The University Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  “I should have killed him when we decided to impersonate him,” the man said.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Get going!”

  “Relax,” the phony Sideman said. “There’s no way I can beat them there.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “I’ll just have to catch them on the way back.”

  Steve Taylor was surprised to see Clint and Fellows ride into camp.

  “You fellas back already?” he asked. “You sure must like that ride back and forth.”

  “I’m starting to really hate it,” Clint said. “But we need to find some information in the shack.”

  “What information?”

  “We need to know where Art Sideman lived before he came to work here,” Fellows said.

  “We figure Fitz had it written down somewhere.”

  “You don’t need to look for it,” Taylor said. “Sideman came from a town in North Carolina called Golina.”

  “Are you sure?” Clint asked.

  “Positive.”

  “You didn’t get that information from Sideman himself, did you?” Fellows asked.

  “No,” Taylor said, “Fitz told me about it.”

  Fellows looked at Clint, who said, “Good enough for me.”

  “But we don’t want to head back too soon,” the detective said.

  “No,” Clint said. “Coffee?”

  “Why not?”

  Taylor looked at both men like they were nuts.

  Clint and Fellows each had a leisurely cup of coffee and watched the men work while they drank it.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “That should do it.”

  “So, you’re actually giving this guy time to get set up to ambush you?” Taylor asked.

  “We need him to do it in order to give himself up,” Clint said.

  “Yeah, but what if he kills you?” Taylor asked. “Or one of you?”

  “We’ll just have to see to it that he doesn’t,” Clint said.

  The man who was “Art Sideman” rode out of Tucson at a leisurely pace, intending to find a likely place for an ambush.

  Much of his work was done from ambush. On occasion, he did more close-up work, like the killing of Ted Fitzgerald. Most of his close-up work was simply setup, like establishing himself as “Art Sideman” before beginning his work as a saboteur. But his killing he preferred to do at a distance. Not because he didn’t like the sight or smell of blood. In truth, he did. Blood was usually an indication that he had done his job correctly. He simply preferred using a rifle to using a handgun. He was not a gunman; he was a killer. There was a big difference. Clint Adams was a gunman, and it would be foolish for the man to face him on even terms with a handgun. No, the way to kill the Gunsmith was from a distance. It was a job, and he didn’t particularly care if he became known for killing him or not.

  As long as he got paid.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Clint and Fellows headed back to Tucson at a leisurely pace.

  “Are you sure about this?” Fellows asked.

  “Look,” Clint said, “putting a man in a room and questioning him is what you do. This is what I do. There are several places which would be good for an ambush. I’m going to be the target, while you watch my back.”

  “How do you know I can watch your back?” Fellows asked. “You’ve never even seen me shoot.”

  “Well, we don’t have time for me to test you,” Clint said. “I’ll just have to take your word for it that you can shoot.”

  “I never said I could shoot,” Fellows pointed out.

  Clint gave him a look.

  “I’m just kidding,” the detective said.

  “Wrong time, wrong place,” Clint said.

  “Okay, sorry,” Fellows said. “So I can shoot…a little.”

  The killer got himself into position, comfortable with the rifle in his hands. He was lying on his belly on top of a smooth boulder, with a clear view of the road below. Since it was a straight run on the road from Tucson to the site and back, he expected Adams and the detective to use the road. If they didn’t, then he was going to have to figure something else out.

  He took off his hat and made himself comfortable.

  “Okay,” Clint said, reining in. “Here’s where we split up.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Dead sure.”

  “What about when he sees you alone?” Fellows asked. “Isn’t he going to wonder where I am?”

  “I’m hoping he’ll think you stayed at the site while I’m riding back.”

  “What if he’s a really good shot and he kills you?” Fellows asked.

  “Then you better get him,” Clint said. “You circle around, look for the cluster of rocks I told you about.”

  “I’ll do it,” Fellows said, “but I don’t feel good about it.”

  “Go,” Clint said. “We both let this guy go. Let’s make up for that.”

  “Agreed.”

  Fellows rode his horse in a semicircle. He knew where Clint had told him the rocks were, but he spent more time in the city than on horseback. He was afraid he was going to get lost, and get Clint killed.

  Just follow the directions, he told himself.

  Clint gave Fellows a little time to get himself into position, then started forward. He stuck to the road, to make it easy for the killer to find him. He just hoped that the absence of Fellows wouldn’t tip the killer off that he was in a trap. If the man sensed the danger and rode off, they might never get another chance to catch him. Then having let him go—and not just let him go but actually kicking him out of camp—would stick with them for a very long time.

  In the past, Clint had been very good about sensing ambush. It was a sixth sense that had helped him to live this long. In addition, Eclipse had saved his life more than once by warning him. Now he was going to have to depend on both their senses to survive this moment.

  He thought he knew where the man, the false Sideman, would shoot from. If he was wrong, it might cost him dearly.

  “Ears up, boy,” he said, patting Eclipse’s neck, “nostrils open.”

  Eclipse lifted his head up, as if he was sniffing the air.

  “That’s it, big boy,” Clint said. “Maybe between the both of us, we can keep me alive.”

  The false Art Sideman heard a rider approaching at a trot, perked up, and shouldered his rifle. It bothered him that he heard only one rider. There could have been a couple of explanations for that. Either one of them had stayed behind, or they were trying to trap him.

  The killer’s talent had taken him this far in his chosen profession, and had kept him alive. But mixed in with that talent was a necessary degree of arrogance. In the execution of his various jobs he’d had to balance the two perfectly.

  And this was no different.

  However, the fact that when the lone rider came into sight, it was the Gunsmith, and not the policeman, pushed him over the edge into arrogance. How could he give up this chance of killing the Gunsmith? Even if he didn’t care who knew he’d done it, he’d know—and he’d always know if he walked away from the chance.

  Wherever the policeman was, he was no match for the killer.

  He lifted the rifle and sighted down the barrel.

  Fellows was worried that his worst fear had come true, and he was lost—and then he came within sight of the rock formation that Clint had told him about.

  “A killer could take cover behind it,” Clint had told him, “but what I would do is climb up on top of it for the best view I could get, and the best angle.”

  And there he was!

  THIRTY-NINE

  Fellows saw the man with the rifle on top of the rocks. He also saw, in the distance, Clint come riding into view. Now he had to do something to make sure that Clint didn’t end up dead.

  He kicked his horse in the ribs, urging him into a run. He drew his handgun, knowing he was too far away for it to be of any use, but all he really wanted to do was make some noise.

  He pulle
d the trigger.

  The killer heard the first shot, and it caused him to rush his own. He pulled the trigger a split second before he should have, and cursed.

  Clint heard the first shot, knew from the sound that it was a handgun, not a rifle.

  It was Fellows.

  He launched himself from the saddle just as he heard the crack of a rifle.

  Fellows continued to pull the trigger of his gun until it was empty, then he holstered it and urged his horse on faster. As he neared the rocks, saw the shooter stand up, he drew his own rifle out, but he was not good with a rifle, and had certainly never made a shot from the saddle.

  In trying to save Clint’s life, he never meant to give up his own, but that might be the way it ended up.

  The man on the rocks turned his attention toward him.

  Clint drew his rifle as he leaped from his saddle. When he hit the ground, he gave up his hip in order to keep his hold on the rifle. Without his hands to break his fall, he took the brunt of it on the left hip. He had to ignore the pain, though. He rolled and came up in a crouch, facing the shooter on the rock. He could see that the shooter had switched targets, and was now facing Fellows, who was a sitting duck.

  The killer knew he had to move fast. Fire at one approaching horseman, and then at the other, who was now on the ground. He knew the Gunsmith had hit the ground hard. He only hoped it would take the man several seconds to collect himself.

  He aimed his rifle at Fellows.

  The detective saw the man pointing his weapon at him. He reined his horse in and had to make a decision. Aim and fire, or hit the ground?

  Feeling he had given Clint the time he needed, he decided to hit the ground.

  Clint knew he had to act or Fellows was dead—and the young detective had pretty much saved his life. He had known the shooter would be on that rock, and yet the man might have gotten his shot off in time.

  Now it was his turn.

  He shouldered his rifle, and fired.

  FORTY

  Fellows hit the ground and rolled, but not having the instincts or reflexes of Clint Adams, he ended up on his back. He was vulnerable, but had probably landed—by pure luck—in the position that afforded the killer his smallest target.

  In addition, his rifle had flown from his hand on impact, so he stayed where he was, waiting for the shot and hoping for the best.

  The killer swore.

  The policeman was flat on his back, presenting a difficult target, especially since the ground was not completely flat.

  Angry at himself, knowing he had let his arrogance get the best of him, he turned to find Clint Adams in his sights—but instead, turned right into the Gunsmith’s bullet.

  Clint saw the man prepare to fire, then apparently change his mind. He then turned toward Clint, who had already pulled the trigger.

  The bullet hit the man squarely and threw him off the rock.

  As the killer flew through the air, he started to curse himself, but he was cut short when he hit the ground. The air went out of his lungs, but before he could try to breathe in again, he was dead.

  Fellows got up off the ground, looked around. He walked over and picked up his rifle, then walked toward his horse, which was standing calmly a few feet away. He mounted up and rode toward the rocks.

  Clint looked around, saw Eclipse standing a few yards away. He started to walk toward him, but his hip screamed and he stopped. Instead, he whistled and the Darley Arabian came trotting over. Clint struggled into the saddle and rode for the rocks.

  Fellows and Clint reached the body at the same time.

  “Check him,” Clint said. “See if he’s alive.”

  He couldn’t dismount, so Fellows did it, walked to the body, and leaned over it.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Disarm him.”

  “I said he’s dead.”

  “Disarm him anyway.”

  Fellows leaned over, took the man’s gun from his holster, and stuck it in his belt.

  He walked back to Clint and looked up at him. “You okay?”

  “I landed on my hip. You?”

  “Broke my fall with my hands.” He held out his scraped palms.

  “I held on to my rifle,” Clint said.

  “Lucky for both of us.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. I needed the rifle.”

  “And not your hip?”

  “It’ll heal.”

  “We better get you back to town so the doctor can have a look,” Fellows said.

  “You, too,” Clint said.

  “We’ll send somebody back for the body.”

  “His horse has to be around here someplace,” Clint said. “Let’s find it. We can tie the body to it and take it in ourselves.”

  Fellows grinned. “That means I’m going to have to tie it to the saddle, right?”

  “I’ll go and find it,” Clint said. “I can do that from the saddle.”

  “Fine.”

  “Find his rifle, too,” Clint said.

  Fellows nodded.

  Fellows tied a tight knot so the body wouldn’t slide off during the ride back.

  “Okay,” he said. “That does it.” He mounted his own horse, looked at Clint, whose face was pale and etched with pain. “You okay?”

  “I will be. Let’s get back to town. I’m starting to think you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  “I think I need a doctor.”

  FORTY-ONE

  “That’s gonna be black-and-blue tomorrow,” the doctor told Clint.

  Clint was lying on the doctor’s table, naked and in pain.

  “Nothing’s broke, Doc?” he asked. “It feels like something’s broken.”

  “No, just bruised,” the doctor said. “You’ll be all right. Oh, it’s gonna hurt for a while. Take this over to the apothecary and they’ll give you something for the pain.”

  Clint stood up, took the piece of paper the doctor offered.

  “Get dressed. I’ll see you outside.”

  Clint and Fellows had ridden in, brought the body to the undertaker’s, and then Fellows helped him to the doctor. From there the detective went to tell his chief what happened. They agreed to meet at the hotel later.

  Clint got dressed and limped out of the examining room into the doctor’s front office.

  “What do I owe you, Doc?”

  “Two dollars should do it,” the doctor said. His name was Brady. He was in his forties, had set up practice in Tucson just five years before.

  “If you have any problems, come back and see me, Mr. Adams,” the doctor said. “But you should heal up okay.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Clint left the doctor’s office and limped over to the apothecary. He went in and handed the paper he’d gotten from the doctor over to the clerk.

  “I’ll be right with you, sir.”

  While he waited, the door opened and a woman walked in.

  “Well, Mr. Adams.”

  He looked at her face and recognized her,

  “Cynthia,” he said. “You look lovely.”

  “You look like a mess,” she said. “I hear you got the man who killed your friend.”

  “Has the word gotten out already?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “The word’s gotten around. But is that going to stop what’s been going on?”

  “Probably not,” Clint said. “I’ve still got to find the man he was working for. Is that your husband, Cynthia?”

  “My husband? He’s not smart enough to be behind this.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No.”

  The clerk came back, gave Clint the powder the doctor had prescribed for his pain. He limped to the door.

  “Why don’t I help you over to your hotel, Clint?” she asked. “We can discuss things further there.”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “Sure, I could use help walking back to my hotel.”

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  She helped him wal
k to the Palace, then he really had to lean on her to get up the stairs. By the time they got to his room, his hip was throbbing.

  She deposited him on the bed, then took the powder from him and mixed it in water for him.

  “Here, this will help with the pain. I know, I’ve used it myself.”

  “It won’t put me to sleep, will it?”

  “No. It’ll just help with the pain.”

  He drank it.

  “If you’re worried, I can stay with you while you get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll make sure nobody comes in to kill you.”

  “There won’t be anyone to do that, not yet,” Clint said. “Not until they replace the man Fellows and I brought in.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Not yet, but we’ll find out.”

  “Let me help you with your boots.”

  She slipped both of his boots off as gently as she could, dropped them to the floor.

  “You know, it wasn’t a coincidence we met today,” she said. “I saw you go into the apothecary.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  She put her hand on his left leg.

  “Is this the hip?”

  “It is.”

  “Come on, let me take off your pants. Maybe it’ll feel better if I rub it.”

  He didn’t fight her. He let her take off his gun belt, told her to hang it on the bedpost. Then she slipped off his trousers.

  She moved to the other side of the bed, sat down, and began to rub her hands over his thigh and hip. She was right, it did feel better. Or maybe it was the powder. Either way, her touch felt good.

  Real good.

  FORTY-TWO

  She rubbed his hip, his thigh, then his belly. Slowly she moved her hand down until she slid it into his shorts. She closed her hand over his penis and it began to swell.

  “This part of you seems all right,” she said.

  “I didn’t fall on that part,” he said.

  She slid his underwear down and off, then put her hands on his legs, rubbed both thighs, then gently spread them apart.

  “That hurt?”