Unbound by Law

by J. R. Roberts

  Even though Cantrell had other women in town—a couple of whores, a waitress, and a business colleague’s wife—and they were all more attractive than his wife, he always came back to her. He had to admit that none of them were as good as she was at sex. She had the talents of a top-notch whore.

  He slid out of bed without waking her, slipped on a robe, and went downstairs to the kitchen. He didn’t keep servants. He didn’t trust anyone that much to allow them the run of his house.

  He made coffee and sat at the table drinking it. He knew she’d be down in a few minutes. He didn’t like the hold she had over him. Maybe he should take Eddie Pratt up on his offer to kill her.

  He heard her coming down the stairs, poured her a cup of coffee.

  “Good mornin’, lover,” she said.

  After the coffee, she went to the stove to prepare breakfast. “We’re going to have to get some servants,” she said, with her back to him.

  “No.”

  “At least a cook,” she said calmly.

  “I said no,” Cantrell said. “I don’t want strangers in the house.”

  “Well,” she said, turning to face him, “once we had a cook here for several weeks she wouldn’t be a stranger anymore, would she?”

  “Damn it, Ava!” he snapped.

  “Well,” she said, turning back to the stove, “maybe the more you have to eat my cooking, the faster you’ll agree.”

  It was true. She might have been good in bed, but in the kitchen Ava was a disaster.

  Okay, so maybe just a cook.

  THIRTY

  Eddie Pratt rolled over, looked at the whore in bed with him . . .

  He’d gone to the whorehouse the evening before, had all the whores gather in the sitting room, and then picked out the best-looking one.

  “Get her to my hotel tonight,” he told the madam. “She’s gonna spend the night.”

  “Sure thing, cowboy,” the madam said.

  The whore went up to her room to get ready. Before he could leave, though, a cute little blonde, not his type at all, sidled up next to him and said, “The best lookin’ ain’t always the best.”

  “That right?” he asked.

  She looked up at him from beneath impossibly long lashes and said. “Yep, it is.”

  He noticed something about her he hadn’t noticed from across the room. The way her hair smelled. And when she touched his arm . . .

  “Still here?” the madam asked.

  He turned to her and said, “This girl.” He looked at the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Annie.”

  “I want this one. Annie.”

  “But—”

  “I changed my mind,” he said. “This one.”

  The madam shrugged and said, “Suit yourself. Get ready, Annie.”

  “I’m ready now,” Annie said, smiling at him. “Shall we go?”

  He leaned over now and smelled her hair. It still had that heady scent to it, just like the hair between her legs. And the sun coming through the window made the down on her arms shine.

  But even more than the smell of her was her talent. He had no doubt that she was the right choice. The other whore could not have been more talented than she was.

  Pratt usually liked bigger women—tall, full-bodied. Annie was small, petite, with hardly any breasts, but she had a great butt, and her nipples were mesmerizing.

  And there didn’t seem to be anything she wouldn’t do.

  She opened her eyes slow, caught him looking at her.

  “So?” she asked.

  “So what?”

  “Was I right?”

  He reached out and touched her smooth thigh. “You were right,” he said. “No doubt.”

  Her smile widened. She sat up in bed, put her hand on his bare thigh.

  “You gonna be in town long?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Long as it takes.”

  “You have a job?”

  “I have a job I have to do,” he said. “After that I might have to leave for a while.”

  “What kind of job?” she asked. “What do you do?”

  He stared at her for as moment, then decided to try to shake her up.

  “I kill people.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really? For money?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve killed people already?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Rather than being shaken up, she looked excited. “How do you do it?”

  “With my gun.”

  She reached out, took his right hand, and pulled it to her chest. She held it there so he could feel her smooth skin, and the heart beating beneath it.

  “With this hand?”

  “Yes.”

  She took hold of his index finger, lifted it to her mouth, sucked it in, then slid it out. It glistened wetly.

  “With this finger?”

  “My trigger finger,” he said. “Yeah.”

  “Ooh,” she said.

  She brought his finger down to her chest, between her breasts, then down farther, over her belly, navel and down into the tangle of golden hair between her legs. She opened her legs slightly and pressed his finger to her wet slit.

  “This finger kills people?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mmmm.” She closed her eyes and slid his finer inside her steamy depth. When she released him he slid his finger in and out of her, causing her to catch her breath and bite her bottom lips.

  “Are you ready to get out of bed?” she asked him.

  “Not yet,” he said, pushing her down onto her back. “Not yet!”

  He took hold of her ankles, spread her, and rammed his hard dick into her.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “You ever heard of Eddie Pratt?” the sheriff asked Clint.

  “No.”

  They were in the Three-Leaf Clover saloon. The sheriff had called to Clint on the street and invited him in, even though the place was not yet open. Only the sheriff, Clint, and the bartender were present.

  “Who is he?” Clint asked.

  “A money gun.”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “That’s the way he likes it.”

  “No ego, then?” Clint asked. “That’s unusual.”

  “You have an ego?”

  “Of course,” Clint said. “Most people with reputations have an ego. Some of us can keep it in check, though.”

  “Well, Pratt likes to do his job without attracting attention,” Sheriff Glenister said.

  “And does he work for Cantrell?”

  “He works for anybody who will pay him,” Glenister said. “That means he has worked for Cantrell.”

  “Anybody else in town who works for him?”

  “There’s a fella named Johnny Devlin around—which is kind of odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Devlin usually works for Sutcliffe, in Roswell.”

  “So if he’s here it’s because Sutcliffe sent him. Was he here before me?”

  “I think so.”

  “Sutcliffe sent him to warn Cantrell I was coming,” Clint said. “And Cantrell sent for Pratt. Does Pratt work alone?”

  “Sometimes,” Glenister said, “but I don’t think he’s on his payroll.”

  “Where can I find Pratt?”

  “He’s stayin’ in a hotel in the red-light district.”

  “You have a red-light district?”

  “This town is growin’,” Glenister said. “The place is called the Colorado.”

  “Why?” Clint asked.

  Glenister just shrugged. “I think the guy who owns it is from Colorado,” he said.

  Clint put his half-empty beer mug down.

  “Thanks for the drink.”

  “You gonna brace him?”

  “I’m going to talk to him,” Clint said. “That’s what I’ve been doing, talking to everyone involved. By the way, where’s Devlin staying?”

  “Same place.”

  “That’ll come in handy.”


  “You want my advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Talk to Devlin first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can scare him,” Glenister said. “You can get him to talk.”

  “Pratt doesn’t scare?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, I appreciate the advice,” Clint said. “Like I said, I’m just going to talk to them.”

  “Yeah,” Glenister said, dubiously, “that’s your plan.”

  “Also,” Clint said, “I want to check in Roswell to see if the family registered any property claims.”

  “You think Cantrell was after their property?”

  “If killing them made him a profit, what else could it be?”

  “If they came to Roswell with a deed and he killed them, don’t you think he would have taken the deed? And erased any record of it?”

  “I’m sure he would, but I’ll have to check, anyway. I’ll telegraph the sheriff there to do it for me.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I’ll have to,” Clint said. “I don’t want to have to ride back to Hondo and then back here again.”

  “Well, if you trust him,” Sheriff Glenister said, “and he vouched for me, then I guess you trust me, too.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I guess so.”

  Clint walked into the red-light district, not feeling any different. Usually the red-light district was a bad place to be, but this one looked the same as any other part of town.

  He made his way toward the Colorado Hotel, a two-story solid-looking structure. When he entered he woke the clerk, who came up off his hand and elbow with a start.

  “What?”

  “I just want to take a look at your register.”

  “You law?”

  “No,” Clint said, and grabbed the register. He turned the book around, opened it, saw that Eddie Pratt was in room four, and Johnny Devlin was in room seven.

  “These rooms upstairs?” he asked.

  “All the rooms are upstairs.”

  “Pratt and Devlin. You know them on sight?”

  “Yeah,” the clerk said warily. He was middle-aged, had a face filled with lines and crevices. He’d been through a lot in his life, and had given up a long time ago.

  “They in their rooms?”

  “Devlin is,” the clerk said.

  Clint closed the book and went upstairs. He came to room four and knocked, even though the clerk said Pratt was out. No harm checking. He put his ear to the door, knocked again, then moved on to room seven. This time when he knocked, it was answered right away.

  “Johnny Devlin?”

  Devlin took one look at him and his eyes widened. He staggered back a few steps, but didn’t go for his gun.

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” he said.

  “I know it,” Clint said. “I just want to talk to you. Can I come in?”

  Devlin frowned. “You’re askin’ me?”

  “It’s your room, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “Can I come in?”

  “S-sure.”

  Clint entered and swung the door closed behind him.

  “You’re nervous,” Clint said.

  “Well . . . you’re the Gunsmith.”

  “How about you take your gun out of your leather and put it on the dresser. Just for now. So you don’t do something silly.”

  “O-okay.”

  Devlin walked to the dresser, took the gun out, and set it down.

  “Now move away from it.”

  Devlin did.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Now we can talk.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Whaddaya wanna talk about?” Devlin asked.

  “You, Eddie Pratt, Harry Cantrell,” Clint said. “Eleven dead people.”

  “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that.”

  “Well, maybe not directly,” Clint said. “But your boss did, didn’t he?”

  Devlin frowned, then asked, “M-Mr. Sutcliffe?”

  “I’m talking about Cantrell.”

  “Mr. Sutcliffe is my boss.”

  “And he’s partners with Mr. Cantrell.”

  For a moment Devlin looked as if he was going to cry. “Whaddaya want from me?”

  “Just a little information,” Clint said. “Where’s Eddie Pratt?”

  “W-who?”

  “Come on, Johnny,” Clint said. “I’m being nice here. I could be a lot less nice.”

  Devlin swallowed hard. “Pratt’s got a room here,” he said, “but I don’t know where he is now. I swear.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll find him.”

  “Are—are you gonna kill him?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I guess that’ll have to be up to him.”

  “And me?”

  “Same answer,” Clint said. “It’ll be up to you.”

  “I don’t wanna die.”

  “Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “But I can’t tell you anythin’ else,” Devlin said. “They don’t talk to me, or tell me anything. I just . . . run errands.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m nobody important.”

  “Then I guess we’re done here.”

  Clint turned and opened the door, then turned back. He saw Devlin looking over at his gun.

  “Maybe you think killing me would make you important?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinkin’—”

  “Yeah, you were,” Clint said. “Like I said, don’t give me a reason to kill you, Devlin.”

  “I-I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  Clint left, closing the door behind him. He waited, giving Devlin time to grab his gun and come running out. When he didn’t, Clint left.

  When he got downstairs, he decided that rather than wander around town looking for Eddie Pratt, he’d be better served just sitting in front of the hotel and waiting. He didn’t know what the man looked like, but he had a feeling they’d know each other on sight.

  It only took about an hour of sitting and watching people go by, before Eddie Pratt showed up. No one went in or out of the hotel during that time, but then a man came from across the street, and he knew it was Pratt. It was in the way he walked, carried himself, the way he reacted when he saw Clint sitting there.

  “I wondered when you’d show up,” Pratt said.

  “Just thought we should talk.”

  “Sure. Let me get another chair.”

  Pratt went inside, came out with a chair, set it next to Clint’s, and sat down.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Your boss.”

  “What boss would that be?”

  “Cantrell.”

  “Is he my boss?”

  “Are we going to play games?”

  Pratt shrugged. “It’s all a game, ain’t it?”

  “Sometimes I think so,” Clint said, “except when people die.”

  “You’ve killed your share.”

  “Never innocent people,” Clint said. “You know your boss killed eleven people? Including children?”

  “So you say.”

  “Or maybe,” Clint suggested, “he had you do it?”

  “Is this why you wanted to talk?” Pratt asked. “To try to get me to tell you something you need to know before you can make a move?”

  “A move?”

  “You can’t move on Cantrell without proof,” Pratt said. “Well, I’m not going to give it to you.”

  “Maybe,” Clint said, “you just did.”

  Pratt looked at Clint. “I’m not about to step into the street with you,” he said.

  “Not even if Cantrell tells you to?”

  Pratt laughed. “He can’t pay me enough to commit suicide.”

  “You mean you’re not like all the others?” Clint asked. “All the ones who wanted to test themselves against me? Wanted to prove they were faster? Make a name for themselves?”

  “I have a n
ame,” Pratt said. “My own name. I don’t need yours.”

  Clint’s eyes locked on Pratt’s, and he believed the man. He didn’t see any ego there. Pratt might turn out to be one of his most dangerous foes yet.

  He stood up. “I’m going to take down your boss, Pratt,” he said. “He has to pay for what he did to those people. Don’t get in my way.”

  “You’ll need proof,” Pratt said, again.

  “Maybe not,” Clint said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I just have to satisfy myself that he had those people killed,” Clint said. “Once I’ve done that, I’ll take care of him—and whoever he used to do it—myself.”

  “You know, over the years your reputation has changed,” Pratt said, “Last I heard, you weren’t a cold-blooded killer.”

  “I’ll do whatever I have to do to get justice for those people.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  When Devlin opened his door to another knock, he hoped he wouldn’t find Clint Adams standing there. Instead, he saw Eddie Pratt.

  “Let’s go,” Pratt said.

  “Where?” Devlin asked.

  “We got things to do,” Pratt said. “I just talked to Adams outside. He doesn’t sound like he’s gonna wait to get proof—Wait a minute.”

  Devlin averted his eyes.

  “Was he here, too?” Pratt asked. “Did he talk to you?”

  “Uh, yeah, he came here.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Nothin’!” Devlin said. “I didn’t tell him nothin’ because I don’t know nothin’. I’m just an errand boy, Pratt.”

  Pratt looked around the room, saw Devlin’s gun on the dresser.

  “Leather your gun and let’s go.”

  “Where are we goin’?” Devlin asked when they got to the street.

  “To find two more men who are workin’ with us,” Pratt said.

  “Workin’ with us . . . to do what?”

  “To do what we were hired to do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Kill the Gunsmith.”

  Devlin stopped walking. Pratt went a few steps before he realized it. He stopped, turned around, then walked back to stand next to Devlin.