The Pinkerton Job

by J. R. Roberts

  Siringo got himself out of the street, took cover behind some crates.

  * * *

  There were shooters on both sides of the street. Clint and Siringo ended up taking cover on one side, and Horn on the other. Most of the shooters were on rooftops, but there were a few on the ground level, inside stores.

  Clint saw a storefront with a broken front widow. There were two gun barrels sticking out.

  “Cover me!” he shouted to Siringo.

  He broke cover, ran over to that building, flattened his back against the wall. The overhang gave him cover from across the street, so he was virtually unseen by any of them.

  He inched over to the window, and as a hand came out holding a gun, he grabbed it by the wrist and yanked. The man came tumbling out the window. Clint shot him before he could get his feet back under him.

  The other man inside backed away from the window, but Clint stepped out, confronted him, and shot him.

  Two more down . . .

  * * *

  Cal Anderson finally heard the sounds of the shots once he was done with Delilah. She lay on her back, big breasts flattened out against her chest, her legs wide open, black pubic bush covered with his semen. Her breasts were already starting to show bruises from where he’d gripped them cruelly.

  “What the hell—” he said, getting to his feet.

  Delilah rolled over and got her feet on the floor, reached for her clothes.

  “Sounds like all hell has broke loose,” he said, doing the same.

  “We better get out there,” she said dully.

  “Too bad,” he said, leering at her. “I was kinda hopin’ to stick my dick in your ass.”

  “We’re done, Cal,” she told him, reaching for his gun.

  “Yeah,” he said, “unless Harlan says different.”

  “Harlan,” she said, “can go to hell.”

  “I’d like to see you tell him that,” he said, staggering as he tried to get his leg into his trousers.

  “Maybe I will,” she said, “but I’m gonna send you there first.”

  He was still hopping around on one leg when she shot him in the groin.

  She was tired of being used . . .

  FORTY-ONE

  Horn shot two men on the roof across from him. One fell off, while the other staggered back. He didn’t reappear, so Horn assumed he had killed him.

  He studied the rooftops across from him, didn’t see any more men. He saw Clint across the street, standing in front of a store where he had killed two men. Horn judged they had killed about six ambushers so far.

  Not bad.

  He started to ease himself from cover when suddenly a body fell from above him, almost landing on him . . .

  * * *

  Siringo fired at the roof, just above where Horn had taken cover. The man fell off the roof, and almost hit Horn, who had started to come out from behind the trough.

  “Hey!” Horn yelled. “Watch it!”

  “Sorry!” Siringo shouted.

  * * *

  Clint studied the rooftops in front of him, waiting for someone with a rifle to show himself. By his count they’d taken care of seven men.

  He took himself back over to where Siringo was crouched.

  “You see Sandusky?”

  “No,” Siringo said, “and I ain’t seen a woman yet either.”

  Horn came walking across the street, reloading as he did.

  “I heard some horses,” he said. “I think the rest of them hightailed it.”

  Clint and Siringo also reloaded. All three kept their eyes peeled.

  “Let’s take a look around,” Siringo said.

  They walked down the street, aware that they were being watched from some windows, but apparently by denizens of Socorro, who had taken refuge from the firefight.

  Finally, a door opened and a man crept out.

  “Don’t shoot, señor,” he said, his hands up.

  “Relax, old timer,” Siringo said. “We’re not gonna shoot you.”

  “They are all dead, señores,” the man said. “You have killed them, or chased them off. Gracias.”

  “What about the leader, señor?” Clint said. “Where would he be?”

  “They were using the cantina down the street,” the old man said, pointing. “I am going to tell my people they may come out.”

  “Go ahead,” Siringo said.

  The three of them walked to the cantina and entered, guns in hand. The bartender stood behind the bar with his hands up.

  “Where are they?” Siringo asked.

  “They went out the back,” the said. “They took my shotgun, señores.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Clint said.

  They went through the back door, found it similar to the one in Juarez, rooms where whores could take their johns. They found a woman, too old to be a whore but obviously still working, in one of the rooms, and she waved her hands at them.

  “No, no, no,” she said.

  “Take it easy, señorita,” Clint said.

  She calmed down when Siringo said something to her in Spanish. She replied at length.

  “What’d she say?” Clint said.

  “She says she’s the only puta here, but that one of the men took a gringa woman into another room.”

  “Let’s check it out,” Clint said.

  They moved farther down the hall, found a couple of empty rooms, then the room they wanted.

  As they entered, the woman sitting on the bed looked up. She started to lift her gun, then decided against it and just let it drop from her hand. She looked like a once attractive woman who had lived a hard life. The room smelled like sex.

  On the floor was a dead man, lying on his face, not even half into his trousers, a pool of blood around him.

  “Is that Sandusky?” Clint asked.

  Siringo bent over to look, but the woman spoke.

  “No, that’s Cal Anderson,” she said. “Sandusky’s second in command.”

  “And you?” Horn asked.

  “Delilah,” she said.

  “Sandusky’s woman?”

  She nodded.

  “Where is he?” the detective asked.

  She shrugged, said, “He gave me to Cal, and while we were in here, he left. Rode off. Our horses were in the back, but his is gone.”

  “Why did you kill him?” Horn asked.

  She shrugged again. “Just tired of bein’ used and bruised, I guess.”

  Horn left the room to check the horses and make sure she was telling the truth. He was back in seconds.

  “She’s right,” he said. “One horse rode off.”

  “He used the commotion to get away,” Clint said. “Probably hoped some or all of us would get killed.”

  “Are you Siringo?” she asked the detective.

  “Yes.”

  “He talked about you,” she said. Then she looked at Clint. “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  She looked at Horn. “You ain’t Elfego Baca.”

  “No,” he said, “Tom Horn.”

  “Baca had his own business to take care of,” Clint said.

  “So none of you is dead.”

  “No,” Siringo said.

  “Good,” she said. “Then you’ll catch him.”

  “Oh, we’ll catch him,” Siringo assured her. “Any idea where he went?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “He said he was going back to the U.S.”

  “We’ll track him,” Horn said. “We got ’em all except him.”

  “And you,” Clint said to Delilah. “What should we do with you?”

  “I don’t really care,” she said.

  “Let her go,” Siringo said.

  “What?” Horn asked.

  “He
used ’er,” Siringo said, “and tossed her away. What good does it do to put her in jail?”

  “I agree,” Clint said.

  Horn shook his head. “You guys are soft.”

  The three of them looked at her one more time, then turned and left the room.

  FORTY-TWO

  Sandusky tried to shake them by switching horses frequently, riding in streams, doubling back, and eventually, riding from Texas into Louisiana.

  It went on for weeks, and about the only good part was that Horn’s leg was healing well.

  “Is he heading for New Orleans?” Siringo wondered. “He’d stand out there.”

  “He’s got to go through Baton Rouge first,” Clint said. “Maybe we can catch him there.”

  “What about more men?” Siringo asked. “It seems to be his talent, picking up men to work with him.”

  “Unless the word gets around how he’s been treatin’ his men,” Clint said, “givin’ them up so he can get away.”

  “Well,” Horn said, “judging from his tracks, he hasn’t picked up anybody yet. But that doesn’t mean he won’t somewhere along the way.”

  “If I was him,” Clint said, “somewhere in Louisiana I’d switch to the river.”

  “Hop on a riverboat upriver?” Siringo said. “That’s a good idea, Clint. But maybe he ain’t that smart.”

  “Or maybe he don’t like boats,” Horn said. “I know they make me sick.”

  “Well, whatever happens,” Clint said, “we need to restock in Baton Rouge.”

  “We’ll be there in an hour,” Horn said. “And his tracks head straight there.”

  “When we get there, we might as well check on boats,” Siringo said. “It’s too good an idea to pass up.”

  “Agreed,” Horn said.

  * * *

  Sandusky had decided he needed a boat.

  Tom Horn was a tracker, a manhunter. As long as Horn was tracking him with Adams and Siringo and whoever else was with them, Sandusky needed to find a way not to leave a trail. That meant water.

  He’d tried riding through streams, but that would only delay things. As he approached Baton Rouge, he realized he could catch a riverboat there and take it upstream to Vicksburg or Saint Louis.

  Once he put the Mississippi between himself and them, they’d never catch him.

  * * *

  When they reached Baton Rouge, they decided before picking up any supplies that they’d better figure out whether Sandusky was there, had been there but had ridden on, or had gotten himself on a boat.

  “I’ll check the riverboats,” Clint offered.

  “I’ll check the hotels,” Horn said, because he didn’t really want to go near the river.

  “I’ll talk to the local law, then see what I can find out from the livery stables,” Siringo said. “If all of that fails, we can check the saloons together.”

  They agreed, and split up.

  * * *

  Sandusky found a boat that would be leaving later that day. He had three hours to kill. One thing he wanted to do was sell his horse and saddle. He still had some money left over from the last job he’d pulled, but he didn’t want to take the horse and saddle on the boat. He could buy new ones at the other end. He’d decided to take the riverboat—called The Enterprise—all the way up to Saint Louis.

  He bought his ticket, and headed for the nearest livery stable to make a deal.

  * * *

  Clint checked with the harbormaster and found out that a boat would be leaving in the next hour or so.

  “Is it here, or is it coming in?” he asked.

  “It’s here,” he was told.

  He went down to the river to take a look at The Enterprise.

  * * *

  Siringo tried three livery stables, and at the third one he heard that a man had recently sold his saddle and horse.

  “Can I see them?”

  “You wanna buy ’em?” the liveryman asked.

  “No, I just wanna see them.”

  “Still gotta pay,” the man said.

  Siringo paid.

  * * *

  Horn was coming up empty, and was afraid he was going to have to go down to the harbor. His stomach was feeling queasy already.

  * * *

  Sandusky had his ticket and was just waiting for the call to board. He found a saloon near the harbor to wait in. He was told someone would come in and call for passengers.

  * * *

  Siringo found Clint on the river.

  “I found his saddle and horse,” he said. “He sold them to a livery close by.”

  “Are you sure they’re his?”

  “I checked the horse’s hooves,” Siringo said. “Horn said the animal he rode here had a cut on the left rear, and I found it.”

  “Well, I found one boat that’s going out, and it leaves in about half an hour,” Clint said. “We need to find him by then.”

  They saw Horn approaching them, a miserable look on his face.

  “I didn’t find anythin’,” he said.

  “We’ve pinpointed a boat we think he’s takin,” Siringo said.

  “We need to search these docks, and places nearby,” Clint said. “Maybe he’s in a saloon or a restaurant or café.”

  “One of us should stay by the boat, in case he tries to board,” Siringo said.

  “Tom, you’re still limping, even though you’re healing,” Clint said. “Why don’t you do that?”

  Horn didn’t want to be that close to the river, but he couldn’t argue the point.

  “Okay.”

  “Clint, you and me will split up and start searching. If he’s alone, whoever finds him should just try to take him.”

  “Agreed,” Clint said. “It’s time to end this.”

  “We can’t let him leave on that boat,” Siringo said.

  “I won’t let him get on,” Horn promised.

  “And he’s probably still got that shotgun he took from the bartender in Sirocco,” Siringo said, “so be careful.”

  “Let’s get it done,” Clint said.

  FORTY-THREE

  A man stuck his head in the door and called for passengers for The Enterprise.

  “Time to board!” he called out.

  Sandusky grabbed his saddlebags and the shotgun and hurried out.

  * * *

  Siringo was checking cafés and saloons while Clint checked the docks. The detective walked past the saloon just as Sandusky came walking out.

  They completely missed each other.

  * * *

  Sandusky headed for the boat, certain that he had made it. Still, he held the shotgun ready.

  * * *

  Clint spotted a man from behind, approaching the docks, and he studied him for a moment. He saw the saddlebags over his shoulder, and the shotgun in his hands, and decided this was his man.

  * * *

  Horn was scanning the faces of the people who were boarding. The area in front of The Enterprise had become crowded. If he shot Sandusky, there’d be a lot of innocent bystanders who might get hurt.

  * * *

  Sandusky had seen Tom Horn the day that Anderson shot him. When he saw him by the gangway, he knew it was him. He was still hidden from Horn’s view by the other people.

  He stuck the shotgun out in front of him.

  * * *

  Clint lost Sandusky in the crowd, hurriedly tried to work his way through to the boat. If Horn didn’t see the man in time . . .

  * * *

  Sandusky made sure he remained behind a group as they approached the gangway. At the last moment he stepped out and pointed the shotgun at Horn.

  “Time to die,” he said.

  Horn went for his gun, but he wasn’t as fast, and the shotgun was already pointed at him.
/>   He knew he’d never make it.

  * * *

  Clint saw Sandusky point the shotgun at Horn. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot a man in the back, but he had no choice. Even if he yelled, Sandusky might not hear him, or might not turn.

  He drew and fired.

  * * *

  People screamed at the sound of the shot, and most of them hit the ground. As the bullet struck Sandusky, he jerked the shotgun up and it fired into the air.

  Horn stood with his hand on his gun.

  * * *

  Clint approached Sandusky with his gun still out, checked the body. He kicked the shotgun into the water, plucked the man’s pistol out of his holster, and did the same with it.

  “That was close,” Horn said. “Thanks.”

  Siringo came running up with his gun out.

  “It’s over,” Clint said.

  “Clint saved my bacon.”

  People started standing up again, milling about, boarding the boat. A man came running down the gangway, looked like the captain of the boat. And soon, Clint figured, there’d be law.

  “What’s goin’ on?” the captain demanded.

  Clint ignored him and said to Siringo, “That’s Sandusky, isn’t it?” Horn took the captain aside.

  Siringo turned the man over and said, “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “So it’s over,” Clint said. “We’ll just have to explain it to the law when they get here.”

  He ejected the spent shell, replaced it, and holstered his gun.

  “You okay?” Siringo asked.

  “I had to shoot him in the back.”

  “Oh,” Siringo said. “You wouldn’t have done it if you had another way.”

  “I know,” Clint said, “but somehow, that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

  “Well,” Siringo said, putting his hand on Clint’s shoulder, “you wouldn’t be the man you are if it did.”

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