The Pinkerton Job (2 page)

TWO

A day earlier, Clint Adams awoke and drank the last of his coffee and ate the last of his beans for breakfast. He broke camp and killed the fire. He'd stop in the next town and restock.

Looking around, he figured the next town would be Las Vegas. He could have gone east, to Albuquerque, but he'd already bypassed it, not wanting to spend time in a big town. Las Vegas would suit his purposes.

*   *   *

He rode into Las Vegas before noon, found the street of the small town busy with foot traffic, as well as some buckboards. He'd been there before, but not for a while. It had grown, and the mercantile now occupied a store twice the size as last time he was there.

There were a number of horses already tied off in front of the place. He found a space for Eclipse, looped the reins loosely over the hitching post, and went inside.

The inside of the store was busy, so he took some time to walk around and examine the wares. There were racks of clothing, mostly for women, many dresses and hats, but there were some jeans and shirts for men folded on some tables. Plenty of tools—pitchforks, shovels, pickaxes—lined one wall, while another wall accommodated rifles and handguns, as well as ammunition. The store was extremely well stocked, which was probably attracting a lot of out-of-town—and even out-of-the-county—business.

Finally there was a lull and he stepped up to the front counter.

“How can I help you, sir?” the clerk asked happily. Of course he was happy—he was selling stuff hand over fist.

“I just need some coffee and beans,” Clint said.

“Is that all? We have a wide variety of items, as you can see.”

“I did see,” Clint said, “but all I need is some coffee and beans.”

“All right, sir,” the clerk said. “How many cans of beans?”

“Four.”

“Comin' up!”

He turned to the wall stocked with staples and took down a tin of coffee and four cans of beans. He put the items down in front of Clint.

“And I'll take some beef jerky,” he said. Adding jerky to the beans would stretch them a bit.

“Yes, sir!”

The clerk told Clint how much and he paid the bill.

“Put that in a burlap sack, will you?” Clint asked.

“Of course, sir.”

Clint left the store with his burlap sack, tied it to his saddle horn, and then mounted up. His intention was to ride out of town immediately, but he spotted the saloon across the street and suddenly his mouth had a dryness to it that water just wouldn't cut.

He needed a cold beer.

*   *   *

Once again he looped Eclipse's reins loosely around a pole before entering the saloon. The place was large, with lots of space between the tables, a full stage in front. Gaming tables were covered and would be until later that evening. At the moment, there were only a few patrons in the place, and Clint strode to the bar, where a bartender was waiting for him.

“Beer,” Clint said.

“Comin' up.”

When the beer came, it had a nice head, and was sweating. Clint sipped it and found it bitingly cold. It ate dust all the way down to his belly.

“That's good.”

“Anything else?” the bartender asked.

“Nope, this'll be it.”

“A nickel.”

Clint tossed the nickel on the bar and said, “Good price.”

The bartender took the nickel and moved down the bar.

Clint drank the beer slow enough to enjoy it, but fast enough so that the last sip was still cold.

He had just set the empty mug down on the bar when a man came running through the batwing doors.

“Hey,” he yelled breathlessly, “they just brung 'em in.”

“Brung who in?” the bartender asked. “Yer not makin' any sense, Wilson.”

Wilson tried to catch his breath, then he said, “They just brung in Charlie Siringo and Tom Horn, all shot up!”

“Where are they?” Clint asked immediately.

“Took 'em over to Doc's.”

Clint left the bar, grabbed Wilson by the shirt, and said, “Show me!”

THREE

There was a shingle hanging outside the building that said:
DR. JOHN T. EDSON
. Clint noticed it in passing as he followed Wilson inside.

The first person he saw was Charlie Siringo, sitting in a chair, holding a bloody bandage to his left arm. Tom Horn was nowhere to be seen.

“Charlie!” he said.

Siringo was startled when he saw Clint.

“Clint. What the hell are you doin' here?”

“I was in the saloon when I heard this fella say they brought you and Tom Horn in, all shot up. Are you all right?”

“I got nicked on the arm,” Siringo said. “I'm fine. The doc is workin' on Tom. He took two bullets.”

“Bad?”

“Bad enough,” Siringo said, “but I don't think either one's gonna be fatal. I was able to stop the bleedin' out there, until we could get picked up.”

“What happened?”

“I think I'm gonna have to tell the sheriff that,” Siringo said, “so if you don't mind, I'll just wait 'til he shows up and tell it once.”

“That's fine,” Clint said. “Let me see that.”

Siringo removed the bandage and Clint took a look at the wound. He'd seen hundreds of bullet wounds over the year, and this was nowhere near the worst.

“You're good,” he said as Siringo covered it up again.

“What are you doin' in Las Vegas?” Siringo asked.

“I'm passing through, Charlie,” Clint said. “I assume you're working.”

“Sure am.”

“And Horn?”

“Workin' with me.”

“How's that going?”

“It
was
goin' fine, until this.”

The doctor came out at that moment, wiping his hands on a towel. He was a youngish man, maybe forty, with black hair and handsome features.

“Doc,” Siringo said, “how's he doin'?”

“He'll be okay,” the man said. “He took one high on the shoulder. That's not a problem. The bad one is in the thigh. The bullet went through, tore a bit chunk out of the back of his thigh, but you did a good job controlling the bleeding. I closed the wound and bound it. He should be okay, as long as it doesn't get infected.”

“Can he ride?”

“Not unless he wants to tear that wound open,” Dr. Edson said. “I don't want him on a horse for at least a week. Now let me take a look at you.”

Again, Siringo uncovered the wound. The doctor cleaned it and dressed it and pronounced Siringo fit.

“I was expectin' the sheriff to show up,” Siringo said.

“If you want to talk to our sheriff, I think you'll have to go to him,” Edson said.

“What kind of man is he?” Clint asked.

“He doesn't do any more than he has to do,” Edson said. “Let's leave it at that.”

“All right, then,” Siringo said. “I'll go and see him. But can I talk to Tom first?”

“Sure, go on in.”

“Clint?”

“Sure, I'll come along.”

Siringo led the way, and he and Clint went into the examination room.

Tom Horn was lying on his right side on a table as they entered, favoring his heavily bandaged left thigh.

“Looks like you saved my leg, Siringo,” he said, “and maybe my life.”

“You're welcome, if that's a thank-you,” Siringo said.

“Is that Clint Adams with you?”

“Hello, Tom. Glad you're not dead.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Horn said. “What the hell are you doin' here?”

“I was passing through and heard the news,” Clint said. “Thought I'd come and check up on the two of you.”

“I'm fine,” Horn said. “All I need is a new pair of britches and we can get back on the trail.”

“Not so fast, Horn,” Siringo said. “The doc doesn't want you on a horse for a week.”

“He's crazy,” Horn said. “You know how far ahead of us Sandusky will be by then.”

“Sure,” Siringo said, “I'm no dummy. A week further than today.”

“That's right,” Horn said. “You give me a day, maybe two, and we'll get back on their trail.”

“We'll see about that,” Siringo said. “Right now I'm gonna go and talk to the sheriff.”

“What's he got to do with anythin'?”

“He's the local law,” Siringo said. “I just wanna fill him in.”

“Well, I guess I'll be right here,” Horn said.

“I'll get us some hotel rooms and help you get over there later,” Siringo said.

“You gonna be around, Adams?” Horn asked.

“I've got noplace to go,” Clint said. “I can hang around awhile.”

“We'll have a drink,” Horn said.

“I'll see you in a little while, Tom,” Siringo said.

Horn's face was etched with pain as he said, “I'll be fine.”

Siringo and Clint left Dr. Epton's office together. They had gotten directions from the doctor to the sheriff's office and headed over there.

“This sheriff doesn't sound like he'd going to be much use,” Clint said.

“That's okay,” Siringo said. “The Pinkertons just like their men to stay in touch with local law enforcement.”

“So this is definitely as Pinkerton job?” Clint asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Horn's a Pinkerton now?”

“No,” Siringo said, “he's working with me, but not for the agency.”

“You paying him?”

“Yeah.”

“You must have needed him badly.”

“He's the best tracker I know.”

They reached the sheriff's office and Clint said, “Well, let's go inside. I'm looking forward to hearing this story.”

FOUR

Sheriff Nick Kerwin listened patiently while Siringo told him what happened when he and Tom Horn caught up to the Sandusky gang.

“So basically,” the man said, “you're tellin' me Tom Horn rode you right into a trap.”

“No, that's not what I'm sayin',” Siringo said. “I'm sayin' Tom tracked them down and found them, but just as they were meeting up with some others.”

“So when you found them,” Kerwin said, “there were twice as many as you expected.”

“Right.”

“And they shot the shit out of you.”

“Well . . . you could put it that way, I guess,” Siringo agreed reluctantly.

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

Clint figured whatever Siringo said to that question, he wasn't going to get much out of this man, just as the doctor had warned. They had found the fiftyish sheriff sitting with his feet up on his desk, and he had removed them only grudgingly to see what they wanted.

“Nothin',” Siringo said. “I'm not askin' you to do anythin'. I'm just lettin' you know what happened in your county.”

“And who brought you in?”

“Some hands from the Double-Z found us and were good enough to bring us to the doctor's.”

“How bad hurt were ya?”

“I got a scratch, Horn's liable to be laid up awhile.”

“Here in town?”

“Where else?” Siringo asked. “I can't move him.”

“I hope there ain't no trouble with you fellas,” Kerwin said. “I don't need no trouble in my town.”

“We don't intend to cause any trouble.”

The sheriff looked at Clint, who, up to this point, had not been introduced.

“And you? What's your part in all this?”

“I don't have a part, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I'm passing through and heard what happened. Siringo and Horn are both . . . acquaintances of mine, so I thought I'd check in and see what happened.”

“And are you stayin' around town, too?”

“I am,” Clint said, “for a few days.”

“What's your name?”

“Clint Adams.”

The sheriff hesitated, then asked, “The Gunsmith?”

“That's right,” Siringo said with great satisfaction. “The Gunsmith.”

“Aw, look,” Kerwin said to Clint, “I really don't want no trouble in town, I just—”

“I'm not lookin' for trouble, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I just want to make sure my friends are okay.”

“Yeah, but you three in one town at the same time? You don't gotta look for trouble, it'll find you.”

“That wouldn't be our fault, would it, Sheriff?” Siringo asked.

“You're not telling us to leave town, are you, Sheriff?” Clint asked.

“Naw, naw,” Kerwin said quickly and nervously, “I ain't tellin' ya that. I just . . . don't want no trouble.”

Clint knew that what the sheriff wanted was not to have to do any work.

“Well, Sheriff,” Clint said, “how about we just promise not to look for any? Would that do?”

“Well,” Kerwin said unhappily, “I guess that'll have to do.”

FIVE

Outside the sheriff's office, Clint said, “Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

“Good, I could use one,” Siringo said.

“There's a saloon over there,” Clint said, pointing. He had, in fact, just spotted it.

The place was small, with no crowd inside, but it had what they wanted, a bar and a beer.

Once they had a beer each, Clint turned to Siringo and said, “Now tell me what you didn't tell the sheriff.”

“About what?”

Clint sipped his beer and regarded Siringo over the top of his mug.

“All right,” Siringo said. “The Pinkertons were hired to get rid of some rustlers in Santa Fe County. They sent me. I found out who they were, and recruited Horn to track them. That's all true.”

Clint remained silent, waiting.

“Okay,” Siringo said. “Harlan Sandusky killed a man named Lew Hancock. Lew was a friend of mine.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last month.”

“Before or after the Pinks were hired?”

“It happened before we were hired,” Siringo said. “I found out about it when I went to Santa Fe.”

“So this is personal.”

“No,” Siringo said, “I'm doin' this because the Pinkertons sent me. But yeah, I do want to see Sandusky pay for killin' Lew.”

“Does Horn know about Lew?”

“No,” Siringo said, “and I don't wanna tell him.”

“He won't hear it from me.”

Siringo finished his beer and said, “Thanks. Now let me buy you one.”

Clint nodded, set his empty mug down on the bar.

“Let's get a table,” Siringo said, and led the way to the back.

Once they'd sat down, Clint asked, “What are you going to do now?”

“I got some choices,” Siringo said. “I can wait for Horn to heal and then get back on the trail.”

“Or?”

“I can go without him.”

“Track them alone?”

Siringo nodded.

“What about the odds?” Clint asked.

“The odds were against me when I started.”

“But you and Horn rode into a buzzsaw,” Clint said. “There were more of them than you thought. And now they know you're coming.”

“They think we're dead,” Siringo said. “They won't expect us to be coming again.”

“Where are they headed?” Clint asked.

“Not sure,” Siringo said. “Maybe Mexico.”

“If they think you're dead,” Clint said, “maybe they'll go back to Santa Fe to keep rustling.”

“That could be,” Siringo agreed.

“You've got another option, you know,” Clint said.

“What's that?”

“You can take me in place of Horn.”

“You?” Siringo asked. “Why would you do that?”

Clint shrugged and said, “I've got nothing else to do. With me, you could leave tomorrow.”

Siringo rubbed his jaw.

“I'd have to talk to Horn,” he said. “Pay him off. Then we'd have to decide on a price.”

“I'm not asking you to pay me.”

“I'm sayin' the Pinkertons will pay you.”

“I don't really want their money either, Charlie,” Clint said. “Just say the word and you've got a partner.”

“I appreciate that, Clint,” Siringo said. “I really would like to get right back on their trail.”

“How many we talking about?”

“We started tracking six,” Siringo said. “They easily got a dozen now.”

“That many men,” Clint said, “they'll be easier to track.”

“You're probably right about that.” Siringo finished his second beer. “I better go and see how Horn's doin', get us some hotel rooms.”

“Yeah, I'll need a room, too, for tonight. Why don't I check us all in while you go see Horn?”

“That works for me,” Siringo said, and they both stood and left the saloon.

Just outside the batwing doors they parted company.

“I'll meet you at the hotel,” Siringo said.

Clint nodded. Siringo headed for the doctor's office and Clint to the nearest hotel. Neither of them saw Sheriff Kerwin watching them from his window.