The Gunsmith 387 (3 page)

It didn't take long.

The storekeepers not only shot like storekeepers, they were inept. Several of them fell from the rooftops when they were hit, while others staggered out the doors, or fell through the windows.

The bartender was foolish enough to come running through the batwing doors carrying his rifle, so Chance turned and shot him as well.

Then it was quiet.

The two gringo gunmen ejected their spent shells, reloaded their guns, and holstered them.

They looked at their horses. The Mexicans were such bad shots even the horses had not been hit.

The two men mounted up and looked around. The two girls came to the batwing doors. They didn't seem to be upset by all the bodies, or even the body of the bartender lying right in front of the doors.

“
Vaya con Dios
,” Raquel called out, and both of the women waved.

“What a town,” Chance said.

Rydell agreed with a shake of his head.

“If all Mexicans shoot like this, we won't have any trouble takin' our man.”

“When we find him,” Rydell reminded his partner.

“I'm leavin' that part up to you, partner,” Chance said. “I got confidence in you.”

“Appreciate that, Chance.”

Chance looked behind him as they rode out of town.

“If all the Mexican women are like those two . . .”

“I know what you mean,” Rydell said with a smile.

 * * * 

Clint sat in a chair in front of his hotel and watched the people go by. It was the way he had spent most of his days since coming to town. That is, except for the time he spent on the beach, either walking or visiting his friend Avery.

He was glad to find his friend so happy, but wondered how much further Avery would be able to go after this first child was born. Avery had never seemed like the kind of man who wanted kids. Clint himself had never had the urge to father one child, let alone a brood. He hoped Avery wouldn't be too disappointed if there was just the one.

He had never regretted not having fathered any children. It was just not in the cards for the Gunsmith.

Clint was still sitting in front of the hotel when Sheriff Domingo Vazquez came walking up to him.

“Señor Adams.”

“Sheriff,” Clint said. “Care to join me?”

“I do not mind,” Vazquez said. He pulled another chair over and sat next to Clint. He took two cigars from his pocket and handed one to Clint, then held a match for him before lighting his own. Clint did not smoke much, but rarely turned down a free cigar.

“Gracias, amigo,” he said.

“
Por nada
,” Vazquez said.

When Clint first came to town, Vazquez had braced him, advising him that he would not stand for trouble in his town, not even from the American legend called the Gunsmith. Clint had promised the man he had no intention of causing any trouble.

To the sheriff's surprise, Clint had kept his words, had avoided trouble at all costs. During the course of his stay, the two had formed a tentative friendship, occasionally sharing a cigar or a drink.

“It has been very quiet of late,” Vazquez said.

“Don't you like it when it's quiet?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not?”

“It usually means something bad is going to happen,” Vazquez said. “I prefer to have a little trouble each day. I can handle that.”

“You seem to me the kind of man who can handle any kind of trouble.”

Vazquez was a handsome man in his late thirties, with a small, well-cared-for mustache and—when he wasn't wearing his sombrero—slicked-back black hair. He carried himself with the air of a confident man—never more so than when he had braced Clint the first time. Clint had sensed that while the man was careful, he was not afraid.

“Ah,” Vazquez said, you flatter me, señor. I do my job, to be sure.”

“Perhaps that is why it's so quiet,” Clint suggested.

“Sí, perhaps,” Vazquez said. “It may also be because you are here.”

“Me?”

The lawman nodded.

“Sí,” he said, “many of the townspeople are afraid of you. They are afraid if they cause trouble, you will step in.”

“I've never given any of them reason to fear me,” he said, “and stepping in when there's trouble is your job, Sheriff, not mine.”

“Indeed it is, señor,” Vazquez said. “I am simply telling you what I hear.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” Clint said. “Maybe I should be on my way and allow you to have your days of little trouble.”

“It is too late for that, señor.”

“How do you figure?”

“There have already been many quiet days,” Vazquez said. “Certainly there is big trouble coming. I do not know when, but it is surely coming. That is my experience. So you see, should you decide to leave, it would not solve the problem.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Clint asked.

“I was just looking to pass the time with some conversation, señor,” Vazquez said. “And perhaps invite you to dine with me this evening.”

“I appreciate the offer,
Jefe
,” Clint said, “but I already have an invitation to dine.”

“Ah, the lovely Miss Garcia?”

“Actually no . . .”

“Then your good friend who lives on the beach?”

“Yes.” Avery had told him to come back “next time” for supper. He was simply stretching the point.

“Then I will not try to tempt you away,” Vazquez said, rising. “Perhaps another evening?”

“Perhaps,” Clint agreed.

“Very well,” Vazquez said, “then I wish you a good rest of the day.”

“Thank you for the cigar.”

“
Por nada
, señor,” Vazquez said.

The sheriff walked away and Clint wondered if there had been something else in that conversation besides the obvious.

 * * * 

After Vazquez left Clint, he walked to the Cantina Carmelita and entered. He went to the bar and ordered a beer. Before long, the owner of the drinking and gambling establishment came over and joined him.

“And so?” Ernesto Paz asked.

“He will not be leaving anytime soon.”

“That is good, isn't it?”

“It can be, I suppose.”

“Why would he leave?” Paz asked. “No one bothers him, he has a woman, and a friend . . . perhaps two friends?”

“You flatter me, Ernesto,” Vazquez said. “Clint Adams is much too careful to make friends so quickly. I would say we have a careful, cordial relationship.”

“Well, whatever it is, you'll have to take advantage of it when the time comes.”

Paz turned and walked away. Vazquez watched until the man entered his office, then turned and left without finishing his beer.

For his supper, Clint went to the small Rosa's Cantina—which served only food, not liquor or gambling—where Carmen was a waitress.

“I wondered if you were coming tonight,” Carmen said with a smile.

“Any tables available?” he asked.

They looked around. In point of fact, there were only two tables that were taken.

“I think we can seat you, sir,” she said, playing along. “Would you like your regular table?”

“That would be fine.”

Smiling, she led him to a small table against the back wall.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Sí.”

“I will be right back.”

She went to the kitchen and returned momentarily with a pot of coffee and a white mug. She poured steaming black coffee into the mug for him and then asked, “What would you like for your supper?”

“What is Rosa preparing tonight?” he asked.

“Whatever you want, señior,” she said. “You are a special customer.”

“Steak?” he asked.

“Ah, with Mexican spices,” she said. “I will tell her.”

She returned a short time later with a perfectly prepared steak, redolent with Mexican spices, along with sweet onions, rice, and refried beans.

“Thank you, Carmen,” he said.

“Do not thank me,” she said. “Thank Rosa.” She leaned in close and added, “You can thank me later.”

She smiled again and left him to his meal.

 * * * 

While he was eating, a man entered, looked around, saw him, and walked over to him.

“Padre,” Clint said.

“May I sit?” the man asked.

The tall, slender man dressed in black sat down across from Clint. He had a long face made longer by age and the fact that he once weighed many more pounds. Despite the weight loss, though, Clint had recognized him on the street one day. And the man knew it. That was almost a week ago, and this was the first time the man had approached him since.

“What name are you going by?” Clint asked.

“Father Flynn.”

Clint smiled.

“What's funny?”

“An Irish priest in a Mexican town.”

“This was as far away as I thought I could get.”

“From what?”

“My old life.”

“I see. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, I would.”

Clint waved to Carmen. She brought another cup and poured it full.

“Anything else, Padre?” she asked.

“No, thank you.”

He did not speak again until she walked away.

“Is that what you're doing?” Father Flynn asked.

“Is that what I'm doing?”

“Hiding from your old life.”

“I have only one life . . . Father.”

“So then you're hiding from that one.”

Clint chewed his steak and said, “Not hiding, actually. Just . . . taking a break.”

“Well, I am hiding,” Father Flynn said, “from a life I've left far behind me. When I saw you on the street last week, I knew you recognized me. My first instinct was to flee.”

“Run away again? To where this time?”

“That was the question,” Father Flynn said, sipping his coffee. “I couldn't think of anywhere to go, so I thought I would just talk with you.”

“About what?”

“About what you would say about me when you return to the U.S.?”

“Why should I say anything?”

“Do people still wonder about me?”

“I'm sure they do.”

“And you don't have any desire to tell anyone you found me?” Father Flynn asked. “To a friend maybe?”

“No,” Clint said.

“Can I believe that?”

“We were never friends, Father,” Clint said, “but I think you know that I keep my word.”

The priest put his coffee cup down and stared across the table at Clint.

“Yes, I do know that,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“No apology necessary.”

Father Flynn pushed his chair back and stood up.

“Will you come to my church?” he asked.

Clint swallowed the piece of steak he'd been chewing and said, “Let's not push it, Father Flynn.”

Clint finished his meal, promised to return when Carmen was ready to go home. They would either go to the small house she had at the north end of town, or to his hotel room.

After leaving Rosa's, he went to Cantina Carmelita. It was the biggest place in town to drink, and it offered various forms of gambling. Clint, in an attempt to distance himself from his life for a while, had stayed away from the poker tables. All he did when he was there was nurse a beer or two, and relax.

“
Cerveza
,” he said to the bartender.

“Sí, señor.”

Clint had come a long way from home to find some peace, and so far, even though the people in town knew who he was, no one had tried him. Aside from a word or two with bartenders or waiters, he did most of his talking with Avery, Carmen, and Sheriff Vazquez.

Also Ernesto Paz, who owned the Carmelita.

While he was nursing his first beer, the well-dressed cantina owner came up to him and smiled broadly.

“Welcome, Señor Adams,” he said. “Welcome back to my humble establishment.”

In most U.S. towns, the Carmelita would have been considered humble, but not here in Laguna Niguel.

“You are very modest, Señor Paz,” Clint said. “You have a fine place here.”

“Gracias,” Paz said. He was not tall, probably about five-nine, around forty years old, and always impeccably dressed. “Would you consider playing some poker tonight? I can promise you some good competition.”

“No, thank you,” Clint said. “I'm not playing much these days.”

“Understood,” Paz said, putting his hands up, palms out, “I will not try to pressure you.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you should change your mind,” Paz added, “I would be happy to arrange a private game.”

“I'll let you know, Señor Paz.”

“Excellent,” Paz said. “I will let you enjoy your beer in peace, then.”

Paz pressed his hands together as if in prayer, and backed away.

Paz usually asked Clint once a day if he wanted to play poker. Clint had been refusing since he'd arrived there. You'd think the man would get the hint.

 * * * 

Clint was on his second beer when Sheriff Vazquez put in an appearance. He smiled and came across the room. The bartender had a beer on the bar by the time he got there.

“Gracias, Raul.”

He took a big drink and smiled at Clint.

“Has Paz bothered you again about poker?”

“He asked.”

“He is desperate to say the Gunsmith played poker in his establishment.”

“Sorry I can't help him.”

“I have told him that, but he does not listen to me.”

“I was wondering something,” Clint said. “I never asked you if you had deputies.”

“
Por qué?
” Vazquez asked. “Do you want to be a deputy?”

“No, I was just wondering about this bit of trouble you're expecting.”

“Well, I have two deputies,” Vazquez said. “They are . . . how do you say . . . okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said.

“But if, as you say, big trouble comes, I am not sure their guns will be very helpful.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint was waiting for the lawman to ask him again about being a deputy, but the question didn't come. Instead, the sheriff eyed the crowded interior of the place while he finished his beer.

“Well,” he said, setting down the empty mug, “things look quiet enough in here. I must get on with the rest of my rounds. Have a nice evening, señor.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

The lawman left and Clint turned his attention back to his second beer.