Sheriff Rameriz Santos had already crashed to the floor of the cantina, the thrown knife buried in his flabby chest almost to the hilt. Clint glanced down at the trembling lump of dead blubber as he holstered the revolver.
“Looks like you folks will have to get a new sheriff,” he remarked. “Try to pick a better one this time. That shouldn’t be hard to do.”
The joyful strumming of guitar strings suggested at least one citizen of Arco Iris fully agreed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“So you’re the Gunsmith,” Sheriff Wade Ebbson remarked, gazing up at the tall, rather scruffy-looking stranger who’d just entered his office and introduced himself as Clint Adams.
“That’s what some folks call me,” Clint admitted.
After leaving Arco Iris, the Gunsmith had returned to the Colorado River and crossed the ford where the wagon tracks had. Locating the trail again on the opposite side of the river, he’d continued to follow the tracks into the state of California. Almost two days later, the trail led him to the town of Mortonville.
Once again, he’d headed for the sheriff’s office to let the local lawman know he was in town. Sheriff Ebbson seemed to be a far better lawman than the late Ramirez Santos. Short and stocky, Ebbson looked tough enough to handle most trouble without using the .44 Colt he wore in a cross-draw holster on his belt. But he didn’t seem to be an arrogant lawman, nor was he impressed by the Gunsmith’s reputation—atthough he did seem a bit suspicious.
“What can I do for you, mister?” Ebbson inquired, obviously not convinced that his visitor was who he claimed to be.
“First of all you can call me Clint,” the Gunsmith answered. Then he explained why he was in Mortonville, editing out all information that wasn’t necessary to tell his tale.
“That’s why you’re carrying that scattergun, huh?” Ebbson frowned.
“Until I get my Colt back,” Clint nodded.
“Lloyd’s not wanted in this state,” the sheriff began.
“I don’t rightly think I can arrest him for having gold he stole from the Mexican treasury anyway.”
“Then he’s here?” Clint asked.
The lawman shrugged. “A feller fitting his description rode into town in a wagon and he had a mighty pretty gal with him. They rode in yesterday afternoon. I don’t know their names for sure, but this feller did head outside of town this morning and did some target practice with a pistol. He was close enough for us to hear him firin’ his gun. The shots were fired mighty fast.”
“Double action,” Clint stated.
“Could be,” Ebbson allowed. “Rumor I heard was they plan to catch a stagecoach tomorrow and head to San Francisco.”
“Are they staying at the hotel?” Clint inquired, certain a town the size of Mortonville wouldn’t have more than one.
“I’ve listened to your story, Clint,” the sheriff began. “And I can see why you’d have a score to settle with this Lloyd feller—if that’s who the man is. That still don’t give you a right to blast him with that sawed-off in cold blood. Way I heard it, the Gunsmith would no more murder a feller that way than I would.”
“You heard right,” Clint assured him. “I plan to give Lloyd a chance to hand over what doesn’t belong to him. If he refuses, I’ll have to meet him in the street.”
“He’s been practicing with that fancy pistol,” Ebbson said. “From what you’ve told me, he’s already learned to handle it well enough to kill two men quick as a rattler. I don’t see how you could have gotten enough time to practice with your revolver like he has and that gunbelt you’re wearin’ isn’t a quick-draw rig.”
“I’ll try to avoid any shooting, Sheriff,” Clint told him. “But you’d better clear the streets in case Lloyd doesn’t feel the same way.”
“He’ll face you, Clint,” the lawman frowned. “You know that.”
“His decision,” Clint declared.
“Yeah,” Ebbson sighed. “And your funeral.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sheriff Ebbson and his deputy concentrated on urging people to keep off the streets while the Gunsmith stood across from the hotel and waited. Funny things float through a man’s mind when he knows he might soon be dead. Clint remembered friends and family members. The love his parents had given him as a child, the kindly advice of Bill Hickok and the day he first set eyes on Duke when the horse was just a colt—all came back to him vividly.
Your life may be over in the next few minutes, a voice seemed to tell him. Here’s what you’ve done with your life so far. Could you have done better? Probably. Any regrets? Naturally, but probably less than most men. Clint had always lived by his principles so his conscience was clear. Will you do more with your life if you get a chance after today?
Hopefully.
Are you ready to die? That one was easy for Clint—yes. He had long ago accepted the fact that one day he’d die by a bullet. It was probably a better way than rotting away from old age. Clint had no fear of death itself, but he wasn’t terribly eager for it to happen either.
Then he saw Sheriff Ebbson standing at one end of town and the deputy at the other. The lawmen nodded at Clint, signaling that the streets would be clear of innocent bystanders as long as necessary. Clint nodded in return. He almost reached for his pocket watch, but then remembered it was broken. Judging from the position of the sun, Clint guessed it was about two o’clock in the afternoon. Did it really matter when a man dies?
“Not as much as how he dies,” Clint whispered as he walked across the street toward the hotel.
“Lloyd!” he shouted when he reached the middle of the street.
There was no answer, but Clint saw a curtain move at a second-story window.
“You’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you, Lloyd,” Clint called up to the window.
“Linda stays with me!” Stansfield Lloyd’s gruff voice shouted from somewhere in the hotel.
“You’re welcome to her,” Clint assured him. “But you have a gun that belongs to me and something else that belongs to the Mexican government.” Clint didn’t mention that the property had been taken from the treasury. If he survived his encounter with Lloyd, he didn’t want to have every greedy two-bit hootowl in the county tagging after him when he left Mortonville.
“What I have is mine, Adams!” Lloyd snarled. His wedge-shaped face appeared at the window. “I ain’t givin’ you nothin’!”
“Think it over, Lloyd,” Clint urged. “You don’t deserve another chance, but I’ll give you one. Give back what you took and I’ll ride on.”
Lloyd laughed in reply. “You calling me out, Adams?”
“I’m giving you a choice,” Clint replied simply.
Silence followed—an unnatural silence as if the entire town was holding its breath. Clint saw the curtain move again and Linda’s face appeared in the window. She looked down at Clint and shook her head sadly.
An eternity of sixty seconds passed. Then Stansfield Lloyd emerged from the front door of the hotel. Dressed in black leather with his matching low-crowned hat, the sharp-faced pistolman looked like the Grim Reaper in Western garb. On the other hand, Clint was covered with trail dust and still wore his battered straw sombrero. He resembled a weary saddlebum.
Lloyd approached cautiously, his hand dangling close to the gun on his hip—the double-action Colt revolver Clint had modified years ago. The pistolman didn’t wear Clint’s gunbelt, of course. Lloyd was left-handed. However, the holster had been altered to fit the Colt and tied down low on Lloyd’s thigh.
“Where’d you get that cannon, Adams?” Lloyd asked, referring to the sawed-off Stevens in the crude holster on the Gunsmith’s belt. “If you plan on using that thing, you should have gotten it out of leather already. I bet I can empty all six rounds into you before you can draw something that heavy and clumsy.”
“You probably can,” Clint shrugged. “But there’s been a lot of killing lately. I’ve lost count of the dead bodies I’ve seen in the last two weeks. There doesn
’t have to be any more.”
Lloyd smiled thinly. “You must have landed on your head when we threw you off that train, Adams. You look like you’re ready to ride shotgun on a Concord, but you ain’t gonna take me in a gunfight. Not the way you’re armed now....”
“I’ve said my piece,” Clint stated. “Guess there’s nothing left to talk about.”
Lloyd nodded and stepped off the plankwalk.
The pistolman strode into the middle of the street, his hard eyes locked on the Gunsmith. No one uttered a word or made a sound, yet they felt dozens of eyes follow their every move as the citizens of Mortonville watched from windows and doorways of the buildings that surrounded the two men.
Lloyd assumed the classic position, legs shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, hand poised at the butt of the holstered Colt. His mouth pulled into an arrogant sneer as he looked at the Gunsmith’s weaponry. Jesus, he thought with astonishment. Adams is nuts to arm himself with a cowboy’s .45 in a holster worn too high on his hip and a big, heavy sawed-off shotgun.
However, Lloyd thought he had Clint’s strategy figured out. The Gunsmith was wearing the shotgun to try to worry Lloyd. He probably planned to pretend to reach for the sawed-off and then make a fast grab for the revolver instead. Hell, a trick like that might work against a slow amateur, but it was a fool’s tactic against Stansfield Lloyd. As soon as Clint made his move, Lloyd would...
Then he saw Clint move into a sideways stance. The Gunsmith’s left side faced Lloyd, his arm held away from his body, clear of the double-muzzle of the sawed-off shotgun which protruded from the open end of the crude holster on Clint’s belt. The Gunsmith’s right hand slowly moved toward the pistol grip of the cut down Stevens.
Suddenly, Lloyd saw what Clint planned to do. His eyes widened with fear and his hand streaked for the Colt on his hip.
Clint’s thumb cocked one of the Stevens’s hammers as his hand fisted around the grip, finger finding the trigger guard. He squeezed the trigger and the shotgun bellowed. Clint felt the recoil jerk the belt at his belly. He hadn’t drawn the weapon. There had been no need to. It had already been pointed at Lloyd and the buckshot pattern did the rest. All Clint had to do was cock the hammer and fire.
The blast had chopped Stansfield Lloyd’s chest into a ragged, raw chunk of meat covered with shredded cloth. His corpse had been thrown seven feet by the impact of the lead pellets and he lay sprawled on his back. The modified double-action Colt had never cleared the holster.
Clint walked to the still form, ignoring the mumbled sounds of the townsfolk as they emerged from the buildings to stare at the aftermath of the gunfight. The Gunsmith knelt by the corpse and retrieved his Colt and shoved it into his belt. Then he turned and walked away from the ragged, bloodied heap that had once been Stansfield Lloyd.
Chapter Forty
“Clint!” Linda cried as she followed the Gunsmith.
“I hear you, Linda,” he assured her as he tied Duke’s reins to the rear of the same buckboard Lloyd and the girl had used to ride into Mortonville.
“You’ve got to understand,” she reached for his arm. “Stan made me do it....”
“Uh-huh.” Clint pulled his arm away. “Well, nobody will make you do anything now. You’ve lost Manning. You lost Lloyd. Now you’re on your own, lady.”
“What?” Linda’s tone was desperate. “What the hell am I supposed to do in this crummy little town?”
“That’s not my problem,” he replied.
“Take me with you,” she pleaded.
“Like hell,” Clint muttered as he watched Sheriff Ebbson and his deputy carry the heavy steamer trunk out of the hotel.
“What are you doing with that?” Linda demanded. “That’s mine!”
“The gold bars inside have Nacional Tesorería de Mejico stamped on them, ma’am,” Ebbson told her. “Maybe you should go along with Clint to Mexico City and explain to the treasury how you’ve got a right to their gold.”
“Mexico City?” She stared at Clint with disbelief. “You mean you’re taking it back to those goddamn greasers?”
“It belongs to the Mexican government,” Clint replied. “I’m going to take this over to Yuma, load it on my wagon and haul it south of the border to its rightful owner.”
Linda looked as though an invisible hand had slapped her. “For crissake! You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“That’s a fact,” he smiled.
Ebbson and the deputy put the chest on the back of the wagon and Clint climbed into the driver’s seat, taking the reins to the team.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Clint,” Ebbson grinned. “Can’t say I’m all that sorry to see you go, but you sure gave this town something to talk about.”
“Don’t be a fool, Clint!” Linda urged. “You can have a million in gold and me!”
“Who wants you?” the Gunsmith replied with a shrug. “And what the hell would I do with a million in gold?”
GREAT BOOKS
E-BOOKS
AUDIOBOOKS
& MORE
Visit us today
www.speakingvolumes.us
Bandit Gold Page 16
