Cross Draw

by J. R. Roberts

  “In the morning,” she said. “I thought we’d all meet for breakfast and leave right after.”

  “What about supplies?”

  “The girls shopped today,” she said. “We’ll be able to cook on the trail.”

  “Does somebody do the cooking?” Clint asked.

  “We share it,” she said. “At least, Morgan, Delilah, and I share it. Do you cook?”

  “I’m a good trail cook,” he said. “If I can do it left-handed, I make the best trail coffee.”

  “We may let you do that,” she said. “None of us seem to be able to make a decent pot of coffee.”

  Clint made a mental note to be sure to be the one who made the coffee.

  He walked her back to her hotel, but not back to her room. They stopped just in front.

  “Why don’t you all come to my hotel for breakfast?” he said. “We’ll meet in the lobby.”

  “All right,” she said. “Does that include Abigail?”

  “Yes, Rosemary,” he said, with a smile, “that includes Abigail.”

  The next morning, Clint met the five women in the lobby and took them into the dining room.

  All of the women were animated, happy to get back on the trail, and even happier to have Clint Adams along.

  Except, of course, Abigail.

  She kept quiet, and was careful never to look at Clint.

  He wondered if he should make some sort of overture to her, maybe tell her that he didn’t blame her for anything, but he was afraid he knew what her reaction would be. She’d attack, claim she wasn’t to blame, that she had nothing to be forgiven for, and would probably say she had her own reasons for not wanting him along.

  He decided not to ruin a beautiful morning by getting into an argument with her. There would probably be plenty of those on the trail.

  Instead, they ate breakfast. He bantered with the other women and then paid the bill. They left and walked over to the livery together.

  They’d had their supplies delivered and packed onto the wagon for them, and the liveryman had hitched up their team and saddled Clint’s horse for him.

  He thought about trying to ride Eclipse for a while, but the women wouldn’t hear of it. They insisted he ride in the back. So Rosemary drove and Abigail sat up front with her; Jenny, Delilah, and Morgan rode in the back with Clint.

  That was the way they left Big Rock.

  TWENTY

  Big Paul Dillon woke the next morning feeling pleasantly exhausted. He and the big whore, Candy, had fucked most of the night, and his legs felt like wet noodles.

  He rolled over and looked at her. She was lying on her back, big breasts leaning to either side but still full and round. Her pink nipples were flat, and he was tempted to stick his tongue on them so they’d pucker and swell, but decided against it. If he got started with her, they’d be going at it again and he was supposed to meet Lou Raymond at the livery stable in about twenty minutes.

  Hmm, he thought, twenty minutes.

  He leaned over and licked one nipple, then the other. She came awake, along with her nipples . . .

  “You’re late,” Raymond complained.

  “I know it.”

  Raymond had already saddled both horses, so they climbed aboard.

  “You was fuckin’ your brains out all night, wasn’t ya?” Raymond asked.

  “You bet,” Dillon said happily.

  “With that fat whore?”

  “She’s not fat,” Dillon said. “She’s big.”

  “Big, fat, same thing.”

  Dillon gave Raymond a hard stare. “You sayin’ I’m fat?”

  “Hell, no, Paul,” Raymond said quickly. “I didn’t say that.”

  “It’s a beautiful morning,” Dillon said, “and I’m feelin’ good. Why would you want to ruin that for me, Lou?”

  “I d-don’t, Paul, honest,” Raymond said, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “Then let’s just ride, Lou,” Dillon said. “Let’s not argue.”

  “That suits me, Paul.”

  “’Cause if we argue, I might get mad,” the big man said. “You don’t want me to get mad, do you?”

  “N-no, Paul,” Lou Raymond said, “I—I sure don’t want ya to get mad.”

  “Good,” Dillon said. “Now lead out, and keep your mouth shut.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “How’s your arm?” Jenny asked.

  “Kind of sore,” Clint said.

  “We’re bouncing around a lot,” Morgan said. “Do you want me to ask Rosemary to take it easy?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Clint said. “She’s doing the best she can.”

  They had only been riding half a day. It was way too soon for Clint to start complaining, but the jostling was making his arm ache.

  “Try this,” Delilah said, handing him a pillow.

  “Thanks,” he said. He set his arm on the pillow and immediately felt some relief. “That helps.”

  The three girls had been fawning over him since they left town. Water, something to eat, did he want to put his feet up, did he want one of them to hold his arm?

  The pillow was the first offer he’d taken, and it worked.

  For a while, anyway . . .

  Dillon and Raymond rode into Big Rock around midday. They reined in their horses in front of the Red Garter Saloon, only the sign was so worn out it read RE GART SAL.

  They walked in, found the bartender and one other man in the place.

  “You boys must be in the wrong place,” the black bartender said. “Don’t nobody drink in here, no more.”

  “No,” the lone man at the bar said, “they ain’t in the wrong place. Three beers, Anton.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  Dillon put his hand out, shook with the other man.

  “Quentin,” he said, “this here’s Lou Raymond, been ridin’ with me about a year.”

  “You learn not to make him mad, yet?” Quentin asked.

  “I learned,” Raymond said.

  “Yeah, the hard way, right?” Quentin asked with a wry grin. “Like to broke my jaw the first time.”

  “You fellas rode together?”

  “A while back,” Quentin said.

  He and Dillon were in their thirties; Raymond was about ten years younger.

  The bartender set three beers down on the bar. Dillon took a sip.

  “It’s warm.”

  “Guess that’s why don’t nobody drink here no more,” Anton said.

  Raymond drank down the beer, anyway. At least it was wet.

  “Adams still here?” Dillon asked Quentin.

  “Nope,” Quentin said. “Rode out early today with a bunch of women.”

  “Women?”

  “Well, he rode in with them,” Quentin said. “Got hurt helpin’ them fix their wheel. Rode out again today, his arm all bandaged up.”

  “Which arm?” Dillon asked.

  “Right one.”

  “Gun arm.”

  Quentin nodded.

  “How bad?” Dillon asked.

  “The lady I talked to said he can’t move it at all. The right hand, I mean.”

  “He ridin’ his horse?”

  Quentin shook his head.

  “He’s ridin’ in the back of their wagon, his horse tied to the back.”

  “You saw this yourself?”

  “Yup. Watched them ride out.”

  Dillon sipped his warm beer, made a face, and pushed it away. Raymond grabbed it and drank it.

  “That it?” Dillon asked.

  “No,” Quentin said. “Adams killed a man while he was here.”

  “How?”

  “Left-handed.”

  “Somebody drew on him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he killed him, left-handed?”

  “He must’ve,” Quentin said, “because he can’t use his right hand.”

  “Did you see him draw left-handed?”

  “No. Nobody saw it.”

  “So then you can’t be sure that he can�
��t use his right hand.”

  “That’s what the lady told me.”

  “Why’d she tell you that?”

  “She likes to talk,” Quentin said. “She has a big mouth.”

  “She tell you about her friends?”

  “Yep,” Quentin said. “She complained about them.”

  “Okay,” Dillon said. “Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “Someplace I can get a cold beer,” Dillon said. “And you’re gonna tell me about these women.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The wagon came to a stop. Rosemary stuck her head in the back of the wagon.

  “We’re going to camp here,” she said. “It’ll be dark in an hour.”

  If Clint had been on horseback, and darkness was an hour away, he would have kept riding, but Rosemary was in charge of this trek to California.

  “We all have our jobs when we camp,” Jenny said. “I have to collect wood.”

  “So do I,” Morgan said.

  “I have to see to the team,” Delilah said, “with Abigail. She helps me unhitch them, and then I take care of them.”

  “Who cooks?” Clint asked.

  “Rosemary will tonight,” Jenny said.

  “I’ll make the coffee,” Clint said.

  “We’ll help you out of the wagon,” Jenny said.

  “I think I can get out myself,” Clint said.

  The three women climbed out ahead of him, then stood by while he got himself out. He knew if he fell they would have caught him.

  Rosemary and Abigail had already gotten down, and Rosemary came walking over to him.

  “How was the ride?” she asked.

  “Bearable.”

  “I’m sorry it was so bumpy. I couldn’t avoid—” she started.

  “You don’t have to apologize for the terrain, Rosemary,” he said. “You did fine.”

  “Did the girls take care of you?” she said.

  “They saw to my every need.”

  “How’s the arm?”

  “Kind of sore,” he said, “but the girls gave me a pillow, and that helped.”

  “Good,” she said, “I told them to take care of you.”

  “I’m making the coffee, right?” he reminded her.

  “And I’m cooking,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Jenny and Morgan collected the wood for the fire and got it started. They had a barrel affixed to each side of the wagon for water. Jenny went and got a whole potful to be used for coffee and cooking.

  Clint was able to make the coffee one-handed, and then Rosemary started cooking.

  “Bacon and beans,” she said. “But I also have some peppers and onions to put in it, so it’s not just plain trail food. It’s better.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, and gave her a smile.

  By the time it was dark, they were sitting around the fire, eating.

  Over cold beers, Quentin filled Dillon in on who the women were, and how many.

  “Can they use guns?” he asked.

  “She said one of them could shoot a rifle, but that was it.”

  “This lady told you a lot,” Dillon said.

  “I know,” Quentin said, “I was surprised. She just kept talkin’.”

  Raymond came and sat down with another cold beer, his fourth. Dillon was still on his second, as was Quentin.

  “Slow down, Lou,” Dillon said. “You’ll be useless in the whorehouse later.”

  “Don’t you worry about me and whores,” Raymond said. “I’ll be just fine with them.”

  “Okay,” Dillon said. “We’ll see.”

  “You headin’ out in the mornin’?” Quentin asked.

  “Yep,” Dillon said. “They can’t be goin’ very fast. We should be able to catch up to them tomorrow.”

  “You gonna take him on the road?” Quentin asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Dillon said.

  “When, then?”

  “I think we’ll follow them ’til they get to a town. I’ll take him then.”

  “You want witnesses, right?” Quentin said.

  “Oh yeah,” Dillon said. “As many as I can get. When I outdraw and kill the Gunsmith, I want everybody to see.”

  “You still got that weird gun?”

  “What’s weird about my Peacemaker?” Dillon asked. He took it out and put it on the table. Because his hands were so large, and his fingers so big, he’d had the trigger replaced with a larger one. He’d had the butt extended, and the holster adjusted to accommodate those changes.

  “Look at it,” Quentin said, “I couldn’t fire that accurately.”

  “That’s good,” Dillon said, putting the gun back in his holster. “Less chance my own gun can ever be used against me.”

  “Are we done here?” Raymond said. “I wanna get some food, and then a whore.”

  “I wanna ride with you tomorrow,” Quentin said.

  “Well,” Dillon said, standing up, “come and eat with us and we’ll talk about that.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Dillon went to the whorehouse with Raymond, and while his partner picked out a pretty little blonde who weighed barely ninety pounds—and looked “clean”—Dillon could not find a girl big enough for his needs. He’d been spoiled by Candy from Denby a couple of days ago. Instead, he left the whorehouse and went back to the saloon—the one with the cold beer.

  Quentin wasn’t there when he walked in, but Dillon had already agreed to let his old partner tag along.

  “I just wanna see it,” Quentin said. “I wanna see you gun the Gunsmith.”

  “I told you,” Dillon said, “the more witnesses the better.”

  Dillon went to the bar and ordered a beer. In the mirror, he saw the batwings open, and a man walked in. When he turned to come to the bar, Dillon saw the badge. He didn’t know the man, but he was well acquainted with what he stood for.

  Sheriff Cal Evans stood at the bar a few spaces from Dillon and ordered a beer.

  “Quiet town,” Dillon said to Evans.

  “Usually.”

  “Heard you had some excitement a few days ago,” Dillon said.

  “Heard that, did ya?” Evans asked. “What’d you hear, exactly?”

  “Heard the Gunsmith was in town,” Dillon said. “That he gunned a man.”

  “Well, yeah,” Evans said, over his beer, “that’s true.”

  “Heard he did it left-handed.”

  Evans stared at Dillon, sipping his beer.

  “That I can’t tell ya,” the lawman said. “I didn’t see it.”

  “Must’ve been a big crowd.”

  “Actually, no,” Evans said. “It happened so fast, nobody in town saw it.”

  “I heard some women saw it.”

  “Well, yeah,” Evans said, “but they were with Adams. And they all left town, after.”

  Well, that pretty much confirmed everything Dillon had heard so far. Now he needed to find out if the sheriff knew anything extra.

  Clint poured coffee for everyone, and then held his cup while Rosemary filled it for him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Oh, my God,” Jenny said. “That’s strong coffee.”

  “Kills any germs that might get into your food,” Clint said.

  “What?” Morgan said. “What germs?”

  “There are no germs in this food,” Rosemary said aloud.

  She handed out the plates. Clint set his plate on his lap and ate with his left hand. He was able to use his right arm, at least, to keep the plate from sliding off his lap.

  He tasted Rosemary’s beans and bacon and his eyebrows went up. “This is really good, Rosemary,” he said.

  “See?” she said. “Not just regular trail food.”

  “Suits me,” Clint said.

  They all ate avidly; the job of cleaning up fell to Jenny.

  While she took the plates and utensils away to clean them, they all had some more coffee, and Clint put another pot on the fire.

  Rosemary said, �
�I see you’re moving your arm more. Do you have any feeling in your fingers?”

  “No,” he said. “Nothing so far.”

  “Will you see another doctor when we get to another town?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know what good it would do.”

  “Maybe another doctor would know more,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  He sipped his coffee.

  “Are you depressed, Clint?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “But you can’t give up,” she said. “Maybe if we did some exercises?”

  “Like what?”

  “We could all take turns massaging your hand, maybe moving the fingers around?”

  “Well, it sounds pleasant,” he said. “I’m sure Abigail won’t be volunteering for a turn.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “The four of us will do it, if you like.”

  He looked down at his right hand, which was curled up in his lap. What harm could it do, he wondered?

  “Why not?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “What makes you so interested in the Gunsmith?” Evans asked Dillon.

  Dillon had asked a few questions designed to elicit information from the lawman, but Evans had resisted responding.

  “Well, hey,” Dillon said, “he’s the Gunsmith, ain’t he? And I just missed seein’ him by what? A day? I’m just curious.”

  “Well, there ain’t nothin’ else to know,” Evans said. He finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar. “I got rounds to make. You stayin’ in town long?”

  “Just overnight,” Dillon said. “Leavin’ in the mornin’.”

  “Well, enjoy the rest of your stay,” the sheriff said.

  “Yeah,” Dillon said, “have a good night.”

  The big man watched in the mirror as the lawman left the saloon.

  Sheriff Evans had not been able to figure out how to use the Gunsmith to his benefit when the man was in town. Now came this big fella with the odd-looking rig on his hip, asking questions about Clint Adams. So the word had probably gotten out that Adams was in Big Rock, and might be easy pickings.

  Evans went back to his office, unsure of what to do. Should he send some telegrams ahead to towns Adams and the women might pass through, with a warning? Or should he get on a horse, ride after them, and alert them himself?