The Hunt for Clint Adams (7 page)

The big man looked up at Clint and asked, “I ain't been kilt?”

“No, you're not dead,” Clint said. “The doctor dug a bullet out of your back. You were hit once but it's not going to be fatal.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody took some shots at us,” Clint said.

“At me or at you?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Maybe both of us.”

“You talk to the law?”

“A short conversation,” Clint said. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, first. I'm going to go and talk to him again.”

“I 'ppreciate it, Clint.”

“The doctor should be in to see you again later,” Clint said.

The big man nodded, and before Clint got out the door his eyes closed and he was asleep.

Clint stopped in the sheriff's office to see Sheriff Floyd Mason.

“I went up on the rooftops across the street,” the sheriff said. “I figure there was at least one man up there with a rifle. Found a spent shell that looks too new to have been up there a while.”

“I think there was somebody on the ground with a pistol, too,” Clint said.

“Two shooters, one for each of you?” the lawman wondered. “Or were they both after you?”

Clint shook his head. The sheriff was in his forties, an experienced man who had reacted rather quickly when he heard the shots.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “None of the men we were playing poker with strike me as the type who would try this. And I only just met Mulligan, so I don't know what enemies he has, if any.”

“On the other hand,” the sheriff said, “you are the Gunsmith.”

“I know,” Clint said. “Have you found anyone who saw anything?”

“No,” the sheriff said. “It's early; the stores on that part of the street were not open yet. I've got no witnesses.”

“Too bad.”

“How long you intend to stay in town?”

“My plan was to leave today, but the game went so long I've decided to ride out tomorrow,” Clint explained, “unless you want me to go today?”

“No, no,” the sheriff said, “stick with your original plan. I'm not gonna run you out of town just because somebody took a shot at you.”

“I appreciate that, Sheriff,” Clint said. “A lot of other lawmen wouldn't see it that way.”

“This ain't my first rodeo, Adams,” the sheriff said. “But do me one favor.”

“What's that?”

“Just watch your back the rest of the day.”

Bobby Davis and Tom Melvin stopped when they'd put a few miles between them and Colorado Springs.

“I don't get it,” Bobby said. “We coulda killed the Gunsmith easy.”

“That ain't what the job was,” Tom said.

“None of this is what we thought the job was gonna be,” Bobby complained. “Dex said we'd be robbing banks and makin' money.”

“But Dex ain't the boss, is he?”

“He would be, if he killed Tarver,” Bobby said.

“Look, Bobby,” Tom said, “if you and me had any brains we'd have a gang of our own, wouldn't we? But we don't, do we?”

“Speak for yerself,” Bobby said. “I got brains.”

“Really? We been ridin' together for five years and I ain't seen hide nor hair of your brains.”

“How about that time—” Bobby stopped himself.

“See?” Tom said. “Even you ain't seen 'em. Come on, we gotta get ahead of the Gunsmith, so we can see where he's goin' next.”

“Does Tarver really think this is gonna put a scare into a man like the Gunsmith?” Bobby wondered. “Damn, he's gotta be gettin' shot at all the time.”

“I don't know what Tarver thinks, and I don't wanna know,” Tom said. “Let's just ride.”

When Dexter decided to bring Bobby and Tom into the gang he had a definite use for them in mind. But now, nothing had gone the way he'd planned. He was starting to think that Tarver had sent them out so that the Gunsmith could kill them. And he had already recruited two men to replace them—men that he had found himself, so there was no way they were going to go along with Dexter's plan.

On the other hand, they had already robbed two banks in New Mexico and had lined their pockets with money. Now they were riding through Colorado, on the lookout for their next job.

The last telegram Tarver had gotten from Bobby and Tom said that the Gunsmith was in Colorado Springs. That's where they were headed, but Tarver figured Adams would be gone by the time they arrived. And there would probably be a telegram waiting there for Tarver. Bobby and Tom were supposed to be finding Adams—which they did—and then tracking him to make sure Tarver always knew where he was. And Tarver wanted them to keep peppering Adams with shots to keep him nervous.

“And if he's with somebody,” Tarver had told them, “that's who you kill. Got it?”

Bobby and Tom nodded, but they didn't get it any more than Dexter did. A man like Clint Adams was not going to scare easy.

Dexter looked ahead at Tarver's back, as the man rode ahead of him and Gerald and the other two, Gary Stevens and Del McDermott. How easy would it be to put a bullet in Tarver's back? But then the man would never know why he was dying, and that was part of Dexter's plan.

He looked behind him at Gerald riding with Stevens and McDermott. The three of them were getting along fine, which was okay with Dexter. Maybe he could use Gerald to get the other two over to his side.

When he killed Tarver, the man would know it was because of the forty thousand dollars from that bank heist five years ago. Dexter knew that Tarver was going to keep the money for himself, and it was only getting caught by Adams that kept him from doing it. If Tarver had not insisted on carrying all the money himself, Dexter would have gotten away with at least twenty thousand.

He had to give Tarver credit, though. He'd picked two good banks this past week, and had come up with flawless plans to rob them. Dexter hadn't had this much money in his pockets since before Tarver went to Yuma.

But that didn't change anything. He was still going to carry out his plan against Tarver—as soon as Tarver carried out his plan against Clint Adams.

Tarver could feel Dexter's eyes burning into his back. Dex had changed over the past five years, but perhaps not as much as Tarver himself.

Tarver and Dexter had been closed friends and partners for years, but Tarver had been tempted by that forty thousand dollars five years ago, and he had a feeling Dexter knew it. While he was planning his revenge against Clint Adams, he knew he had to keep an eye on Bart Dexter. In fact, what he had learned in Yuma was that he had to keep an eye on anybody he allied himself with, because when it came right down to it, everybody was always out for themselves.

When Clint woke the next morning, he found himself thinking about Jed Tarver. It had been a few weeks since Tarver got out of Yuma. Could that have been Tarver shooting at him the day before? Or someone hired by Tarver?

From what he knew of the man, he thought Tarver would want to do his own killing. Could he have tracked Clint down in a few weeks since he'd walked out the doors at Yuma?

Clint decided to have breakfast and then see Black Jack Mulligan before he left town. He paid special attention to the rooftops as he walked. He had stayed away from the poker tables last night. He didn't want to get involved in another all-night game, and the only interesting player—Mulligan—was flat on his back in his hotel room.

He had breakfast in a small café on a side street, at a table against the back wall, where he would not offer a target to anyone from outside.

He was in the middle of breakfast when Sheriff Floyd Mason walked in.

“They told me at the hotel I might find you here,” the lawman said.

“Have a seat, Sheriff, and some coffee.”

“Don't mind if I do.”

Mason sat down and removed his hat. Clint poured him a cup of coffee and then continued to eat his breakfast of steak and eggs.

“Something on your mind, Sheriff?” Clint asked.

“Just wanted to let you know I did manage to come up with a witness—sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“Well, my witness didn't actually see the shooting, but he saw two men ride into town early yesterday morning.”

“Who's the witness?”

“Fella who runs the livery,” the sheriff said. “You saw him when you rode in.”

“Big heavyset fellow, right?”

“You're being kind,” Mason said. “Bud is downright fat, but he's got good eyesight.”

“Did they put their horses up at the livery?”

“That's just it,” the sheriff said. “They tied them to a fence behind the hardware store.”

“It was the roof of the hardware store where you found the shell casing, right?”

“That's right.”

They figured the shot that was fired into Mulligan's back had been fired from the roof with a rifle. The other shots, they believed, had come from a man on the ground, using a handgun.

“He see anything else?”

“He saw them riding out moments after the shooting.”

“Seems like pretty strong circumstantial evidence, doesn't it?”

“Seems like,” Mason said. “Of course, it's not strong enough for me to get a posse together.”

“Strong enough for me to try to track them, though,” Clint said. “I'll start behind the hardware store and see how far I get.”

“Bud can show you where the horses were tied,” Mason said.

“I appreciate the information, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I'll be leaving once I check in on Mulligan.”

“I wish you luck then,” the lawman said. He finished his coffee and stood up.

“If I leave you some money will you pay the doctor for me for Mulligan's care?”

“Why would you do that?” Mason asked.

“I get the feeling he got shot just because he was walking with me.”

“Well then, sure, I'll take care of that.”

Clint took out some money and handed it over.

“This is too much for the doctor,” the sheriff said.

“Use what's left to pay for his hotel,” Clint said. “I get the feeling he's going to be there for a while.”

“Okay,” Sheriff Mason said, pocketing the money. “Good luck to you.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

The lawman left and Clint went on to finish his breakfast.

Clint entered Mulligan's room quietly but the big man said from the bed, “I'm awake, stop pussyfootin' around.”

“ Mornin', Black Jack,” Clint said.

“Adams? That you?”

“It's me.”

Clint approached the bed so the big man could see him. “How you doin'?” Mulligan asked.

“I'm fine. How are you feelin'?”

“Black Jack Mulligan's not feelin' so good, but better than last night.”

“Yeah, well, the doctor should be in here soon to check on you.”

“You leavin' town?”

“Soon as I leave here,” Clint said.

“Headin' where?”

“Might have a trail left by two men who shot at us,” Clint said. “I'm going to see if I can follow it.”

“Don't do that on Black Jack Mulligan's account,” Mulligan said. “Just get back to whatever you was doin'.”

“Well, Black Jack, they shot at both of us,” Clint said, “so it's not only for you that I'm going to try to track them.”

“Well, in that case,” Mulligan said, “good luck, and when you find 'em give 'em somethin' from Black Jack Mulligan, you hear?”

“Don't worry, big man,” Clint said.

“Hey, I had the doc put somethin' on that table for you.”

Clint looked at the end table next to the bed and saw a half of an ace of hearts.

“What's that?”

“That's my invitation into that game I was tellin' you about in Denver,” Mulligan said. “Black Jack Mulligan wants you to have it.”

“I can't take that,” Clint said.

“Well, Black Jack Mulligan can't use it, and there's an open seat at that table,” Mulligan said. “Be obliged if you filled it in Black Jack Mulligan's stead.”

“Well . . . okay,” Clint said, picking up the card. “I'll take it.”

“And you give 'em what-for fer Black Jack Mulligan, okay?”

“I'll do it, Black Jack.”

He was going to tell the big man that he'd left enough money with the sheriff to take care of his doctor and hotel bills, but he decided to keep it to himself. Mulligan would find out about it soon enough.

“You take care, Black Jack,” Clint said. “If you got shot just for walking next to me, I'm sorry.”

“Hey,” Mulligan said, “it was Black Jack Mulligan's honor to play cards with you, and to walk with you. No apology necessary.”

The big man lifted his huge right hand and Clint shook it.

“I'll see you again, big man.”

“Count on it,” Mulligan said.

Clint walked over to the livery, where he found the liveryman, Bud, all four hundred pounds of him, practically lifting a horse's hind end off the ground.

“Be right with you,” the man said.

Clint waited 'til the man was finished with what he was doing and set the horse down. Bud obviously knew his job, and had impressive strength.

He took a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands, then put his right hand out to Clint, who shook it. The power in the man's had was enormous. The sheriff was wrong. Bud was a lot more than just fat; there was a lot of muscle under there.