by JR Roberts
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“You serve with him?”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “I did. I was in Andersonville with him.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m loyal to him, too, Ray,” Clint said. “That’s why I want to stop him, and keep him alive.”
“Okay,” Donnen said. “Okay.”
Clint didn’t know if that meant Donnen believed him or not. He and Molly went out the door.
At the last second Molly started to ask Clint, “Shouldn’t we go out the back—” But she stopped short when somebody stuck the barrel of a gun in her ear.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Collins took them to a rooming house. Clint didn’t know what part of the city they were in. He was only interested in the gun that was pointed at Molly the whole time. He didn’t know if the driver of the carriage was in on it, or was just being paid to drive.
When they reached the rooming house, Collins said, “Get out.”
He had removed Clint’s gun from his holster and stuck it in his own belt. Molly’s Colt was stuck in the back of his belt.
When they were out of the carriage, it drove away. Collins did not exchange any words or cash with the driver.
“Inside,” Collins said.
“Your real name isn’t Collins, is it?” Clint asked.
“Like I told you back at the saloon, Adams,” Collins said. “No talking.”
“Right,” Clint said, “I forgot.”
He marched them up the stairs of a fairly new building that was being used as a rooming house.
“Inside,” Collins said.
The door was not locked, so Clint opened it. He let Molly go first, then followed. Collins kept a good distance between them so Clint had no chance to try to bat the gun away. He was smart.
In the living room, ex-Colonel Tate was sitting on a sofa with one leg crossed over the other. He was wearing a plain black suit.
“Colonel,” Clint said.
“By now you know I’m not a colonel anymore, Clint,” Tate said.
“Oh, right. I’ll just call you Fred, then. Or should we make it Mr. Tate?”
“I don’t care what you call me as long as you tell me what the hell you think you’re doing.”
“How’s that?”
Tate leaned forward, put both feet on the floor.
“You’re spending time looking for me when you should be looking for Atwater. Stopping Atwater. That was your assignment.”
Clint stared at the man, who seemed to be perfectly sincere. He turned his head and looked back at Collins. The gun was not in his hand anymore.
“Is this for real, Fred?” Clint asked. “You have Collins here bring us in at gunpoint to ask me that?”
“What’s on your mind, Clint?”
“Well, for one thing, why didn’t tell me you weren’t in the military anymore?”
“Would you have taken this job if I had?”
“Job? A job is something you get paid for. This was more like a favor—that is, when I thought you were acting on behalf of the government.”
“I never said that.”
“You never said otherwise either.”
Tate waved a hand.
“Semantics,” he said. “The facts are the facts. Atwater is planning to kill a United States senator because he thinks he’s Henry Wirz.”
“And who killed Larry Gates, Fred?” Clint asked. “Was it Poca Muerte here?”
“What?” Tate asked. “What did you call him?”
“Little Death,” Molly said.
“What the hell is that?” Tate asked.
“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know that Collins here is a paid killer called Poca Muerte,” Clint said.
“What the hell are you blithering on about, man?”
Clint studied Tate. He hadn’t seen him for years, and had only just become reacquainted. Still, he thought the man’s confusion was real. Could it be that he did not know that his man was a hired killer? Who did he think he was?
“Collins—” Clint said, turning toward the man. The turn saved his life, and Molly’s. He saw Collins’s gun coming up, didn’t know who his intended target was.
“Down!” he shouted. He tackled Molly and took her to the ground just as the shots rang out. As they hit the ground, he rolled until they were behind some furniture, but he didn’t know if the armchairs were well stuffed enough to stop a bullet.
He waited for more shots, but they didn’t come. How many had there been? Two? One?
“What happened?” Molly asked.
“Stay down.”
He disentangled himself from her and got to his feet slowly. He looked around. Collins was gone. He walked over to Tate. He was still seated on the sofa, but there was a neat hole in his forehead.
“What happened?” Molly asked again.
“Tate’s dead,” Clint said. “Collins is gone.”
“Why didn’t he kill us, too?” she asked. “Why run?” Clint looked around.
“I’ve got a better question,” he said.
“What?”
He walked over to where Collins had been standing, looked down at the floor.
“Why did Poca Muerte leave our guns behind?”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
They got out of there fast, leaving Tate’s body right where it was. They assumed the rest of the house was empty, but somebody would be coming in at some point, and would find Tate’s body and call the police.
“We’re leaving a lot of bodies behind,” Molly said as they left the house.
“Can’t be helped,” Clint said.
They walked a good distance before they reached an area where they could get a cab. Clint told the driver to take them to the Farrell House Hotel.
They were in an enclosed carriage, so they assumed if they kept their voices down, the driver would not hear them.
“This blows part of my thinking right out of the water,” Clint said.
“That Tate was behind the plan to kill the senator?” Molly asked.
“That’s right.”
“But then maybe he became a liability?”
“Tate looked genuinely puzzled when we started asking about Collins as a hired assassin,” Clint said. “I don’t think he knew.”
“Then who did he think Collins was?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “We’d have to check. Only I would’ve checked with Tate. He was my only Washington connection.”
“What about West?”
“He’s away from Washington more than he’s there, but maybe he’d know something.” Clint looked at Molly. “Okay, I haven’t asked you this yet. Who’s the head of the Secret Service now?”
“Henry Adcock.”
“I never heard of him.”
“I think he took over just before I came,” she said.
“Can you telegraph him?”
“I guess,” she said. “I’ve never really spoken to him myself.”
“Who do you talk to to get your assignments?”
“My superior is Neil Summerville.”
“Okay, telegraph him, then,” Clint said. “Ask him about Tate, Collins, Winston, all of them.” He wondered why she had never come up with these names before.
“I’m not supposed to contact them while I’m in the field.”
“Break the rule,” he said. “We need new information.”
“Okay.”
When they got to the hotel, he stepped down from the coach, then helped Molly get out and paid the driver. “Has it occurred to you that maybe it’s over?” she asked.
“How could it be over?”
“Tate’s dead, we have the three men who were working for Atwater.”
“There’s still Atwater. And Collins.”
“But Tate was the brains.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Clint said. “I can’t get the look on
his face out of my head when I asked about Poca Muerte. He had no idea what I was talking about.”
“So m
aybe Tate wasn’t in on it?”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “but that doesn’t explain Collins. He works for money. Somebody had to have hired him.”
“All we have left is Atwater,” she said.
“You send your telegrams in the morning,” Clint said, “and I’ll see if I can find Atwater.”
“Tomorrow’s Monday,” she said. “We’ve got one day left before the senator gets here.”
Chapter Sixty
Clint was not happy.
This whole thing had gone bad right from the beginning—like when he said yes. His instincts should have told him that something wasn’t right with Tate, that Collins was definitely a wrong one, and that the whole Henry Wirz thing was some kind of a con. Only who was getting conned? And why?
In the morning Molly went out early to send her telegram. Clint agreed to meet her in the dining room for breakfast. He was seated there, drinking coffee, when Duke Farrell walked in.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
“I’m just waiting for Molly before I order. Have some coffee.”
Farrell sat down and poured himself a cup.
“Got some news this morning, thought you’d want to hear.”
“What’s that?”
“Frederick Tate, ex-Colonel in the United States Army, was found dead last night,” Farrell said.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I have eyes and ears in the police department.”
“Found dead, or killed?”
“Shot to death,” Farrell said. “That the kind of thing you’d be interested in hearing about?”
“Very interested,” Clint said. “I was there.”
Farrell looked surprised that Clint would even admit that.
“Who shot him?”
“Poca Muerte”
Now Farrell was really surprised.
“You and the hired killer both walked out alive?” he asked.
“He got the drop on us, took us to see Tate, who I thought was his employer.”
“Gunmen have been known to turn on their employers,” Farrell pointed out.
“I know,” Clint said, “but I thought Tate was behind this whole thing. Now I’m not so sure.”
“ ‘Not so sure’ sounds mild for the way you feel.”
“You’re right,” Clint said. “I’m completely thrown off by Tate’s death.”
“So Tate’s death and the killing of Larry Gates are connected?”
“Very connected.”
“And your senator is arriving tomorrow,” Farrell said. “He’ll be met at the train station by a large contingent, I hear. Your killer would have to kill him in broad daylight in front of a crowd.”
“Well, since I never heard of him until you told me about him, you tell me. Is that something he could do?”
“Definitely,” Farrell said.
Molly came in at that point. They both stood as she sat, and then Farrell excused himself and left.
“What did he have to say?”
“Tate’s body has been found already,” Clint said.
“Well, I sent my telegraph messages, one to each of them.”
“We won’t be able to depend on replies coming in time,” Clint said. “We’ll have to try to find Atwater today.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we’ll have to be at the train station tomorrow when the senator arrives and try to make sure nobody kills him.”
“And then you can get a good look at him and decide if he’s Henry Wirz.”
“Henry Wirz,” Clint said, “is dead.”
Chapter Sixty-One
They spent most of the day looking for Dorence Atwater. No one at Atwater’s office had seen him since Clint and Molly were there last. They looked in a number of saloons in the area, but if he was drinking, he was doing it someplace else. They also checked his home, but there was no sign that he had been back.
As they left his home, Clint said, “I don’t know where to look after this.”
“What about the law?” Molly asked. “They’ll be at the train station, won’t they?”
“You tell me,” Clint said. “The Secret Service should be there. Will they share the honors with the local police?”
“Probably not,” she admitted.
“Well,” Clint said, putting his hand on her arm to stop her. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe the senator is not in any danger at all, now that Tate’s dead.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
He waited a moment, then said, “No. And I think the reason Collins—if that’s his name—left our guns behind was to challenge us.”
“Challenge us to stop him?”
He nodded.
“If he’s challenging anyone, it’s you, not me,” she said.
“With Tate dead, he’s either been paid already or he’s not going to get paid,” he said.
“Either way, he’s really got no reason to kill the senator, except as a challenge to you.”
“Well,” Clint said, “whatever the reason, I think he’ll be there tomorrow, and so will we.”
As they entered the Farrell House, Cal waved at Clint from behind the desk.
“Message for you,” he said, handing it over.
“A telegram?” Molly asked as they walked away from the desk.
“No, just a handwritten message from our bartender friend.”
“Which one?”
She was right—they did have more than one. Clint looked at the name. It was the bartender who was holding Bellows, Fester, and Edwards for them.
“They got away,” Clint said. “Bellows and his men.”
“Oh great,” she said. “Now we’ve got them running around again.”
“They’ll either leave town or go looking for Atwater,” Clint said.
“And they may all be at the station tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“Maybe we should talk to the law.”
“If we tell them that we’re connected to not only Gates’s death but Tate’s, they’ll hold us. We won’t be at the station tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but they will.”
“And they don’t know who they’re looking for,” Clint pointed out. “We do. Do you have anything on you-to identify you as Secret Service?”
“No,” she said. “Not when I’m undercover.”
“Is there a chance somebody from the Secret Service will recognize you at the station?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve worked with Jim. Maybe he’ll be there.”
“If he was going to be there, he wouldn’t have helped Tate get me here.”
“Well, maybe one of my bosses.”
“We’ll have to wait and see tomorrow,” Clint said. “It’s all going to come down to tomorrow.”
Atwater finally made his decision.
He hadn’t used a gun for some time, but he had used one in the war, and he knew how to shoot. He’d read about Tate’s death in The Chronicler that morning, and now figured it was all up to him. He was the only one who knew that Senator Winston was actually Henry Wirz. Although he hadn’t really seen Winston in person, he knew he’d recognize Wirz when he saw him.
It was up to him now—avenge the dead of Andersonville, to avenge himself.
Collins was ready. His rifle was his best friend, and had never failed him over the years. Now it was going to help him get the best of the Gunsmith. He personally didn’t care if Senator Winston lived or died, though he’d been paid to do a job, and he intended to get it done.
But the best part of this would be outsmarting and outdoing the Gunsmith.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Clint didn’t know how nervous he’d feel when that morning came. He knew there was little or no chance that Henry Wirz had been alive all these years. Even less chance that he had lived and become a United States senator.
But what if, when he saw Winston for the first time, he found himself looking into the face of Henry Wirz?
Clint knew that Senator Win
ston was arriving at the train station at 9 a.m. He and Molly came down to the hotel lobby at eight.
“You ready for this?” he asked as they left the hotel.
“I’m ready.”
“I know the Secret Service always assume danger,” Clint said, “but if you see any agents you know, you let them know it’s more than an assumption this time.”
“Right,” she said. “I understand.”
“And if you see Atwater or Collins, don’t hesitate. Shoot.”
“Got it.”
They headed for the station.
Although the arrival of Senator Winston had been announced in the newspaper—and Clint still didn’t know why the man was coming—the train station was not teeming with people. Either the denizens of San Francisco didn’t read the paper, weren’t politically active, or simply didn’t care. Whatever the reason, Clint was happy he was not going to have to deal with shoulder-to-shoulder crowds.
Clint sent Molly in ahead of him. By the time he entered, she was on the other side of the station. Clint could pick out the Secret Service men scattered about. He knew that if he presented himself to them with his information—even if they recognized his name—it would be more of a distraction than anything else. The agent he approached would have to send for a superior, and they’d be talking to Clint instead of doing their jobs.
Clint stepped outside to look at the platform. Most of the waiting passengers were inside, but when the train started moving into the station, they would all go out to where he was standing.
Clint walked to the edge of the platform, but instead of glancing down the track, he looked up, to see where a shot might be taken from. There was the roof of the station, but it did not offer a clear view of much of the platform.
Clint walked the length of the platform, studying the faces of all the people, but did not spot Atwater or Collins.
However, somebody had spotted him.
As Clint was returning to the station, three men converged on him, and he knew he was about to be braced by the Secret Service.
Collins was going to use Atwater as a diversion. He knew the newspaperman would be there. He had to be. He would wait for Atwater to make his move, and that’s when he would strike.
