Let It Bleed

by J. R. Roberts

  * * *

  In his room, Harry Temple sat on his bed and wondered about some of his recent decisions. Discovering that Clint Adams was in Abilene and then recruiting him still seemed logical to him. He’d been chasing this killer for two years alone. Now he finally had an ally. But Clint’s idea to dangle Temple as bait, that he wasn’t so sure about. Well, it was done now. The piece would come out in the morning paper, and that was that. But that didn’t mean he was going to be able to sleep.

  Or maybe this would be his last chance to get a good night’s sleep. After tonight, like Clint had said, there’d be a target on his back.

  He got undressed, slid under the sheet, and tried to sleep.

  * * *

  Clint was reading Dickens when there was a light knock on the door. He wondered if it was Temple. Maybe the young man was unable to sleep. He wouldn’t have blamed him. Not at all.

  He got up from the bed, put down the book, took his gun from his holster, and walked to the door.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Who’s there?”

  “Who do you think?” a woman’s voice asked. “How many women do you know in town who would come to your door?”

  “Mattie?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Let me in before somebody sees me standing in the hall.”

  He moved the chair, unlocked the door, and opened it. She slipped in.

  “Quick,” she said, “close the door.”

  He did so, then turned to face her.

  “Are you gonna shoot me?”

  He looked down at the gun in his hand, forgotten for the moment.

  “Of course not.”

  He walked to the bed and put it back in the holster, then turned to her again.

  “Mattie, what are you doing here?”

  “We started something this morning that we didn’t finished,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’ve been here before.”

  “That was different.”

  “How?”

  “There was no danger before.”

  “And there is now?”

  “Yes, possibly.”

  “From what?”

  “A man.”

  She sat down on the bed. She was wearing a cotton dress and a sweater she said she had knitted herself.

  “You’re being cryptic,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  He sat on the bed next to her.

  “Okay,” he said, “you know about the girl who was strangled.”

  “Laurie.”

  “You knew her?”

  “She was a customer. I was so sorry when she was killed. What about her?”

  “I’m helping to find her killer.”

  “But that’s wonderful. Are you doing it alone?”

  “No, not alone.”

  “Who are you working with?”

  “Well, the police.”

  “And?”

  “What do you mean, ‘and’?”

  “I heard an ‘and.’”

  “I’m working with somebody else,” he admitted, “but you don’t know him.”

  “Maybe I’d like to meet him if he’s gonna help you find Laurie’s killer.”

  “Okay,” he said, “maybe.”

  “You still haven’t told me why it’s dangerous to be here with you.”

  “You know who I am.”

  “The big bad Gunsmith that everybody’s afraid of,” she said. “Only you’re not so scary to me.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. The kiss went on for some time, and then he pulled away.

  “I should send you packing,” he said.

  “You think the killer’s gonna come after you here?”

  “You never know.”

  “How does he know you’re after him?”

  “He doesn’t, not for sure,” he said. “But he will know by tomorrow.”

  She slid her hand across his stomach and pressed her face close to his. “Then we have until tomorrow.”

  This time he kissed her . . .

  * * *

  When Abe Corman answered the knock at his door, he found Pete Tanner standing there.

  “Hey, Pete,” he said. “Didn’t hear you ride up.”

  “Came in my buggy.”

  “Come on in,” Corman said. “Drink?”

  “Just a quick one,” Tanner said. “I gotta get back. I just wanted to check something with you.”

  Corman led him into the living room, poured two glasses of brandy, and handed one to the editor.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Clint Adams,” Tanner said after a sip. “I understand he’s a friend of yours. At least, that’s what I heard.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He and Harry Temple, they’re after this man who strangled Laurie Wilson.”

  “And?”

  “Temple’s got an article in the paper tomorrow that’s really going to heat things up.”

  “Look, Pete,” Corman said, “the strangler is one man, and Clint Adams can handle any one man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Okay, then.” Tanner tossed off the drink. “Got to get back. I need to get the early edition out.”

  “I’ll look forward to reading it.”

  He walked Tanner to the door, closed it behind him, hoping to God he was right.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mattie liked the way Clint’s cock felt inside her when she had her legs in the air. And when he grabbed her ankles and spread her even more, she gasped. He drove himself into her, grunting with the effort. She did her best to meet each of his thrusts, and their effort covered them with perspiration. The sweat made her body gleam in the light from the wall lamp. It enflamed his ardor even more, causing his penis to feel even harder. He felt as if he were battering her with a railroad tie.

  “Oh God, yes, Clint, yes,” she said, keeping up a steady stream of dialogue, some of his the dirtiest talk he’d ever heard. “Fuck me, damnit, fuck me harder, come on, do it, split me . . .”

  “Mattie,” he grunted, “for once in your life . . . shut up!”

  After that she grunted and groaned, and yelled, but tried not to blather on. Finally, she screamed when he exploded inside her, but he could barely hear her because of his own roar . . .

  * * *

  Mattie sat cross-legged on the bed, still naked, with her hands over her mouth.

  “I didn’t mean to scream,” she said. “Do you think anybody heard me?”

  “I hardly heard you,” he said, “but then I was pretty loud, too.”

  He was standing at the window, also naked, looking out.

  “Anybody out there?” she asked.

  “It’s dark,” he said. “Can’t tell.”

  He turned back toward the interior of the room. Mattie was now sitting with her hands down, and he had a clear view of her full, somewhat chubby breasts. She was tall, and when she was dressed, her breasts didn’t seem that big, but when she was naked, he could see the deep undersides in all their glory, as well at the dark nipples and wide areolae.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said.

  “And sweaty,” she said.

  “That’s part of it.”

  She stared at his crotch and said, “You’re not so bad yourself. Bring that over here.”

  “I think I still need a few minutes,” Clint told her.

  “I can get you up for the job,” she said confidently.

  He looked down at his penis, which was semierect and hardening.

  “I seem to be doing all right myself,” he pointed out.

  “I still want you over here,” she said, patting the mattress.

  He started for the bed, saying, “Be caref
ul what you wish for.”

  * * *

  Harry Temple thought he heard a scream, and then a yell.

  He rolled over in bed and listened, but there was nothing further. Unsure about whether or not he’d really heard what he thought he heard, he got up and walked to the door. Pressing his ear to it, he listened, but there was nothing. Maybe he had been dreaming.

  He went back to bed, but couldn’t sleep. He thought about going down the hall to Clint’s room to see if he was asleep, but after all, Clint was the Gunsmith. He probably never had a problem sleeping.

  Maybe a drink would help, but he had no whiskey. And leaving the hotel and going to a saloon alone would be taking a chance. He looked over at his gun belt, sitting on the chair where he’d put it. He really wasn’t very good with it. He wasn’t a fool. If he was going to get through this, he was going to have to depend on Clint Adams’s gun.

  * * *

  Clint rolled onto his back and tried to catch his breath.

  “I get it now,” he said. “You’re going to try to kill me before anybody else does.”

  “I just figure I should take advantage of you while I have you,” she said. “Starting tomorrow morning, who knows when I’ll get to see you again—if at all.”

  He didn’t comment.

  She rolled over and pressed her chin to his shoulder.

  “You’re not going to get killed, are you, Clint?” she asked.

  “Not if I can help it, Mattie.”

  “Well,” she said, “maybe you could help it by not making a target of yourself.”

  “Actually,” Clint said, “it’s not me who’s the target.”

  “It’s the other fella?” she asked. “The one you’re working with?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Clint said. “And he needs me to watch his back.”

  “Can’t the law watch his back?”

  Clint put his arm around her and pulled her close, nuzzled her hair.

  “They can watch their own backs.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dillon and Benson stood in front of the police department building.

  “Nobody’s here,” Dillon said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Stokes said we had to report,” Benson said. “So we better report.”

  “Wait,” Dillon said. “You sayin’ we should go to his house?”

  “That’s where he’s gonna be, ain’t it?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Then let’s go,” Benson said. “If you think of a better idea on the way, you can let me know.”

  * * *

  The door was answered by a handsome-looking woman in her mid-thirties.

  “Mrs. Stokes,” Benson said. “We’re looking for your husband.”

  She didn’t look happy. “Wait here.”

  She closed the door in their faces. Moments later Stokes opened the door, holding a napkin, and glared at them.

  “You men were supposed to report in at the end of the day!” he said.

  Benson looked confused.

  “We are.”

  “I meant at headquarters!”

  “B-But . . . you said to stay with them ’til the end of the day,” Benson said. “They turned in a little while ago.”

  “So they’re at their hotel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Stokes asked. “At least one of you should be watching it all night.”

  “All night?” Dillon asked.

  “All night,” Stokes said. “Then one of you report to me in the morning. Now get out of here. Don’t come to my house again!”

  He slammed the door on them.

  Dillon looked at Benson and said, “Told you this was a bad idea.”

  * * *

  Mattie left in the morning.

  “I need a bath before work,” she said.

  “You smell fine to me,” Clint said to her at the door.

  “My customers won’t think so,” she said. “They’ll smell you all over me.”

  “The old biddies who come to your store don’t remember the smell of a man on a woman.”

  “You’re forgetting that Laura was a customer in my store,” she reminded him. She poked him in the chest with her finger. “Find whoever killed her.”

  “I intend to.”

  She kissed him and left.

  * * *

  After cleaning up in the basin in his room, Clint went down to the lobby. Temple was already there, sitting in a chair, waiting.

  “When did you get up?” Clint asked.

  “Earlier than you.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “you should be. Come on. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “And the condemned ate a hearty meal,” Temple said, following Clint into the dining room.

  * * *

  “Wait a minute,” Temple said a little while later. “You knew Mark Twain?”

  “I know Samuel Clemens,” Clint said. “Who happens to use the name ‘Mark Twain.’”

  “Wow,” Temple said, “that man is a brilliant storyteller.”

  “And writer.”

  Temple shrugged.

  “What? You don’t think Mark Twain is a brilliant writer?” Clint asked.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Temple said, cutting the ham on his plate, “like I said, a brilliant storyteller, but as a writer? I think he needs a good editor.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Clint said. “What about Dickens?”

  “Again,” Temple said, “a great storyteller.”

  “Okay, smart guy,” Clint said, “so who’s a great writer?”

  “Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Wasn’t he a drunk?”

  “What’s that got to do with writing?” Temple asked.

  “You have a point. Who else?”

  “Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. Amazing.”

  “I met Stevenson.”

  Temple dropped his fork.

  “Just in passing once,” Clint said, “on a train.”

  Temple got over his shock, picked up his fork, and asked, “Who else have you met?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After breakfast Clint and Temple walked over to the Reporter-News office. As they walked in, Pete Tanner slapped copies of the early edition into their hands.

  “There you have it!” he exclaimed. “It’s already on the street.”

  “Good,” Temple said without enthusiasm.

  Clint didn’t comment; he just started reading the article. In it, Temple pointed out how the killer had started in Boston, how the police there couldn’t catch him, and how since then he’d moved west, each time killing without being caught. Then Temple spent a couple of paragraphs on the Abilene murder, and how lost the Abilene police were. He then assured the public that he knew how this killer worked, and before long—with his help—the man would be caught.

  “You didn’t put ‘Mulligan’ in here,” Clint commented.

  “That hasn’t been his name since Boston,” Temple pointed out.

  “What about a description?”

  “I’ve never seen him,” Temple said, “and the descriptions have varied.”

  “But . . . you said you had information about who he was, and that’s why he left Boston.”

  “Right,” Temple said, “I had the name ‘Mulligan.’”

  Clint lowered the paper and looked at Temple.

  “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s all you had?”

  “What did you think I had?”

  “I thought you knew who he was,” Clint said, “and
that was why he left Boston.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You never said you didn’t.”

  Tanner smirked and said, “That’s newspaperman talk. Never let ’em know what you have, and what you don’t have.”

  “So we really don’t know who we’re looking for,” Clint said.

  “No,” Temple said, “but thanks to this article, he knows who he’s looking for.”

  “That target on your back just got a whole lot bigger,” Clint said.

  “Are you saying you can’t protect me?” Temple asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “I’m just saying it’ll be harder to watch your back when I don’t know who I’m watching for.”

  “Your other piece is in tomorrow’s edition,” Tanner said.

  “What?” Temple asked, whipping his head around to look at Tanner.

  “The one about the mayor and the chief?” Tanner said. “Tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Temple said, “then by tomorrow morning, they’ll want me dead, too.”

  * * *

  “Sonofabitch!” the chief of police said.

  Stokes stood in front of the man’s desk, remaining silent.

  “Have you seen this?” the chief demanded, waving the newspaper over his head.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is how he intends to help catch a killer?” Landry demanded. “By making us seem like we’re lost.”

  “We are kind of lost, sir.”

  “I don’t want to hear that, Detective!” Landry exploded.

  “No, sir.”

  The chief slammed the newspaper down on his desk.

  “There is one thing this article accomplishes,” Stokes added.

  “And what might that be?”

  “It puts a target right on this reporter’s back,” Stokes said. “The killer is bound to make a try at him.”

  Landry thought a moment, then said, “I suppose you could look at it that way. You still got two men watching them?”

  “I do.”

  “Good men?”

  “They could be better,” Stokes said after a moment’s hesitation.