The Gunsmith 406 Page 8

  “Goin’ out to Mr. Restin’s ranch now?” the man asked, still nervous. As far as the man was concerned he was probably just another of Vance Restin’s hired guns.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Would you, uh, please give him my, um, my best regards.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Clint rode away. He didn’t know the man’s name, and hadn’t bothered to ask.

  He rode up to the house and – true to his word – Vance Restin had his daughter’s horse saddled and ready. His man, Ray Owens, was standing on the porch. When he saw Clint he came down to meet him, stopping to hold the horse’s head. There was no sign of any of the ranch hands, or gun hands.

  As Clint dismounted, he grabbed one of the blankets and sacks from his saddle and carried them over to the girl’s brown mare.

  “Where is she?” he asked Owens.

  “Inside. You want that stuff on the horse?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll take care of it for you.” Owens accepted the supplies from Clint. “You can go inside, if you want.”

  “I don’t want,” Clint said. “I told your boss to have her ready.”

  “She’s ready.”

  “Then she should be out here.”

  Owens tied the sack and blanket to the girl’s saddle and said, “I’ll go in and tell them you’re here.”

  “Tell them I won’t be here in five minutes,” Clint suggested.

  Owens didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded and went inside.

  Clint looked around, couldn’t detect anyone watching him – or holding gun on him. When the front door opened he turned his attention back to it. Owens came out with Vance Restin, who was leading an obviously reluctant Terry Restin by the arm.

  “I told you she’d be ready.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “she looks ready.”

  “I’m ready to kill somebody!” she shouted.

  “Well,” Clint said, “don’t make it me. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Get on the horse, Terry,” Vance Restin said. “Ray, get her up on the house.”

  She was wearing expensive riding clothes, right down to the leather boots. Owens gave her a boost and she swung her leg over the saddle.

  “You didn’t have something a little more comfortable to wear?” Clint asked.

  “These are my comfortable riding clothes, Mr. Adams!” she snapped.

  “Well,” he said, “we may have to stop and get you something else along the way.”

  “So now you propose to dress me as well as transport me against my will?”

  “Whatever it takes, Miss Restin.”

  “Do I really need to have this hanging from my saddle?” she demanded, putting her hand on the burlap bag.

  “Yes,” he said, “you do. You need to carry your share of the supplies.”

  He turned and mounted Eclipse.

  “Adams!” Restin said.

  “Yes?”

  The man handed Owens a piece of paper, motioned for him to give it to Clint.

  “There’s the address where to take her.”

  “Thanks.” Clint took it and put it in his pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “Somewhere along the line I will,” Clint said, “When I need to. Besides, I’m sure Terry knows where we’re going.”

  “Terry does,” she said, “but what makes you think I’d tell you?”

  “We’ll see,” Clint said. He started to turn his horse.

  “Don’t you have something to say to me?” Vance Restin demanded.

  “I do, actually,” Clint said. “Somebody in your camp opened their big mouth about this job. You better find out who and do something about it. And if I find out there’s something else going on here that I don’t know about, and things go wrong, I’ll be back for you.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “I don’t make threats,” Clint said, “I make promises – and I keep them.”

  Restin glared at Clint, but didn’t say anything.

  “Come on,” Clint said to Terry.

  As they rode through the front gate Terry said, “You left my father speechless.”

  “Good.”

  “Maybe you’re not so bad after all.”

  “You think so?” Clint asked. “If I find out you’re the one who opened her mouth about this job, I’m going to put you over my knee.”

  Terry just chuckled.

  After Clint Adams and Terry left, Vance Restin called Dave Peterson into his office.

  “They’re on their way,” he said. “Are you and your men prepared to do what I asked you to do?”

  “For half the money up front, we are.”

  Restin took a bulging envelope from his drawer and tossed it to the man, who caught it against his chest.

  “Nobody but you and I know how much is in there,” he said. “How much you want to pay your men is up to you.”

  “Understood.”

  “Just get the job done and the other half of the money is yours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get to it!”

  Peterson found his men outside the bunkhouse.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Rhodes asked.

  “Adams and the girl just left.”

  “And the money?”

  Peterson took the bulging envelope and held it in his hand, where they could see it.

  “Paid in full,” he lied.

  “Jesus,” Banks said, staring.

  “Just like that?” Rhodes asked. “He paid us before the job?”

  “It wasn’t easy gettin’ this out of him,” Peterson said, “but I convinced him that we’d get the job done. Was I wrong?”

  “Hell no!” Spenser said. “We’ll do it.”

  Peterson looked at the other two, who both nodded.

  “Then we better get outfitted. We don’t know how long this will take.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Clint and Terry rode in utter silence for most of the first day. For Clint’s part, he was paying special attention to their back trail. He just assumed that Terry wasn’t talking because she wasn’t happy.

  But as dusk was approaching she turned in her saddle and asked, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Are we being followed or not?” she said. “You’ve been looking behind us all day.”

  “Well,” he said, “to tell you the truth, if someone was following us and knew what they were doing, I might not even see them. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think we’re being tailed.”

  “And if we were?” she asked. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “That’s something I thought maybe you’d know better than I do.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “You really don’t know what your father is up to, Terry?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” she said. “He’s always up to something. He never does anything without a reason.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.” He looked around. “We’ll camp here.”

  “Thank God!” She dismounted and rubbed her bottom. “My ass is going to be sore for a week. Let me know when supper is ready. I’m going to sit—”

  “You have two choices,” he said, cutting her off.

  “Do I?” she asked. “And what are they?”

  “You can go out and collect wood and build a fire,” he said. “Or you can take care of the horses.”

  “Take care of them?”

  “Unsaddle them, rub them down, feed them, picket them—”

  “Whoa,” she said, with joking. “Horses get all that care?”

  “They do,” he said, “especially mine.”

  She sighed heavily.

  “I guess I’ll build a fire.”

  “Good.” Clint said. “My horse probably would have bit your finger off.”

  She stared at him.

  “Oh, and by the way,” he said. “You can start cooking supper.”


  “Cook?” she said. “I don’t cook.”

  “Then make beans,” he said. “You can’t ruin that. When I’m finished with the horses I’ll make the coffee.”

  “And you’re welcome to that job.”

  By the time Clint finished with the horses Terry had somehow managed to make a fire. He had heard a lot of cussing coming from her, but there she was, with a pan of beans cooking over the fire.

  “Nice job,” he said.

  “I’m burning them,” she complained.

  “Just move ’em around,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”

  He got the coffee pot, filled it with water, dropped coffee in and set it down on the other side of the fire. Before long the air was filled with the smell.

  “Here,” Clint said, taking the pan from Terry, “you cooked, so I’ll serve.”

  He spooned some beans into a plate, handed it to her with a fork, then poured a cup of coffee and handed it over. He served himself and began eating.

  “Is this how you always eat out here?” she asked.

  “Pretty much,” he said. “I’ll make supper tomorrow, and I’ll add some bacon to the beans.”

  “You could have added some tonight.”

  “No, no,” he said. “You were doing the cooking tonight.”

  She ate in silence for a while, then said, “Maybe tomorrow night you can show me what to do with the horses.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Without me losing any fingers?”

  “We can definitely work on that.”

  After supper he showed her how to clean the plates using dirt, and then she watched as he prepared another cup of coffee.

  “I don’t drink coffee much, but this strikes me as very strong.”

  “It is,” he said. “It’s trail coffee, but it’s also the only way I drink it.”

  She drank some more and said, “I like it.”

  When they finished the coffee he said, “You better turn in now, We’ll want to get an early start.”

  “Where are we going from here?”

  “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

  “It’s why I’m still alive.”

  “Are you going to sleep?”

  “In a while.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to make sure we weren’t followed.”

  “How?”

  “While you sleep,” he said, “I’m going for a stroll in the dark.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Clint waited until Terry’s breathing was even, until he knew that she was asleep, before he melted into the darkness. He didn’t really think they had been followed, but he was, in effect, dangling Terry as bait. He didn’t go out strolling in the dark, as he had told her. Instead, he moved outside the ring of light thrown by the campfire, found a comfortable spot, and hunkered down to watch. He would probably do this for each and every night they were on the trail.

  If anyone was going to come for them in the dark, he’d be ready.

  On the other hand, if he was worrying for no reason, and no one was coming, at all, he’d be perfectly all right with that, too.

  He remained hidden until the sun started to come up, then moved into camp and got a couple of hours sleep. He was awakened by the smell of coffee.

  He rolled to his feet and saw Terry crouched by the fire, where a pot of coffee was boiling.

  “I figured you were up late protecting me, so I decided to make the coffee.”

  “Thanks,” he said, accepting a cup from her.

  “But I didn’t want to make beans for breakfast, and right now beans are all I can make.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll make some pan biscuits and bacon.”

  While he was preparing the biscuits she watched, shook her head and asked, “Are you sure you’re a gunfighter and not a cook?”

  “I’m neither,” Clint said.

  “I didn’t mean – you’re a pretty touchy guy, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I just don’t like being labeled.”

  “You mean like you labeled me?”

  “I never did that.”

  “You think I’m spoiled, a hellcat, a problem child,” she said.

  “I do think you’re spoiled,” he admitted. “I never said you were a hellcat.”

  When the bacon was cooked he took it out of the pan, then put the biscuits back into the bacon grease before serving it all.

  “Well,” she said, after tasting it, “I hope you can shoot as well as you cook.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t have to – unless you know something I don’t.”

  “There you go again,” she said, “so suspicious.”

  “Until I see a reason not to be.”

  “And do you have reasons to be suspicious?” she asked.

  “Life doesn’t work that way,” Clint said. “I need reasons not to be suspicious. That’s just the way it is.”

  “Well, I guess I’m just not the one to give you that,” she said.

  “Maybe there is something you can help me with.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why you’re so all fired against going to school in Sacramento.”

  “I’m not against going to school in Sacramento,” she said.

  “Then what—”

  “I just don’t want to go to school.”

  “Why not?”

  “Simple,” she said. “Because my father wants me to.”

  “So you’re just being difficult for the sake of being difficult. To annoy him?”

  “Why else?” she asked. “Why would I be difficult for no good reason?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Neither can I.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Rhodes, Spenser and Banks were seated around the fire, drinking coffee and eating beef jerky for breakfast. Peterson allowed the coffee, but wouldn’t relent on bacon or beans.

  He was standing off to one side, staring ahead of them when Rhodes stood and took a cup of coffee to him.

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you doin’?”

  “Thinkin’.”

  “About what?”

  “The when, the where,” Peterson said.

  “Why not how?”

  “How would you do it?”

  “Ride in on them and start shootin’.” Rhodes said.

  “Adams would never let you get close enough,” Peterson said.

  “Then what do you suggest?” Rhodes asked.

  “That’s what I’m thinkin’ about,” Peterson said. “Why don’t you go back to the fire?”

  Rhodes shrugged and walked away.

  “What’s goin’ on with Dave?” Spenser asked.

  “He says he’s thinkin’.”

  “What about?”

  “Adams and the girl.”

  “That boy thinks too much,” Banks said. “Why don’t we just go—”

  “I suggested that,” Rhodes said, cutting him off. “He says Adams would never let us get close enough.”

  “He’s right,” Spenser said. “So leave the man alone and let him think.”

  “Why not?” Banks said, with a shrug. “We got paid, and he’s the boss.”

  Rhodes hunkered back down and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “I wouldn’t be Peterson for nothing,” Banks said.

  “Why not?” Spenser asked. “He’s smart.”

  “Like I said,” Banks answered, “that boy thinks way too much.”

  “His head must hurt all the time,” Spenser said.

  The three men laughed.

  Abruptly, Peterson came storming over to the fire and tossed the remnants of his coffee into the flames.

  “You guys can stop laughing, break camp and get mounted up.”

  “You decide how you wanna play this, Dave?” Rhodes asked.

  “I have,” Peterson said. “You three are gonna ride up ahead of them.”

  �
�And what are you gonna do?”

  “I’ll tell you about it as we saddle the horses …”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Clint and Terry rode for two more days. The second night he showed her how to take care of the horses, and the third night she took care of them, herself.

  “More coffee?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She reached across the fire and poured it for him, even though he had prepared the pot and the meal.

  She was right about him, he was suspicious about people, and right now he was suspicious of her. Why was she being so nice and cooperative?

  “You’re doing it again,” Terry said.

  “What?”

  “You’re wondering what I’m up to,” she answered. “What am I up to, what is my father up to … why don’t you just rest your brain?”

  Clint leaned forward.

  “I know your father in up to something, Terry,” he said. “You know it, too. You said as much. I just need to be ready for whatever it is. I’m not going to let him railroad me into a cell, again.”

  “And me?”

  “You’re harder to read. But you’ve been very cooperative these past few days. Can you see how that would look suspicious to me?”

  She stared at him.

  “Come on,” he chided, “a few days ago could you see yourself unsaddling horses and making beans?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m up to something.” She stood up, walked around the fire to his side. “If I was up to something maybe I’d so something like this.”

  She stood behind him, pressed up against him, and put her hands on his shoulders. Even after days on the trail she smelled good.

  “Terry—”

  “Or this?” She leaned over, pressed her breasts against the back of his neck and ran her hands down over his chest.

  “Terry, come on …”

  “Or this?” She moved one of her hands to cup his chin, lifted her head, and kissed him. Her mouth was hot and avid on his. They kissed for a long time, and then she slid into his lap and kissed him even harder.

  She pulled her mouth away from his and said breathlessly, “Isn’t this suspicious behavior?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”