The Hunt for Clint Adams

by J. Roberts

  “What the—Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams, friend,” Clint said, “and you’ve got one chance to live.”

  “W-what’s that?”

  “Answer my questions,” Clint said. “First time I think I hear a lie, I’m going to pull the trigger.”

  There were times when Clint’s reputation as the Gunsmith worked for him. This was one of those times. He could see by the look on the man’s face that he believed him.

  “You ready?” Clint asked.

  “I-I’m ready.”

  “Okay, question one,” Clint said, “and remember, don’t lie.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Clint left the hotel, confident that he’d taken care of two of Tarver’s men. He looked up and down the street and didn’t see anybody. If he was lucky, Tarver, Dexter, and the third man were still in the saloon. He’d cut his odds down from 5 to 1 to 3 to 1. And he still had time to work on improving them further.

  He went back to the Cut Loose. Two cowboys came walking out and passed him without a second look. He peered in the window and saw Tarver and Dexter still sitting at their table. The other fellow was still standing at the bar, nursing his beer, or another beer. Abruptly, Tarver stood up and headed for the door.

  Clint melted into the darkness as Tarver came out. Tarver turned and walked purposefully. Clint followed at a distance and watched his enemy enter a hotel. If he was turning in for the night, Clint was willing to let him go. He wanted to take care of the other two men before he faced Tarver.

  He changed direction and went back to the Cut Loose.

  Back in Wichita, Clint had seen Bart Dexter around town before the robbery. He assumed Dexter had seen him, too. If he walked into the Cut Loose, there was a good chance the man would recognize him.

  He peered in over the batwings one more time, then decided to take the bull by the horns and walk in.

  Dexter was wondering if waiting for Clint Adams was the smart thing to do. Maybe he should just kill Tarver, then he and Gerald could ride out, start a new gang, and get on with their lives. Messing with the Gunsmith could only end badly.

  He was about to go to the bar for another beer when the batwing doors opened and a man walked in. He recognized him immediately.

  Clint Adams.

  He tried to catch Gerald’s eye but the younger man was staring into his beer, maybe having his own thoughts on the subject.

  Dexter looked at Clint Adams again. The man was looking at him, and then walking over to him. It was all he could do not to stand up and go for his gun, but he controlled himself. After all, he hadn’t done anything to Clint Adams.

  Clint walked to Dexter’s table, glanced at the other man at the bar, who wasn’t paying any attention. That was a good way to get yourself killed.

  When he reached Dexter, he had to give the man credit. He was doing everything he could to appear calm.

  “Dexter,” he said.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Give it some thought,” Clint said. “It’ll come to you.”

  Dexter stared at him, then acted like it dawned on him.

  “Clint Adams,” Dexter said. “I remember.”

  “Now dig deeper and remember where.”

  “Wichita,” Dexter said.

  “You got it.”

  “What brings you here?” Dexter asked. “Don’t tell me you’re still ridin’ with a five-year-old posse.”

  “No, those days are gone,” Clint said. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Get yourself a beer first,” Dexter said.

  “How about another for you?”

  “Sure.”

  Clint walked to the bar and got two beers. He deliberately stood right next to the young man who was with Dexter. Still nothing. Clint carried two beers back to the table. He could see by the look on Dexter’s face that he wasn’t happy.

  “Bad choice,” Clint said, pushing the beer across the table.

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Fella at the bar,” Clint said. “If he’s supposed to be watching your back, he’s doing a bad job of it.”

  Dexter looked as if he was going to deny it, but then gave in. “Hard to find good help these days. Not like the old days, huh?”

  “You mean when you were riding with Tarver?” Clint asked. “Those weren’t such good days. After all, he was cutting you out of your share of forty thousand.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Come on, you know, Dexter,” Clint said. “Why are you helping him now?”

  “Now? He’s in Yuma Prison.”

  “No,” Clint said, “he’s in his hotel, right here in town. I followed him there just a few minutes ago.”

  “Then why didn’t you kill him?”

  “You know, Dex,” Clint said, “I thought you might want to do that for yourself.”

  FORTY-TWO

  “Why would I wanna kill Tarver?” Dexter asked. “He’s my partner.”

  “Because you know he was cutting you out of that bank job when I caught him,” Clint said. “You’ve been waiting for him all these years.”

  “I’ve got more money in my pocket now than I’ve had in five years,” Dexter said. “That’s because of Tarver.”

  “So then you’re here to help him kill me?”

  “No,” Dexter said. “He doesn’t want any help. Says he’s gonna do it himself.”

  “Then why have four men with him?”

  “Four?”

  “You, him, and those other two. Or did you think there were six?”

  “What happened to Bobby and Tom?”

  “Bobby’s dead, Tom’s in jail in Colorado Springs. So it’s just the four of you. Or is it?”

  “What are you gonna do?” Dexter asked.

  “Well, if what you say is true, I’ll face Tarver. It’ll be him or me. But then what will you do?”

  “Well, if you kill him, I’ll ride out of town,” Dexter said.

  “And if he kills me?”

  “Then like you said,” Dexter answered, “I’ll kill him.”

  “So you do know he was going to cut you out?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dexter said. “When he insisted on keepin’ the money with him, all of it, I figured. I tracked him, but you got him first.”

  “And put him in Yuma.”

  “And returned the money.”

  “Yes, that, too,” Clint said.

  “Forty thousand,” Dexter said.

  “Forty-two, actually.”

  “And it never occurred to you to take it?”

  “No,” Clint said, “never.”

  Dexter sat back.

  “I can’t imagine that,” Dexter said. “Thinking like you, I mean.”

  “No,” Clint said, “I don’t guess you can.”

  “Who’s this?”

  They both looked up at Gerald, who was standing by the table.

  “Dan, meet Clint Adams.”

  The kid went for his gun; Clint clamped his hand down on it.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  Gerald looked at Dexter.

  “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead, Dan,” he said. “He was standing right next to you five minutes ago.”

  “He was?”

  “Go back to the bar, have another beer,” Dexter said.

  “Yeah,” Gerald said, “okay.”

  Clint released the younger man’s hand. Gerald returned to the bar.

  “If he tries to pull that gun I’ll kill him,” Clint said. “You know that.”

  “I know,” Dexter said. “What’d you do with McDermott and Stevens?”

  “They’re both asleep,” Clint said. “If I was you I wouldn’t wake them.”

  “No,” Dexter said, “I won’t.”

  “What should I do, Dexter?” Clint asked. “Should I kill you and Gerald, then take care of Tarver?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Dexter said. “We’ll stay out of the way, leave you and Tarver a clear field to each other. That’s the way you bo
th want it, right?”

  “Right,” Clint said. “That’s the way we want it.”

  When Clint had tied Stevens up and left him in the alley to sleep for the night he’d gone through his pockets and found a key. He assumed it was his hotel key.

  When he left the saloon he knew he needed a place to spend the night. First he had to take care of Eclipse. Hoping whoever ran the livery spent the night there, he walked the big horse down and banged on the door. There was no answer, but he found the doors unlocked.

  He unsaddled the big Darley Arabian, rubbed him down good, fed him, and then went to the hotel.

  “What room is Mr. Stevens in?” he asked.

  “Room nine, second floor, sir.”

  “And is Mr. Dexter staying here?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Has he come in yet?”

  “Yessir, just before you. He’s in his room.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You certainly do have a lot of friends, sir,” the clerk said.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Clint said. “just none in this town.”

  He left the clerk looking puzzled and went to room nine.

  FORTY-THREE

  Tarver woke the next morning, wondering if this would be the day he’d get his revenge for four and a half years spent in Yuma. Granted, he’d gotten an education while he was there, but he still would much rather have been spending the forty-two thousand dollars he’d gotten from the bank in Wichita.

  He got dressed and went out to have himself a good breakfast. He hated killing on an empty stomach.

  Dexter woke at first light and spent an hour standing at the window, looking down at the street. It had occurred to him to find Stevens and McDermott and untie them, but they didn’t really matter to him. Tarver had hired them, let him be the one to untie them, if he was able. All he’d have to do was avoid being killed by either the Gunsmith, or by Dexter. One of them was going to put Tarver down today. If Tarver survived, he’d be the luckiest man alive.

  Clint spent the night in the room rented by Stevens. In the morning he stopped in to check on McDermott. The man was still trussed up, and he was awake. His eyes went wide when Clint opened the door, and Clint backed out as the man began to grunt.

  Apparently, Dexter had kept his word and had not untied McDermott, or—hopefully—Stevens. He wondered what Dexter had told his young partner at the bar?

  Tarver had to have come out of Yuma smarter than when he went in. If not, then he’d completely wasted those four and a half years. If he’d come out smarter, how could he not see how angry Dexter still was about the forty thousand? Or maybe he did see it, and had already planned for it.

  Clint wondered if Dexter would still go for Tarver if Tarver managed to kill him, the Gunsmith. That would certainly give Tarver a much bigger reputation than he presently had. Would Dexter be willing to go up against the man who killed the Gunsmith? Alone?

  Clint hoped that question would never find an answer, because that would mean he would be dead.

  Dexter found Tarver having breakfast in a small café they had both found when they first came to town.

  “He’s here,” he said, sitting across from him.

  “What?”

  “Adams,” Dexter said. “He’s here.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Saw him, talked to him.”

  “When?”

  “Last night, after you turned in.”

  “You tell him where I was?”

  “I didn’t tell him nothin’,” Dexter said. “He recognized me and came over. I told him I recognized him from Wichita.”

  “Anybody else see him?”

  “Gerald.”

  “McDermott and Stevens weren’t there?”

  “They turned in, too. Stevens said he was goin’ to get a whore.”

  “Where are they now?”

  Dexter shrugged.

  “Ain’t seen ’em.”

  He called the waiter over and ordered ham, eggs, and coffee.

  Tarver, he noticed, was eating his own flapjack breakfast a lot slower.

  Clint found a restaurant that seemed popular because people were going in and out. He entered and was able to get a table against the wall. He looked around and didn’t see anyone he knew, so he ordered steak and eggs and settled in to wait.

  “What are you gonna do?” Dexter asked.

  “After I finish eatin’ I’ll go and look for him,” Tarver said. “Ain’t no point in waitin’.”

  “Why don’t you let him find you?” Dexter asked. “Just sit out in front of your hotel and wait. Make you look confident, instead of anxious.”

  “I ain’t anxious,” Tarver said a bit too quickly, “but that is a good idea. Let him find me.”

  “Sure,” Dexter said. “Then you take him.”

  “That’s what this is all about,” Tarver said. “Then I kill him.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Tarver left the café before Dexter, who finished his breakfast in a leisurely fashion and then went looking for Clint Adams.

  Clint was coming out of the restaurant after a so-so breakfast and saw Dexter walking down the street toward him.

  “He’s in front of his hotel, waiting,” Dexter said to him.

  “I thought he’d come looking for me when you told him I was here.”

  “He was going to, but I talked him into just sittin’ and waitin’ for you.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I want to see this end,” Dexter explained. “Didn’t want the two of you stumblin’ around town missin’ each other.”

  “That’s real thoughtful of you.”

  “I’m gonna be in a different part of town, so you don’t have to worry about me,” Dexter said. “I’ll keep the kid with me.”

  “You sure you don’t want to watch?” Clint asked.

  “That’s okay,” Dexter said. “I’m sure I’ll hear about it.” He turned and walked away.

  True to his word, Dexter went to the hotel to fetch Gerald. He wanted to keep him with him and away from the action, so he wouldn’t be tempted to take a hand. The younger man would probably just get himself killed.

  After Dexter left, Clint turned and headed for Tarver’s hotel. As he came within sight of the building he saw a man sitting out front on a wooden chair. He was trying to look relaxed, but Clint could see the tension in Tarver’s body. This was what he had been waiting all these years in Yuma for. There was no way he was going to be relaxed about it.

  Tarver turned his head and saw Clint Adams walking toward him. He recognized the Gunsmith right away, and felt his heart beat quicker. If Adams had faced him that first time, he never would have had to spend that time in Yuma. Tarver would have killed him, and he’d have spent all those years enjoying a new reputation, instead of a prison cell.

  His hands began to itch. It was all he could do not to draw his gun and kill Adams as he approached. In fact, he wanted to jump to his feet, but he waited.

  Clint could sense Tarver’s mood as he got closer; it was either anxiety or excitement. Either one made sense, as the man had probably been thinking about this for a long time.

  “You know,” Tarver said, as Clint reached him, “you shoulda just faced me back then.”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to kill you,” Clint said. “You belonged in prison for what you did.”

  “Why?” Tarver asked. “We didn’t kill anybody. All we did was take their money.”

  “A lot of those people needed their money to live,” Clint said. “If you had gotten away with it, you would have been killing them.”

  “You were scared,” Tarver said. “Admit it.”

  “Scared, sure,” Clint said. “Scared I’d have to kill you.”

  “And what about now?” Tarver asked. “Now you don’t care if you have to kill me?”

  “You’ve been sending your idiots after me, shooting innocent people,” Clint said. “I’ll
kill you just to keep anyone else from getting killed. It’s that simple.”

  “Ain’t simple,” Tarver said. “Ain’t simple at all.”

  “No, you’re right,” Clint said. “It’s not.”

  “So we’ll do it now,” Tarver said, “in the street.”

  “And you’re on your own,” Clint said. “I took care of your other men.”

  “What?”

  “McDermott? Stevens? They’re . . . indisposed. And Dexter and Gerald are . . . off somewhere.”

  “I don’t need them,” Tarver said. “I never need them, not to kill you.”

  “I guess we’ll see, then,” Clint said. “I guess we’ll see.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Tarver stood up, keeping his eyes on Clint the whole time. He wasn’t sure if Clint Adams was going to face him fair or look for an edge. After all, if the Gunsmith thought he could take him he would have done it all those years ago.

  But Adams let him stand up and step down into the street.

  The fool was going to do it.

  Head to head.

  His reputation was made.

  Clint watched closely as Tarver stood up. Quickly, his eyes took in the street, just in case Dexter had changed his mind.

  The street ran north to south, so the sun was in no one’s face, at no one’s back.

  The street was just starting to come alive, and for the moment nobody noticed the two men talking to each other. But when two men move out into the street, facing each other, that’s when people stop to watch. It can only mean one thing.

  Clint saw people starting to notice and figured they better get it over with before a crowd gathered.

  “Go ahead, Tarver,” Clint said. “Do it.”

  “That’s right,” Tarver said, “I heard you always give away the first move. That’ll cost you, this time. Cost you big.”

  “Just shut up and do what you’ve been waiting four and a half years to do: die.”

  Tarver smiled.

  “You’re in a hurry,” Tarver said. “Why? You don’t want to have a big crowd when the legend of the Gunsmith comes to an end?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’d just rather get shot to death than have you talk me to death.”