A Friend Named Crapface…
Clint didn’t know where the little buffalo hunter was, but he knew wherever he was, he was looking down the barrel of his .50-caliber rifle. He knew Crapface had his back.
The other ranch hands all had sweating palms, and as Gary Vernon wiped his dry on his trousers, they did the same thing. Their orders were to watch Lukas and move when he moved. Their target was the Gunsmith, but they were all wondering where the smelly buffalo hunter with the Big Fifty was.
A bullet from that gun could tear a man in half.
Clint watched Lukas’s face and knew that, no matter what happened, the man was going to draw. No question about it. He was that stupid. The only question was how stupid the other five were.
Just then he heard it.
Crapface had just cocked the hammer on the Big Fifty. That wasn’t a sound you could mistake. And the street was quiet enough for it to carry.
“Okay, ranch hand,” Clint said to Lukas. “Let’s see how many of your friends we can get killed.”
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Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him… the Gunsmith.
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The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!
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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.
THE
GUNSMITH
365
THE LAST BUFFALO HUNT
J.R. ROBERTS
JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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THE LAST BUFFALO HUNT
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / May 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
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ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
Table of Contents
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
The Governor’s Gun
ONE
Clint Adams wondered how many times he had gotten into trouble while minding his own business. And how many times it had happened when he stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. If he had to bet, he would say it was fifty-fifty. Because it didn’t seem to matter what he did—trouble either followed him, or was waiting for him.
He was in a small saloon in a small town in Nebraska—the town of Walton—working on a large mug of cold beer. The saloon was less than half full, and he had managed to get a table in the back. He was sitting with his back to the wall, and at the moment no one was paying any attention to him, which suited him just fine.
Then half a dozen men entered together, and suddenly the atmosphere went from sleepy to rowdy. The men gathered at the bar, ordered beer and whiskey, and proceeded to get drunk and even rowdier.
From watching and listening, Clint determined that they were from a nearby ranch. The others in the saloon seemed to know them, and were steering clear of them. So for about half an hour their aggression was confined to the six of them.
When Clint ordered another beer from the one tired-looking saloon girl, he asked, “Who are those men?”
“Oh, them?” she said. “They’re from the Crooked W. They’re always comin’ to town and causin’ trouble. I was you, I’d s
tay away from them.”
“I’m not looking to mix in with anybody here,” he said. “Another quiet beer will do me fine.”
“Comin’ up.”
She went to the bar and had to run a gauntlet of grabbing hands from the six cowboys. They all watched her walk back to Clint’s table and set a beer down on it.
“You put up with that whenever they come to town?” he asked.
“All the time,” she said. “They won’t hurt a girl, but I’ve seen them do a lot of damage to men, and for no reason.”
“What about the sheriff?”
“They beat him to within an inch of his life one day,” she said. “He ain’t been the same since.”
She took his empty mug and walked away.
Two of the six men were still looking over at him, but when someone slapped them on the back, they turned away.
“Who you figure that feller in the corner is?” Tom Holliver asked.
Sam Walden looked over and said, “Dunno. Why do you care?”
“He’s a stranger,” Holliver said.
“So what?” Vic Miller asked. “Lots of strangers come to town.”
“Yeah,” Holliver said, “but they’re the ones we usually have some fun with.”
Dan Lukas said without looking up from his drink, “That feller don’t look to me like the kind to have fun with.”
Gary Vernon slapped Holliver on the back and said, “Dan’s got a point, Tom. You better just turn around and finish your beer.”
“Yeah,” the sixth man, Hank Dennis, said, “they’re right. ’Sides, somebody else’ll come walkin’ in soon. Somebody we can have lots of fun with.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Holliver said.
Tyrone Jones rode into the Nebraskan town of Walton and immediately attracted attention. He was used to that. Mostly, he presented the appearance of a pile of skins atop a horse. He was a small man, who wore a lot of buffalo skins. Most of his adult life had been spent hunting buffalo, and as the bison faded from the plains, so did Jones.
He reined in his horse in front of a small saloon and stepped down. He shrugged his skins into place comfortably, removed his Sharps Big Fifty from the saddle, then tied his horse off and entered the saloon.
As he passed between the batwing doors, the odor he projected had already preceded him. The other patrons all watched him as he headed for the bar. The six ranch hands already standing there turned and looked at him. They all had the same thought in mind.
Fun.
Jones reached the bar and knew what was coming. He was used to being the butt of the joke. But that didn’t mean that he ever took it lightly.
When Clint saw the man enter and approach the bar, he had one thought, and one thought only.
Crapface.
TWO
Crapface Jones didn’t see Clint Adams sitting in the back of the room. He did see the faces of the six ranch hands at the bar, and knew what was coming.
“Beer,” he told the bartender.
The man brought the beer and couldn’t hide his reaction to the smell of Tyrone “Crapface” Jones’s skins.
“Omigod!” Tom Holliver yelled. “Whoeeee! What is that smell?”
“I know what you mean,” Vic Miller said, sniffing the air. “Where’s that comin’ from?”
“Jesus,” Sam Walden said, “it’s stinkin’ up the whole room.”
“Is there somethin’ dead in here?” Gary Vernon asked, looking around.
Hank Dennis lifted his arms and sniffed his own armpits.
“It ain’t me,” he announced.
“Could be all of you,” Dan Lukas said. “Fact of the matter is, it’s this fella over here.”
Holliver leaned toward Jones and sniffed.
“By God, he’s right. This fella stinks. And his face looks like crap.”
All the other men turned and looked.
“By God,” Dennis said, “he’s right. What the hell happened to your face, fella?”
The buffalo hunter ignored all of them and drank his beer.
“Hey,” Sam Walden said, “we’re talkin’ to you.”
Jones put his mug down and looked at them. They were all five-ten to just over six feet—easily half a foot taller than him.
“Look,” he said, “I just came in here to have a beer. I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble.”
“Well,” Hank Dennis said, “you shoulda took a bath before you come in here stinkin’ the place up.”
“Yeah,” Tolliver said. “Boys, I think maybe we better take this fella out to a horse trough and give him a good bath.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Vic Miller said. “Whataya think, Dan?”
Now they all looked at Lukas, who was obviously the leader of the group.
“Get him out of here,” he said. “He stinks. I don’t care what you do with him outside.”
“It’s them skins,” Dennis said.
“Naw, I think it’s him,” Tolliver said.
“Maybe it’s those sores on his face,” Gary Vernon said.
“Whatever it is,” Lukas said, “get him outside.”
Lukas remained with his elbows on the bar while the other five men moved toward the little buffalo hunter. Suddenly, the Sharps Big Fifty was in his hands and he looked a lot bigger.
“A bullet from this Big Fifty will tear a man in two,” he said. “Who wants to be first?”
The five men froze. Dan Lukas turned his head and looked at Jones.
“He’s only got one shot, and then he has to reload,” Lukas said. “Go ahead and take him.”
“But… he’ll kill one of us, Dan,” Tom Holliver said.
“Maybe,” Lukas said. “That’s a big gun, and this is close quarters. I’ll bet you can jump him before he gets one of you.”
“If you think they can do that, why don’t you jump me?” Jones asked.
“Then I’d have to touch you,” Lukas said. “I ain’t about to touch you. No tellin’ what kind of diseases you got inside them skins.”
Jones didn’t answer. He kept the Big Fifty steady. If they came at him, he was going to put a hole in somebody.
Dan Lukas turned and faced him.
“Okay,” he said, “then we’ll do it another way.”
“How’s that?” Jones asked.
“Six guns against one,” Lukas said. “You might kill one of us but the rest of us will kill you. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“You consent to take a bath.”
“Where?”
“Outside,” Lukas said, “in a horse trough. You put your gun down, my boys take you outside and give you a good dunkin’.”
“And if I say no?”
“Like I said,” Dan Lukas said, “six guns against one.”
Jones looked at each of the six men in turn. A couple of them looked scared, the rest anxious. One thing he knew, they were all going to draw.
Before he could answer, though, a voice spoke from the back of the room.
“Make that two.”
Dan Lukas turned and looked at the man who had spoken.
“What’s that?”
“I said make that two,” Clint said.
“Two what?” Lukas asked.
“Two guns,” Clint said. “You said it was six guns against one. And I said, make it two. Six guns against two.”
The other men looked at Clint.
Lukas said, “Do you know this man?”
“I do.”
“This smelly little man?” Lukas asked, pointing at Jones. “You know him?”
“I said yes, I do.”
“He, like, a friend of yours?”
“He is.”
“So you know his name.”
“I do. It’s Jones.”
“And you’re willin’ to step into this?” Lukas said. “For him?”
“That’s right.”
“Just to keep him from takin’ a bath?”
“In a horse trough,” Clint said. “He doesn’t want to take a bath
in a horse trough. Maybe, if you gave him a choice, he’d go and take a proper bath.”
“But that ain’t what I want,” Lukas said.
“Well, maybe this isn’t about what you want.”
Lukas grinned.
“It’s always about what I want, friend,” Lukas said. “If you spend any more time in this town, you’ll find that out.”
“Well, I don’t intend to spend much time in this pissant little town,” Clint said. “Maybe just enough time to teach you six idiots a lesson.”
Lukas looked at Jones, who hadn’t moved, and then back at Clint.
“So you’re serious about this.”
“As a heart attack.”
“What the hell is your name, friend?”
“Why does that matter?”
“I like to know who I’m killin’.”
“Big talk for a ranch hand,” Clint said.
“I’ll show you what kind of ranch hand I am,” Lukas said. He looked at Jones. “You know him?”
“Yeah.”
“You know his name?”
“Sure I do.”
“What is it?”
Jones looked at Clint.
“Should I tell ’im?”
Clint shrugged and said, “Go ahead.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Lukas said. “Tell me who your friend is.”
Jones looked at Dan Lukas and said, “His name’s Clint Adams.”
THREE
“That’s bull crap!” Lukas said.
The saloon had gone totally silent.
“The Gunsmith?” Tom Holliver said.
“That’s right,” Jones said.
“I don’t believe it,” Lukas said.
“W-What if it is?” Hank Dennis said. “I mean, what if he is the Gunsmith?”
“So what?” Lukas asked. “What if he is the Gunsmith? There’s still six of us and one of him.”
“Two,” Jones said. “Two against six.”
“You?” Lukas said. “You can go, smelly man. Now it’s just us and the Gunsmith.”
“Naw,” Jones said. “I’m stayin’.”
“Dan—” Sam Walden said.
“Shut up, Sam!” Lukas said. “They’re just tryin’ to spook us.”
“Doin’ a good job on me,” Hank Dennis said.
“Shut up!” Lukas said again. “Vic and Hank, you take the stink man. The rest of us will take the other fella.”
The Last Buffalo Hunt Page 1
