Showdown in Desperation

by J. R. Roberts

  “Where’s he goin’?” Holloway asked, walking over to Hank’s table. “Is he goin’ to see Angel?”

  Hank looked up at him, bleary-eyed.

  “None of yer business.”

  “Hey, old man—” Holloway said, putting his hand on Hank’s shoulder.

  Hank shook it off.

  “Get away from me, kid,” he said. Suddenly, his eyes were a bit clearer.

  “Old man, I oughtta—”

  “You ought to what, you young punk?” Hank asked. “You let some young kid back you down. Don’t try me. I seen more trouble than you can think about.”

  Holloway glared at the old man, then went back to the bar.

  “Crazy old man,” he said to the bartender. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

  “Hank wasn’t always a drunk, Holloway,” the barman said. “He rode the owl hoot trail for a while.”

  “Him?”

  “Oh yeah,” the bartender said. “He rode with some hard ones in his day.”

  Holloway looked over at Hank, who was pulling on his bottle again.

  “Must be how he knew the Gunsmith,” he said.

  “Yeah, must be.”

  Holloway looked over at Hank again. He was completely engrossed in his bottle.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The madam introduced herself as Maisie. She was in her sixties, with a pushed-up, powdered cleavage, the powder making the wrinkles there very clear.

  “Somebody told you about our Angel?” she asked.

  “Everybody talks about Angel,” Clint told her.

  “Yes, I suppose they do,” the woman said. “She’s very special, you know.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Well, you’re very lucky,” Maisie said. “She’s not busy at the moment.”

  “Good. Can I see her?”

  “Well, of course. Wait here.”

  Maisie went into the parlor, came back with a blond woman who looked like a girl of twenty or so—unless you looked at her eyes. There was experience there, and lots of it.

  “This is Angel,” Maisie said.

  “My name is Clint,” he said.

  “Hello, Clint,” Angel said. “Do you want to come up to my room with me?”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Angel put her hand out and said, “Then come along.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Maisie called as they went up the stairs.

  • • •

  In her room Angel turned to him and smiled. He could see why she was so popular. She had a beautiful body, but lots of whores did. It was her face, so young looking, and those eyes.

  “I’ll have to wash you,” she said, reaching for his pants.

  “No,” he said, grabbing her hands, “you won’t.”

  “I’ve got to,” she said. “Rules of the house.”

  “No,” he said, “I mean I’m only here to talk.”

  “Talk?” she asked. She sat down on the bed, folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t have too many men who want to do that. Talk about what?”

  “A young man who was here a few days ago,” Clint said. “His name is Johnny Creed.”

  “There was a Johnny,” she said with a shrug. “He didn’t tell me his last name.”

  “Did he tell you where he was going?”

  “We didn’t really talk much,” she said. “Except for instructions.”

  “Instructions?”

  She smiled. “He wasn’t very experienced.”

  “I see.”

  “But he was young,” she said. “He was very . . . he lasted a long time. So we didn’t talk that much.”

  “I see,” he said. “So he never said where he was going when he left here?”

  “No.”

  “Never talked about his father?”

  “Never talked about any family.”

  “Yes, all right,” Clint said. He took out some money and put it on the table next to the bed.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She reached up and dropped the straps that were holding her gown. It fell to her waist, revealing her pale, beautiful breasts. The pink nipples were already hard.

  “Are you sure?”

  His mouth went dry, but he’d never paid a whore before—for sex anyway—and he didn’t intend to start now.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said.

  “Will you tell Maisie—”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll tell her you were great. Good-bye, Angel.”

  She didn’t bother to cover herself.

  “Good-bye.”

  • • •

  He went back downstairs, where Maisie saw him in the hall.

  “Finished already?” she asked.

  Clint smiled at her as he walked toward the front door.

  “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said.

  She laughed and said, “None of us are, dearie.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Clint left Las Vegas after talking with Angel. He continued to ride west, picked up what looked like Johnny Creed’s trail just outside town. He rode within hailing distance of John Locke’s ranch, but didn’t stop.

  No time.

  • • •

  The posse rode into Las Vegas, dismounted. Sheriff Cox went to the sheriff’s office, introduced himself to Sheriff Dave Malcolm.

  “What brings you to my town?” Malcolm asked. He was tall, thin, in his forties. He didn’t think the portly Cox looked the type to head a posse.

  “I’m trackin’ a man,” Cox said. “Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “There was a killing in town that I’m looking into,” Cox said, “and I told him not to leave town.”

  “And he did.”

  Cox nodded.

  “How many in your posse?”

  “Ten.”

  “Well . . . he was here.”

  “He was? When?”

  “Couple of days ago.”

  “Did you see him?” Cox asked. “I sent telegrams out about holding him—”

  “Yeah, you did, that’s right,” Malcolm said, “but I didn’t see him.”

  “Then how do you know he was here?”

  “I heard it from the bartender at the Red Garter.”

  “Did he say where he was going when he left?”

  “You’ll have to ask the bartender at the Red Garter,” Malcolm said.

  “I’ll do that,” Cox said, starting for the door.

  “Sheriff, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your posse in line while you’re here,” Malcolm said.

  “Don’t worry, Sheriff Malcolm,” Sheriff Cox said, “my boys will be good.”

  “How long you plan on being here?”

  “Just long enough to get a line on where Adams was going.” He grabbed the doorknob.

  “By the way . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is he runnin’ from you,” Malcolm asked, “or is he lookin’ for somebody?”

  “Why? What did you hear?”

  “Not much,” Malcolm said. “Talk to the bartender—”

  “At the Red Garter,” Cox said. “Yes, I know. Thanks.”

  He went out.

  • • •

  Outside, Deputy Teller asked, “Any sign on him?”

  “He was here a couple of days ago,” Cox said.

  “And where’d he go?”

  “Don’t know that,” Cox said.

  “Who does?” Deputy Toarke asked.

  “Apparently, he talked to the bartender at the Red Garter,” Cox said.

  “Okay,” one of the other men said, “let�
��s go to the saloon.”

  “We’re going,” Cox said, “but you men are staying outside.”

  “Sheriff,” one of them said, “we’ve got some dust to cut.”

  “Cut it with water, Ames,” Cox said. “Teller, you’ll come inside with me. Toarke, stay outside with the rest of the men and keep them in line.”

  “Yessir.”

  Cox mounted up and they all rode to the Red Garter.

  • • •

  In the Red Garter, a man was standing at the bar with the bartender, nursing a beer. It was early, and there were only a few others in the place.

  Sheriff Cox and Deputy Teller walked in and looked around, then approached the bar.

  “Help ya, Sheriff?” the bartender asked.

  “I heard you had Clint Adams in here a while back,” Cox said. “I’m looking for him.”

  “Matter of fact,” the bartender said, “he was here a day or two ago, but he ain’t here now.”

  “I know that,” Cox said. “I want to know if he told you where he was going when he left here.”

  “When he left here?” the bartender asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” the man said, “when he left this here saloon, he was going to the whorehouse. It’s called Maisie’s.”

  “Maisie’s?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He went to a whorehouse?” Teller asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Why?” Cox asked.

  “Sheriff,” the barman said, “why would anyone go to a whorehouse?”

  Cox and Teller exchanged a glance, before the sheriff looked back at the bartender and asked, “Did he talk to anyone else while he was here?”

  “Well, yeah,” the barman said, “he talked to Billy here, and he talked to Hank over there.”

  “Hank?”

  “Fella with his head down on the table,” the bartender said.

  Cox looked at Billy.

  “What do you do, young fella?”

  “He don’t do a thing,” the barman said.

  “I do odd jobs,” Holloway said.

  “What did Clint Adams have to say to you?”

  “Not much.”

  “He told him to shut up,” the bartender said. “Fact is, Adams talked more to Hank.”

  “Hank.”

  The bartender nodded.

  “That man,” Cox said, pointing.

  “Yep.”

  “Was he awake at the time?”

  “Ol’ Hank knows what he’s talkin’ about,” the bartender said.

  “He’s a damn drunk!” Holloway said.

  “And what are you doing in here this early in the day?” Sheriff Cox asked.

  “Yeah,” the bartender said.

  “Can I wake him up?” Cox asked.

  The bartender put a bottle of whiskey on the bar and said, “Try this.”

  The sheriff reached for it, but the barman pulled it back.

  “Right,” Cox said. He put some money on the bar and the bartender gave him the bottle.

  “Stay here,” Cox said to Teller. He took the bottle and walked over to Hank’s table.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Jimmy Creed crossed from New Mexico into Arizona. He was looking for a place to light and set for a while. He was tired of riding from town to town, but he needed a place where nobody knew him, nobody had heard that reputation of his. Okay, so he had shot a few men in the back. He had also shot a lot of them in the chest.

  In his fifties, he was hurting from the long ride—his ass was hurting from the saddle, his back was hurting from sleeping on the ground, and his stomach was hurting from trail coffee and jerky.

  Maybe this next town was the one.

  • • •

  Johnny Creed rode into Reseda, New Mexico, having followed his father’s trail there.

  When he left El Legado, he didn’t know if he’d be able to pick up his old man’s trail. He followed rumors about where Jimmy Creed had been seen, and amazingly, he did pick up the trail. And it led him here.

  Johnny wasn’t on the run, so he had no problem checking in with the local sheriff to ask about his father. He reined his horse in and entered the office.

  “Help you, son?” the white-haired lawman asked.

  “I’m looking for Jimmy Creed, Sheriff. Did he pass through here?”

  “He not only passed through,” the sheriff said, “he killed two men while he was here.”

  “Did he shoot them in the back?”

  “Hello, no,” the lawman said. “Face-to-face.”

  “Are you after him for that?”

  “Not at all,” the man said. He had a big chaw of tobacco in his mouth, and he leaned over to spit a small wad of it into a spittoon. “Seems like it was a fair fight to me.”

  “Really?”

  “Boy, you believe all them stories about Jimmy Creed shootin’ men in the back?” the man asked. “I hear he shot at least as many in the front.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “What’s your interest?” the sheriff asked. “You’re pretty young to be a bounty hunter.”

  “I ain’t no bounty hunter,” Johnny said. “He’s my pa.”

  “That’s so?”

  “Yeah. You got any idea where he went when he left here?” Johnny asked.

  “I’ve got no idea,” the sheriff said. “Seems to me, though, he went west.”

  “I’ve been trailin’ him west.”

  “Why?”

  “I tol’ ya,” Johnny said. “He’s my pa.”

  “No offense,” the sheriff said, “but I know a lot of sons who’d like to kill their fathers.”

  “I ain’t seen him in years,” Johnny said. “I just wanna talk to him.”

  “Not kill him?”

  “No.”

  The sheriff shrugged and spat.

  “Well, I can’t help ya anymore, son,” the lawman said. “I don’t know anything else.”

  “Who did he kill?”

  “Just a coupla local toughs who tried him out,” the sheriff said. “They got what they were lookin’ for.”

  “They got any family might be trackin’ my pa?”

  “Not that I know of,” the sheriff said. “As far as I know, there’s no paper on your dad in New Mexico. Can’t say the same for Texas, though, and Colorado, I think.”

  “Okay, Sheriff,” Johnny said, “thanks for the information.”

  “Good luck, son.”

  Johnny left the sheriff’s office, crossed the street, and entered a saloon.

  “Whiskey,” he told the bartender.

  “You old enough?” the sixtyish bartender asked.

  “I’m mean enough,” Johnny Creed said. “You wanna test me, friend?”

  The bartender poured a shot of whiskey for Johnny and said, “You remind me of somebody.”

  “Jimmy Creed.”

  “Hey, yeah, that’s it,” the man said. “He was here a while back.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Johnny said. “He killed a couple of men.”

  “A couple of men who had friends,” the bartender said. “If I was you, I wouldn’t hang around town.”

  “That a fact?” Johnny said. “I think I’d like to meet some friends of theirs. What was their names?”

  “Zack Doyle and Glip Trotter.”

  “Glip?” Johnny asked. “What kind of name is that?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Just a name.”

  Johnny tossed down the whiskey, shuddered, and said, “I’ll take a beer now.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  The bartender went to the end of the bar and motioned a man over to him.

  “What?” Al Victor asked.

  “Find Andy Dillman,” the bartender said
. “Tell him Jimmy Creed’s son is here, drinkin’.”

  “Ah, Ted,” Al said, “why you wanna—”

  “Zack and Glip were your friends, too,” Ted the bartender said. “Go and find Andy. Tell him to bring the others.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Go out the back.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Al left and Ted drew a beer and put it down in front of Johnny Creed.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Johnny had two more beers and another shot of whiskey, unaware of what was waiting for him outside.

  “Another one?” the bartender asked.

  “Naw,” Johnny said, “I gotta ride.”

  He tossed some money on the bar and went outside.

  “Johnny Creed!” a man called.

  Johnny looked out into the street, where three men were standing.

  “I know you?” Johnny asked.

  “Naw,” the man said, “and we ain’t got time to get acquainted. Your pa was here a few days ago, and he killed two friends of ours.”

  “So I heard,” Johnny said. “Zack and . . . what was it? Glip? Stupid name. Whataya want with me?”

  “Your daddy killed our friend,” one of the other men said, “and we’re gonna kill you.”

  Johnny’s heart started beating faster. His hands started to sweat. But the beer and the whiskey in his system did their job.

  “Well,” he said, “if that’s what you’re here for, then get to it. I got some ridin’ to do.”

  “You ain’t gonna do no ridin’—” Andy started, but Johnny didn’t give him a chance to finish.

  He also didn’t give the three men the chance to draw first. It didn’t strike him as a smart thing to do.

  The three men saw him draw, and they all made panicked motions for their guns. They were two late, however. Johnny’s gun spat four times, and the three men fell dead in the street.

  Johnny holstered his gun and stepped into the street. He surveyed the three men, making sure they were dead.

  “Like father, like son, huh?” he heard somebody say.

  He turned and saw the sheriff standing there.

  “You gonna try to take me in?”

  “Naw,” the lawman said. “I saw them brace you. You killed them fair and square. But I am gonna ask you to leave town.”

  “Ask?”

  The sheriff shrugged and said, “Okay, tell.”