Standoff in Santa Fe

Clint approached Alicia and cradled her two perfect handfuls of breasts in his palms. He squeezed them, popped the nipples with his thumbs while she sighed and dropped her head back. He leaned over to touch each nipple with the tip of his tongue. He licked them until they were distended, then took them and worried them between his teeth. She moaned and put her hands behind his head to hold him there—and then they heard the barrage of shots.

Clint jerked his head up and looked at her.

“Forget it,” she said. “Probably some drunk cowboys. Let the law handle it.”

“The problem is,” he said, grabbing his shirt, “for the time being, I am the law.”

As he put his shirt on, she saw light glint off the badge pinned to it.

“Oh,” she said.

He pulled on his boots, grabbed his gun belt, and said, “If you're here when I get back, we can continue.”

“Well, okay—”

But Clint was out the door.

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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TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he's the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

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STANDOFF IN SANTA FE

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61044-2

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / October 2013

Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Funerals were happening more and more often these days. As the West marched toward the 1890s and civilization, more and more of Clint Adams's friends, acquaintances, and enemies were dying. Some violently, with their boots on, others of more natural causes—in bed of old age, or of some incurable disease, as with Doc Holliday.

Clint rode into Santa Fe, New Mexico, to attend one such funeral. He left his horse at the livery after going over the animal's care with the hostler. The man was sufficiently impressed by Eclipse, Clint's Darley Arabian, that he agreed to everything just to have the horse in his stable.

After that, Clint went to a hotel and got himself a room. The funeral was to be held in the town's largest saloon and hotel, but he wanted to stay somewhere quiet. These kinds of funerals—and wakes—tended to get very noisy.

It was too early for the funeral, so Clint decided to get some of the formalities handled. One such formality was checking in with the local law. It was what you did when you were the Gunsmith and you were newly arrived in town.

He left his hotel and walked to the sheriff's office. He'd been to Santa Fe before, knew where the office was. At least, he hoped it was still there. Santa Fe was growing by leaps and bounds and may—in his absence—have gone to the Eastern police department style of law enforcement. He was pleased to find the sheriff's office right where he had left it on his last trip.

The shingle on the outside told him that the sheriff was not the same man. This time the sheriff was a man named J. Burle. He opened the door and entered.

The office was old style, with a potbellied stove, gun rack, desk against the wall rather than in the center of the room. Through another door he could see the cell block, which appeared to be empty.

He heard the sound of a broom and presently a man appeared in the doorway, sweeping dirt out of the cell block. He was tall, even though he was stooped to sweep. He was not wearing a gun or a hat, both of which were hanging on wall pegs.

“Oh,” the man said, straightening, “didn't hear you come in.” The lawman was either a young-looking forty, or was graying prematurely. Even his bushy mustache had some gray.

He set the broom aside, leaving the little mound of dirt on the floor.

“Sheriff Jim Burle,” he said, turning to face Clint. “Can I help you?”

“I just got to town, Sheriff, thought I'd check in with you,” Clint said. “I'm Clint Adams.”

“Ah,” Burle said. “Another one.”

“Sorry? Another one?”

“All of you old-time gunnies are comin' to town for the funeral.”

“Old-time gunnies?”

“I'm not as old as I look,” Burle said, touching his head. “It's this gray hair. I'm thirty-two.”

“Ah,” Clint said with a nod. “What other ‘old-time gunnies' are in town?”

“A few,” Burle said. “Unlike you, they haven't seen fit to come and announce themselves. I saw Bass Reeves here yesterday. I think Bat Masterson also came in.”

Both men were friends of Clint's. Reeves was a marshal in Judge Smith's court, must have gotten time off to come to this.

“Well,” Clint said, “I guess I'll find out for myself who's here. I might as well leave you to your”—he gave the mound of dirt on the floor a pointed look—“work.”

Clint turned and walked out of the office. He crossed the street and entered the first saloon he saw.

The funeral was to take place at Santa Fe's premier gambling hall and casino, the Crystal Queen. Clint just wanted a quiet beer, so he entered the little saloon called the Buckskin.

At the bar he ordered a beer, then turned with it in hand to observe the interior. No gambling, no girls—although it may simply have been too early—but the place looked like your basic whiskey-and-beer saloon.

There were only a few men in the place at that time of day, and none of them were “old-time gunnies.” Clint realized that he and his colleagues were becoming somewhat anachronistic, but this was the first time he'd been called an “old-time” anything. It stung. Nobody wanted to be thought of as someone who was out of time.

“Here for the wake and funeral?” the bartender asked.

Clint turned and looked at the man. He was in his fifties, with a hard belly paunch and biceps. His hair was curly black, as were his eyebrows.

“How did you know?”

“Lots of people comin' in for it,” the bartender said.

“People?” Clint asked. “Or old worn-out gunnies?”

The man laughed.

“You been talkin' to the sheriff,” he said. “Man's got no respect for the Old West.”

“You do?”

“Hell, yeah,” he said. “We wouldn't be where we are if it wasn't for the Old West.” The bartender stuck out his hand. “Kelly O'Day.”

Clint took his hand, shook it, and said, “Clint Adams.”

O'Day stared at him and said, “Well, fuck me.”

“This is a real pleasure,” O'Day said. “Did you know the dearly departed?”

“I did,” Clint said.

“Friend of yours?”

“I wouldn't exactly say a friend,” Clint said. “We had a healthy respect for each other.”

“Well, I hear there's quite a few of you fellas comin' in for this.”

“Us fellas?”

“Legends,” O'Day said. “Seems like we're gonna have a lot of legends in town this week.”

“Legends” sounded a whole lot better than “old-time gunnies.”

Clint put his mug on the bar and said, “How much do I owe you?”

“It's on the house,” O'Day said. “Real pleasure to have you in my place.”

“You own the Buckskin?”

“It ain't much, but it's home,” O'Day said.

“I like it,” Clint said. “I like a quiet place to drink.”

“Well, when you get tired of the crowd at the wake, come on back,” O'Day said.

“I'll do that.”

*   *   *

Clint left the Buckskin and decided he might as well go and take a look at the Crystal Queen. Maybe he'd find his friend Bat Masterson there, most likely playing poker.

The Crystal Queen sat at the confluence of two streets, so that when Clint was walking, it loomed up before him. He could see several men sitting out in front, on the boardwalk, holding drinks as he approached.

As he mounted the boardwalk, he saw that the three men drinking there were young.

“Funeral ain't 'til later, friend,” one of them said.

“That's okay,” Clint said. “Thanks anyway.”

One of the other men stepped in front of Clint, blocking his entry.

“Didn't you hear what my friend said?” he asked.

Clint poked the man in the breastbone with a stiffened forefinger. He knew from experience how much that hurt. It actually drove the young man back a couple steps, a look of confusion on his face.

“Get out of my way,” Clint said.

“Hey!” the third man said. “What the—”

Clint turned and looked at the man, who fell silent and seemed to shrink back.

“You boys looking to test all the old-time gunnies who are coming to town?” Clint asked. “That's a good way to get yourself killed.”

The man he'd poked was rubbing his breastbone as he stepped aside. Clint looked at the other two men to make sure they were stepping back, and then went through the batwing doors.

Saloons like the Crystal Queen were in full swing from the moment they opened their gates. This one was no different. There was music, gambling, and girls. A row of men stood at the bar, drinking. Clint looked around, didn't see a coffin anywhere. They must have had it in a back room.

There were several poker games going on, but he didn't see Bat Masterson sitting at any of those tables. Likewise, he didn't see Bass Reeves anywhere, but the deputy U.S. marshal was not a gambling man.

He decided to have a beer, since he'd had to run a three-man gauntlet to get into the place. He approached the bar, sized up the competition, then made a space for himself between two likely-looking cowboys who wouldn't mind.

“Beer,” he told the bartender.

“Comin' up,” the young bartender said.

The bar was long and there were two barkeeps working it. They both seemed to be working hard in order to keep up. Every so often a pretty girl came along with a tray to pick up a few drinks to deliver to the tables.

The bartender brought the beer and asked, “Here for the wake?”

“I am.”

“You wanna start a tab?” the bartender asked. “Pay when you leave?”

“No,” Clint said, “I'll pay as I go.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Where's the coffin?” Clint asked.

“We got a back room that's usually used for private poker games,” the bartender said. “It's in there.”

“Anybody back there?”

The man shrugged and said, “Maybe the undertaker. The body ain't ready for viewing yet.”

“Okay, thanks.”

The bartender nodded and moved on to serve another customer.

Clint wondered where his own funeral and wake would be held, and who would attend. Would his friends outlive him so that they could attend, or would the likes of Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Luke Short die before he did? He hoped not, because that would be too many damned wakes for him to attend.

Too damned many.