The Hunt for Clint Adams (14 page)

But that didn't mean he would be in Trinidad alone. If what Tom had said was true, that Tarver had been pulling bank jobs, he'd need a gang for that. And chances were good he'd have Bart Dexter with him, as well as a few more men. Maybe they'd stand by and let Tarver face him alone, but if he killed Tarver he doubted they'd let him walk away.

Clint wanted to sneak into Trinidad and scout the place. Find Tarver, see how many men he had with him, and maybe take care of them first.

So he waited outside town until dark, then walked Eclipse into town via some back alleys. At least those hadn't changed.

Bat had been his only friend in Trinidad, so there was no one there he could count on, not even the local sheriff. Tarver may have had time to buy off the local law.

He knew of a small barn behind one of the hotels, which used it for its guests. If there was an empty stall he could hide Eclipse there. Back in the day it hadn't been a particularly popular hotel, so if it was still in business he was hopeful that it was still unpopular.

He found the barn empty. Abandoned. That was even better.

“Got to leave you here for a while, big boy,” he said. “Just while I have a look around.”

Eclipse stood calmly, as if he understood. Clint was sure the horse wouldn't wander away. Likewise, he wouldn't let anyone take him away without kicking up a ruckus.

Clint left the barn and walked over to the back of the hotel. The windows were boarded up, and the back door was locked and boarded. So the hotel was abandoned, as well. That was good. It would give him a place to spend the night, if it came to that.

He walked along the back of the building until he came to an alley. He took that to the main street and stopped at the mouth of the alley. He could hear music from some saloons, and the sounds of men talking. If Tarver had nobody on watch, then he apparently didn't care when Clint arrived—just as long as he did.

This time of night it was likely that Tarver and his men were in one of the saloons. All Clint had to do was find out which one, identify the men who were with him, and then isolate them and take care of them one by one.

Five years ago the posse had never found Bart Dexter. They had brought in three other men—two dead—but never Dexter. Clint had heard that Dexter was with Tarver, had been waiting for him outside Yuma prison. He wondered if Dexter knew that Tarver had never intended to share the money from the bank job. He'd been leaving with the forty thousand dollars when Clint caught up to him.

Clint decided to chance the street. After all, nobody was looking for him. In fact, it might have only been Tarver and Dexter who would recognize him. The others—whoever they were—might only have a description, and on a dark night that could fit a lot of people.

He walked down the street, passed some people along the way who nodded and smiled, others who looked at him funny, wondering who he was, but kept going.

He checked three saloons—peering in the windows or over the batwings—before he spotted Jed Tarver. Almost five years in Yuma had aged the man some. He looked thin.

Seated with him was Bart Dexter. So the two men
were
partners again. Interesting.

He had to watch for only a few moments before he spotted three other men who had to be with them. They were standing at the bar together, drinking beer together and talking, but there was something tangible between them and the two men at the table.

Clint settled in to watch. Once he confirmed his suspicions that the five were together, he'd start culling from the herd until there was only he and Jed Tarver left.

It took a couple of hours but two of the men finally broke away from the bar and approached the batwing doors. Clint moved farther into the shadows and waited.

They came walking out of the Cut Loose Saloon and stepped into the street. As the men crossed, Clint heard one name—McDermott. He didn't know who that was, but assumed it was one of the men,

They reached the other side of the street and walked together. Clint followed along from the opposite side. When they reached a hotel one of the men went inside, the other one kept walking. He thought the one who entered the hotel was McDermott. Since he was going into the hotel, Clint assumed he was staying there. Since he now knew where McDermott was, he decided to follow the other one.

He stayed on his side of the street until the man cut down a side street, then he crossed quickly, not wanting to lose the tail. The street was dark, so he decided not to wait. He closed the distance between himself and the man, and by the time the man heard him and turned it was too late for him.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” the man said.

“What?”

“You live here, right?” In the dark he could see the whites of the man's eyes and teeth. Apparently he took very good care of his teeth. “Somebody tol' me the whorehouse was down this street.”

“Oh, yeah,” Clint said, “yeah, that's right. It's right over here.”

He led the man along until they reached the mouth of a dark alley.

“It's right down this alley.”

“Thanks, friend.”

“Any time,” Clint said.

As the man entered the alley Clint moved in behind him, drew his gun, and did something he hated to do with his pistol—he clubbed the man over the head with the butt end.

About twenty minutes later, Clint returned to the hotel he'd seen McDermott enter. He went inside and approached the front desk.

“Help you, sir?” the clerk asked.

“I was walking by a little while ago and I thought I saw a friend of mine come in,” Clint said. “I was walking with a lady and had to see her home. You understand. . . .”

“Of course, sir.”

“It was a tall, burly man, came in about twenty minutes ago.”

“Ah, that would be Mr. McDermott.”

“It was Mac!” Clint said. “That's great. What room is he in? I want to surprise him.”

“Certainly sir,” the clerk said. “It's room eleven, second floor.”

“Thank you,” Clint said. “Thanks very much.”

“Not at all, sir.”

Clint left the desk and went up the stairs. He crept down the hallway to room 11 and pressed his ear to the door. He thought he could hear the heavy breathing of a sleeping man. He tried the door and found it locked. He could have kicked it in, but if someone did that to him the first thing he'd do was grab for his gun. He might end up killing McDermott, which he didn't really want to do.

He decided to knock. And knocked again.

“Wha—What the hell? Who is it?”

“It's me! Open up!” Clint kept his voice hoarse.

“What the hell—you got your own room, ya know.”

He heard footsteps coming to the door, and then the door was open. He swung from the heels and crashed his fist into the man's jaw. McDermott went windmilling back but even before he could fall Clint was in the room, slamming the door behind him.

McDermott fell back on the bed and Clint landed on him, his knee on the man's chest, gun pressed against his nose. McDermott's eyes got very wide.

“What the—Who're you?”

“My name's Clint Adams, friend,” Clint said, “and you've got one chance to live.”

“W-what's that?”

“Answer my questions,” Clint said. “First time I think I hear a lie, I'm going to pull the trigger.”

There were times when Clint's reputation as the Gunsmith worked for him. This was one of those times. He could see by the look on the man's face that he believed him.

“You ready?” Clint asked.

“I-I'm ready.”

“Okay, question one,” Clint said, “and remember, don't lie.”

Clint left the hotel, confident that he'd taken care of two of Tarver's men. He looked up and down the street and didn't see anybody. If he was lucky, Tarver, Dexter, and the third man were still in the saloon. He'd cut his odds down from 5 to 1 to 3 to 1. And he still had time to work on improving them further.

He went back to the Cut Loose. Two cowboys came walking out and passed him without a second look. He peered in the window and saw Tarver and Dexter still sitting at their table. The other fellow was still standing at the bar, nursing his beer, or another beer. Abruptly, Tarver stood up and headed for the door.

Clint melted into the darkness as Tarver came out. Tarver turned and walked purposefully. Clint followed at a distance and watched his enemy enter a hotel. If he was turning in for the night, Clint was willing to let him go. He wanted to take care of the other two men before he faced Tarver.

He changed direction and went back to the Cut Loose.

Back in Wichita, Clint had seen Bart Dexter around town before the robbery. He assumed Dexter had seen him, too. If he walked into the Cut Loose, there was a good chance the man would recognize him.

He peered in over the batwings one more time, then decided to take the bull by the horns and walk in.

Dexter was wondering if waiting for Clint Adams was the smart thing to do. Maybe he should just kill Tarver, then he and Gerald could ride out, start a new gang, and get on with their lives. Messing with the Gunsmith could only end badly.

He was about to go to the bar for another beer when the batwing doors opened and a man walked in. He recognized him immediately.

Clint Adams.

He tried to catch Gerald's eye but the younger man was staring into his beer, maybe having his own thoughts on the subject.

Dexter looked at Clint Adams again. The man was looking at him, and then walking over to him. It was all he could do not to stand up and go for his gun, but he controlled himself. After all, he hadn't done anything to Clint Adams.

Clint walked to Dexter's table, glanced at the other man at the bar, who wasn't paying any attention. That was a good way to get yourself killed.

When he reached Dexter, he had to give the man credit. He was doing everything he could to appear calm.

“Dexter,” he said.

“Do I know you?”

“Give it some thought,” Clint said. “It'll come to you.”

Dexter stared at him, then acted like it dawned on him.

“Clint Adams,” Dexter said. “I remember.”

“Now dig deeper and remember where.”

“Wichita,” Dexter said.

“You got it.”

“What brings you here?” Dexter asked. “Don't tell me you're still ridin' with a five-year-old posse.”

“No, those days are gone,” Clint said. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Get yourself a beer first,” Dexter said.

“How about another for you?”

“Sure.”

Clint walked to the bar and got two beers. He deliberately stood right next to the young man who was with Dexter. Still nothing. Clint carried two beers back to the table. He could see by the look on Dexter's face that he wasn't happy.

“Bad choice,” Clint said, pushing the beer across the table.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Fella at the bar,” Clint said. “If he's supposed to be watching your back, he's doing a bad job of it.”

Dexter looked as if he was going to deny it, but then gave in. “Hard to find good help these days. Not like the old days, huh?”

“You mean when you were riding with Tarver?” Clint asked. “Those weren't such good days. After all, he was cutting you out of your share of forty thousand.”

“What are you talkin' about?”

“Come on, you know, Dexter,” Clint said. “Why are you helping him now?”

“Now? He's in Yuma Prison.”

“No,” Clint said, “he's in his hotel, right here in town. I followed him there just a few minutes ago.”

“Then why didn't you kill him?”

“You know, Dex,” Clint said, “I thought you might want to do that for yourself.”

“Why would I wanna kill Tarver?” Dexter asked. “He's my partner.”

“Because you know he was cutting you out of that bank job when I caught him,” Clint said. “You've been waiting for him all these years.”

“I've got more money in my pocket now than I've had in five years,” Dexter said. “That's because of Tarver.”

“So then you're here to help him kill me?”

“No,” Dexter said. “He doesn't want any help. Says he's gonna do it himself.”

“Then why have four men with him?”

“Four?”

“You, him, and those other two. Or did you think there were six?”

“What happened to Bobby and Tom?”

“Bobby's dead, Tom's in jail in Colorado Springs. So it's just the four of you. Or is it?”

“What are you gonna do?” Dexter asked.

“Well, if what you say is true, I'll face Tarver. It'll be him or me. But then what will you do?”

“Well, if you kill him, I'll ride out of town,” Dexter said.

“And if he kills me?”

“Then like you said,” Dexter answered, “I'll kill him.”

“So you do know he was going to cut you out?”

“Oh yeah,” Dexter said. “When he insisted on keepin' the money with him, all of it, I figured. I tracked him, but you got him first.”

“And put him in Yuma.”

“And returned the money.”

“Yes, that, too,” Clint said.

“Forty thousand,” Dexter said.

“Forty-two, actually.”

“And it never occurred to you to take it?”

“No,” Clint said, “never.”

Dexter sat back.