Deadly Fortune

by J. R. Roberts

  “Even the one who was stabbed in the back? That doesn’t strike me as your method.”

  Clint made a mental note to watch his step when around the lawman. He’d underestimated him once before and doing so again could very well be a costly mistake. “I didn’t stab that man in the back, Sheriff. Whoever did was a concerned citizen trying to keep me from getting killed by one of those assholes Torquelan sent. That’s all I aim to say on the matter.”

  Wheeler studied Clint carefully and nodded. “I can respect that, Mr. Adams. The last thing I want to do in my town is discourage my citizens from being concerned. Las Primas is better off without that fellow.”

  “And the others?”

  “If you have to ask that question,” Wheeler said with a smile that seemed more than a little uncomfortable beneath all those whiskers, “then you obviously never had a chat with them.”

  “I suppose so. Well then, I guess I’ll be leaving.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I’ve got business to tend to,” Clint said.

  “Business with Torquelan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you even know where to find him?” the lawman asked.

  “Actually, I was hoping to find another of his gunmen and then get him to take me there.”

  “Or I could point you in the right direction. Could be a lot less messy.”

  “Maybe,” Clint said. “Maybe not.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint didn’t for one moment consider that Wheeler would simply point him in the right direction where Torquelan was concerned. And as was the case with most of the instances where Clint was being pessimistic, he was proven correct. The sheriff walked along with him down one street and up another without saying a word as to where their final destination might be.

  “Where are the rest of your men?” Clint asked.

  “How many were you expecting?” the sheriff replied.

  “I don’t know. At least a deputy or two.”

  “I thought you weren’t intending on starting any big amount of trouble.”

  Rather than play along with the sheriff’s game of words, Clint let out a heavy sigh and kept walking.

  Before too long, Sheriff Wheeler said, “It’s probably best for us to keep our numbers down. At least, this time around.”

  “And if there is trouble?” Clint asked. “Not that I would dream of starting anything, mind you.”

  “I’ve got three deputies at my disposal. Only one of them is good for much of anything apart from holding a gun while wearing a purposeful look on his face. If there was trouble with Mr. Torquelan, all of those men wouldn’t do us much good if they were along.”

  Clint was surprised with that amount of honesty from the lawman. Whether it was given to him out of respect or just to staunch the flow of questions, he decided to honor the gesture by making the rest of the walk in silence.

  When they came to a stop, it was in front of a strip of three buildings that had two floors each. Clint first thought that the sheriff meant to question him or point something out. When the lawman didn’t seem to be going or doing anything else, Clint asked, “Is this it?”

  “If you were expecting dancing girls, I can recommend a saloon or two,” Wheeler replied. “If you’re after Wilhelm Torquelan, this is the place.”

  “Which one?”

  “All three. It’s sort of a compound.”

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  “Then there’s no reason to knock.” With that, the lawman walked toward a narrow alley along the left side of the row of buildings.

  As Clint followed him, his hand instinctually came to a rest upon the Colt at his side. His eyes wandered up and down along the front and then side of the building, finding nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, if he’d been walking down the street on his own, he would have written off those buildings as being abandoned. It wasn’t until they were about to circle around to the rear of the buildings that he caught sight of one flicker of light in a sliver of one window.

  Squinting up at that window, Clint could see the light was constant and wavering. Then he could tell it was just a lantern or candle in that room, but the window itself had been covered by something. As far as he could tell, all the windows were covered by something and it was just that one’s covering that had slipped enough to allow some hint of light to get through. It was a simple trick for people to give themselves privacy. Oftentimes, though, the simplest tricks were also the most effective.

  “How many men does he have working for him?” Clint asked.

  “No more than five or six at a time. That was last time I checked.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  Wheeler shrugged. “Been a while.”

  “How many are in there now?”

  “That’s what I aim to find out.” Without another word, Sheriff Wheeler put boot to door and stormed inside.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “All right, then,” Clint said as he tightened his grip on his modified Colt. “Here we go.”

  Sheriff Wheeler had already announced his presence in a booming voice that rolled through the dimly lit building along with the echo of the door being kicked in. There were only a few lanterns hanging here and there, providing just enough light for Clint to keep from walking into a wall. His eyes quickly adjusted to the shadows, however, and none too soon. Some of the men that had already been inside that building were coming to answer the lawman’s call.

  “Wilhelm Torquelan!” Wheeler bellowed. “This is the sheriff! Come down here right now!”

  The first man that Clint saw was a stout fellow with a thin mustache and a sharp chin. He filled the far end of a hallway, taking a moment to get a look at the men who’d entered the building.

  “Where’s Torquelan?” Wheeler asked.

  The man didn’t move and didn’t say a word. Even so, Clint knew there was going to be trouble. Narrowing his eyes into slits, the man drew his pistol and took aim. He got a shot off, but not before two other rounds were sent down that hallway.

  The first round came from Wheeler, who’d pulled his trigger as fast as he could. The second came from Clint. While slightly slower than the lawman’s shot, Clint took an extra fraction of a second to fire properly. That bullet clipped the gunman’s hip and sent him spinning on one foot like a top.

  “You there!” Wheeler hollered. “I see you hiding. Come out and show me your hands.”

  Clint hadn’t spotted the man Wheeler had found. When that one stepped out where he could be seen, there was another directly behind him. He couldn’t make out any details on either man’s face, but Clint could see the barrel of a shotgun, which was all he needed to set him on his course of action.

  Stepping forward, Clint shoved Wheeler to one side while straightening his arm so he could sight along the Colt’s barrel.

  He didn’t pull his trigger right away.

  Clint knew he already had the drop on the man with the shotgun, but he was more than willing to give him a chance to save his own hide. Rather than put a bullet through him as quickly as possible, Clint waited for a heartbeat. When the lead was already flying, that was an eternity.

  Everything Clint needed to see was written on the shotgunner’s face. The other man’s eyes were fixed on a target and his hands gripped the shotgun with purpose. All the way down to the marrow in Clint’s bones, he knew the man was going to fire that scattergun. That left only one alternative.

  The Colt in Clint’s hand barked once, spitting its round through the air. He knew exactly where it would land before it got there and watched as blood sprayed from the other man’s shoulder. The impact of that round spun the shotgunner toward the wall. Instead of pulling his triggers out of reflex, he grunted and brought the shotgun back around to point at the sheriff and Clint.

  Clin
t fired once more, swearing under his breath as a bullet through the skull sent the shotgunner straight to hell.

  The next shot that was fired came from less than a foot away from where Clint was standing. Reflexively, Clint dropped to one knee and pivoted toward the gunshot. Sheriff Wheeler stood his ground, smoking pistol in hand, staring at a doorway that Clint hadn’t even seen in the dimly lit corridor.

  “He get you?” Wheeler asked.

  Clint stood back up and looked through the doorway, which had been cut directly into the wall without benefit of a frame. There wasn’t a handle on the outside of it either, which had made it blend in perfectly with the wall until it had been opened. The man who’d opened it was sprawled upon the floor with a fresh wound in his chest. The gun he’d been carrying was discarded and his feet kicked through the last tantrums of his murderous life.

  “No,” Clint replied. “He didn’t get me. Didn’t even see the son of a bitch.”

  “I heard this place was tricky.”

  “Tricky as in secret doors?” Clint asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “Could’ve warned me.”

  “Actually, I didn’t believe them rumors to be true,” Wheeler replied.

  “What about now? Anything else you want to tell me?”

  Wheeler shrugged. “That bastard nearly got me, too! What the hell else do you want from me?”

  Clint let out a weary sigh while reloading the Colt. As they continued down the hallway, he was sure to keep the lawman where he could keep his eye on him. Every step of the way, he became less comfortable with the situation. Meeting an enemy on their ground was never a great idea. Wading in even deeper after that enemy had already tried to kill you was even worse.

  “Wait,” Clint said as he stopped in his tracks.

  The sheriff became fidgety the instant he was no longer moving. “What is it? What do you see?”

  “You keep going that way,” he said while nodding down the hall. “I’m doubling back.” When Wheeler looked at him angrily, Clint motioned toward the previously hidden doorway. Fortunately, the lawman picked up on the idea of not announcing their true intentions for anyone to hear. He didn’t seem to be thrilled about Clint’s plan, but he was willing to go along with it for the moment.

  Shifting to movements that didn’t make so much noise, Clint backtracked the short distance to the door and took a quick peek into the next room. The man Wheeler had gunned down was on his back, staring up into oblivion. Other than that, there wasn’t much else to see. The room was slightly larger than a closet and, as near as Clint could figure, was designed especially for the purpose of ambushing anyone in the hallway. As Clint stepped over the body of the would-be assassin, a chill ran down his back.

  That room stank of death and plenty of it. This wasn’t the first time the trap had been sprung. The men behind it knew what they were doing when it came to killing. If Clint had anything to say about it, they wouldn’t be doing it much longer.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sheriff Wheeler kept his eyes pointed forward as he approached the first man Clint had shot through the hip. “Where’d the other one go?” he whispered.

  The wounded gunman had been trying to get back to his feet, but only one of his legs was working properly. The other was bleeding and would probably come back after a whole lot of healing, but not tonight. Glaring up at the lawman, he snarled, “Up yer ass!”

  Stooping down, Wheeler reached out with one hand to pick up the shotgun that had been dropped by the gunman’s deceased partner. “You want to wind up like this man right here beside you? Keep right on talking that way.”

  No matter how much the gunman wanted to keep up his tough demeanor, he couldn’t help looking over at the dead man on the floor not too far away.

  “I’m playing my hand right now,” Wheeler said. He didn’t exactly point his gun directly at the other man’s head, but he made it real clear the pistol was ready to be used again. “Since you and these idiot friends of yours already fired on me, anything I do from here on out is in self-defense. Anything.”

  The cold intent of the lawman’s words didn’t go unnoticed. Something from deeper within the building was slammed against a wall and the sound hit the wounded man like a slap in the face. “There’s another door,” he said. “Straight behind me.”

  Wheeler looked into the next room, which was empty apart from a single chair that was almost too rotten to support the weight of the lantern sitting on it. “Room’s empty.”

  “That’s where he went.”

  “Another trap door?”

  The wounded man nodded. “Just walk straight back and push on the wall. It’ll open.”

  “What’s waiting for me on the other side?” Wheeler asked.

  “How the hell would I know? I’m sitting here, ain’t I?”

  “If you’re setting me up to get shot at again, you’ll be laying there. Right beside that poor soul.”

  The gunman didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He was too rattled to tell any kind of lie. Since he knew that was the best he could hope for, Sheriff Wheeler pressed on.

  * * *

  Clint took his time moving through the hidden room. It only took a few steps, but each one of them could very well have been his last. When he made it to the door on the other side, he glanced out to find a darkened hallway. The shadows were plenty thick, but not thick enough to hide anything more than a mouse. Keeping his head down, he moved swiftly toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

  The door Clint used led into another cramped hall that went for about three paces before angling ninety degrees to the left. Whoever was rounding that corner coming toward him was moving with the confidence of someone who knew they couldn’t be seen. Clint showed him the problem with that train of thought by attacking him the instant he stepped into view.

  First, Clint saw the dull shine of polished iron. The man coming down that hall already had his gun drawn and was holding it in front of him as he rounded the corner. Next, Clint dropped his left hand down to grab the pistol from along the top of its barrel. Before the man holding the gun realized what was happening, Clint twisted the pistol until he heard the snap of a breaking trigger finger.

  The man that Clint had surprised had a face smeared with coal dust and smelled as if he’d just climbed out of a mine shaft. His eyes were wide with surprise and his mouth opened to let out a snarling obscenity. Clint’s hands were full, so he rammed his shoulder into the man’s chest and shoved him into a wall.

  “Don’t move,” Clint said.

  The twisting corridor must have been close to the main hallway because Clint could hear Sheriff Wheeler’s voice. He couldn’t make out what the lawman was saying, but he seemed to have things well enough in hand for the moment. When the man against the wall tried to stir, Clint jammed the Colt’s barrel into his belly to make him think better of it.

  The man stayed still. He even held his breath to keep from making another sound.

  Whatever conversation the sheriff was having didn’t last much longer. Soon, Wheeler and the man he’d been talking to started walking. “Where are they going?” Clint asked the man directly in front of him.

  “How the hell should I know?” the man snarled.

  “You know this building. You know where people might go. Tell me where they’re going.”

  “Go see for yourself.”

  Clint shrugged. “Well then. I suppose that makes you pretty damn useless.” All he had to do from there was put a little more pressure behind the pistol that was already wedged into the other man’s gut.

  “The stairs,” the man said in a quick exhale.

  “What stairs?”

  “There’s stairs to the second floor. If they’re not walking toward the door leading outside, that’s where they’re going.”

  “What about the third floor?” Clint aske
d.

  “Ain’t nothing up there but a few spots for men to look down with rifles. This time of night, there’s no reason for that.”

  “I suppose I should be thankful for that, huh?”

  The gunman rolled his eyes.

  Since the next sounds Clint heard were feet clomping on stairs, he removed the gun barrel from the man’s belly. “Take me to the stairs,” Clint demanded.

  “You’re makin’ a real big mistake,” the gunman warned.

  Clint pulled him away from the wall as if he was peeling off a strip of paper. “Since it’s too late to take this mistake back, I might as well keep on with it. Besides, I’m curious to see where this one takes me.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  After taking Clint to the stairs, the gunman who’d been knocked around dragged his feet like a kid on his way to a long day of church. Although it would have been simpler to knock the man on the back of the head and leave him lying somewhere, Clint kept him around as a kind of lookout. He didn’t expect to be informed if anyone else was about to try to ambush them, but he was confident that he could read any changes in the man’s tired face if something was about to happen.

  They made it to the second floor without incident. Up there was a short hallway with two rooms on either side. None of them had closed doors and only one had a light flickering inside. When Clint got to the occupied room, Sheriff Wheeler and two other men were there waiting for him.

  One of those other men was dressed similar to the others that had been downstairs to greet them. Simple clothes that appeared to be rumpled as if after a long day’s ride were wrapped around bodies that were in dire need of a bath. The second man had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair with a mustache to match it and wore a nicely cut brown suit. While it wasn’t quite as common as a suit that might be worn by a bank teller, it would have been perfectly fine for the manager of that same bank.

  “I see you men did a fine job of keeping the first floor secure,” the man in the bank manager’s suit said. “You can go.”