The Two-Gun Kid

by J. R. Roberts

  “I’m not asking you to back down,” Clint said. “Just . . . keep calm, and be careful.”

  “I ain’t the type to keep calm if somebody’s prod-din’ me,” Roscoe pointed out.

  “Bookbinder,” Clint said, “that’s one of the main things you’re going to learn.”

  “To keep calm if somebody’s pushin’ me?”

  “How to keep calm,” Clint said, “period.”

  ELEVEN

  Clint was in the saloon early, worried that Roscoe Bookbinder might get there first and immediately get himself into trouble. Laurie came over to say hello and ask if she’d see him later.

  “I hope so,” he said, “unless you get a better offer between now and then.”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “Not with what this town has to offer in the way of men.”

  She went off to work the floor as the batwings opened and the sheriff came in. The lawman spotted Clint and walked over to join him.

  “Get you a beer, Sheriff?”

  “I owe you one,” Greenwood said, signaling the bartender for two.

  “How are things goin’ with you and your student?” he asked Clint.

  “Slowly.”

  “You get those pearl grips off his guns?”

  “I did do that, yes.”

  “Then you made progress,” Greenwood said. “I could never convince him to get rid of them.”

  “Any particular reason why he should listen to you?” Clint asked. “Other than the fact that you’re the law?”

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you?” Greenwood asked. “The boy’s my nephew.”

  Clint turned to face the lawman and said, “No, neither one of you mentioned that.”

  “His mother was my sister.”

  “Then why’s he living in that run-down shack if he’s got family in town?”

  “I don’t live much better,” Greenwood said. “I got no wife, no other family. Fact is, I spend most every night in one of my cells.”

  “I think one of your cells would be better than where he’s living now,” Clint said. “I also convinced him to move into the hotel tonight.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I’m thinking about leaving town tomorrow.”

  “After you told him you’d teach him, you’re gonna run out on him?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I was thinking about letting him ride with me for a while.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “The boy needs direction,” Clint said, “and I don’t particularly want to stay in this town for as long as it’s going to take for me to give it to him.”

  “Yeah, but why that much interest in Roscoe?” Greenwood asked. “I mean, I appreciate it and all, but I’m just curious. He remind you of yourself?”

  “You know, he asked me the same question,” Clint said. “He’s nothing at all like me.”

  “Then why?”

  “I just don’t want to see the kid get killed early,” Clint said. “And with the attitude he has now, that’s what going to happen.”

  “Well, I’m sure his mother would’ve appreciated it,” Greenwood said.

  “He doesn’t talk much about his parents.”

  “They were killed when he was a youngster,” Greenwood said. “I wasn’t here then. I left this town for a long time, came back when they asked me to be sheriff. I wasn’t here when my sister and her husband were killed.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Best I can find out,” he said, “the kid is a lot like his pa was.”

  “Bad attitude, you mean?”

  “Seems he got some fellas mad at him and they came and took it out on him and my sister.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was raped, and they were both shot.”

  “Where was Roscoe?”

  “Hidin’.”

  “So he saw the whole thing?”

  “Nobody knows,” Greenwood said. “He ain’t never talked about it.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess that explains a little bit about the kid’s attitude.”

  “I guess so,” Greenwood said. “How long you figure on keepin’ him with you?”

  “Not long,” Clint said. “I don’t want to adopt him, just smarten him up a little.”

  “He’s really not a dumb kid,” the sheriff said. “He just acts like it sometimes.”

  “Well then, that’s as long as I’ll keep him with me,” Clint said. “Until he stops acting dumb.”

  “I wish you luck,” the lawman said, raising his mug. “I been tryin’ to get him to stop actin’ dumb ever since I got back to this town.”

  TWELVE

  The sheriff was gone by the time Roscoe Bookbinder came walking into the saloon. Clint had intended to wait until morning before he made his decision about whether or not to take the kid with him when he left town. However, after talking with the sheriff, he’d pretty much made up his mind. Now he had to see what the kid thought of the idea.

  Roscoe looked over at Clint as he entered, unsure whether or not to join him. Clint made it easy for him and waved him over.

  “Want a beer?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Roscoe said. “Thanks.”

  Clint waved at the bartender for two more beers.

  “I saw the sheriff comin’ out of here,” Roscoe said. “What’d he want?”

  “Nothing,” Clint said. “We just had a beer and he told me about being your uncle.”

  “He ain’t no kin of mine,” Roscoe said.

  “I thought he was your mother’s brother?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Roscoe said, “but I ain’t callin’ him no kin of mine.”

  “Any particular reason for that?”

  “Yeah,” the kid said, “but that’s my business, ain’t it? Ain’t I entitled to my own business?”

  “You sure are,” Clint said. “I won’t ask you anything more about it.”

  Roscoe peered at Clint suspiciously, then nodded and said, “Much obliged.”

  “I do have something to ask you, though.”

  “What’s that?” Still suspicious.

  “I’ve decided to leave town tomorrow.”

  “What?” Roscoe asked. “B-but you said—you told me you’d stay—you’re supposed to—”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Clint said. “What did I tell you about staying calm?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Will you let me finish?”

  Clearly, Roscoe wanted to go on arguing, but in the end he subsided and said to Clint, “Okay, go ahead and finish.”

  “I was going to ask you,” Clint said, “if you wanted to ride with me.”

  Roscoe stared at him, clearly unsure if he’d heard right.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” Clint said. “I’m asking you to ride with me for a while, just until we finish with your education.”

  “But . . . where are you going?”

  “Does that matter?” Clint asked. “Do you want to stay here so badly?”

  “Well, no . . .”

  “I really don’t know where I’m going,” Clint said. “I don’t often do. I’m just going to ride.”

  “And you want me to come with you?” Roscoe asked. “To be your partner?”

  “Bookbinder,” Clint said, “I don’t need a partner. You’d be riding with me to learn.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “And who’s gonna decide that?”

  “I will,” Clint said. “When I say we’re done, we’re done.”

  “And what if we’re in the middle of nowhere?”

  “You’ll go your way and I’ll go mine,” Clint said. “Come on, kid, isn’t this what you want? To get out on your own?”

  “Well, yeah . . .”

  “You want to sleep on it?” Clint asked, picking up his beer mug. “Or drink on it?”

  Roscoe hesitated only a moment and then said, “What the hell. Let’s drink on it!”

  THIRTE
EN

  Hector Ramirez was standing just a few feet away from Clint Adams and Roscoe Bookbinder at the bar in the saloon when Roscoe agreed to ride with Clint. After he heard that, Hector finished his beer and left the Hard Ace Saloon. He walked to the far end of town, where there were smaller saloons, just beer and whiskey joints, with no gambling tables, and girls you had to be drunk to sleep with. Inside one of them he found the men he was looking for—Zack Foley and Lee Orton.

  “Well, well,” Zack said, looking up at him, “Hector’s come a-callin’.”

  “I got information for you,” Hector said.

  “What’s it gonna cost us?” Lee asked.

  “For now,” Hector said, “A cerveza.”

  “A what?” Lee asked.

  “Get the man a beer, Lee.”

  “Oh.”

  Lee got up and went to the bar while Hector pulled out a chair and sat.

  “Where you comin’ from?” Zack asked.

  “The Hard Ace.”

  “Was the sheriff there?”

  “For a little while,” Hector said. “He was talkin’ to Clint Adams.”

  “Mr. Gunsmith,” Zack said. He closed his hands into fists. “He made a fool out of me and Lee.”

  “Better than havin’ him kill you,” Hector said.

  Lee came back carrying three mugs of beer, and spilled some out of one of them while putting it down in front of Zack, who switched it with his partner.

  “Who’s gettin’ killed?” Lee asked.

  “Hector’s about to tell us what he heard at the Hard Ace,” Zack said.

  “Clint Adams is leavin’ town tomorrow.”

  “So?” Lee asked.

  “He’s takin’ that kid with him.”

  “What kid?” Lee asked.

  “That duded up kid with the pearl handles, stupid,” Zack said. “It was his fault the Gunsmith made fools outta us.”

  “We’re lucky he didn’t kill us,” Lee said.

  “Yeah, well now he’s the one who’s gonna get killed,” Zack said. “Him and his little friend.”

  “The kid looks different,” Hector said, sipping his beer. “He’s got different clothes and no more pearl handles.”

  “Adams is takin’ him under his wing,” Zack said.

  “Gonna turn the kid into a gunfighter?” Lee asked.

  “Maybe,” Zack said, “but that’ll take time, and I don’t aim to give him enough of it.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Lee asked.

  “We’re gonna kill ’em.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Both of them.”

  “Ourselves? Alone?”

  “Yeah, ourselves,” Zack said, “and no, not alone. We’ll get some help.”

  “Like who?” Lee asked. “Hector?”

  “I can shoot,” Hector said. It sounded like he said, “choot.”

  “Sure, Hector can help,” Zack said, “but I got somebody else in mind, too.”

  “Who?” Lee asked.

  “Yeah, who?” Hector echoed.

  “You’ll see,” Zack said, “you’ll see. Drink up, boys. We got some work to do.”

  FOURTEEN

  Clint woke the next morning, wrapped himself in Laurie’s warmth, and used her for his own pleasure because he didn’t know the next time he’d be with a woman. After that he left her there and went down for breakfast with Roscoe. The kid had packed some saddlebags, and that was all. Clint had told him they were going to travel light.

  “We got to pick up my guns before we go,” he said.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Let’s get the horses first.”

  They went to the livery and saddled their horses. Roscoe had a useful little mustang that would never be able to run with Eclipse, Clint’s Darley Arabian, but he’d be able to walk all day, and he’d handle rough terrain.

  They rode to the gunsmith’s shop and woke the man up. He came downstairs, opened his shop, and gave Roscoe back his guns.

  Outside, Roscoe strapped the guns back on and they mounted up.

  “Where we headed?” Roscoe asked.

  Clint pointed and said, “That way.”

  Clint was right about the mustang. The animal could walk all day, as could Eclipse, but they finally had to rest for their two-legged partners.

  Clint gave Roscoe a choice: see to the horses or the fire. The kid picked the fire, and had it going by the time Clint returned from turning out their mounts.

  “What do we got for food?” Roscoe asked.

  “I usually travel light,” Clint said. “Coffee, jerky, and beans. And we’ll save the beans for later, so tonight coffee and beef jerky.”

  Clint put the coffeepot on, then dug in his saddle-bags for the jerky and handed Roscoe a piece.

  “This is all we eat?” Roscoe complained.

  “For now.”

  Roscoe sat across the fire from Clint and took a bite. When the coffee was ready, Clint poured it out and handed a cup across to the younger man.

  “Don’t look into the fire,” he advised. “It’ll ruin your night vision.”

  “What’s the difference?” Roscoe asked. “We ain’t lookin’ for nobody, and nobody’s lookin’ for us.”

  “You never know when a man or an animal is going to come out of the dark at you,” Clint said, “and if you’ve been staring into the fire, you’ll never see them.”

  “But what if—”

  “You ask too many questions, boy.”

  “Well, how the hell else am I gonna learn?”

  “Listen,” Clint said. “Just listen to what I tell you and stop asking questions. Everything I tell you is a lesson you need to learn.”

  “Fine,” Roscoe said.

  It was obvious that the boy had never been in a camp, but had spent his whole life in town. Clint told him he was going to have the first watch.

  “Keep the fire going, keep the coffeepot full,” Clint said, “keep an eye on the horses, and keep a sharp eye and ear out.”

  “What am I supposed to hear?”

  “You might hear somebody approaching the camp,” Clint said, “or the horses might tell you that something’s happening.”

  “The horses? How are they gonna do that?”

  “If they hear something—a man, or an animal—they’ll react. If that happens, or if you even think you hear something, wake me up. If not, then wake me up in four hours.”

  “What if I’m not tired?” Roscoe asked. “Should I let you sleep?”

  “No,” Clint said, “whether you feel tired or not, you’re going to lie down for four hours before we get going again. You may not sleep, but your body will rest. Do you have all that?”

  “I got it.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said. “I’m going to turn in.”

  He rolled himself up in a blanket, put his head on his saddle, and turned onto his side. His holster was draped over the saddle and his gun was within easy reach.

  “Good night,” he said.

  “Night.”

  Roscoe studied Clint’s back. He was surprised that anyone could sleep like that, on the ground, but before long he could tell from Clint’s breathing that he was, indeed, asleep.

  He turned and sat in front of the fire, then moved to the other side of it, so he could see Clint. One time he caught himself looking into the fire, and panicked. What if someone came out of the dark right at that moment? He’d never know it. Before long his night vision returned and he was able to see fairy clearly. He was surprised how wide the light from the campfire spread.

  He walked over to check the horses every so often, patting their necks and making sure to be aware if they were agitated at all.

  Back at the fire Roscoe Bookbinder found that he wished he had someone to talk to. He thought that was odd, because he had spent plenty of time alone over the years of his young life, and had never wished for someone to talk to. What was it about sitting around a campfire in the middle of nowhere that made him want to talk? he wondered.

  Eventually he st
arted to think he was hearing noises, but luckily before he woke Clint up, he realized it was his imagination. He would have been embarrassed to wake Clint up for nothing.

  He did, however, decide to sit for a while with one of his guns in his hand.

  He rubbed his hand over his gun, and realized he missed how the pearl handles had felt more than how they had looked. He decided right then and there that when his lessons with Clint Adams were done, he was going to go right back to those pearl handles.

  FIFTEEN

  Clint used the toe of his boot to wake the kid, who came out of his blanket like he’d heard a shot.

  “Wha—”

  “Time to get up.”

  Roscoe peered up at Clint. He clearly did not know where he was.

  “Take a deep breath and look around, kid,” Clint said. “Then come and have some coffee.”

  When Roscoe made it to the fire, Clint handed him a steaming cup.

  “Sorry,” the kid said. “I didn’t know where I was for a minute.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said.

  “We headin’ right out today?”

  “No,” Clint said. “You’re going to do some shooting.”

  “At what?”

  “Trees, rocks, whatever,” Clint said. “Now that you’ve got your own guns back.”

  “They don’t feel the same without the pearl handles.” Roscoe complained.

  “Don’t start making excuses, Bookbinder.”

  “I ain’t makin’ excuses.”

  “We’ll see . . .”

  Zack, Lee, and Hector heard the shots after they broke their own camp.

  “Comin’ from that direction,” Hector said.

  “No,” Lee said, “there.” Pointing.

  “We’ll go that way,” Zack said, pointing in the direction Hector had indicated.

  They rode, then dismounted and walked. When they topped a rise, they got on their bellies and had a look.

  “Adams has the kid practicing,” Lee said.

  “Good,” Zack said. “He’ll need it.”

  “Why don’t we take them now?” Hector asked. “Right from here.”

  “No,” Zack said, “we got to do it where people know we took the Gunsmith. That’s why I sent them telegrams before we left town.”