The Gunsmith 387 (6 page)

“What's wrong?” Hal Chance asked his partner, Cord Rydell, as Rydell reined in his horse.

“Laguna Niguel is up ahead.”

“So? Ain't that where we're goin'?”

“It is. I'm just thinkin' of the best way to go about this,” Rydell said.

“The guy ain't gonna recognize us, right? We ain't never seen him, and he ain't ever seen us, right?”

“Right, but if we ride in together, two strangers, we might attract attention.”

“And one stranger riding in, and then another, won't attract attention?”

“Yeah, it will,” Rydell said. “That's why we're gonna make camp out here.”

“And then what?”

“In the morning you'll ride in, get a hotel room, and relax. Walk around town. Take a look at the cantinas. And size up the local law.”

“Okay, what about you?”

“I'm gonna scout around from out here, take a look at the beach. I'll ride into town two days after you.”

“Okay, two days sounds good.”

“We have a description of our guy,” Rydell said. “If you see him, just find out where he's stayin', maybe even see what his daily routine is. But this is important, Hal.”

“What?”

“Don't brace him alone,” Rydell said. “I don't care what kind of advantage you think you might have, don't try to take him alone. If you mess this up, it's just gonna be harder in the end.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“The other thing is, don't let him see you. If you're spotted, this is gonna be harder. Got it?”

“I got it. Why don't I just ride in now?”

“No,” Rydell said, “I want to think about things overnight. I might come up with a better plan.”

Chance was obviously impatient, but he gave in.

“Yeah, okay. I get it.”

“Good. Now let's find a good place to camp, where we won't be seen.”

 * * * 

Clint walked back to his hotel. Avery Castle and “Father Flynn” were entitled to live their own lives as they saw fit. He hoped that Sheriff Vazquez had no intentions of trying to change that.

He was not surprised that Laguna Niguel had become a destination for Americans who were looking to change their lives. He himself had drifted there, although he had no intention of staying permanently.

Rather than going into his hotel, he once again pulled up a chair and sat down in front. He wondered if Sheriff Vazquez's “feeling” about trouble coming was any more than that. Did the sheriff have some solid information that he wasn't giving out?

Was there a gang of bandidos on their way to loot the town? It wasn't likely Vazquez would go with two inexperienced deputies if that was the case. And he would try to recruit more than just one man.

Clint had convinced himself that the trouble Vazquez was expecting was, indeed, just a feeling and not based on anything solid.

He sat back, relaxed, and decided to spend the rest of the day right where he was, until supper.

After Clint left Avery Castle's beach house, Lita came out and sat with her husband.

“Did Clint say something that disturbed you, my husband?” she asked.

He reached out and placed his hand on hers.

“Nothing for you to be alarmed about.”

“Please,” she said, “do not treat me like a child. If something is wrong, if there is a burden you must bear, let me help you.”

“Lita,” he said, putting his hand on her belly this time, not her hand, “you know I have a past.”

“Yes, a past you do not wish to talk about,” she said, “and I respect that. But if Clint said something—”

“He only said,” Avery said, cutting her off, “that the sheriff believes that I am more than I seem.”

“What does he mean by that?”

“He probably thinks that I am down here hiding from something in my past.”

“But—”

“Yes, but I might be. But even if I am, he does not know what it is,” Avery said. “There is nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure, my husband?”

“I am positive,” Avery said. “We are going to live here a long time, my love, and raise many children.”

She placed her hand over his, which was still on her belly. Then he slid his hands from beneath hers and said, “Now, go back into the house, woman. You probably have a messy kitchen to clean.”

“Yes, husband.”

She stood up and slowly walked inside the house.

Avery stood up, walked to another section of the deck, and entered the house through a different door. He went into a room that was his. Lita never entered it, not even to clean.

He closed the door behind him, opened the shutters on one window just to let a little light in. A wooden chest sat in a corner. He went to it, unlocked it with a key from his pocket. Right on top was a rolled-up holster. He took it out, unrolled it, and removed the Colt. It felt like an old friend in his hands, even though he hadn't wielded it for over five years. He'd cleaned it occasionally, just in case, but he had not used it.

He checked to make sure it was fully loaded. Hopefully, it would be able to remain in the trunk for years to come.

There was a time, years ago, before the house was built, when he'd stood on the water's edge, prepared to throw the gun out into the sea. But in the end he couldn't do it. So it went into the trunk—as it did now. He put the gun back in the holster, rolled it up, returned it to the trunk, closed the lid, and locked it. Maybe he should throw the key into the ocean, but that would have been an empty gesture. So he put it in his pocket and went back outside to finish his coffee. Maybe add a little whiskey to sweeten it.

 * * * 

After Clint Adams left, Father Flynn entered his office and locked the door behind him. He sat at his desk and silently cursed, then asked for forgiveness.

He had felt safe here until he saw Clint Adams in the street. Now Adams was telling him the sheriff was suspicious of him. Well, he was going to have to stick it out. He wasn't leaving, not when he had done so much work to change himself, and so much work on the church. Both of them had needed a lot of work, and neither was done yet.

Whatever happened, it would happen here, in his church.

There was a knock on his door. He got up, walked to the door, and unlocked it.

“Padre,” Quintero Herrera said, “we have some questions about the roof tiles.”

Quintero was a carpenter, and had been for forty years. He and his sons were helping Father Flynn renovate the church, and part of that job was repairing the roof.

“All right, Quintero,” Father Flynn said, “I'll be right out.”

Quintero nodded and said, “Sí, Padre.”

Father Flynn closed the door behind Quintero, took a moment to compose himself, then opened it and followed the old man outside.

 * * * 

Rydell and Chance made camp in a clearing surrounded by rocks and trees.

“We won't be spotted from here, even when we make a fire,” Rydell said. “Why don't you go and find some wood?”

“Yeah, sure.”

While Chance hunted up firewood, Rydell unsaddled the horses, rubbed them down, and gave them what little feed they had in their saddlebags. The ground around there didn't yield much in the way of grass. He picketed the horses so they wouldn't wander off, and went back to camp. By that time Chance had a fire going, and a pot of coffee on it.

“Let's just do beans,” Rydell said.

“Suits me,” Chance said. “I'll be in town eatin' tacos tomorrow anyway.”

“Sure,” Rydell said “and in three days the job will be done, and we'll have all the food and girls we want.”

Chance grinned and said, “That suits me just fine.”

As dusk came, Clint decided not to go to Avery's for supper—not on this night anyway. He also didn't feel like going to Rosa's. Instead, he decided to go where Vazquez had taken him, to Alberto's place.

On the way there he passed the livery he had entrusted Eclipse to. He hadn't checked on the big Darley Arabian in a while, so he stopped in.

“Ah, señor,” the elderly hostler said, “you are here to see your magnificent animal? To see if I have cared for him properly.”

“Just stopping in for a visit,” Clint said. “I wouldn't want the big fella to think I forgot about him.”

“He is in his stall, eating,” the man said. “He eats more than any two horses.”

“He does have a big appetite,” Clint agreed. “I'll just take a look, let him know I'm here, and be on my way.”

“As you say, señor,” the hostler said. “Stay as long as you like.”

Clint walked through the stable until he came to Eclipse's big behind in a stall.

“Wow, I never noticed what a big ass you have, boy,” he said, entering the stall, running his hand over the animal's back.

Eclipse ignored him and kept feeding.

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said, “I know you're busy, probably sore at me for ignoring you. Tell you what, we'll go for a ride tomorrow. How about along the beach? Yeah, you'll like that. I'll come by and get you early.” He stroked the big gelding's neck, then turned and left the stall, and the stable.

 * * * 

He retraced his steps from the day before when Vazquez had led the way, and found the little café.

“Ah, my new amigo,” Alberto said when he entered. “Welcome.”

Again the place was empty. Nervously, Alberto looked past him.

“Where is
el jefe?
”

“I'm here alone today, Alberto,” Clint said. “Is that okay?”

“Of course, señor,” Alberto said. “Of course.”

“And I'll pay for my meal this time.”

“Amigo, that is not nec—”

“Don't worry, Alberto,” Clint said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder, “it'll be all right. Can you make me a steak?”

“American, or Mexican?”

“Surprise me.”

“Coffee, señor?”

“The stronger the better.”

“Then take a table, señor.”

Clint grabbed a table against the wall and thought that Alberto seemed a lot more relaxed without Vazquez there.

The Mexican brought him a pot of coffee and a heavy mug, poured it full for him.

“Do you do everything yourself here, Alberto?” Clint asked. “Cook, and serve?”

“Sí, señor.”

“Don't you get busy sometimes?”

“Never, unfortunately,” he said.

“Then how do you make a living?”

“I make a meager living, señor, and it is very difficult,” Alberto said. “But this is what I love to do, so . . .” He shrugged.

“And what about this arrangement you have with the sheriff?”

Alberto's eyes widened and he said, “I must see to your meal, señor,” and rushed back into the kitchen.

After about two-and-a-half mugs of coffee, Alberto reappeared with a tray filled with food. He set it all down on the table in front of Clint and said, “Enjoy, señor.”

Clint pulled the plate with the steak over to him and cut into it. It was juicy and red inside. He popped it into his mouth and chewed with great pleasure. Other platters were filled with potatoes, refried beans, corn cakes, and tortillas.

“Is it all right, señor?” Alberto asked.

“It's great, Alberto, just great. But I want you to sit with me.”

“But, señor, you are a customer—”

“Don't give me that,” Clint said. “Come on, sit.”

Alberto hesitated, but then he pulled out the other chair and sat down.

“What's this between you and Sheriff Vazquez?” Clint asked.

Alberto frowned.

“I do not understand, señor.”

“Why does he eat for free here?”

“He is
el jefe
,” Alberto said, looking puzzled. “He eats free all over town.” His frown deepened. “Is that not the way of it?”

“No, that is not always the way of it, Alberto,” Clint said. “I wore a badge for a while when I was younger, and I did not eat free all over town.”

“But, señor, who am I to change the way things are done here?
El jefe
wants to eat, I feed him.”

“And what do you get in return?”

“Señor?”

“There must be something you get for feeding him for free,” Clint reasoned. “Does he protect you?”

“But . . . he protects everyone,” Alberto said. “He is
el jefe
.”

Clint didn't think he was going to get through to the rotund little man.

“Does he frighten you, Alberto?”

“Oh, sí, señor,” Alberto said, “but you must understand, I am a very frightened man.”

“Do I frighten you?”

Alberto hesitated, then said, “Sí, señor.”

“Alberto,” Clint said, “I am going to pour you a cup of coffee, and then you and I are gonna have a long talk.”

Alberto didn't know what to say to that, so he simply nodded and said, “Sí, señor.”

“Tell me about the sheriff,” Clint said.

“What would you like to know, señor?”

“Everything,” Clint said. “Everything that you know about him.”

“I do not understand, señor. Are you and the sheriff not friends?”

“We are not friends. We only met recently. I need to learn if I can trust him or not.”

Alberto studied Clint for a long moment, then asked, “This is not a test, señor?”

“Not a test, Alberto. I'm being truthful.”

Alberto seemed to breathe a sigh of relief that Clint was not friends with Sheriff Vazquez.

“Señor,” he said, “the sheriff, he is a bad man.”

“But he's the law,” Clint said.

“That may be,” Alberto said, “but that does not mean he is a good man. I give him free food because I am afraid of him. And there are many people in town who are also afraid of him.”

“But why? What's he done to them? Or to you?”

“He is a deadly man with a pistol, señor,” Alberto said, “and with his fists. I myself have seen him beat a man half to death.”

“For doing what?”

“For not showing him the proper respect.”

“Was the man a prisoner?”

“No, señor, just a citizen of Laguna Niguel.”

“Then why is he allowed to keep his badge?”

“Even the town fathers fear him,” Alberto said. “No one will try to take his badge.”

“But in spite of this, does he do his job?” Clint asked. “Do the citizens of Laguna Niguel feel that he can protect them?”

Alberto thought a moment, then said, “I have to admit the answer is yes.”

“If push comes to shove, can I trust him to watch my back?” Clint asked.

“I'm sorry, what is push and shove?”

“I mean, if anything happens, if there's trouble, can I depend on him?”

Again, Alberto took a moment to think about the answer before giving it.

“I think, señor, the sheriff wants something from you,” he said, “so I believe you can trust him—until he gets it.”

“That's very honest, Alberto,” Clint said. “I appreciate that.”

“Señor, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“You are the Gunsmith, no?”

“I am the Gunsmith, yes,” Clint said.

“Perhaps, señor,” Alberto said, “when you and the sheriff have gotten what you need from each other, before you leave Laguna Niguel, you will . . . kill him?”

“I don't know about that, Alberto,” Clint said. “I think if the town is afraid of Vazquez, and you don't want him around, you're all going to have to get brave and get rid of him yourself.”

“Sí, señor,” Alberto said. “I understand. But the sheriff does have a powerful friend in town.”

“Is that right?” Clint asked. “Who would that be.”

“Do you know Ernesto Paz?”

“I've met him,” Clint admitted.

“He and Vazquez are friends, and Señor Paz puts all his power behind the sheriff.”

“And just how much power does Señor Paz have?” Clint asked.

“He is the most powerful man in town.”

Clint found that statement very interesting.

Clint thanked Alberto for his food and his words, and promised that Sheriff Vazquez would never hear what they had talked about.

“Gracias, señor,” Alberto said. “I only hope I was able to assist you in some way.”

“You assisted me in every way, Alberto,” Clint said. “Thank you.”