“But you get picked on because you wear them,” Clint pointed out.
“Yeah, but maybe less.”
The long johns were bloody around the wound.
“I’ll get you some new underwear,” Clint said. “Maybe get us each some new shirts.”
“How about some food?”
“I’ll have some sent up.”
“Somethin’ good.”
“Steak.”
“Two steaks,” Crapface said. “I gotta get my strength back.”
“Okay.”
“You gonna eat with that colonel guy?”
“Yes, dinner.”
“The other fella, the almost sheriff? I told him the story. Now I gotta thank you for savin’ my life.”
“I didn’t have anything else to do.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Clint.”
“I know it,” Clint said. “Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Hello?”
Clint had left the door open, and now a man was sticking his head in.
“Yep?” he said.
“Um, I was sent to fetch a man named Clint Adams,” the young man said. It was the same young man Clint had sent to get the burlap bag of supplies Crapface had dropped.
“You owe me a bag,” Clint said.
“Um, yeah, I got it. But the colonel told me ta get lost.”
“Well, leave it at the desk for me.”
“Yessir, I surely will.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “now take me to the colonel.”
“Yessir.”
Clint turned to Crapface.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Watch yerself,” the buffalo hunter said. “There’s still some buffalo waitin’ for us.”
“They’ll wait,” Clint said.
“I hope so.”
Clint headed for the door, said over his shoulder, “I’ll send up those steaks.”
“Yeah, and have a pretty girl bring ’em up,” Crapface yelled back.
EIGHTEEN
The young man led Clint to a large tent. Inside a table had been set for dinner, and the colonel was sitting there, drinking wine or brandy out of a crystal glass.
“Come in, Mr. Adams,” Woods said. “Brandy?”
“Sure, why not?”
Clint looked around while the colonel poured the brandy himself. John Cross was nowhere to be seen.”
Woods approached Clint and handed him the glass, said to the young man, “Tell the cook to start serving.”
“Yessir.”
He started out, but Clint said, Wait.”
Woods looked at him.
“My friend is hungry. I’d like someone to bring him a couple of steaks.”
“A couple?” Woods asked, laughing.
“That’s right.”
Woods looked at the young man.
“Have someone take two steak dinners up to the gentleman.”
“Preferably a pretty girl.”
“Anything else?” Woods asked.
“Now that you ask, a new pair of long johns and two new shirts.”
“You heard him.”
“Yessir.”
The young man left the tent.
“Come, have a seat, Mr. Adams.”
Clint approached the table, saw two settings.
“Mr. Cross will not be joining us?” he asked.
“Maybe for coffee,” Woods said. “I hope you like chicken.”
Clint preferred steak, but he said, “Chicken’s fine.”
Clint sat. A man wearing an apron came out and stood next to the colonel.
“We’ll start with the soup,” Woods said.
“Yessir.”
“Then after the chicken Mr. Cross will be joining us for coffee and dessert.”
“Yessir.”
“You can start serving.”
As the cook left, Woods looked down the long table at Clint.
“How is your friend doing, by the way?”
“He’s okay,” Clint said. “Just hungry.”
“Well, we’re taking care of that, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are.”
“I don’t suppose you were able to convince him to take a bath?”
“As a matter of fact, I was.”
“Excellent.”
“He still has those skins, though. Not much I could do about that.”
“Oh. How do you stand it?”
“I’ve hunted a lot of buffalo,” Clint said. “You get used to the smell. In fact, sometimes it gets so you miss it.”
“I’ve never hunted buffalo myself.”
“It’s not an experience you would ever forget.”
Two waiters came in and served them their soup.
“Onion,” Woods said. “There are plenty of them growing wild along the Cimarron.”
Clint tasted it.
“It’s excellent.”
“Thank you. I brought Oscar with me, first to McPherson, and now here.”
“Oscar?”
“The cook.”
Clint knew that McPherson was a town in Kansas, probably eight or ten miles from where they were.
“I am part of a syndicate that formed in McPherson to build this county, and this town.”
“Someone told me about another town near here.”
Woods bristled.
“That would be Hugoton,” he said. “They’re competing with us for the county seat, but they won’t get it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“We’re going to end up with the larger constituency,” Woods said. “And we’ll have the county sheriff.”
“Mr. Cross.”
“Yes,” Woods said. “He’s ex-military, has worn a badge in Arizona and Texas.”
“He seems competent enough.”
“However,” Woods said, “we would probably be in an even better position if we had you on our side?”
“Me?”
“Yes,” Woods said. “Your name, and your gun.”
“I don’t hire out my gun,” Clint said.
“We don’t have to call you a gun for hire,” Woods said as the waiters appeared with steaming plates. “But we can discuss that after dinner. Shall we?”
The waiter set Clint’s plate down in front of him.
“Yes, let’s,” Clint said.
NINETEEN
The dinner was delicious. While they were eating, one of the waiters came out and set a fourth place at the table.
“A fourth?” Clint asked Woods.
“I wasn’t sure whether or not our fourth would join us, but apparently we’re in luck.”
The waiters cleared the empty plates, poured some more brandy for Woods and Clint.
“We have cherry pie for dessert,” Woods said. “My favorite.”
Clint nodded. Cherry was his least favorite, but that didn’t matter much.
At that moment John Cross walked in, removed his hat.
“Ah, Sheriff Cross.”
“Sheriff?” Clint asked. “A little premature, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Woods said. “As I told you, it’s almost a foregone conclusion.”
“Except for Sam Robinson,” Cross said, seating himself.
“Who’s Robinson?”
“He owns the saloon,” Woods said. “And he wants to be sheriff.”
“Is there going to be an election?” Clint asked.
“Well, of course,” Woods said. “A fair, democratic election.”
Clint looked at Cross.
“Which you’re going to win.”
Cross shrugged.
“With you on the ticket as his deputy,” Woods said, “he’d be a shoo-in.”
“That would be a no,” Clint said.
“All right,” Woods said, “then we’ll just put you on my payroll. What’s your price?”
“To do what?”
“To help us be named the county seat.”
“That sounds like a political problem,” Clint said. “I don�
��t get involved in politics.”
“Well,” Woods said, “it involves a little more than politics.”
“Like what?”
“Guns,” Cross said.
One waiter came in and asked if they should serve the coffee and pie.
“Not yet,” Colonel Woods said. “We’re waiting for our fourth to arrive.”
“Oh, she has arrived, sir,” the waiter said.
“Has she? Then by all means, serve dessert.”
“Yessir.”
“She?” Clint asked.
“My daughter,” Woods said. “Ah, here she is.”
She came through the front flap of the tent, a vision in lavender, cut to show off her shoulders and cleavage.
“My dear,” Woods said, standing.
Cross leaped to his feet and straightened his back.
“Joyce,” he said. “How wonderful to see you.”
“John,” she said, “Father. And who is this handsome man?”
She stopped by Clint’s chair, giving him a good whiff of her perfume. He dropped his napkin on the table and stood up.
“My name is Clint Adams, Miss Woods.”
“A pleasure,” she said, extending her hand. He took it, held it briefly, and released it.
“Joyce, please take a seat. Dessert is being served.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said.
Before Clint could move, Cross ran around the table and held her chair for her.
“Thank you, John.”
Cross hurried back to his own chair, sat directly across from the beautiful brunette.
“Mr. Adams, are you working with my father and Sheriff Cross?”
“I’m not working with your father, Miss Woods,” Clint said, “and as far as I know, Mr. Cross is not sheriff yet.”
“Oh, but he will be,” Joyce said.
“How do you know that?”
“Well… my father has told me so,” she said. “And so has John.”
“Well then,” Clint said, “it must be so.”
She looked puzzled.
“But why wouldn’t it be?”
“It seems to me a man named Sam Robinson might have something to say about it,” Clint said. “Or a town called Hugoton.”
She looked at the colonel.
“Father?”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Woods said. “All we need do now is eat our pie and drink our coffee. We won’t be discussing business in front of you any longer.”
The waiters came in with the pie and coffee, and Clint decided to go along with the colonel.
This time.
TWENTY
After the pie and coffee, Colonel Woods took out three cigars, passed one each to Cross and Clint.
“Well,” Joyce said, “if you’re going to light those smelly things up, I think I’ll take my leave.”
She stood, accompanied by all three men.
“Mr. Adams,” she said, “it was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Joyce, may I see you to your room?” Cross asked.
“Of course, John,” she said. “I’d feel so much safer if you would.”
“Sir,” Cross said to Woods.
“Please, John,” Woods said. “I would appreciate it.”
Joyce went to her father and kissed him, then said, “Good night, Mr. Adams.”
“Good night, Miss Woods.”
“Please,” she said, “the next time we meet, call me Joyce.”
“I will… Joyce.”
She left, followed by the steely-eyed John Cross, who gave Clint a hard look on the way out.
“Somebody’s in love,” Clint said to Woods.
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s just Mr. Cross,” Woods said. “My daughter has a mind of her own, and is not interested in him.”
“Too bad.”
“She’ll marry him, though.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s part of my plan,” the colonel said, “and my plans always work.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It is a fact, sir,” Woods said. “That’s why I’d like you to work for me, for Woodsdale. With you on our side, the plan will work.”
Clint stood up.
“Colonel,” he said, “thanks very much for a great dinner, but I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. Your plan will have to come together without me.”
Woods sat back in his chair, puffed on his cigar thoughtfully.
“Think it over, Mr. Adams,” he finally said. “I’ll pay you very well to work for me. There will be many, many perks.”
“I don’t have to think it over, Colonel,” Clint said, “but thanks anyway. I’m sure we’ll see each other around town over the next few days, but after that—after my friend is cleared by the doctor to ride—we’ll be leaving.”
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Adams,” Woods said.
Clint nodded, turned, and left the tent.
One of the buildings on the edge of town—the first one built—was a house that Colonel Woods had designed for himself and his daughter.
John Cross walked Joyce Woods to the house, where they stopped outside.
“Thank you for seeing me home, John.”
“Maybe I could come in for… a drink?” he said.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m rather tired tonight.”
“Perhaps another night, then?”
“Yes,” she said, “perhaps.”
He leaned in to kiss her. She turned her face at the last moment so that his lips landed on her cheek.
“Good night, John.”
“Good night, Joyce.”
He stood outside and watched until she went in, then turned and walked away.
Joyce went inside, looked out the front window until John Cross was gone. He was a fairly attractive man, but he did not appeal to her. She knew her father wanted her to marry him, but that was not going to happen. For one thing, if and when she did marry, her husband would have to be his own man. He’d have to be able to stand up to the colonel. John Cross would never do that.
Now Clint Adams, there was a man she thought would stand up to her father, and be his own man, without a doubt. She knew his reputation as the Gunsmith, but just during the time she’d sat at the table with him, she could see that he was not impressed, nor was he intimidated, by the colonel.
Clint Adams was definitely a man who appealed to her.
John Cross walked back to the colonel’s dining tent, hoping that when he got there, Clint Adams would be gone. He hoped that Adams would not agree to work for the colonel. He had several reasons for this.
First, he didn’t think he needed any help to make the colonel’s dream come true.
Second, he hadn’t liked the way Joyce had been looking at Adams during dinner.
Third, he just plain didn’t like the Gunsmith. He wasn’t impressed by anyone’s reputation, not even his, which was supposed to be legendary. John Cross had faced other men with reputations, and had left them wanting—or dead.
He hoped he could convince the colonel.
Clint walked back to the hotel, hoping that Crapface had gotten his two steak dinners. He was fairly certain the colonel was a man of his word, but failing a simple thing like getting Crapface some food would have changed his mind.
Clint hoped that Colonel Woods would take him at his word that he didn’t want to work for him. He was certain John Cross didn’t want his help. He could feel the man’s dislike coming off him in waves.
On the other hand, he wondered if Cross and Woods could feel what was coming off him and Joyce as they sat at the table together. Clint was surprised the heat hadn’t melted the silverware.
He and the beautiful Joyce would be getting together before he left Woodsdale.
When Cross entered the tent, Colonel Woods was still seated at the table, drinking from a wine goblet.
“Is she back home?” he asked.
“Yessir.”
“What did you think of Adams?”
“We don
’t need him.”
Woods laughed.
“You don’t think so?”
“No, sir.”
The colonel looked at his would-be future sheriff.
“I guess we’ll find out, John.”
“Yes, sir.”
Woods lifted his goblet to Cross, who turned and walked out.
TWENTY-ONE
When Clint got to Crapface’s room, his friend was just finishing up his second steal dinner. The plate looked like it had been full of meat and potatoes.
“Guess I took care of you,” Clint said.
“You sure did,” Crapface said. “These was some good steaks.”
“They were cooked for you by the colonel’s personal chef,” Clint said.
“What the hell is a chef?” Crapface asked.
“It’s a cook.”
“He got his own cook?”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” Crapface said, pushing the second plate to the foot of the bed, where it joined the first one, “he sure got a good one.”
Clint took the empties from the bed and put them on a nearby table.
“What’d that colonel want with you, Clint?” Crapface said, trying to settle back comfortably against the bed rail.
“He wants to hire me.”
“For what?”
“Not sure,” Clint said. “He wants my name, or my gun, or both, to back some kind of play he’s making.”
“What play?”
“Political, I think.”
“You don’t wanna get messed up in politics,” Crapface said. “I’d rather have somebody come at me with a gun than with some politics.”
“I agree,” Clint said. “I hate politicians.”
“Besides,” Crapface said, “what’s he need you for, he’s got that sheriff of his.”
“His future sheriff, you mean.”
“He sure of that?”
“He’s positive.”
Crapface shook his head.
“Politics.”
“I’m going to my room for some rest,” Clint said. “I’ll look in on you later.”
“Okay,” Crapface said. “I’ll be ready to ride tomorrow after some sleep.”
“We’ll see, Crapface,” Clint said. “We’ll see.”
Clint was reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein when there was a knock on his door.
He slipped his gun from the holster hanging on the bedpost and made his way to the door. He cracked it, saw a man standing in the hall, unarmed. He was tall, about forty-five, wearing a clean suit.
The Last Buffalo Hunt Page 5
