Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
THE MAD SCIENTIST OF THE WEST
A Straight Answer
“Sit down,” Clint said. “We still have some talking to do.”
Westin sat back down.
“About what?”
“I think it’s time you answered the main questions for me.”
“And what are they?”
“What’s going on?” Clint asked. “That’s one.”
“And the other?”
“Who’s heading up this group of men that killed Bags and the other five?” Clint asked. “Who’s got it in for your boss that he needs gun help?”
“Uh, I think that’s for Mr. Powell to tell you.”
“Well, I didn’t ask him,” Clint said. “I asked you.”
THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
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TWO GUNS FOR VENGEANCE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / November 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Randisi.
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ONE
Andrew Powell sat at his desk, waiting.
He lived in a two-story Southern-style mansion, complete with white columns. This was not the South, though. The house was situated twenty miles outside of Phoenix, Arizona. In fact, it was closer to the small town of Brigham.
Powell was a wealthy man who had always thought that money could buy anything. Love, respect, power. All of it. And for a long time, it had. It was only lately that some of it had begun to fade away.
A woman entered the room tentatively. She was tall, slender, still lovely at fifty, ten years younger than her husband of twenty years.
“You’re brooding,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And you still don’t want to tell me why?”
“Andrea—”
“I know, I know,” she said. “This is your business, and you don’t want me to be involved in your business.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“A drink?” she asked.
He picked up his half-filled goblet of wine and showed it to her.
“Very well, then,” she said. “I’ll be off to bed. Will you be coming?”
“Soon,” he said. “Very soon.”
As she turned to leave the room, he looked at the grandfather clock against the wall. It was almost 9 p.m. He’d expected to have some results before this.
He sipped his wine.
Andrea Powell was walking across the entry foyer toward the stairway when the front doors slammed open. She cried out in surprise and fear as men poured in through the doorway.
She turned to face the intruders. Some of them had other men slung over their shoulders. Others had guns in their hands.
They spread out in the foyer. Another man entered, walked directly up to her, and asked, “Where is Andrew Powell?”
“What do you want with my husband?” she asked.
“I’ve brought back something that belongs to him,” the man said.
“And what’s that?”
The man smiled and gestured with one arm, encompassing the men behind him.
“These men.”
“All these men?” she asked, not understanding.
“No,” the man said. “Not all of them.” He leaned toward her to give his words extra weight. She shrank from him.
“Just the dead ones.”
Andrew Powell heard the ruckus in the hall, sat up at his desk, but did not move.
“Andrea?” he called. “What was that?”
There was no answer, but he did hear voices. Rather than going to see what was happening, he opened a desk drawer and took out a gun.
“Your husband?” the man asked.
“Who are you?” Andrea asked instead.
The man studied her. He was tall, well built, in his forties, with steel gray eyes that bored into her.
“My name is Ben Randolph. You’re very beautiful,” he said. “And you have sand. What are you doing with a man like Powell?”
“I—we’re married.”
“I know that,” he said. “That wasn’t what I was questioning.”
She stared at him, not sure what to say.
“Your husband?”
“This way,” she said. “I’ll take you to him.”
Powell kept his eyes on the doorway to his office, held the gun in his lap. When Andrea appeared, he heaved a sigh of relief, but before the sigh was complete, he saw Randolph right behind her.
They entered the office, followed by other men.
“Mr. Powell,” Randolph said. “We’ve come back to return something of yours. Gentlemen?”
He stepped aside, and Andrea followed his lead. Five of his men, all carrying dead men over their shoulders, moved forward. They each dumped a dead man in front of Powell’s desk.
“Next time you hire some gunmen to kill me,” Randolph said, “find a better class of men.”
Powell stared at Randolph. He couldn’t see the dead men who were piled on the floor because they were hidden by his desk.
“You want to use that gun you’re holding in your lap, Andrew? Come on, show some gumption. Take a shot at me.”
Powell found the gun in his lap growing heavier and heavier.
Randolph walked up to the desk and put his hand out. Slowly, Andrew Powell lifted the gun and handed it to Powell.
“Attaboy,” Randolph said. “So the situation hasn’t changed, Andrew. The same deadline is still in force.”
Randolph turned and waved to his men to leave. They preceded him out the door. He stopped in front of Andrea Powell.
“My question to you stands, Mrs. Powell,” he said. “How can you be with him?”
Randolph left. She heard him and his men walk across the hall and out the door. They even closed it behind them.
She stared at the five dead men piled on the floor in front of Andrew’s desk and wondered what her husband had gotten them into.
TWO
Clint Adams thought about stopping off in either Tombstone or Bisbee, but there were a lot of memories there. Too many. And no friends in either place. Not anymore.
He passed through Phoenix, stopped there for one night. Phoenix was growing by leaps and bounds, had much of what towns like Denver had. Maybe, when he was done, he’d stop off there again and spend a few days.
He left Phoenix and headed for Brigham. When he got there, he put Eclipse up at the local livery, got himself a hotel room and a good meal. While he was eating, a man entered the restaurant and sat down with him.
“Mr. Adams, my name is Gordon Westin. I’m a lawyer representing Andrew Powell. Thank you for coming.”
“You chose a good place to meet,” Clint said. “This steak is excellent.”
“We wanted to show you without delay that we can offer you good things,” Westin said.
The lawyer was in his forties, a handsome man with graying black hair and a lantern jaw.
“Your meal here is on us,” Westin said.
“In that case I’ll have dessert,” Clint said. “Care to join me?”
“Why not?” Westin said. “We still have some time before we have to go and see Mr. Powell.”
Clint ordered peach pie and coffee, while the lawyer had apple.
“Can you give me some idea why Mr. Powell sent me ten thousand dollars just to come and see him?”
“I think he wants to do that himself,” Westin said. “You know, when he wanted to send you that money, I told him that you don’t hire out your reputation, or your gun.”
“Then you must be surprised I’m here,” Clint said.
“Not at all,” Westin said. “Anybody can be curious.”
“Especially for ten thousand dollars.”
Westin smiled.
“He was going to send you five,” he said. “I got him up to ten.”
“Not expecting a cut, are you?”
Clint was testing Westin, who passed because he recognized that Clint was kidding.
“No,” the lawyer said. “I get paid very well by Mr. Powell.”
The peach pie was good, as was the coffee. They had indeed made a good choice when they told Clint to meet the lawyer at a restaurant called Lulu’s.
“I suppose he has a lot of concerns in town?” Clint asked. “Maybe even owns it?”
“No,” Powell said. “All of Mr. Powell’s holdings are outside of town.”
“I’m surprised,” Clint said. “That kind of man usually spreads his money around to get himself some power in town.”
“Mr. Powell is not like that,” Westin said. “He lives outside of town, only comes in a couple of times a month, once to go to the bank and once to see me.”
Clint finished his pie, picked up the coffeepot, and looked at Westin, who nodded. He poured the lawyer a cup, then filled his own.
“You seem to have a bad opinion of wealthy men,” Westin said.
“You’re right, I do,” Clint said. “I’ve met very few rich men who don’t use their money to push other people around.”
“Well then,” Westin said, “I think you’ll be surprised when you meet Mr. Powell.”
“And when will that be?”
Westin checked his watch.
“If we leave now, should be in a couple of hours.”
“Let’s go, then,” Clint said.
The lawyer gave Clint the choice of riding his own horse, or riding in a buggy.
“Well, even though I pretty much just left him at the livery, I’d rather ride my own horse.”
“Fine,” Westin said. “Let’s go over to the livery.”
“You going to take a buggy anyway?”
“No,” Westin said, “I’m glad you chose horseback. I don’t get to ride as much as I’d like to.”
When they reached the livery, Westin greeted the man by name.
“Mr. Adams’s horse, Rusty,” he said. “And I’ll take my mare.”
“Good,” Rusty said, “she’s been kinda antsy lately. Needs to take a run.”
Rusty brought both horses out, stood by while both men saddled their own mounts.
“You’re bringin’ that big Darley back, ain’tcha?” Rusty asked hopefully.
They mounted up and Clint said, “We’ll be back.”
THREE
Inside of two hours they came within sight of the Powell home. There was a barn next to it, but Clint didn’t see a corral.
“How can you have a ranch without a corral?” he asked Westin.
“This is not a ranch,” the lawyer said. “It’s just Mr. Powell’s home.”
“No ranch hands?”
“No.”
They rode up to the house.
“I’ve seen homes like this in the South,” Clint said, “but not many here in the West.”
“Mr. Powell had it built in the Southern style,” Westin said. “He actually brought the builder in from Virginia.”
They dismounted.
A young man came out of the barn and approached them.
“Hello, Mr. Westin,” he said. He looked more like a kid though he was probably in his twenties.
“Hey, Eric,” Westin said. “Can you take our horses to the barn, please?”
“Sure, Mr. Westin.”
“Be careful,” Clint said, handing over Eclipse’s reins. “He bites.”
“They all bite,” the kid said. “I’ll be careful.”
Clint watched as the boy walked both horses away. He was surprised to see Eclipse trotting along behind him.
“He’s good with horses,” Westin said.
“I can see that.”
“Let’s go inside.”
They started up the stairs.
“Is it just Mr. Powell?” Clint asked.
“No,” Westin said, “there’s a Mrs. Powell. You’ll probably be meeting her, too.”
“Does she know why I’m here?”
“She has an idea,” Westin said, “although she doesn’t know what it’s all about.”
“And you don’t either?”
They stopped at the door.
“Well,” the lawyer admitted, “not all. Only Mr. Powell knows that. Shall we go in?”
“Do we have to knock?”
“No.”
“Then lead the way.”
Clint followed the lawyer into the house, found himself in a large entry foyer facing a grand staircase.
“Impressive,” Clint said.
“Mr. Powell’s office is this way.”
Westin led Clint to a room that Clint would have assumed was the living room, but instead it had been turned into a large office. A huge oak desk dominated the room, the walls of which were lined with books. There was a man seated at the desk who didn’t look up when they entered.
“Mr. Pow—” Westin started, but the man held up a hand to cut him off. He was writing something and obviously wanted to finish. When he did, he put down his pen and looked directly at Clint and Westin.
Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270) Page 1
