Out of the Past (14 page)

“You want to arrest him for the murder of Annie?” Sandy asked.

“Sandy and Anne Archer were partners, Lieutenant.”

“Partners?”

“Sandy is a Pinkerton, too.”

The man looked miffed.

“Pinkertons operating in Kansas City without notifying us? The chief's not going to like that.”

“That's beside the point right now,” Sandy said. “You have enough to arrest Cameron?”

“I do,” Abernathy said, “but not the Cameron you're thinking of.”

“Billy?” Clint asked.

“Yes.”

“That's why he's been drunk since the murder,” Clint said. “Because he did it.”

“That's what I believe,” Abernathy said. “And I think if I can get him away from his father, he'll crack.”

“So if it looks like his father's trying to cover for him by having me killed . . .”

“I'll bring them both in.”

“Your chief goes along with this?”

“He does.”

“So I have to make sure his hired killer doesn't kill me,” Clint said, “while trying not to kill him.”

“You did it with Joe Bravo,” Sandy said, “but—”

“—but Denver Cole,” Abernathy finished, “is not Joe Bravo.”

After Abernathy left, Sandy said, “You'd think he'd offer to help, since we're doing his job for him.”

“He didn't have to come and warn me,” Clint said. “What do you know about Denver Cole?”

“He's deadly,” she said. “He doesn't know how many men he's killed because he doesn't count 'em.”

“And how does he kill them?”

“Head-on, as far as I know,” she said. “I've never heard anything about him bushwhacking anybody.”

“Well, maybe I won't have to worry about that, then,” he said.

“Don't worry, I'll watch your back. Hell, I'll stand in the street with you.”

“I won't need you to do that,” Clint said, “not if Cole is the man you say he his.”

“I'm only tellin' you what we heard at the Pinkerton's, ” she told him.

“And that's all I can go by.”

“He's young and he's fast, Clint,” she said. “How the hell are you supposed to keep him from killin' you and not kill him?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I guess I'll have to think of a way.”

Denver Cole could not let it show in Louis Cameron's office, but he was excited. He'd killed many men—didn't know how many because he didn't count them. Some of them had been fast, some had been deadly accurate, but none of them had the reputation of the Gunsmith. He was supposed to be both fast and accurate.

Cole had ridden into town that morning and hadn't bothered to get himself a room. In the past he did all his jobs the same day he arrived, so there was no waiting— not for him and not for the intended victim. And there was no spending of his money for a room or a bed he wasn't going to use.

He was sure Clint Adams knew that someone was coming for him, but maybe he didn't know who it was. And even if he had heard who was coming, he'd probably never heard of Cole. That was fine with the gunman. After today everybody was going to know his name and what he did.

Denver Cole, the man who killed the Gunsmith.

“You're just gonna sit there?” Sandy asked.

Clint had found a wooden chair and carried it out to the front of the Red Garter. He put it down in front of the building, with a wall against his back, not a window, and sat.

“Cameron's gun has to be able to find me,” Clint explained, “or nothing is going to happen.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You get a chair and sit over there,” he said, pointing across the street. “Whatever happens, you make sure nobody shoots me in the back from a window.”

“I thought you said you didn't believe Cole would do that?”

“I don't think
he
would,” Clint said, “but Cameron might put somebody up in a window with a rifle, just in case.”

Unable to help herself, Sandy suddenly looked up.

“Yeah,” he said, “see if you can find windows with a good angle.”

“How will I know where you're gonna stand?”

“I'll try to stand there,” he said, pointing, “if we end up in the street. If he's smart, he'll try to maneuver me to where he wants me. You're just going to have to watch and figure.”

Sandy dried her palms on her thighs.

“Don't be nervous,” he said. “I trust you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I'm used to working in a trio, you know? Me, Annie and Katy. Unbeatable.”

“Don't worry,” he said again, “you were each always unbeatable on your own.”

“Yeah,” she said, “look where that got Annie. Katy and I left her alone, and—”

“You can't blame yourself for that,” he said. “Nobody can defend against a bullet in the back. Even with you watching mine, there could still be a good marksman on a roof three hundred yards from here who could put one dead-center.”

“Jesus . . .” she said, shaking her head. “I'm used to tracking people, you know? This shoot-out in the street business . . . not for me.”

“Well, then,” he said, “let's make this your last, and let's make your last the best.”

Denver Cole was having a drink a few blocks away from the Red Garter. He found a small saloon that was doing little business that early and stood at the bar nursing a small whiskey. He didn't want to drink too much, because he was going to have to be sharp for Clint Adams. One whiskey always sharpened him up, but he never knocked it back, he always savored it—just like he would savor every moment against Clint Adams.

In the beginning he'd maneuver him to where he wanted him. Next would be the moment just before he drew his gun. That's when everything would go quiet, everybody would just fade away and all he'd be able to see was Clint Adams, standing there waiting for his last bullet.

And then the moment just after, when he saw that puff of dust kicked up by the bullet as it entered Adams's chest and put him down for the last time.

Finally, he'd walk to the fallen Gunsmith, stand over him and let everyone take a good, hard, long look. That would be a pose worthy of a painting. Too bad he didn't have time to alert an artist, or even a photographer. Wouldn't that make a great picture for the front page of dozens of newspapers across the county!

Louis Cameron handed the man five hundred dollars.

“Pick a window where you can see the Red Garter and the street in front.”

“What if they don't do it there?” the man asked.

“Don't worry,” Cameron said, “Denver Cole will want as large an audience as he can get.”

“So if Adams kills Cole, I kill Adams,” the man said.

“And you get another five hundred.”

The man nodded, stuffed the five hundred dollars into his shirt pocket, picked up his rifle, turned and started for the door. When he got there, he turned around.

“What if Cole wins?”

Cameron thought about the blank check Cole wanted to hold him up for.

“If he wins,” Cameron said, “wait until he walks to the body and stands over it, then kill him.”

“What if he don't stand over him?”

“Oh, don't worry about that either,” Cameron said. “If he kills the Gunsmith, he's going to want to stand over him for the entire town to see. You just put a bullet in him when he does. Then come back here for your other five hundred.”

“Okay,” the man said.

As the man with the rifle left, Cameron opened his drawer and stared at the gun there. Maybe to complete the circle he'd just put a bullet in the rifleman when he came back for his second five hundred, then take the first five hundred back. Leave it to Walters to dispose of the body. He was good at little errands like that.

Sandy walked across the street, found a chair that was already sitting against the window of the Plaza hotel. Seemed a fitting place to watch the action. She scanned the windows and rooftops across the street, which all looked clear to her, but from where she sat she'd never be able to see above her, or anywhere on her side of the street. She suddenly realized that Clint had sent her over here to keep her out of the way. Okay, then, she'd show him she had value and possessed initiative. If she was a man with a rifle whose job it was to put a bullet in Clint Adams's back while he stood in the street, where would she be?

She got up from her chair, went inside and asked the clerk, “How do I get to the roof?”

Clint spotted Denver Cole walking down the street. It could only be him. It was in his walk, his posture, hell, it was written all over his face.

Whether or not he could keep Cole alive and keep himself alive at the same time depended on how good Cole really was.

Clint remained in his chair, relaxed. He doubted he could talk the man out of what he had in mind. The price was bound to be too high.

He loosened his gun in his holster and waited . . .

Denver Cole saw Clint Adams sitting in a chair in front of the hotel. It had to be him, waiting. That was fine. It suited him not to have to go looking for the man. He knew earning his money wouldn't be easy, but at least it would be quick.

The man with the rifle stood on the roof and sighted down the barrel. At the moment he was aiming at Denver Cole, because that was the only man he could see. Soon, however, Cole would entice Adams out into the street and he'd have both possible targets in front of him.

It would be up to the two men who would actually become the target. The rifleman made a bet with himself that he would end up being the man who killed the Gunsmith, not Denver Cole.

Sandy got to the top floor of the hotel and started looking for the hatch in the ceiling that would take her to the roof. When she found it, she had a problem. She couldn't reach it. She jumped a few times, but she was too short. She looked around but there were no chairs in the hallway. This had to be a problem for most people who had to get to the roof. There had to be a ladder somewhere, maybe in a closet.

She started trying doors.

There was a tension between the two men, who were still a distance from each other, that people on the street could sense. Slowly, the spectators started to go inside. It didn't matter where, they just needed to get inside. Strangers opened their doors to strangers, until the street was virtually empty, except for the two men.

Clint watched as Denver Cole approached. Once Cole got there, Clint let the two front legs of his chair hit the boardwalk.

Cole stopped in the street, right in front of Clint.

“Clint Adams?”

“That's right,” Clint said. “You Cole?”

“I'm Cole.”

“How much is Cameron paying you?”

“Blank check.”

“Impressive,” Clint said, “but still not enough to die for.”

Cole shrugged and said, “This is how I make a living.”

“Dying ain't much of a living.”

“Well,” Cole said, “this time it's about much more than that.”

“Oh, you want a reputation?” Clint asked. “The man who killed Clint Adams?”

“The man who killed the Gunsmith,” Cole corrected.

“You think you're going to see that on a dime novel in a few months?”

Cole shrugged.

“All I know is everybody in this country will know my name next week,” Cole said, “and I'll be a rich man. I don't see any bad side to this.”

“I do.”

“What?”

“You'll be dead in a few minutes.”

Cole pushed his hat back on his head, rubbed his jaw and regarded Clint critically.

“I don't know,” he said, “I got about fifteen years on you. You can't be as good as you used to be.”

“You got it wrong, junior,” Clint said. “I'm the one who's got fifteen years on you—in experience.”

“Yeah,” Cole said, “but are you as fast as you used to be?”

“I don't have to be faster than you,” Clint said, “just more accurate.”

“You think I'm gonna miss?”

“I think we're talking this thing to death,” Clint said. “But before we do this, I just need you to say it again, for the record.”

“Say what?”

“That Louis Cameron hired you to kill me.”

“Why not?” Cole asked. “Why should I deny a dying man's last wish? Cameron hired me to kill you.”

“The old man? Louis. Not the son?”

“The son's useless,” Cole said. “It was the old man. He said you're a thorn in his side.”

“He's right.” Clint stood up. “Okay, where do you want me? In the street?”

“That's as good a place as any.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice before we start?” Clint asked.

“Sure.”

“If you do get lucky and manage to kill me,” he said, “watch the rooftops.”

“The rooft—you sayin' you put a man on the roof with a rifle?”

“Not me,” Clint said.

“Cameron?”

“You really think he's going to give you a blank check?” Clint asked. “Come on, you know him better than I do.”

“That can't be!”

“Can't it?” Clint asked. “I'll bet you your blank check that whether I kill you or you kill me, the winner will be dead seconds later.”

Cole frowned.

“If that's true, there won't be nobody alive to collect on that bet,” he said.