Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
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Uninvited Guests
As the door slammed open, Clint reacted instantly from reflex. He lifted the girl off him and dropped her on the other side of the bed, so she’d be protected. Then he grabbed his gun from the holster on the bedpost. By the time the two men burst into the room, he had his gun trained on the door.
As Joe and Johnny Crespo rushed into the room, they saw that their idea had not been such a good one, after all. But they had their guns in their hands, and there was only one way to react. They pulled their triggers.
The brothers’ shots, fired in haste, sprayed the room. Clint calmly fired back, striking each brother in the chest, precisely in the heart. They both fell to the floor, dead.
The girl—Amy or Delores, whichever name she wanted to use—stuck her head up from behind the bed and said, “Is it over?”
DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
LONGARM by Tabor Evans
The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.
SLOCUM by Jake Logan
Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan
An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.
DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer
Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .
WILDGUN by Jack Hanson
The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!
TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun
J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
THE LETTER OF THE LAW
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / January 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
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ISBN : 978-1-101-55365-7
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ONE
As Clint rode into the town of Adobe Walls, in Hutchison County, Texas, his mind went back to the original settlement some miles away, the site of the Second Battle of Adobe Walls, where he and a band of 28 settlers held off 700 Indians for 3 days until Billy Dixon—longtime buffalo hunter and scout—completely demoralized the enemy by borrowing a Sharps Big .50 and shooting an Indian cleanly off his horse from a distance of almost a mile away. It became known as “The Shot of the Century.”
Since then, Billy Dixon had gone on to become an Army scout and eventually win the Congressional Medal of Honor for another famous battle known as the Buffalo Wallow Fight.
Clint had heard that Dixon, retired from the Army and—apparently—from carrying a gun, had taken a job in the town of Adobe Walls. Since he was nearby, he decided to stop in and see his friend and catch up.
Fully intending to stop in town for a few days, Clint rode directly to the livery stable and turned his horse, Eclipse, over to the liveryman, who—as always—was suitably impressed.
The few minutes in a new town were always spent the same way. Clint sometimes wished there was a way to skip all that—the livery, then carrying saddle and rifle to a nearby hotel to register and get a room. Most of the time the rooms were little more than satisfactory, unless he had been sleeping on the trail for an extended period of time. In that case, almost any bed was an improvement over the hard ground. And while he enjoyed trail food, he usually rode into town—any town—in search of a good steak.
He went through all the motions, and then stopped into the first saloon he saw for a good beer and some advice . . .
“What can I getcha?” the barkeep asked.
“A cold beer.”
“Comin’
up.”
The bartender, a young man with a spring in his step, set a brimming mug down in front of Clint without spilling a drop.
“New in town, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“My name’s Chris. Can I help you with anythin’ else? A woman maybe?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I can pretty much get you anythin’ you want in this town—”
“I’m just interested in seeing your postmaster.”
“The postmaster? We got one of them?”
“I believe you do,” Clint said.
The man frowned and scratched his head.
“What’s a postmaster do?”
“He runs the post office,” Clint said. When Chris still looked confused, he added, “He takes care of the mail.”
“Oh, the mail!” Chris said. “Is that what he’s called? Postmaster?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“So about the only thing you can help me with is finding the post office.”
The bartender looked confused again.
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll find it myself.”
“Well, if there’s anything else you want,” Chris said, “you just let me know.”
“I sure will,” Clint said, “seeing as how you’ve been so helpful this time.”
TWO
Clint left the saloon after one beer and went in search of the post office. He could have asked the hotel clerk, but he didn’t think of it at the time. In the end he simply stopped a likely-looking woman—someone who looked like she sent and received mail—and asked where the post office was.
“It’s three streets that way,” she said, pointing.
“Thank you.”
“Would you be lookin’ for some company later?”
He stared at her. He’d stopped her because she looked respectable. Now he looked harder. She was blond, in her thirties, with a knowing glint in her eye. A prostitute, and making an offer to him right on the street.
“Um, I don’t think so.”
“Well,” she said, “if you’re in town long enough and you decide you do, come and find me at Miss Lily’s. My name’s Peggy.”
“Peggy,” he said. “I’ll remember. Thanks for the directions.”
“Any time.”
She flounced off and he followed her directions to a small storefront that housed the U.S. Post Office. Next to the door was a wooden shingle that said, WILLIAM DIXON, POSTMASTER.
He went inside.
A mustached man was standing behind a wooden counter, sorting through mail and sliding it into the appropriate slots behind him. He was in shirtsleeves, held up by garters, and wearing a visor.
Clint waited a few minutes for him to turn around, but when he didn’t, he said, “Hey, Billy.”
“With you in a minute,” Dixon said over his shoulder—then he seemed to notice that someone had called him “Billy” and not “William.” He turned his head and looked over his shoulder this time.
“Clint?”
Clint smiled.
“Clint Adams?”
He put down the mail in his hands and turned around to face Clint.
“By God, it is you!” he exclaimed. He came out from behind the counter and rushed forward, grabbed Clint’s hand, and began pumping it.
“How you doing, Billy?”
“Great, great,” Dixon said. “How the hell are you?”
“Good.”
“It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, it has,” Clint said. “Never expected to find you working at the post office, though.”
“I’m not working at the post office,” Dixon said. “I’m running the post office.”
Clint looked Dixon up and down. Late thirties now, looked to be in good shape. No apparent injuries. And no gun.
“Running the post office?” Clint repeated. “But . . . why?”
“I got tired of making my way with a gun,” Dixon said. “I’ve got a ranch near here—actually, right on the site of Adobe Walls—and I’d been living here awhile when they offered me this job.”
“Who offered it to you?”
“The government.”
“So, how long . . .”
“I’ve only been postmaster for a few months. What are you doing here?”
“I was near here, so I rode out to your ranch to see you. Your foreman told me you were here, working as the postmaster. So I came to see for myself.”
Dixon stepped back and spread his arms.
“So what do you think?”
“I’m not used to seeing you without a gun,” Clint said. “And . . .”
“And what?”
“Well . . . you’re so clean.”
“That’s because I don’t spend that much time on the trail anymore. You, though . . .”
“What?”
“You could use a bath and a change of clothes. Just get here?”
Clint nodded. “Just had time to take care of my horse and get a room. Why don’t we go get something to eat?”
“I’m the postmaster,” Dixon said. “And I work here alone. I can’t just leave . . . but we can meet at five and then get something to eat.”
“That’s three hours.”
“Well, if you’re hungry, go and have something small,” Dixon said. “Meet me back here and I’ll take you for the best steak in town. Whataya say?”
“That sounds like a good deal,” Clint said. “Can you tell me where I can get a good slice of peach pie?”
THREE
Dixon had not steered Clint wrong.
He’d given him directions to a small café a couple of blocks away, where he got a piece of the best peach pie he’d had in a while. If only the coffee had been as good. It needed to be stronger, but it was okay to wash down the pie.
“Anythin’ else?” the waiter asked.
“Nope,” Clint said. “That was what I needed.”
He paid the waiter, who told him to come back when he was hungry again.
“I’ll do that,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
Clint left the café, still having better than two hours to kill before meeting with Dixon. He decided he might as well spend some of it finding out who the law in Adobe Walls was.
He found the sheriff’s office and went inside. It was typical of sheriffs’ and marshals’ offices in smaller towns in the West. Larger Western cities were setting up more modern police departments, but Adobe Walls still depended on a sheriff to keep the peace.
He heard the sound of a broom then saw a man come out of the cell block, wielding the broom and wearing the badge.
“Sheriff?”
The man’s head whipped up, and he looked surprised.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” he grunted.
“Sorry if I startled you.”
The man straightened up, leaned on the broom. He was a thick-bodied man in his forties. The star on his chest was showing wear—dents, and a bit pitted.
“Sheriff Garver. What can I do for you?” the sheriff asked.
“My name’s Clint Adams, just got into town a while ago,” Clint said. “I got a room in the Stetson Hotel.”
“Adams?”
“That’s right.”
The sheriff chewed his mustache for a moment.
“The Gunsmith?”
“Right again.”
“What brings you to town, Mr. Adams?”
“Friend of mine works here,” Clint said. “I came to visit him.”
“And who would that friend be?”
“Billy Dixon,” Clint said, then added, “your postmaster.”
“Dixon, huh?” the sheriff said.
“The hero of Adobe Walls.”
“If you say so.” The man didn’t say so with any kind of feeling.
“I don’t say so,” Clint said. “I was there.”
“That so?”
“That so.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Well, then, you oughtta know, ri
ght?”
“Right.”
He started working the broom again.
“You ain’t come to town to cause trouble, have ya?” the sheriff asked.
“I never come to town to cause trouble.”
“But it follows you.”
Clint shrugged. “If you say so,” he commented. “All I know is I came here to see Dixon.”
“Gonna stay long?”
“A few days maybe.”
“Well,” the lawman said, leaning on the broom again, “have a good time.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Clint walked to the door and went out without further word.
The lawman leaned on the broom until Clint was gone. When the door closed, he leaned the broom against the wall and went into the cell block. Only one cell was occupied. He unlocked the door and woke the occupant up.
“Come on, Lenny.” He shook the man.
“Hey—wha—that you, Sheriff?”
Lenny Wilson stared owlishly up at Garver.
“It’s me, Lenny. Come up, stand up.”
Wilson had been in the cell since the night before and still smelled like whiskey. He was relatively sober, though.
Garver got him to his feet and walked him into the office. He poured him a cup of coffee and sat him down with it.
“Drink it,” he said. “I want you to understand what I’m sayin’.”
“Okay, okay,” Wilson said. “I’m listenin’.”
“I want you to leave here and go find Al Wycliffe. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Wilson said. “Al.”
Wilson was about six-two and weighed about one-forty when he had a heavy beard stubble, which he had now.
“You know where to find him, right?”
“He could be in two or three places.”
“Well, you check them all, huh?”
“Sure, sure . . .” Wilson put the coffee down.
“How about a drink, Sheriff?”
Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) Page 1
