith. Clint Adams, personally. He had done something to this person to make them want him dead. And there was no way to tell when that was, how long this person had been waiting for their revenge.

Clint had decided to take himself away from it all for a while, had not only ridden to Mexico but had gone all the way to the seaside town of Laguna Niguel.

He got himself a room in a small hotel, spent most of his days sitting in the cantina, nursing beers and eating tacos and enchiladas. His nights were spent with a waitress named Carmen, who, in her thirties, was the oldest of the three waitresses who worked there. She had a wild mane of black hair, large breasts prominently displayed in peasant blouses each day, and a lust for sex he found pleasantly exhausting.

He had been there two weeks, and was not looking to leave anytime soon . . .

 * * * 

Cord Rydell took off his hat and wiped his sweating brow on the sleeve of his blue shirt, leaving a dark stain.

Next to him his partner, Hal Chance, was similarly wiping his face, but with his wadded-up bandanna. He wiped the inside of his hat and replaced it on his shaggy head.

“This heat is killin' me,” he complained.

“The sea air will help,” Rydell told him.

“I ain't never seen the sea.”

“This will be the Pacific,” Rydell said. “It goes on forever.”

“Like the desert?”

“Yes, like the desert,” Rydell said, “only wetter.”

“It's damn hot,” Chance complained. “Is it always so hot in Mexico?”

“Well,” Rydell said, tiring of his partner's complaints, “it is summer.”

“Hot,” Chance said, wiping his face again. He grabbed his canteen and took a swig.

“Take it easy,” Rydell said, “we don't know when we'll find more water.”

“I thought you said you knew Mexico like the back of your hand.”

“Yeah, well, I ain't been down here in a while,” Rydell said. “Waterholes I thought were there might be dry, so just . . . take it easy.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Come on,” Rydell said, “we'll stop in the next town and get something to eat.”

“And some cold beer!” Chance said.

Finally, Rydell thought, something he could agree with Chance about.

 * * * 

They rode into the town of El Diablo later that day and Hal Chance sniffed the air.

“What's that smell?” he asked his partner.

“That's the ocean,” Rydell replied.

“Where is it?” Chance asked, standing in his stirrups.

“Still pretty far away, but close enough to smell,” Rydell told him. “Let's stop at that cantina.”

“Ya don't have to tell me twice,” Chance said.

They reined in their horses in front of a small cantina. As they dismounted, they could smell the food cooking inside. Both their stomachs began to growl. They tied off their horses and went inside. There was a small crudely constructed bar and about eight tables with mismatched chairs. Two of the tables were occupied, and there were three men standing at the bar. All eyes turned to them as they entered, including the two girls lounging at the far end of the bar, waiting for something to do.

“We don't want any trouble,” Rydell said as Chance eyed the two Mexican women.

“I never been to Mexico before,” Chance said, “but I would love me some Mexican women.”

“Well, we ain't here for no Mexican ass, Hal,” Rydell said. “We're gonna have a beer, and some food, and get outta here. Got it?”

“I got it, Cord, I got it,” Chance said.

“Can we get somethin' to eat?” Rydell asked the bartender.

“
Sí, señor
,” the man said, “
siéntese.
”

“What did he say?” Chance asked.

“He said we should sit,” Rydell said.

One of the girls leaning on the bar stood up and walked over to them. She slouched, was a bit chunky, but Chance still eyed her body as she said, “
Que pasa, señores?
”

“
Enchiladas
,” Rydell said, “
y cerveza
.”

“
Sí, señor. Y frijoles?
”

“
Sí
,” he said.

“
Inmediatamente.
”

“What'd she say? Whatta we gettin'?”

“Food's comin' right away,” Rydell said. “Just sit back and eat it, Hal.”

As the girl went into the kitchen to get their food, the bartender came over with their beers. Chance was eyeing the other girl, still standing at the bar. She was younger, stood straighter, with small tits and a slim waist. Her nipples poked at her peasant blouse as she preened for him and smiled.

The bartender said something in rapid Spanish to Rydell, who answered him, also in Spanish, although not as rapid. The man shrugged and went back to the bar.

“What'd he say?”

“He wanted to know if we wanted the girls.”

“What'd you say?”

“I told him we're here for food and drink and that's all.”

“Look at that gal, though, Cord!” Chance said. “Look at them little pokies.”

“Not now, Hal,” Rydell said. “We have no time for that.”

“Why not?” Chance asked, “If the guy is loungin' around down here, where's he gonna go?”

“Never mind where he's gonna go, we gotta find out where he is. We got a job to do.”

“I know, I know,” Chance said, “but that don't mean we can't—”

“Yeah, Hal,” Rydell said, “it does mean we can't. Drink your beer.”

Rydell drank down half the beer, which was lukewarm, but did cut the dust he'd been swallowing for miles.

Hal Chance drank his, but continued to eye the young girl at the bar, who also continued to give him hot looks.

Rydell knew that Chance was going to cause them trouble. He just hoped they'd be able to eat first before they were forced to kill some of the locals.