Way with a Gun (11 page)

“It's up to the sheriff,” Clint said. “He's in charge.”

Winston looked at the sheriff.

“Hey, it's fine with me,” Taylor said. “We can use all the guns we can find.”

“Okay then,” Clint said. “Do you want a beer?”

“Naw,” the big man said, “I'm gonna go home and rest some.”

“Okay, be back here in the morning at first light,” Clint said. “Right out front.”

“Yes, sir,” Winston said. “I'll be here.”

All three men watched him turn and walk out, and then the sheriff and Ransom stared at Clint.

“Well, if that don't beat all,” Ransom said. “Ya whip him and now he wants to be your friend.”

“It's a funny world. Ain't it?” Taylor asked.

“Well, we're six now,” Clint said. “The odds are looking better all the time.”

Clint, Sheriff Taylor, and Joe Ransom had another beer together, and then the sheriff said he had to get home while he still had a wife.

“What about you?” Clint asked Ransom. “Got a wife waiting for you?”

“Naw,” the younger man said, “nobody.”

“How about getting us two more beers?”

“Too old and tired to go to the bar yourself?” Ransom asked.

“You got that right,” Clint said, closing his eyes.

“I'll get 'em.”

Ransom went to the bar, and the two men who had their heads hanging in their beers made their move.

Jerry Corbett and his silent partner, Carl Bankhead, had ridden into town that afternoon. It hadn't taken them long to spot Clint Adams walking the streets with a man wearing a badge. A couple of questions and they found out that Andy Taylor was sheriff of Cedar City. Neither of them had ever heard of him. Corbett had been expecting to run into the Gunsmith somewhere along the way, but this was a stroke of luck.

They watched the two men long enough to figure out that they preferred this little saloon to the larger ones in town. They'd also heard the talk around town about what had happened the night before when Clint Adams was in one of the bigger saloons.

“He'll want to stay out of trouble,” Corbett told Bankhead.

“So what do we do?”

“We're gonna wait for him in his favorite little spot, and wait for him to make a fatal mistake.”

Bankhead agreed. He was Corbett's “silent” partner because nobody knew about him—not even Tell Barlow. Everybody thought that Jerry Corbett did his jobs alone, and that was the way he wanted it.

They watched, giving the appearance of two men who were about to fall into their mugs, as one by one the other men left until, finally, Clint Adams was sitting at the table alone.

What the two gunmen didn't realize was that Joe Ransom was not leaving the saloon, he was just going up to the bar.

It wasn't Clint Adams who made a fatal mistake after all.

Ransom felt like having a whiskey with his beer. As he turned to ask Clint if he wanted one too, he saw the two men making their move. They took their heads out of their mugs and, without a hint of drunkenness, stood and drew their guns.

Ransom moved immediately.

“Clint!” he shouted, drawing his gun.

Clint heard the sound of chairs scraping the floor, then heard Ransom yell. For an instant he didn't know which way to look, and in that instant he knew he could have died—had it not been for Joe Ransom.

He turned to look at Ransom, saw that he was drawing his gun, saw where his eyes were trained, and knew he'd looked the wrong way. He immediately threw himself out of his chair and dove for the floor, clawing for his gun. Meanwhile, the sound of shots filled the air in the small saloon. . . .

Corbett saw Clint Adams hit the floor as he pulled the trigger, and knew he was going to miss. He saw his bullet gouge a hole in the table where Clint Adams had been sitting, then became aware of the other man at the bar, who had shouted. In his mind Adams had moved, and then the shout came. It was the way things happened sometimes— or seemed to—in the wrong order.

Whichever came first, he knew he was a goner. . . .

Joe Ransom drew his gun and fired in one quick move. His bullet caught Bankhead just under the chin as the man fired. His lifeless body was thrown backward across another table, where he came to rest. His gun dropped from his hand and hit the floor.

Ransom turned to the other man, who was just turning toward him. They fired at roughly the same time. . . .

As Corbett fired his gun at the meddler, Clint fired at him from the floor. His bullet hit the man square in the chest, so that when Corbett pulled his trigger his shot went wild. Then Ransom's bullet struck him, also in the chest, and he was dead before he hit the floor.

In seconds, it was over. . . .

By the time Sheriff Taylor returned to the saloon— having heard the shots from down the street—the shooting was over and Clint and Ransom had checked the two men to be sure they were dead.

“What happened?” Taylor demanded.

“Those two threw down on Clint,” Ransom said. “They was gonna shoot him in the back.”

“Ransom saved my ass,” Clint said. He put his hand out for the younger man to shake. “I guess I don't have to wait any longer to find out if you can shoot. I'm much obliged, Joe.”

“Well,” Ransom said, shaking Clint's hand, “I couldn't let 'em shoot ya. We got too much to do.”

“Who are these fellas?” Taylor asked.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “I was just about to go through their pockets.”

Clint took out the contents of Jerry Corbett's pocket, and Taylor fished around in the other man's.

“I got nothin',” the lawman said.

“I got something,” Clint said.

“What?” Ransom asked.

Clint looked at both men and said, “A telegram.”

“That mean somethin' to you?” Ransom asked.

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Yeah, I'm afraid it does. Let's get this mess cleaned up and I'll tell you about it.”

In the sheriff's office, Clint explained about the previous attempt on his life and the telegram he'd found in the pocket of one of the men.

“It was like this one,” he finished. “Basically, hurry up and get it done, and signed by somebody named Tell in Selkirk, Arizona.”

“Do you know this Tell fella?” Taylor asked.

“Never heard of him.”

“Why is he lettin' you know where to find him?” Ransom asked.

“That's obvious,” Clint said. “He wants me to find him. I'll know why when I do.”

“And that's where you were headin' when we stopped you?” Taylor asked.

“That's right.”

“I'm really sorry, Clint,” Taylor said. “I had no idea—”

“That's okay,” Clint said. “We're going to be done here in two days' time at most.”

Taylor and Ransom looked at each other. Clint knew what they were thinking, that he was assuming he'd come out of the confrontation alive.

“I'm always looking ahead,” he told them. “You can't ever assume you're not going to survive.”

“I suppose you're right,” Taylor said.

“You know,” Ransom said, “Ned might have more than twelve men with him. We could be outnumbered more than two to one.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Clint said. “All we can do is get the men we do have ready. Andy, you were going to get us some lookouts.”

“First thing tomorrow I'll line 'em up,” the lawman promised.

“Um, you're not going to get any boys who are related to Pine, are you?”

“Don't worry about that,” Taylor said. “We've pretty much gone through all his relatives.”

“That's good.”

“Except for the women,” Ransom said.

Clint looked alarmed. “We're not going to have to deal with any of the women, are we?”

“Probably not,” Taylor said.

“Unless they pick up guns,” Ransom said.

“Jesus...”

“What do you want to do with the two men from tonight?” Taylor said.

“Bury them,” Clint said. “I'll pay for it.”

“You must have a lot of money,” Ransom said, “payin' Kale and Delaney, and now payin' to bury these two.”

“You know,” Clint said, “even if I did have a lot of money—which I don't—I probably wouldn't after leaving this town.”

“I'll talk to the undertaker,” Taylor said.

“I'm gonna have a drink somewhere and turn in,” Ransom said. He looked at Clint. “If you don't mind, I'll do it alone—just in case somebody else wants to take a shot at you. I had enough excitement for one night.”

“Once again, thanks for the help,” Clint said. “I might be dead if it wasn't for you.”

“We all still might be dead,” Ransom said. “Some of us ain't as confident as you are—but you're welcome.”

The next morning Clint met with Ransom, Kale, and Delaney in front of the small saloon. Sheriff Taylor came minutes later with two boys in tow who looked to be fourteen or fifteen.

“What are these boys here for?” Kale asked.

“They're going to be our lookouts,” Clint said. He looked at Taylor. “Do we have two good rooftops to put them on?”

“Two two-story buildings at the north end of town,” Taylor said.

“What about the south end?”

“They won't be comin' from the south,” the lawman said.

“Who says?” asked Clint.

“Well . . .”

“I don't think we need two lookouts at the same end of town. Do you, Sheriff?”

“I guess not. Okay, so one at the north end and one at the south.” Taylor looked at the boys. “You fellas work out who goes where.”

“Do we get guns?” one of them asked.

“What's your name?” Clint asked.

“I'm Roscoe,” the boy said.

“And I'm Marty.”

“What would you boys do with guns?” Clint asked.

“Kill us some outlaws,” Roscoe said eagerly.

“Have either of you ever fired a gun?”

“No,” Roscoe said.

“Well, no,” Marty admitted.

“Come here,” he said to Roscoe.

He took his gun out of his holster, turned the boy around, and put it in his hands.

“See the horse trough?”

“Yes, sir.”

The trough was only two feet away.

“Fire the gun into the water.”

“Right into the water?”

“Yes.”

“It won't make a hole?”

“No.”

Clint walked the boy right up to the trough.

“Cock it,” he said, even though it didn't need to be cocked.

It took the boy three tries and he had to use both thumbs.

“Now fire it.”

The boy pointed the gun at the water and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked him on his ass and he dropped the gun, crying out.

“My wrists!”

Clint picked up the gun, reloaded it, and looked at Marty.

“You want a turn?”

Marty looked down at Roscoe, who was cradling his wrists.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Good.” He holstered the gun, then reached down and lifted Roscoe to his feet. “By the time you cocked the gun, the outlaws would be gone. Do you still want one?”

Holding back tears, Roscoe said, “No, sir.”

“Good, then you'll both be lookouts. Just sing out when you see a group of riders—or any rider—approaching town. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Roscoe said.

“Yes,” Marty said.

“I'll take them over,” Taylor said.

As the sheriff walked away with the boys, Ransom said, “They've never fired a gun? I fired my first gun by the time I was ten.”

“I was twelve,” Kale said.

“Eleven,” Delaney said.

“Kids today,” Ransom said.

They all looked at Clint.

“I lived in the East,” Clint said. “Didn't fire my first until I was fifteen.”

“Really?” Ransom asked.

“Really. Joe, I need some suggestions for a good spot in town for an ambush.”

“We're gonna ambush them?” he asked.

“No,” Clint said, “we're just going to want them to think they've been ambushed.” He looked at the others. “You boys got rifles?”

“Yes, sir,” Kale said.

“Yes,” Delaney echoed.

“Go and get them.”

He looked at Ransom, who was holding his rifle.

“Gonna have to tell them everything,” Ransom said.

“That's fine,” Clint said. “Where's Winston?”

“I don't know,” Ransom said. “He should've—”

At that moment, the big man came shambling into view, wearing his holster and carrying a rifle. His jaw had turned some interesting shades of purple and yellow.

“Winston,” Clint said, “you okay?”

The big man nodded.

“Can you talk?”

He shook his head.

“Can you shoot?”

A nod.

“Okay,” Clint said. “That's what's important.” He looked at Ransom. “Joe? Ambush?”

“This way.”

Ned Pine tossed the remainder of his coffee cup into the fire, then upended the pot too.