The Gunsmith 387 (8 page)

Chance left the small café with a pleasantly full belly. It had been weeks since he felt this well fed. Now, even though it was still kind of early in the day, he needed a beer to wash his food down.

He looked at the faces of the men he passed on the street, just as he'd examined the faces of the other diners in the café. So far he had not seen what he was looking for.

He went into a place called Cantina Carmelita and walked up to the bar.

“Beer,” he said.

“Sí, señor,” the bartender said.

As the bartender set the beer down in front of him, Chance saw a door open in the back of the room and a man stepped out. As the man walked toward the bar, he saw the badge.

Ah, Jesus, he thought. Rydell had warned him to keep a low profile. He leaned on the bar and tried to shrink himself down, which was hard since he was six-two.

“
Cerveza
,” the lawman said to the bartender.

“
Sí, Jefe.
”

Chance could feel the lawman looking at him, but figured it was just because he was a stranger.

“Señor?”

He looked at the sheriff, who was staring at him.

“Do I know you, señor?”

“I don't think so,” Chance said, staring into his beer. Rydell always told him not to make eye contact with a lawman.

“Just ride into town?”

“That's right.”

“Do you plan on staying long?”

“I don't think so,” Chance said. “I'm just passin' through, wanted to give my horse some rest.”

“Well, we have a nice quiet town, señor,” the sheriff said. “We would like to keep it that way.”

Rydell also told him that the time came when you did have to look the law in the eye—especially when you were going to lie.

“Well, Sheriff.” Chance said, looking at him, “I sure don't intend to cause any trouble.”

“That is very good to know, señor.” The lawman drank down half his beer, set the mug down on the bar. “Enjoy your time here.”

“I will, thanks,” Chance said.

The sheriff nodded and walked out of the cantina. Chance waved to the bartender to refill his mug.

The bartender brought him a fresh beer and said, “
El jefe
is a bad man, señor.”

“Is he?”

“Sí,” the bartender said, “
muy malo,
señor
.
I would stay away from him, if I was you.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“
Por nada.
”

 * * * 

Cord Rydell poured himself another cup of coffee, drank it while staring out into the distance. He hoped Hal Chance wasn't in Laguna Niguel doing something stupid. Hopefully, he had just found himself a whore and was fucking whatever brains he had out.

He finished his coffee, poured another cup, wished he had a bottle of whiskey. He had no way to pass the time until morning, when he would also ride into Laguna Niguel. He was regretting the decision to allow Chance to ride in first. The man usually got himself in trouble—over women mostly—when Rydell wasn't there to guide him.

If he did anything to ruin this deal, Rydell would kill him.

Clint didn't know if having supper with the sheriff was a good idea, but he'd find out soon enough. If the sheriff was the man he'd heard he was, he'd wonder why Clint was suddenly willing to discuss being friends. Maybe everything would come out in the open over a steak.

And maybe it was time for Clint Adams to leave Mexico and go back to the United States.

 * * * 

Sheriff Domingo Vazquez walked back to his office, found Deputy Soto cleaning a shotgun.

“We must have the cleanest guns in town,” he com mented.

“I want to make sure they work if we need them,” Soto replied.

“Well, they are clean enough,” Vazquez said. “Go out and make some rounds.”

“Yes, sir.”

Soto replaced the shotgun on the wall gun rack, put on his hat, and left the office. When the sheriff gave him an order, he obeyed it without question.

Vazquez sat down behind his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bunch of wanted posters from both Mexico and the United States. He leafed through them, looking for the man he'd talked to in the cantina. It was not that he recognized him, only that he recognized the type. But the man's face was nowhere to be found on the posters. Vazquez replaced them in the desk drawer, decided to go out and see which of Laguna Niguel's two hotels the man had registered in.

He left the office, unconcerned about leaving it empty.

 * * * 

Chance decided he wasn't going to learn anything by staying in the cantina. And he didn't want Rydell to think that he only got things done when he was being watched.

The bartender's advice was good, and he intended to keep it. He'd stay away from the law, whether it was the sheriff or a deputy. But he wanted to take a look around town, see if he could spot their guy so that when Rydell rode in, Chance would already know where their target was.

He paid for his beer and left the cantina. He stopped just outside the batwing doors, looking both ways and across the street. He decided to turn right and just take a stroll around town.

And maybe he'd end up at the cathouse.

 * * * 

Ernesto Paz sat back in his chair, watched the glass of brandy on his desk but didn't touch it. He hoped Sheriff Vazquez was handling this Clint Adams thing correctly. The opportunity was too important to make a mess of. Vazquez was competent in many aspects of his job, which was the reason Paz had engineered his route to the sheriff's job.

He picked up the brandy and sipped it. Laguna Niguel was his pond, and he was the big fish in it, but he was looking to move on. If Vazquez did his job correctly, he'd take the man with him as his right hand. A lot was riding on the way he handled this situation.

He rose from behind his desk, walked to the door, and opened it. The bartender—this one was named Molina—was trained to sense when the office door opened, and he looked over. Paz waved to him, and the bartender left the bar and hurried over.

“Señor?” he said.

“Have you seen Santana?”

“Not today, señor.”

“Find him,” Paz said. “I want to talk to him.”

“Today, señor?”

“Yes, today,” Paz said. “As soon as possible. Now go!”

“Sí, señor.”

Paz slammed the door. He didn't like any of his bartenders, but how much brains did it take to pour drinks? You took what you could get.

He went back and sat behind his desk.

Clint was sitting in front of his hotel when three men stopped in front of him.

“Señor,” one of them said, “you are in my chair.”

Clint eyed the three men. They were hard, looked like bandidos, wore guns as if they knew how to use them. Here it comes, he thought. Word had finally gotten around that the Gunsmith was in town. These three wanted to try him. Or had they been sent? Had they caught up to him all the way down here? The killers for hire?

No. He was far from home, and no one knew he was here, not even his friends Rick Hartman and Talbot Roper.

“Go away,” he said to them.

“But,” the middle one said, “I want to sit. I am tired.”

The man smiled. He had several gold teeth in front, on top. Like the other men, he looked to be in his thirties. They were sweaty, dirty, weeks or months removed from their last contact with water and soap.

“Sit somewhere else,” Clint said.

The man laughed, looked at his friends. They laughed, too.

“You must move, señor.”

Clint wondered if they were willing to die over a chair. Or was he willing to kill them over a chair?

He was not.

“All right,” he said, standing up. “You can have it.”

The three men exchanged a disappointed glance. After a moment, they looked at him again.

“Never mind!” the middle man snapped. “I have changed my mind.”

He turned and marched away, and the other two followed him.

Clint sat back down, puzzled.

 * * * 

Clint was still sitting out in front of his hotel when Sheriff Vazquez came walking up.

“
Buenas noches
,” he said.

“Good evening.”

“I hope you are hungry.”

Clint stood up.

“I could eat.”

“Come with me, then,” Vazquez said. “We will go to my sister's restaurant.”

“Your sister?”

“She does not own it,” Vazquez said, “but she is a waitress there.”

Could it be that Vazquez didn't know that Clint had a relationship with Carmen?

“Lead the way, then.”

“
Bueno.
”

Clint followed the sheriff to Rosa's. When they entered, Carmen turned, saw them come in, and smiled.

“
Hermano
,” she said, rushing to her brother. “It has been a while since you came to eat here.”

“I brought a friend,” Vazquez said. “Or perhaps you already know him? Clint Adams.”

“Sí,” Carmen said, looking at Clint, “Señor Adams has eaten here several times. Nice to see you again, señor.”

“And you, señorita.”

The small cantina was doing a good business this evening, but there was an empty table in the back that she led them to.

“What will you both have?” she asked.

“Steaks,” Vazquez said, “thick and . . . rare?” He looked at Clint.

“That's fine.”

“And
cerveza
.”

“Right away, Domingo.”

“How is Rosa this evening?” he asked.

“She is fine.”

“In good spirits?”

Carmen laughed.

“When is Rosa ever in good spirits?” She turned and went to the kitchen.

“Rosa is the cook and the owner,” Vazquez said to Clint. “She is as ugly as sin. But you probably know that.”

“I've heard,” Clint said, “but I've never seen her.”

“Believe me,” Vazquez said, “you do not want to.”

“I am kind of curious, though,” Clint admitted.

“Well, then,” Vazquez suggested, “walk into the kitchen and have a look.”

Clint thought about it, and said, “Maybe not before my steak.”

Vazquez laughed and said, “A wise choice.”

 * * * 

During supper, Clint told Vazquez about the three men who had accosted him over a chair.

“I do not think they were interested in a chair, señor,” Vazquez said.

“Do they sound familiar?” Clint asked.

“Sí,” Vazquez said, “they sound like every bandido in the hills.”

“Yes,” Clint said, “they do, don't they.”

“They had probably heard that the famous Gunsmith was in town,” Vazquez said. “Perhaps they were curious about you. You undoubtedly disappointed them.”

“It was only a chair,” Clint said.

“Sí,” Vazquez said, “only a chair.”

Vazquez managed to talk all through supper without really revealing anything about his character, or his life. Although he did talk about his sister, who he obviously loved very much. Clint felt there were veiled threats all through the conversation, should he hurt Vazquez's sister in any way.

Over coffee and sopapilla—a deep-fried pastry—Clint brought up the subject that was still on his mind.

“Are you ready to tell me what this big trouble is that you're expecting?” Clint asked.

Vazquez chewed on his pastry, seemed to be considering the question, then drank some coffee before answering.

“Some years ago I made an arrest, put some bad men away,” he said.

“How many?”

“Three.”

“On what charge?”

“Bank robbery, and murder.”

“So they were put away for life?”

“They were sentenced to life in San Pedro Cholula City Prison,” Vazquez said.

“So what's the problem?”

“They have escaped.”

“All three of them?”

“The three of them, and several other men,” Vazquez said. “They all escaped together.”

“And you expect them to come here for you?”

“Wouldn't you?” Vazquez asked.

“I think so, yes.”

“So you see,” Vazquez said, “when they arrive, I have only my two deputies to support me.”

“What about others from town?”

“Storekeepers,” Vazquez said. “I can expect no help from them.”

“What about Señor Paz?” Clint asked. “I'm told he's a very powerful man in Laguna Niguel. Can't he help?”

“Not personally,” Vazquez said. “He is a businessman, of no use in the street.”

“What about his money?” Clint asked. “Can't he hire some men to help you?”

“I am afraid Señor Paz has the same opinion that the other businessmen in town have,” Vazquez said.

“That it's your job,” Clint said.

“Sí.”

Clint shook his head.

“Time and a different country, and nothing's changed since the last time I wore a badge,” he said.

“I am afraid not,” Vazquez said. “So you can see why I might try to take advantage of the fact that you are present in my town at this time.”

“Do you have any word on whether or not the men have been spotted in the area?”

“No word at all.”

“Isn't it possible they won't come?”

Vazquez gave Clint a look and said, “I suppose it is possible.”

“Yeah, all right,” Clint said. “Okay, what if they don't come until after I leave?”

“Then I will simply have to do the best I can,” Vazquez said.

“What about you leaving town?”

Vazquez shook his head.

“That is not an option,” the lawman said. “I am afraid I am cursed with a good portion of Mexican machismo.”

“I understand,” Clint said. “Many American lawmen have had the same affliction. Unfortunately, most of them are dead. Sometimes it's smarter to run.”

“Would you run, amigo?”

Clint replied without hesitation.

“No, I wouldn't, but that's me,” Clint said. “Running from a fight would only make me a larger target.”

“Sí, that I understand.”

They finished their desserts. Carmen cleaned the table, and poured them each some more coffee.

“Was the meal satisfactory, señors?” she asked playfully, as if they were strangers.

“Very much so,” Clint said.

Vazquez took out two cigars and handed Clint one.

“Aye, Domingo,” she said hastily, “do not light those up around me.” She fanned the air and rushed away.

“She does not like cigar smoke,” Vazquez said, striking a match and holding it out for Clint to light his cigar. He then used the same match to light his own.

“I got that,” Clint said.

Vazquez puffed on his cigar until the tip glowed bright, then held it out and looked at it while smoke dribbled from between his lips.

“So, señor, now you know,” he said. “What have you decided?”

“Sheriff—”

“Call me Domingo.”

“Domingo,” Clint said, “if I were to see you in the street facing three or more men, I would be inclined to step in and back your play.”

“Señor,” Vazquez said, spreading his hands, “that is all I have ever hoped for.”

 * * * 

They left the cantina, Vazquez kissing his sister good night, Clint and Carmen bidding each other good night primly.

Clint and Vazquez walked away, heading back to the part of town where Clint's hotel and Cantina Carmelita were located.

“A drink in the cantina before you go to your hotel?” Vazquez asked.

“Why not?”

They entered the cantina, finding it crowded and noisy. Girls were working the floors, games were going on at the tables. The bar was crowded, but space opened up miraculously for the two of them. Clint was sure it had nothing to do with him.

“
Dos cervezas
,” Vazquez told the bartender.

“
Sí, Jefe.
”

When they had their beers, Vazquez turned to Clint and raised his mug.

“To my sister, Carmen,” he said.

“Carmen,” Clint repeated, wondering where this was leading.

“She is a gem, señor,” Vazquez said, “and should be treated as such.”

“Agreed,” Clint said.

“Please remember that,” Vazquez said. “I would not like it if anyone was to hurt my sister.” He'd implied this over supper, but now he was saying it outright.

“I understand, Domingo,” Clint said.

“Excellent,” Vazquez said, slapping Clint on the back. “Now we are truly amigos.”