They went up the stairs.
* * *
Clint considered waiting for the men in the lobby, but then there were the others who would be coming up the back stairs.
That was when he saw the hatch in the ceiling.
* * *
Mitchell and his two men forced open the back door of the hotel and started climbing the stairs. The sergeant, being nervous about the whole affair, had moved a few minutes too soon. He and his men got to the second floor before Denim and the others.
“What room?” one of his men asked.
Mitchell stopped.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember.”
“What the hell—” the other man said. “What do we do now?”
“Fifteen!” Mitchell said. “I just remembered. It’s fifteen.”
“Where are the others?” one of the two men asked.
Mitchell, who had been hesitant so far, suddenly grew impatient and said, “Let’s just get this done. There’s three of them and three of us.”
“But . . . one of them is the Gunsmith,” one man said.
“We better wait for the others,” the other said.
Mitchell got nervous again and said, “Right.”
* * *
Clint was on the roof, listening to the conversation through the hatch. If he dropped down now, he could kill the three of them, but what about the other four? Would they come running up, or be warned off?
Through the opening, he was able to see the door of his room. He decided to wait.
* * *
As Denim and his two men reached the second floor, he saw Mitchell and his two at the other end.
“What are you waiting for?” Denim called. “Let’s go.”
They all started down the hall, and Denim stopped in front of room thirteen.
“Oh,” Mitchell said, “thirteen!”
* * *
As Denim kicked the door in, Clint dropped down through the hatch. He’d considered shooting them from above, but that would be akin to shooting them in the back.
He was no backshooter.
* * *
As the door slammed open, Pike levered his rifle and opened fire.
At the sound of the gunshots, Donnelly came running from his room.
The hallway erupted in gunfire.
* * *
Denim turned as Clint landed. His eyes went wide and he yelled, “Adams! Get him!”
The others turned to look at Denim, and by the time they realized what was happening, lead slammed into them from all sides.
Pike and Donnelly fired wildly, but their bullets managed to kill three of the men. Clint fired his weapon coolly and killed the other three.
And then it got quiet.
* * *
Pike came out of the room, and Donnelly walked down the hall.
Clint inspected the bodies.
“They’re all dead.”
Donnelly looked at Clint.
“You’re shot.”
Clint glanced down at himself, saw that a bullet had creased his left shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said, “I think one of you did that.”
“Jesus!” Pike said.
“Sorry,” Donnelly said.
“Forget it.” Clint stared down at the dead men. “Couldn’t keep one of them alive. Not in that hail of bullets.”
Pike counted the bodies and said, “There’s only six of them.”
“What?” Donnelly said.
“Count ’em yourself,” Pike said. “Six.” He looked at Clint. “There were seven, right?”
“Yeah. The other one must be covering the lobby.”
“Then let’s get him,” Donnelly said.
He started down the hall, but Clint grabbed his arm.
“We need this one alive,” he reminded him.
“Right.”
FORTY-FIVE
The seventh man gave up quietly when Donnelly, Clint, and Pike came down the stairs. Once the man had identified Tom Colby as the leader of the counterfeiting operation, Donnelly handed him over to two police officers sent by the chief.
“I hope we can trust those two to keep that man alive,” Clint said.
“I know them,” Donnelly said. “As far as I can tell, they’re honest. And the chief sent them.”
“And as far as we can tell, he’s honest,” Clint said.
“So far,” Pike said.
They left the hotel and went directly to the Colby house. As they approached the front door, but before knocking, Clint stopped them.
“I’m going around to the back,” he said. “Give me five minutes and then knock.”
“Right,” Donnelly said.
Pike nodded. He was back to carrying Clint’s Colt New Line, having left the rifle behind.
“Five minutes,” Clint reminded them.
* * *
When he got around to the rear of the house, he waited. After three minutes, he forced open the back door. He found himself in the kitchen with Mrs. Preston, the cook.
“Wha—”
He held his finger to his lips, then whispered, “Out.”
“You can’t—”
“There’s going to be gunplay,” he said. “Get out.”
Her eyes widened. She dried her hands on her apron and slipped out the back door.
Clint moved to the doorway that led to the dining room. He heard some commotion from the other room, was about to go through the door when he heard Colby’s voice.
“You can come in, Adams,” Colby said. “We’ve got your two partners covered.”
Damn it, he thought. He went through the door, saw Colby and his wife standing there with smug looks on their faces. Pike and Donnelly were off to one side. They had been disarmed, and were standing under the barrel of a gun.
The gun was held by Henry Crane, the gambler.
“You!” Clint said.
“Me,” Crane said with a smile. “When you showed up in town, they needed somebody to keep an eye on you.”
“He came up behind us,” Donnelly said.
“You’re a gambler,” Clint said.
“Mr. Crane is a lot more than that,” Colby said. “He’s one of those rarities.”
“Rarities?”
“A fast man with a gun who has kept a low profile,” Colby said. “No reputation to give him away.”
Crane grinned and shrugged. Clint knew he was in trouble. Crane already had his gun out.
“How fast?” he asked.
“Real fast,” Colby said. “I’ve seen him.”
“And how much of a gambler are you, Henry? I mean, really?” Clint asked.
“You’ve seen me play—oh, I see what you mean. Interesting.”
“What?” Ingrid Colby asked. “What’s interesting?”
“Mr. Adams is proposing a big gamble,” Crane said.
“What are you talking about?” Colby asked. “Kill him. And them.”
“Do it!” Ingrid shouted.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Crane said. “This is the Gunsmith we’re talking about.”
“Henry—”
“A gamble, you say,” Crane said to Clint. “You against me.”
“If you’re really that good.”
“Oh no,” Colby said, getting it now. “Don’t.”
“What? What?” Ingrid asked.
“He’s going to try him,” Colby said. “Henry’s going to try the Gunsmith.”
“You can’t!” Ingrid said. “That’d be gambling with all our lives. You have no right.”
That seemed to make the proposition irresistible to Crane.
Colby looked on the floor, where Donnelly’s and Pike’s guns were.
Crane stepped away from the two men, holstered his gun.
�
�No!” Ingrid shouted.
“Shut up,” Crane said. “Anytime, Clint.”
“Big mistake, Henry,” Clint said. “This is why you never would have been a good gambler.”
He drew and fired.
* * *
Clint, Donnelly, Pike, and several uniformed policemen they were now sure were honest—since Mitchell, the insider, had been found out—broke down the door of the back room in Tom Colby’s farming equipment store.
They found two dead men, and a variety of counterfeiting paraphernalia.
“No German,” Donnelly said. “What did you say that fella’s name was?”
“Ninger,” Pike said. “Emanuel Ninger.”
Walking around, Clint stopped at a batch of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. “He must have killed those two and left the bills behind. Guess he wasn’t happy with the working conditions here.”
“Yeah,” Pike said, “but how many bills did he take with him?”
Clint grinned and said, “That’s your job to find out, my friend.”
Pike looked at him and grinned back.
“Sure you don’t want to come back East with me and find him?” Pike asked.
“Not me,” Clint said. “My part ended when I shot Henry Crane.”
Pike looked at Donnelly, who shook his head.
“I’m happy here,” the detective said.
“Well,” Pike said, “I’ll transport the Colbys back with me, and whatever men they have left, get them situated in a nice federal prison, and then start my search for Mr. Ninger.”
“You better take some time to heal up first, Pike,” Clint advised him. “And for Chrissake, this time get yourself a partner!”
Watch for
THE SOUTH FORK SHOWDOWN
394th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove
Coming in October!
The Counterfeit Gunsmith Page 12
