Fraternity of the Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  “I realize that,” she said, “but why?”

  They both looked to Clint for an answer.

  “It’s the West,” he said. “It’s a different way of life out here.”

  “This is the West?” Terry asked.

  Clint pointed to the Mississippi and said, “On the other side—but this is close.”

  “Then what is going to happen,” she asked, “when we get to the other side?”

  “When we get there,” Henry Irving said, “we’ll win them over, my dear. Don’t worry.”

  When they reached the hotel, Irving and Terry went to their respective suites.

  “You want me to come in?” Clint asked Terry.

  “Not tonight, Clint,” Terry said. “I am not used to the kind of reception we got tonight. I have some thinking to do.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and left him standing out in the hall.

  Clint went down to the lobby, thought about getting a drink somewhere, but then he saw the two men. He recognized one of them. At least, he thought he had seen the man in the back of one of the theaters—probably in Philadelphia.

  If this man, and the other one with him, had been following them since then, Clint thought he must be losing it. Either that or he was way too involved with Irving and Terry’s comfort than he was with their welfare.

  He stepped to the side of the lobby, against a wall, so he could watch them walk by without their seeing him. They went up the stairs leading from the lobby to the second floor. Clint looked around the lobby. People were milling about, paying no attention to him, or to them.

  He considered his options. If he waited in the lobby for them to come down, it was possible they would have already killed Henry Irving and left him in his room. It would have been easier to take them in the lobby, where there was more room, but he couldn’t risk their killing Irving right in his own room.

  He rushed across the lobby and up the stairs.

  * * *

  Henry Irving answered the knock on his door, expecting to see Clint Adams. What he saw were two men in expensive suits, holding guns.

  “Gentlemen.”

  “You’re coming with us, sir,” Mr. Gray said.

  “My word,” Irving said. “Polite gunmen?”

  “Mr. Irving,” Mr. Gray said, “please don’t give us any trouble.”

  “Well, why not?” Irving asked. “If I let you take me out of this hotel, you will kill me, won’t you?”

  Mr. Green looked at Mr. Gray, who could feel his colleague staring at him, but didn’t return the look.

  “We could kill him here,” Mr. Green said.

  “Too much noise,” Mr. Gray said. “But if he forces us into it—”

  “Gentlemen,” Irving said, “this is fascinating. Please, continue.”

  At that point the door to Ellen Terry’s room opened and she stepped out. When she saw the men in front of Irving’s door, she yelled, “What are you doing there?”

  Mr. Gray said to Mr. Green, “Get her!”

  “Kill her?” Mr. Green asked.

  “No,” Mr. Gray said, “just get her.”

  Mr. Green nodded, turned to run down the hall after Ellen Terry. At that moment Clint Adams appeared at the far end of the hall.

  “Ellen! Get back inside!” he shouted.

  As an actress who had been taking direction for years, she never hesitated. She turned and ran back into her room, slamming and locking the door behind her.

  * * *

  When the door slammed, Clint looked down the hall at the two gunmen. One had started down the hall toward Terry, while the other remained in front of Henry Irving’s door. They both had guns in their hands.

  “Step away from the door,” Clint said.

  He waited for the two men to react, not wanting to shoot if he didn’t have to.

  * * *

  Mr. Gray looked at Irving, who hadn’t moved. All he had to do was pull the trigger, but then there would be the Gunsmith to deal with.

  Instead of shooting, he reached out, grabbed the front of Irving’s shirt, and pulled him into the hall.

  “Mr. Green!” he said. “Kill him!”

  “Wha—”

  Mr. Green overcame his split second of surprise another split second too slow. He raised his gun to point it at Clint Adams, but knew he was too late.

  At least he never had to wear spurs!

  * * *

  Clint drew quickly, even as Mr. Green was pointing his gun. He fired once. The bullet hit Mr. Green in the chest. It was as if his feet were nailed to the floor. He didn’t stagger back or forward, he just crumpled to the floor, his gun landing a second later.

  * * *

  Mr. Gray watched Mr. Green hit the floor, and pulled Irving in front of him. He pointed his gun down the hall at Clint.

  “Drop it!” he shouted.

  “Not a chance,” Clint said.

  Mr. Gray put the gun to Henry Irving’s temple.

  “I’ll blow his head off.”

  “Then you’re a dead man,” Clint said, “with no shield.”

  “We’re walking out of here.”

  “Not with him, you’re not,” Clint said. “He still has a tour to finish.”

  “You might stop me,” Mr. Gray said, “you might even kill me, but there will be others. Lots of others.”

  “But . . . why?” Irving asked.

  “Shut up!” Mr. Gray said, screwing the gun barrel tighter against Irving’s head. He never took his eyes off Clint. “Now, drop your gun and step aside.”

  Clint shook his head.

  “Can’t do that, friend.”

  “Then the actor dies.”

  “Clint,” Henry Irving said, “I don’t mind dying on stage every so often. That happens to actors. But this . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Henry,” Clint said. “You’re not going to die.”

  * * *

  Clint had one shot. Irving was a bigger man than the gunman standing behind him, but in order to see Clint, the man still had to look over Irving’s shoulder, which left his head exposed. Plus, he had Irving bent backward, which made the actor shorter than he really was.

  “Relax, Henry,” Clint said. “Don’t move.”

  “W-What are you going to do?” Irving asked, and Mr. Gray wondered the same thing.

  Clint fired once, pointing, not aiming. The bullet traveled straight and true, and hit Mr. Gray in his left eye. The bullet went straight through, and out the back of his head.

  Irving felt the arm around his neck relax, and he darted away as the man fell to the floor. Spread out on the floor behind them were the man’s brains.

  “Oh, my,” Irving said.

  Clint walked up next to him and asked, “Is that enough violence for you?”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Ellen Terry opened the door to her room and stepped out.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “There are two dead men in the hallway, my dear,” Irving said. “And they are dead instead of me, thanks to Clint. So I would say everything is as it should be.”

  Clint had checked the two bodies to make sure they were dead, then replaced the empty loads in his gun with full ones. He holstered the gun and walked over to Terry.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Just stay inside. There will probably be some law here soon. I’ll talk to them.”

  “They tried to kill Henry?”

  “They tried to take him,” Clint said. “I assume they would have killed him when they got him away from here.”

  “And then?” she asked. “Would they have come for me?”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Clint put his hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s fin
e now,” he said. “Go back inside.”

  “But . . . what if someone else comes?”

  “If they do, it won’t be tonight,” Clint assured her.

  She nodded, walked back into her room as if she were in a trance. Clint closed the door behind her, then turned to face Irving. He found the actor still looking down at the two dead men.

  “Henry, you have to go back into your room,” he said.

  Irving turned and asked, “Why? When the local constabulary arrives, I should talk to them. After all, this was all about me.”

  “If they want to talk to you, they’ll knock on your door.”

  “After what happened,” Irving said, “I am not sure I would open it.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “so leave your door open.”

  At that moment they heard running footsteps coming up the steps.

  “Here they come,” Clint said.

  “Who?” Irving asked.

  “Somebody,” Clint replied, “and they’re in a hurry. Go on, get inside.”

  This time Henry Irving obeyed without question, but he did leave his door open.

  Clint looked down the hall in time to see three men come running in. They stopped short when they saw him, and the bodies. Clint didn’t see any badges.

  “Can I help you boys?” he asked.

  They were all wearing dark suits, and the one in front pulled his jacket aside. Clint saw a gun in a shoulder rig, and a badge pinned to his vest.

  “We’re the law, fella,” the man said. “Saint Louis Police Department.”

  The other three also moved their jackets aside to show their badges. The spokesman was in his thirties; the other two looked younger.

  “No sheriff?” Clint asked.

  “He might be along, too,” the man said. “We beat him to it. What happened here?”

  “These two tried to kidnap a man,” Clint said. “I stopped them.”

  “Kidnap who?”

  “A man named Henry Irving.”

  “Who’s that?” one of them asked.

  “Don’t you read the papers?” the other asked. “He’s some visiting actor.”

  “He’s a famous actor from England,” the first man said. He looked at Clint. “I was at the theater tonight. Is he all right?”

  “He’s okay,” Clint said. “He’s in his room, if you need to talk to him.”

  “Guess we better,” the man said.

  The three men came down the hall, stepped around Mr. Green’s body. They stopped by Clint, looked down at Mr. Gray.

  “Gonna be hell gettin’ that out of the rug,” one of them said.

  “What’s your name, mister?” the first man asked.

  “Clint Adams.”

  The man looked surprised.

  “The Gunsmith, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Officer Chantry,” the man said. “What’s your connection?”

  “I’m the escort for Henry Irving and Ellen Terry.”

  “Escort, or bodyguard?” one of the others asked.

  “Both.”

  Chantry turned to the others.

  “You two stay out here. I’ll talk to Mr. Irving.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” one of them asked.

  “Billy, you stay here. Eddie, get somebody to help remove these bodies.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Eddie said.

  Chantry turned back to Clint.

  “The lady okay?”

  “She’s fine. In her room. Mr. Irving’s in here.”

  Clint led Chantry to Irving’s door, and they entered. The actor was sitting in a chair with a glass of brandy.

  FORTY

  “Henry, this is Officer Chantry, of the Saint Louis Police Department.”

  “Mr. Henry,” Office Chantry said. “I was in the Fox Theater to see you tonight. I thought you and the lady were great.”

  “Did you?” Irving displayed some surprise. “Seems you were in the minority.”

  “Aw, don’t let them get you down,” Chantry said. “This town don’t know nothing about acting. You and the lady deserved better.”

  “Apparently not,” Irving said. “Those two out in the hall were harsh critics.”

  “Can you tell me what happened here tonight?” Chantry asked.

  “Those two men came to my door with their guns and tried to take me out,” Irving said. “I believe they wanted to kill me.” He indicated Clint with his brandy glass. “Mr. Adams stopped them.”

  Chantry turned to Clint.

  “That all?”

  “That’s it.”

  “This something that’s been going on?”

  “They were tailing us,” Clint said. “Looks like they finally decided to make a move.”

  “Well,” Chantry said, “sounds like self-defense to me. I’ll explain it to my chief.”

  “Would you like a glass of brandy, Officer?” Irving asked.

  “Sure, why not?” Chantry said. “Looks like I’ll be up here for a while. At least until we get those bodies cleared away.”

  “Clint?”

  “I’m going to go and check on Ellen,” Clint said. “Make sure she’s all right. The officer will stay with you.”

  “Don’t leave the hotel, Mr. Adams.” Chantry said. “Not yet.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Clint said.

  While Irving poured the officer a glass of brandy and handed it to him, Clint left the room, walked down the hall past the other policeman to Terry’s door, and knocked.

  * * *

  “Clint,” Terry said when she opened the door.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Please.”

  She backed away. He entered the room. She rushed into his arms.

  “Is it over?”

  “For now,” he said.

  “Will it happen again?”

  “Maybe,” Clint said. “I can’t say for sure.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I wish I’d been able to take one of them alive to find out, but I guess that wasn’t to be.”

  “So what do we do now?” she asked, stepping back.

  “I’ll wait until the police search them,” Clint said, “find out who they are, where they were from.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then we continue in,” Clint said. “Kansas City’s next.”

  “Will we be late?”

  “If we are,” Clint said, “they’ll wait. After all, they can’t start without you and Henry, can they?”

  FORTY-ONE

  Kansas City went only slightly worse than Saint Louis, except that no one tried to kidnap or kill Irving or Ellen Terry. But their reception in Saint Louis and Kansas City had Clint worried about what they’d find in Tombstone, which would be their stop before Phoenix and then San Francisco.

  The night before they were to leave for Tombstone—by rail, and then by stage from Benson—they had dinner in Henry Irving’s suite. The hotel brought up a table and supplied two waiters for the meal.

  “I don’t mind telling you,” Ellen Terry said to them both, “I’ve been very nervous since Saint Louis.”

  “You’ve been nervous?” Irving said. “I have never been as drunk as I was that night after it was all over. I don’t even remember getting on the train the next morning.”

  “Well, you did,” Clint said, and to Terry, he said, “Don’t be nervous. I think we gave them something to think about in Saint Louis.”

  “We gave them something to think about?” she asked. “You mean you did.”

  “Jesus,” she said, “I just thought of something.”

  “What’s that, my dear?” Irving asked.


  “We are going to Tombstone next.”

  “So?”

  “That is the Wild West,” she said to him. “There will be more guns there than anywhere else.”

  Irving looked at Clint.

  “I guess I can’t argue with her on any of that,” he told the actor.

  “If they don’t like us on stage,” she went on, “they might shoot us.”

  “I doubt that,” Irving said, “but you are right about one thing.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?” she asked.

  “It will probably be the most dangerous place we’ve been.”

  “And how do you feel about that?” she asked.

  “I think,” Irving continued, “that given all the places we’ve already been, Tombstone is where Clint will be the most comfortable.”

  Now Ellen Terry looked at Clint, and he shrugged and said, “I can’t argue with him either.”

  “And you think you can keep us safe there?” she asked him.

  “I believe I can,” Clint said, “but maybe I’ll send a couple of telegrams before we leave here, just in case.”

  “To whom?” she asked.

  “Not important.” He leaned over, took a metal cover off a plate, to reveal a chocolate cake. “Anyone for cake?”

  * * *

  Clint walked Terry to her suite and promised to join her later. Then he went back to Irving’s.

  “I’ll have somebody come and clean up,” he said.

  “They can do that tomorrow, after we leave,” Irving said. “Have a drink with me.”

  The actor poured two brandies, handed Clint one.

  “What’s on your mind?” Clint asked.

  “Violence.” Irving sat in a stuffed armchair. Clint sat on a wooden chair.

  “You haven’t had enough of it?”

  “I won’t pretend I wasn’t frightened,” Irving said. “And, in fact, I still am. But I’m afraid I am even more fascinated.”

  “What do you want to do, Henry?” Clint asked. “Where do you want to go now?”

  “I think we are already going there,” Irving said. “Tombstone is a dangerous place. It has seen much violence.”

  “So have Dodge City, Abilene, Deadwood,” Clint said. “But they all have one thing in common.”