Free Cross Draw by J. R. Roberts Page A

any feeling in your fingers?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “Nothing so far.”
    â€œWill you see another doctor when we get to another town?”
    â€œMaybe,” he said. “I don’t know what good it would do.”
    â€œMaybe another doctor would know more,” she said.
    â€œMaybe.”
    He sipped his coffee.
    â€œAre you depressed, Clint?”
    â€œOh yeah.”
    â€œBut you can’t give up,” she said. “Maybe if we did some exercises?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œWe could all take turns massaging your hand, maybe moving the fingers around?”
    â€œWell, it sounds pleasant,” he said. “I’m sure Abigail won’t be volunteering for a turn.”
    â€œThat doesn’t matter,” she said. “The four of us will do it, if you like.”
    He looked down at his right hand, which was curled up in his lap. What harm could it do, he wondered?
    â€œWhy not?”

TWENTY-FOUR
    â€œWhat makes you so interested in the Gunsmith?” Evans asked Dillon.
    Dillon had asked a few questions designed to elicit information from the lawman, but Evans had resisted responding.
    â€œWell, hey,” Dillon said, “he’s the Gunsmith, ain’t he? And I just missed seein’ him by what? A day? I’m just curious.”
    â€œWell, there ain’t nothin’ else to know,” Evans said. He finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar. “I got rounds to make. You stayin’ in town long?”
    â€œJust overnight,” Dillon said. “Leavin’ in the mornin’.”
    â€œWell, enjoy the rest of your stay,” the sheriff said.
    â€œYeah,” Dillon said, “have a good night.”
    The big man watched in the mirror as the lawman left the saloon.

    Sheriff Evans had not been able to figure out how to use the Gunsmith to his benefit when the man was in town. Now came this big fella with the odd-looking rig on his hip, asking questions about Clint Adams. So the word had probably gotten out that Adams was in Big Rock, and might be easy pickings.
    Evans went back to his office, unsure of what to do. Should he send some telegrams ahead to towns Adams and the women might pass through, with a warning? Or should he get on a horse, ride after them, and alert them himself?
    In the end, he decided his responsibility was to his town, not to Clint Adams. Big Rock had survived the presence of Clint Adams and remained a small, quiet town, and he was going to have to be satisfied with that.
    If the big fella left town the next day and caught up to Clint Adams, it would be out of the jurisdiction of Sheriff Cal Evans. There was nothing he could do about it.
    He wondered how the big man had heard about Adams. Who had let the word out?
    Â 
    Dillon decided to make one more stop in the morning before leaving town and tracking Adams. He didn’t bother looking for Raymond or Quentin. Let them find him. He had breakfast in his hotel dining room, then headed for the doctor’s office.
    Â 
    When the big man entered his office, Doc Jacobs looked him up and down. For a man his size, the sawbones thought he looked extraordinarily healthy.
    â€œCan I help you, my friend?”
    â€œI think so,” Dillon said. “You had a patient a few days ago. Clint Adams? I’d like to know what his condition was when he came to you, and what it was when he left town.”
    â€œI don’t discuss my patients with strangers,” Jacobs said. “In fact, I don’t discuss them with anyone, so I’m afraid I can’t help you, after all.”
    â€œNo,” Dillon said, “I think you can. Or maybe I should say, I think you better.”
    â€œNow, see here—”
    The big man closed on him with surprising speed and grabbed him by the throat with unsurprising strength. His powerful hand quickly cut off the doctor’s air supply.
    â€œLemme explain somethin’ to you,