Free The Gunsmith 386 by J. R. Roberts

boardinghouse.
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    When they got to the sheriff’s office, he said to the deputy, “Go make your rounds, Jody.”
    â€œIt ain’t my turn, Sheri—”
    â€œJust do it!”
    â€œYes, sir.” The deputy grabbed his hat and headed for the door.
    â€œAnd see to my horse!”
    â€œYessir!”
    Ingram picked up the coffeepot, found it empty.
    â€œDamn it! I tol’ them both that part of their job is keepin’ this full.”
    He poured some water in the pot. Dumped in a couple of handfuls of coffee, and put it on the stove.
    â€œWhat about your other deputy?” Clint asked. “The one who was out with the tracker? They find anything?”
    â€œMy tracker says your men were pretty good at hidin’ their tracks. But he’s pretty sure at least one of them went to Kirby.”
    â€œAnd the other?”
    â€œHe says he probably stayed here.”
    â€œThe one who took a room at Mrs. Nunally’s.”
    â€œBut now you’re sayin’ they’re both here,” Ingram said.
    â€œWell, somebody took my horse.”
    â€œYeah, right.”
    â€œI’ll need your tracker.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œTo track them from the doc’s office.”
    â€œThe street is filled with wagon tracks.”
    â€œIs your man any good?”
    â€œPlenty good,” Ingram said, “but I don’t know if anybody is that good.”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “why don’t we find out.”
    â€œOkay,” Ingram said, “I’ll get ahold of him today.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œWhen my deputy comes back.”
    â€œNot good enough,” Clint said. “Tell me who he is and where I can find him.”
    â€œHis name’s Cain,” Ingram said. “He’s a half-breed. He’s usually at the Wagon Wheel. That’s a small saloon at the south end of town. Nobody ever goes there.”
    â€œThen why will I find him there?”
    â€œBecause he doesn’t like people,” Ingram said. “He won’t like you.”
    â€œI’ll tell him you sent me.”
    Ingram laughed.
    â€œHe doesn’t like me either.”
    â€œWho does he like?”
    â€œI’ve never been able to figure that out.”
    â€œThen why does he work for you?”
    â€œI pay him.”
    â€œSo I’ll pay him.”
    â€œYou best lead off with that fact.”
    Clint nodded, headed for the door just as the smell of coffee filled the room.
    â€œOh,” he said, “how will I know him?”
    â€œYou’ll know him,” Ingram said. “You ain’t seen anybody like him before.”

TWENTY-TWO
    Clint found the Wagon Wheel Saloon at the end of town. It was in a building that looked like it was a good stiff breeze away from falling down. As he approached the batwings, he saw that one was hanging sideways on one hinge, ready to fall. He entered carefully, not wanting to be the one who knocked it off.
    Inside he saw two people, a bartender and a customer. Even if there had been twenty more, though, he would have known that this customer was the man he was looking for.
    Tall—beyond tall, probably close to seven feet—rangy, wearing a long black duster and a black hat with a feather in it. He was bent over a glass of whiskey, with a bottle close at hand. There was also a Winchester on the bar, which Clint assumed belonged to the big man.
    The bartender was a broad, beefy man with hairy arms and dark circles under his eyes. He watched as Clint approached the bar.
    â€œYou’re in the wrong place,” the bartender said.
    â€œI’m looking for a beer.”
    â€œLike I said,” the barman answered, “wrong place. There are other saloons.”
    Clint looked around and said, “I like this one.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause this is where I’m supposed to find Cain.”
    â€œWho says?”
    â€œSheriff