Cross Draw (9 page)

“This lady told you a lot,” Dillon said.

“I know,” Quentin said, “I was surprised. She just kept talkin'.”

Raymond came and sat down with another cold beer, his fourth. Dillon was still on his second, as was Quentin.

“Slow down, Lou,” Dillon said. “You'll be useless in the whorehouse later.”

“Don't you worry about me and whores,” Raymond said. “I'll be just fine with them.”

“Okay,” Dillon said. “We'll see.”

“You headin' out in the mornin'?” Quentin asked.

“Yep,” Dillon said. “They can't be goin' very fast. We should be able to catch up to them tomorrow.”

“You gonna take him on the road?” Quentin asked.

“I don't think so,” Dillon said.

“When, then?”

“I think we'll follow them 'til they get to a town. I'll take him then.”

“You want witnesses, right?” Quentin said.

“Oh yeah,” Dillon said. “As many as I can get. When I outdraw and kill the Gunsmith, I want everybody to see.”

“You still got that weird gun?”

“What's weird about my Peacemaker?” Dillon asked. He took it out and put it on the table. Because his hands were so large, and his fingers so big, he'd had the trigger replaced with a larger one. He'd had the butt extended, and the holster adjusted to accommodate those changes.

“Look at it,” Quentin said, “I couldn't fire that accurately.”

“That's good,” Dillon said, putting the gun back in his holster. “Less chance my own gun can ever be used against me.”

“Are we done here?” Raymond said. “I wanna get some food, and then a whore.”

“I wanna ride with you tomorrow,” Quentin said.

“Well,” Dillon said, standing up, “come and eat with us and we'll talk about that.”

Dillon went to the whorehouse with Raymond, and while his partner picked out a pretty little blonde who weighed barely ninety pounds—and looked “clean”—Dillon could not find a girl big enough for his needs. He'd been spoiled by Candy from Denby a couple of days ago. Instead, he left the whorehouse and went back to the saloon—the one with the cold beer.

Quentin wasn't there when he walked in, but Dillon had already agreed to let his old partner tag along.

“I just wanna see it,” Quentin said. “I wanna see you gun the Gunsmith.”

“I told you,” Dillon said, “the more witnesses the better.”

Dillon went to the bar and ordered a beer. In the mirror, he saw the batwings open, and a man walked in. When he turned to come to the bar, Dillon saw the badge. He didn't know the man, but he was well acquainted with what he stood for.

Sheriff Cal Evans stood at the bar a few spaces from Dillon and ordered a beer.

“Quiet town,” Dillon said to Evans.

“Usually.”

“Heard you had some excitement a few days ago,” Dillon said.

“Heard that, did ya?” Evans asked. “What'd you hear, exactly?”

“Heard the Gunsmith was in town,” Dillon said. “That he gunned a man.”

“Well, yeah,” Evans said, over his beer, “that's true.”

“Heard he did it left-handed.”

Evans stared at Dillon, sipping his beer.

“That I can't tell ya,” the lawman said. “I didn't see it.”

“Must've been a big crowd.”

“Actually, no,” Evans said. “It happened so fast, nobody in town saw it.”

“I heard some women saw it.”

“Well, yeah,” Evans said, “but they were with Adams. And they all left town, after.”

Well, that pretty much confirmed everything Dillon had heard so far. Now he needed to find out if the sheriff knew anything extra.

 

Clint poured coffee for everyone, and then held his cup while Rosemary filled it for him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, my God,” Jenny said. “That's strong coffee.”

“Kills any germs that might get into your food,” Clint said.

“What?” Morgan said. “What germs?”

“There are no germs in this food,” Rosemary said aloud.

She handed out the plates. Clint set his plate on his lap and ate with his left hand. He was able to use his right arm, at least, to keep the plate from sliding off his lap.

He tasted Rosemary's beans and bacon and his eyebrows went up. “This is really good, Rosemary,” he said.

“See?” she said. “Not just regular trail food.”

“Suits me,” Clint said.

They all ate avidly; the job of cleaning up fell to Jenny.

While she took the plates and utensils away to clean them, they all had some more coffee, and Clint put another pot on the fire.

Rosemary said, “I see you're moving your arm more. Do you have any feeling in your fingers?”

“No,” he said. “Nothing so far.”

“Will you see another doctor when we get to another town?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don't know what good it would do.”

“Maybe another doctor would know more,” she said.

“Maybe.”

He sipped his coffee.

“Are you depressed, Clint?”

“Oh yeah.”

“But you can't give up,” she said. “Maybe if we did some exercises?”

“Like what?”

“We could all take turns massaging your hand, maybe moving the fingers around?”

“Well, it sounds pleasant,” he said. “I'm sure Abigail won't be volunteering for a turn.”

“That doesn't matter,” she said. “The four of us will do it, if you like.”

He looked down at his right hand, which was curled up in his lap. What harm could it do, he wondered?

“Why not?”

“What makes you so interested in the Gunsmith?” Evans asked Dillon.

Dillon had asked a few questions designed to elicit information from the lawman, but Evans had resisted responding.

“Well, hey,” Dillon said, “he's the Gunsmith, ain't he? And I just missed seein' him by what? A day? I'm just curious.”

“Well, there ain't nothin' else to know,” Evans said. He finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar. “I got rounds to make. You stayin' in town long?”

“Just overnight,” Dillon said. “Leavin' in the mornin'.”

“Well, enjoy the rest of your stay,” the sheriff said.

“Yeah,” Dillon said, “have a good night.”

The big man watched in the mirror as the lawman left the saloon.

Sheriff Evans had not been able to figure out how to use the Gunsmith to his benefit when the man was in town. Now came this big fella with the odd-looking rig on his hip, asking questions about Clint Adams. So the word had probably gotten out that Adams was in Big Rock, and might be easy pickings.

Evans went back to his office, unsure of what to do. Should he send some telegrams ahead to towns Adams and the women might pass through, with a warning? Or should he get on a horse, ride after them, and alert them himself?

In the end, he decided his responsibility was to his town, not to Clint Adams. Big Rock had survived the presence of Clint Adams and remained a small, quiet town, and he was going to have to be satisfied with that.

If the big fella left town the next day and caught up to Clint Adams, it would be out of the jurisdiction of Sheriff Cal Evans. There was nothing he could do about it.

He wondered how the big man had heard about Adams. Who had let the word out?

 

Dillon decided to make one more stop in the morning before leaving town and tracking Adams. He didn't bother looking for Raymond or Quentin. Let them find him. He had breakfast in his hotel dining room, then headed for the doctor's office.

 

When the big man entered his office, Doc Jacobs looked him up and down. For a man his size, the sawbones thought he looked extraordinarily healthy.

“Can I help you, my friend?”

“I think so,” Dillon said. “You had a patient a few days ago. Clint Adams? I'd like to know what his condition was when he came to you, and what it was when he left town.”

“I don't discuss my patients with strangers,” Jacobs said. “In fact, I don't discuss them with anyone, so I'm afraid I can't help you, after all.”

“No,” Dillon said, “I think you can. Or maybe I should say, I think you better.”

“Now, see here—”

The big man closed on him with surprising speed and grabbed him by the throat with unsurprising strength. His powerful hand quickly cut off the doctor's air supply.

“Lemme explain somethin' to you, Doc,” Dillon said. “You don't wanna make me mad. Bad things happen when I get mad. You understand?”

The doctor couldn't speak, so he nodded his head as best he could.

“Now I'm gonna let you go, and you're gonna answer my questions. Understand?”

He nodded again and the big man released the hold.

“Now, tell me about the injury to Clint Adams.”

Doc Jacobs cleared his throat a few times before speaking. “A wagon came down on his right arm, puncturing it,” he said. “I stitched and bandaged it.”

“That it?”

“That's it.”

“How bad was the injury?”

“It was a deep puncture.”

“You're tiptoin' around, Doc,” Dillon said. “I can feel myself gettin' mad again. How bad was the injury?”

“He could not use his right hand,” the doc said.

“There you go,” Dillon said. “How long is that condition gonna last?”

“There's no way of knowing.”

“Could it be permanent?”

“There's no way of—it could be,” the doc said as Dillon started to reach out for him.

“Could be?”

“It's . . . likely.”

“There you are,” Dillon said. “See, I ain't mad anymore.”

“How could it benefit you to kill a one-armed man?” the doctor asked.

“It would benefit me to kill the Gunsmith if he had no hands,” Dillon said. “The newspapers will say ‘Dillon Outdraws the Gunsmith, or ‘Dillon Kills Gunsmith.' They won't say how many arms he had, Doctor.”

“So it's about reputation?”

“It's all about reputation, Doc,” Dillon said. He turned to leave, then turned back. “If I find out you sent a telegram and warned Adams, I'll come back.”

“If you're alive.”

“I believe what you told me about Adams's arm,” Dillon said. “Don't worry, I'll be alive.”

Dillon left to go in search of his two partners. Time to hit the trail.

The doctor waited until Dillon was gone fifteen minutes, then left his office and hurried to the jail. He was out of breath by the time he entered. Evans looked up in surprise.

“Who's chasin' you, Doc?”

“I did somethin' terrible,” the Doc said, “because I am a coward.”

“Settle down, Doc,” Evans said. “Have a seat.”

The lawman took a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer, poured some into a coffee cup, and handed it to the doctor, who downed it.

“Now tell me what you did.”

Evans listened intently while the doctor told him of the big man's visit.

“Well, Doc,” he said, when the sawbones was done, “I met the man you're talkin' about, so I can't say I blame you.”

“B-but, we've got to warn Adams.”

“How do we do that?” Evans asked. “We don't know where he and those women went.”

“Can't you figure it out?”

“I don't even know what direction they went when they left town.”

Jacobs's shoulders slumped and he said, “What have I done?”

“Doc,” Evans said, “Adams is gonna have to face this kind of situation sooner or later. If this man—”

“Dillon,” Jacobs said. “He said his name was Dillon.”

“If this man Dillon kills the Gunsmith, you can bet we'll hear about it.”

“And if Adams kills him?”

“We won't hear a word,” Evans said. “That's the way it is with reputation. No one notices the dead man who didn't have one.”

“Ridiculous,” Evans said. “Men are killed for the most ludicrous reasons.”

“Maybe Adams can take this man left-handed, like he did here in town.”

“Maybe . . .”

“And maybe by the time Dillon finds him, he'll be able to use his right hand again.”

“I doubt it,” Jacobs said. “Even if he does get the use of his hand back, it'll be months before he can draw a gun effectively.”