The Gunsmith 385

by J. R. Roberts

  “Just stay nice and relaxed, Hartman,” Barry said.

  “I know you,” Rick said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, I don’t forget faces,” Rick said. “You were in here a week or so ago, more than once. And as I recall, you drank, but didn’t gamble.”

  “You’re right,” Barry said. “You do have a pretty good memory.”

  “What’s this all about?” Rick asked. “We overcharge you for a beer?”

  “No, your prices are just fine,” Barry said. “In fact, I think they’re so good that you probably have a nice amount of cash lying around somewhere.”

  “You’re right, I do,” Rick said. “it’s called . . . a bank.”

  “Nah, nah,” Barry said, waving the comment off with the barrel of his gun. “What I heard when I was here is that you don’t like banks. Don’t trust ’em. I don’t blame you. I don’t trust ’em either. I like ’em, but I don’t trust ’em.”

  “Well,” Rick said, “I guess you heard wrong.”

  “We’ll see,” Barry said. “Hey, bartender, I see you tryin’ to sneak behind that bar. You make it and you’re dead.”

  Henry, the bartender, stopped.

  Barry turned and looked at his men.

  “One of you go back there and see what our friend is so anxious to get his hands on.”

  Cam Davis went behind the bar and reached underneath.

  “Well, lookee here,” he said, holding a shotgun up. “A Greener. Mean-lookin’ thing. This woulda cut you in half, Tom.”

  Barry gave the man a dirty look. They all had instructions not to mention any names while inside.

  “Keep your eye on the bartender,” Barry said. He looked at Hastings. “Watch the door.” The other man, Zeke Kane, just leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

  “Okay,” Barry said, looking at Rick, “let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  Barry shrugged.

  “Wherever the money is.”

  “I told you,” Rick said. “It’s in the bank.”

  Barry turned to Cam Davis and nodded. Davis moved over and rammed the butt of the shogun into Henry’s gut. The bartender doubled over, coughing and clutching his stomach.

  “That’s not gonna get my money out of the bank for you,” Rick said.

  Barry looked up at the ceiling.

  “Anybody else in the building?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Rick said, “just me and Henry.”

  “What about your girls?”

  “They don’t have rooms upstairs,” Rick said. “It’s not that kind of place.”

  “Your dealers?”

  “Same thing,” Rick said. “They live elsewhere.”

  “Okay, then,” Barry said, “let’s go to your office and have a look.”

  “You’re wastin’ your time,” Rick said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Barry said. To his men he said, “Stay here, watch the bartender and the bar.”

  “Right . . . boss.”

  He waved with his gun barrel again and said, “Let’s go, Hartman.”

  EIGHT

  Rick led the way to his office door, opened it, and went in.

  “Slow,” Barry said.

  Rick slowed down, stopped.

  “Where’s the money?” Barry knew Hartman would stick to his story, but he was hoping a glance would give the location away. No luck. Rick Hartman just stared straight ahead.

  “Just stand still.”

  Barry walked to Rick’s desk, opened the drawers, found the gun in the top-right-hand one. He took it out and tucked it into his belt, then opened the others. No money.

  “Come over here and sit behind your desk.”

  Rick obeyed, and Barry moved away so the man wouldn’t make a grab for his gun.

  “Just sit still while I have a look around.”

  “Look all you want,” Rick said.

  Barry proceeded to search, knocking books off shelves in search of a safe. When he got to the file cabinet, he found the drawers locked.

  “Key.”

  This was the first time Rick showed any emotion. He pressed his lips together as he reached into his vest pocket and came out with a key.

  “Just put it there on the edge of the desk.”

  Rick reached out, put the key down.

  “Now sit back.”

  He obeyed.

  Barry came forward, grabbed the key, and walked to the file cabinet. Holding his gun in his left hand, he put the key in the lock with his right and turned it. Once the drawers were unlocked, he put the key on top of the cabinet and then started opening them. When he opened the bottom drawer, he saw a cash box.

  “Well—” he said, straightening, but in that moment he saw Rick Hartman spring at him and he fired . . .

  Out in the saloon they heard the shot and the bartender started to run for the office door.

  “Hey, hold it!” Davis yelled.

  Kane didn’t wait, though. He pushed off the wall, drew his gun, and fired at the bartender’s back.

  * * *

  Tom Barry came out of the office, carrying a fistful of cash.

  “What happened?” Hastings asked.

  “We gotta go,” Barry said. “He came at me and I hadda stop him.” He stopped short when he saw the bartender. “What happened here?”

  “He started running toward the office,” Hastings said. “Kane stopped him.”

  “Is that all the cash there is?” Davis asked.

  “I stuffed some in my pockets,” Barry said. “Don’t know how much we got, but we got to get out of here. We can count it later.”

  They ran for the front door, opened it, and ran out. O’Brien was holding the reins of all the horses, who were skittish.

  “What happened?” he yelled.

  “We gotta go!” Barry said.

  They started to mount their horses.

  “Hey, hold it!” someone yelled.

  They turned and saw a man wearing a badge running toward them with his gun out.

  “Kill ’im!” Barry shouted.

  Hastings was still holding the Greener, so he turned it on the lawman and pulled both triggers.

  * * *

  Clint was only halfway through his steak and eggs when he heard what sounded like shots. He looked around, but none of the other diners seemed to notice. Even the waiter went about his business.

  Then somebody definitely let go with both barrels of a shotgun and everybody noticed.

  Clint jumped up from his seat and was out the door in seconds, but then he stopped.

  Where had the shots come from?

  “It’s over by the saloon,” someone yelled.

  “Which saloon?” Clint shouted.

  “Rick’s!”

  Clint started running, got to the front of the saloon in time to see five horsemen riding off. They rounded a corner and were gone before he could get off a shot.

  He looked around for a horse, but there wasn’t one. It was early, and there were no horses on the street.

  Just a man lying in the dirt.

  Clint ran over, saw that it was the local lawman. It took only a moment to determine that the man was dead, cut down by a shotgun. He looked at the saloon, saw the door sitting open.

  Jesus, he thought, Rick.

  He ran for the saloon.

  As he entered the saloon, he saw the bartender lying on the floor, bleeding from a wound in his back. He looked around, but didn’t see Rick. However, the door to Rick’s office was open, so he ran to it and entered. He found his friend on the floor, bleeding from a chest wound.

  Alive.

  He heard someone come to the door behind him.

  “Get the doctor!” he shouted. “Fast.”

  He looke
d around for something to use to stanch the flow of blood, finally just took off his own shirt and pressed it to the wound.

  He was still holding it there when the doctor arrived.

  NINE

  Clint was waiting in the outer room of the doctor’s office while the sawbones worked on Rick, who was still breathing when they got him there.

  “You saved his life by stopping the blood,” the doctor said. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “The sheriff and bartender are dead,” Clint said. “We need you to keep Rick alive so we can find out who did this.”

  “Plus,” the doctor said, “he’s your friend.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “there’s that.”

  He was still sitting there in the third hour when the door opened and several men walked in. He recognized the mayor, Seth Jackson. The others must have been members of the town council.

  Clint stood up.

  “How is he?” the mayor asked. In his forties, he was a young politician, newly elected just the year before.

  “The doctor is still working on him,” Clint said.

  “We took the bartender and the sheriff over to the undertaker’s,” Jackson said. “Do you know these gentlemen?”

  “No,” Clint said.

  “Harry Morgan, Dave Wilder, and George Mahill,” Jackson said. “Members of the town council.”

  “Gents. What can I do for you?”

  “Wear this,” Jackson said, holding out the sheriff’s star.

  “Whoa,” Clint said, “there’s no deputy?”

  “No.”

  “Then hire one,” Clint said. “Or better yet, hire a new sheriff.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do right now,” Jackson said.

  “Not me,” Clint said. “Isn’t there somebody else?”

  “Nobody with your qualifications,” Jackson said. “And certainly nobody with your vested interests.”

  “I know what my interests are,” Clint said. “What are yours?”

  “Somebody has to track these miscreants down.”

  “Why?” Clint asked. “Why are you so interested? It’s not like they robbed the bank.”

  “They robbed and shot one of this town’s most prominent citizens,” Jackson said. “Rick’s Place brings a lot of people to this town.”

  “While they’re here,” George Mahill said, “they spend money in other places, as well.”

  “Like George’s general store,” Harry Morgan said.

  “And your hardware store,” Mahill said to Morgan.

  “Plus the fact that Rick Hartman is also our friend,” Dave Wilder said.

  Clint didn’t know for sure if any of these men were friends with Rick, but certainly the rest of what they said was true.

  “Well,” Clint said, “I have to tell you all that as soon as I know Rick is out of danger, I do plan on tracking down the men who shot him.”

  “Good,” Jackson said.

  “But I’m not going to wear that,” Clint added, pointing to the badge.

  “Then don’t wear it,” Mayor Jackson said. “Put it in your pocket. At some point, it’s going to come in handy having official standing.”

  “What kind of official standing will I have after I ride out of the county?”

  “A badge is a badge,” Jackson said. He held it out to him again.

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said, taking it. “I’ll put it in my pocket.”

  “Very good.”

  A door opened, interrupting them. Dr. Evans stepped out, wiping his hands on a towel.

  “How is he?” Clint asked.

  “I’ve done all I can,” the doctor said. “I got the bullet out and repaired the damage. Now the rest is up to him.”

  “When will we know something?” Clint asked.

  “Maybe by morning.”

  The news did nothing to raise Clint’s spirits.

  “Hey,” the doctor said, “he’s alive. You’ve been here a long time. Get something to eat, get some rest. Hell, get a drink.”

  “Jesus,” Clint said, “what happens with the saloon now? Who’s in charge?” He looked at the mayor.

  “Maybe you and I should talk privately,” Jackson said. “Come with me to my office, I’ll give you a drink.”

  Clint looked at the doctor.

  “Go,” he said. “I’ll find you if there’s any news.”

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  He stepped outside with the mayor and the other members of the council.

  “You gents better get back to work,” Jackson said. “I have to talk to our new sheriff.”

  The men grumbled, but left.

  “I’m not really the new sheriff, you know,” Clint said.

  “However you want to look at this is fine with me,” the mayor said. “But the fact is, you’ve got the badge at the moment.”

  The tin felt heavy in his shirt pocket.

  “Come on,” Jackson said, “we need to talk.”

  TEN

  Tom Barry signaled his men to stop and reined in his horse about ten miles from town.

  “Anybody hit?” he asked.

  “I don’t think anybody in town got off a shot, boss,” Hastings said.

  “We’re good,” O’Brien said.

  “Okay, then let’s ride,” Barry said . . .

  * * *

  They did not stop to camp until dusk.

  O’Brien built the fire.

  Kane picketed the horses.

  Davis fetched some water.

  Hastings stood off to one side with Barry.

  “Think we got a posse on our trail?” Hastings asked.

  “Why would we?” Barry asked. “Ain’t like we robbed their bank.”

  “No,” Hastings said, “but we killed a bartender, and their sheriff.”

  “We’ll set up a watch, then,” Barry said. “Just in case.”

  Hastings asked the other question that had been on his mind.

  “How much money did we get?”

  “Not enough,” Barry said tightly.

  “We did get some, though, right?”

  “Yeah,” Barry said, “but not enough to make it worth the risk.”

  “How much?”

  Barry looked unhappy. He took the money from his pockets, and inside his shirt.

  “Those hundred-dollar bills?” Hastings asked with interest.

  “Some,” Barry said, “but like I said, not enough.”

  “But how much, Tom?” Hastings asked.

  “Okay,” Barry said, “this is between you and me. Don’t tell the others.”

  “I ain’t gonna tell them nothin’.”

  “There’s four thousand here.”

  “Four thous—” Hastings started, then lowered his voice. “Four thousand? That’s a lot of money.”

  “Split two ways it’s a lot of money,” Barry said. “Not split five ways.”

  “How you gonna keep it from them?” Hastings asked.

  “Well,” Barry said, “so far you’re the only one to ask, but I’ll figure somethin’ out. Meanwhile, just keep quiet. We’ll camp here and get movin’ at dawn, just in case there is a posse.”

  “Okay,” Hastings said. Davis was returning with the water, so they fell quiet at that point.

  * * *

  “He what?” Clint asked.

  As they entered the office, the mayor poured two whiskeys and invited Clint to sit. Then he gave him the news.

  “Rick has you listed as co-owner of Rick’s Place,” Jackson said. “So in his absence, you’re in charge.”

  “I can’t stay around here and run the saloon,” Clint said. “I have to track down the men who shot him.”

  “Then you’ll have to find someone else to run it while he’s laid up, and while you�
��re gone.”

  Clint sipped his whiskey.

  “Who would that be?”

  “Well, I would’ve said Henry the bartender, but he’s dead, so . . .”

  “I have to ride out tomorrow,” Clint said, “or they’ll have much too much of a head start. How am I going to find someone before then?”

  Jackson shrugged, then said, “You have another option, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I hesitate to say this, but you could close the place down.”

  Clint considered that for a moment.

  “I could do that,” he said then. “That’d be better than turning it over to someone who’d run it into the ground.”

  “Of course,” Jackson said, “closing it will put a lot of people out of work.”

  Clint frowned. Rick would never do that to his people.

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “You do that.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Clint asked. “How do you know Rick’s business? That I’m listed as an owner?”

  “I’m not only the mayor,” Jackson said, “I’m a lawyer—Rick’s lawyer.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Maybe you better follow the doctor’s suggestion,” Jackson said. “Get something to eat, and then get some rest.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “maybe I better.” He finished the whiskey and set the glass down on the edge of the desk. “Thanks for the drink, and the information.”

  “Sure,” Mayor Jackson said. “If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

  Clint nodded, and left the office.

  ELEVEN

  Clint had a quick meal in a small café, then walked over to Rick’s Place. The front door was unlocked. He walked in and saw that there were a few people at the bar, a few more seated. Behind the bar were two of the girls, one of whom was Delia.

  Clint approached the bar.

  “Clint,” she said, “this is Jennifer. Can you tell us what happened?”

  “Five men broke in this morning, shot and killed Henry, and shot Rick.”

  “Oh my God,” Jennifer said, her hands going to her mouth. “Is he dead?”

  “No, Rick is over at the doc’s,” he said. “Doc Evans got the bullet out, but he doesn’t know yet if Rick will make it.”

  “With Rick hurt and Henry dead, what do we do?” Delia asked.