The Hunt for Clint Adams (5 page)

“Sure, good ones.”

“Get rid of those two,” Tarver said. “Barclay and Gerald.”

“I'll get rid of Barclay,” Dexter said, “but I want to keep Gerald.”

“You think he's okay?”

“I think he's better than okay,” Dexter said. “And he'll get even better.”

“Okay,” Tarver said. “I trust your judgment, Dex. We'll keep him. But find two more.”

“I will.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, and then Dexter asked, “So, after we find the other boys, what then?”

“Then we find Clint Adams.”

“And what?”

“And I kill him,” Tarver said.

“Is that what you meant by not making any more mistakes?” Dexter asked.

“After I kill Clint Adams,” Tarver said, “that'll take care of the last big mistake I made before I went to prison.”

“And it'll get you a big reputation, right?” Dexter asked. “The man who killed the Gunsmith.”

“That won't hurt,” Tarver said. “That won't hurt at all.”

Tarver wanted dessert—the other thing he'd missed the most in prison was pie—but Dexter didn't, so he went to find Barclay and Gerald in the saloon.

He found them in the third saloon he checked.

“There you are,” Gerald said. “Come on, have a beer with us.”

“Barclay,” Dexter said, “take a walk.”

“What?”

“A walk!”

“W-where?”

“Go find a whore,” Dexter said. “I don't care. Just go.”

“Fine.”

Barclay left the saloon. Dexter ordered two beers, pushed one over to Gerald.

“What's going on?” Gerald said.

“A change of plans.”

“What kind of change?”

Dexter drank half his beer before answering.

“I'm not gonna kill Tarver yet.”

“Why not?”

“He's got some interesting things he wants us to do,” Dexter said. “Some new ideas. I want to see how they go first.”

“But you wanted to kill him because he wasn't gonna share that forty thousand with you,” Gerald said. “What happened to that?”

“I know,” Dexter said, “but I've changed my plans. We'll just have to wait a while.”

“Don't wait too long,” Gerald said. “He might realize what you're plannin'.”

“Don't worry,” Dexter said, “he won't.”

“Okay, Dex,” Gerald said. “You're the boss.”

“That's right,” Dexter said, “I am.”

Tarver sat and enjoyed his pie. It was apple, his favorite. He had another pot of coffee. He knew he was overdoing it on the things he had missed. He'd eaten many steaks, drank a lot of beer, eaten pie and drank coffee, and he'd been to the whorehouse half a dozen times. It was time to get on with his life.

He'd learned from hardened criminals in Yuma, men who had been there years before him and would still be there years after he got out. What he had learned had not only made him a better man, but it would make him a better criminal.

And one of the other things he had learned while in Yuma was how to read men, how to see what they were really thinking when, in fact, they were telling you something else.

Dexter, his friend and his partner, had something on his mind. And Tarver thought he knew what that was. He knew he was going to have to watch Bart Dexter very closely.

After one more visit to the local cathouse, he, Dexter, and Gerald would leave in the morning and find two more men. After that, they'd pull a few big jobs to accumulate some money, and then it would start.

The hunt for Clint Adams.

Tarver had chosen the same woman each time he went to the whorehouse. Her name was Joy; she was a slender blonde with small breasts and hips, and smooth, pale skin.

“Back again?” she asked as they entered her room. “What's this, five times?”

“Seven,” he said.

She sat on the bed, one leg tucked underneath her. Her long hair hung down past her shoulders, and her hard nipples showed beneath her filmy gown.

“I told you,” he said, removing his boots and trousers, “I was in prison.”

He stood, naked from the waist down, his cock hard, and removed his shirt.

She reached out and stroked his erection.

“If you don't mind me sayin',” she said, “you're very gentle in bed for a man who just got out of prison.”

“You get a lot of cons here?” he asked.

“We're not that far from Yuma,” she said. “If they ride east they usually end up here. Food, beer, and women, that's what they're usually after.”

He didn't like being lumped in with the others, but that had been what he'd been after, too. There was no getting around it.

He got on the bed with her and she lay back. He ran his hands over her skin, touched her nipples with the tip of his forefinger until she giggled and grabbed hold of it.

“I get the feeling you're a violent man,” she said. “Out of bed.”

“I am,” he admitted.

“Then why are you so gentle with me?”

“I don't know.”

“Were you gentle with women before you went to prison?” she asked.

“No.”

“When you were in prison, did you do anything . . .” She trailed off.

“Anything . . . like what?”

“You know,” she said. “With other . . . men?”

“What? No.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just that other men, when they come here it's because . . . you know, they have to prove something to themselves.”

“No,” he said, “like you said. I'm a violent man. As soon as I got inside I made it clear I was to be left alone.”

“That's good,” she said. “You're strong.”

“I thought we said that already.”

“No,” she replied, “we said you were violent. Strong men are not always violent.”

“I don't think I know the difference,” he said.

“That's okay,” she said, “I do.”

She pushed him down onto his back and straddled him. She smiled down at him while she tucked his hard cock inside of her. He groaned as her heat closed in on him. She began to ride him slowly, her slim body undulating rhythmically. He moved his hands over her, and finally came to rest on her lower back, just above her buttocks. As she began to move faster, though, she leaned forward so that his hands could slide right beneath and grab hold of her butt.

Abruptly, he flipped her over, managing to do it without sliding out of her. He was thinking he'd show her who was gentle. He got up onto his knees, grabbed her slender ankles and spread her legs wide. He fucked her hard, then, the bed actually bouncing on the floor, the sound of their slapping flesh filling the air. At one point she began to jerk her hips up toward him with each stroke so they came together even harder. It was as if they were each trying to prove how gentle they were
not
.

Clint decided it was time to leave Labyrinth and hit the trail again.

“The day's gonna come, my friend,” Rick Hartman said, “when getting back in the saddle is not gonna sound so appealing to you.”

“Either that, or somebody will shoot me out of it for good,” Clint said.

They were in Rick's Place the next morning, Clint sharing Rick's regular breakfast with him. Rick's had a full kitchen, and while they didn't offer food to their patrons—except for some hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches, which they put on the bar—Rick always had a full breakfast prepared for him each morning. Sometimes, when Clint was in town, he had breakfast with his friend.

“Well, I'd prefer my idea, if you don't mind,” Hartman said. “And when that day comes, what are you gonna do?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “To tell you the truth, I haven't thought about it much.”

Which wasn't exactly true. Clint actually
did
expect to be shot out of his saddle, or outdrawn on the street some day. He never thought he'd be settling down to a sedate old age.

“You're such a liar,” Hartman said.

“What can I tell you?” Clint asked. “I really haven't thought about what I'd do if I settled down here—or if I'd even settle here if and when the day comes.”

“Where else would you go?” Hartman said. “This is your home when you're not in the saddle.”

“That much is true.”

“I kind of thought you might come in with me when you settled down.”

“Why would you want a partner?' Clint asked. “You're doing great on your own.”

“You never know what it would mean to have the Gunsmith as your partner.”

“Now who's the liar?” Clint asked. “Reputations mean nothing to you.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if you know me so well, what
does
mean something to me?”

“Friendship.”

“Friendship?”

“And money.”

“Well, yeah . . . but I was thinkin' about branching out, and you'd be good at that.”

“Ah, now I get it.”

Rick Hartman rarely, if ever, left Labyrinth. In fact, he was starting to live like a hermit, only instead of a cave or a cabin, the whole town was his hole.

“You want me to be your advance man,” Clint said. “Go out and find some new locations, buy them up—”

“Well, you'd be a partner,” Hartman said.

“Fifty percent?”

“Well,” Hartman said, “seein' as how I'd be the money guy—”

“Who never leaves town.”

“Look,” Hartman said, “we can discuss the percentage break later—”

“A lot later,” Clint said. “I'm not ready to put Eclipse out to pasture—or myself. Not yet, anyway.”

“I'm just puttin' it out there,” Hartman said. “Give it some thought.”

“I'll do that, Rick,” Clint said. “I'll give it some thought while I'm on the trail.”

“When are you leavin'?”

“In the morning.”

“What about the songbird with the big . . . lungs?” Rick asked.

“She left on the stage yesterday,” Clint said. “Moving on to her next show.”

“You know,” Hartman said, “you need to settle down with a good woman.”

“Look who's talking,” Clint said.

“What woman would want this kind of life?” Hartman asked, spreading his hands. “She'd only try to change me.”

“Exactly how I feel.”

“So we're both too old to settle down with a woman and have babies?”

“And how,” Clint said. He stood up. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Where are you off to?”

“To get outfitted so I can head out first thing,” Clint said.

“Outfitted,” Hartman said. “To you, that means a burlap sack. I've never known a man who travels as light as you do.”

“I don't like to be weighed down,” Clint said. “By anything.”

As Clint left the saloon, Rick Hartman was thinking that he felt exactly the same way.

Tarver looked up as two men entered the saloon. Dexter and Gerald were standing at the bar. They had left Arizona before they started recruiting men, so Tarver was now sitting in a saloon in a small, no-name town in New Mexico. The word had gone out that Jed Tarver was out of jail and looking for men. Not as many men responded as Tarver had hoped, and the “good boys” Dexter had talked about had not appeared, yet.

Tarver has been out of Yuma for a few weeks now, but he still woke up at night feeling hemmed in. He never told anyone how panicked he got some nights in the confines of his cell. He'd never liked confined spaces going in, and even less now. He enjoyed sleeping in real beds in hotels now, but he did so with the windows wide open.

The two men approached and Tarver indicated they should sit down.

He got their names first, then a list of who they had ridden with. These two wouldn't do. They had not ridden with anyone of note.

After he dispatched the two men, Dexter came walking over and sat down.

“That's the last for today,” he said. “My boys are comin' in tomorrow.”

“Let's hope they're as good as you say they are,” Tarver said.

“You're askin' a lot, Jed,” Dexter said.

“I want them to be experienced, and to be good with a gun.”

“You want boys who have taken off trains, stages, banks . . . this ain't the old days.”

“Then I'll take older men,” Tarver said. “Forty to fifty ain't bad.”

Tarver was still in his late thirties, but Dexter had passed forty while his partner had been in jail.

“Well, the boys I got comin' in are in their thirties,” Dexter said. “They rode with Hal Jordan while you was inside.”

“What happened to Jordan?”

“He's dead,” Dexter said. “Shot out of the saddle tryin' to rob a bank in Kansas. These boys have been lookin' for a gang to join.”

“I'm gonna go get a steak,” Tarver said, standing up. “Your boys getting in early tomorrow?”

“Should be.”

“I'll be back here in the mornin', then,” Tarver said. “You wanna get a steak?”

“Gotta finish my beer,” Dexter said, “then I thought I'd get me some Mexican food.”

Tarver made a face.

“I didn't miss Mex food while I was inside,” he said. “See ya later. I'll come in and have a beer with you.”

“Okay,” Dexter said. “See ya.”