Free Cross Draw by J. R. Roberts Page B

Doc,” Dillon said. “You don’t wanna make me mad. Bad things happen when I get mad. You understand?”
    The doctor couldn’t speak, so he nodded his head as best he could.
    â€œNow I’m gonna let you go, and you’re gonna answer my questions. Understand?”
    He nodded again and the big man released the hold.
    â€œNow, tell me about the injury to Clint Adams.”
    Doc Jacobs cleared his throat a few times before speaking. “A wagon came down on his right arm, puncturing it,” he said. “I stitched and bandaged it.”
    â€œThat it?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œHow bad was the injury?”
    â€œIt was a deep puncture.”
    â€œYou’re tiptoin’ around, Doc,” Dillon said. “I can feel myself gettin’ mad again. How bad was the injury?”
    â€œHe could not use his right hand,” the doc said.
    â€œThere you go,” Dillon said. “How long is that condition gonna last?”
    â€œThere’s no way of knowing.”
    â€œCould it be permanent?”
    â€œThere’s no way of—it could be,” the doc said as Dillon started to reach out for him.
    â€œCould be?”
    â€œIt’s . . . likely.”
    â€œThere you are,” Dillon said. “See, I ain’t mad anymore.”
    â€œHow could it benefit you to kill a one-armed man?” the doctor asked.
    â€œIt would benefit me to kill the Gunsmith if he had no hands,” Dillon said. “The newspapers will say ‘Dillon Outdraws the Gunsmith, or ‘Dillon Kills Gunsmith.’ They won’t say how many arms he had, Doctor.”
    â€œSo it’s about reputation?”
    â€œIt’s all about reputation, Doc,” Dillon said. He turned to leave, then turned back. “If I find out you sent a telegram and warned Adams, I’ll come back.”
    â€œIf you’re alive.”
    â€œI believe what you told me about Adams’s arm,” Dillon said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be alive.”
    Dillon left to go in search of his two partners. Time to hit the trail.

TWENTY-FIVE
    The doctor waited until Dillon was gone fifteen minutes, then left his office and hurried to the jail. He was out of breath by the time he entered. Evans looked up in surprise.
    â€œWho’s chasin’ you, Doc?”
    â€œI did somethin’ terrible,” the Doc said, “because I am a coward.”
    â€œSettle down, Doc,” Evans said. “Have a seat.”
    The lawman took a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer, poured some into a coffee cup, and handed it to the doctor, who downed it.
    â€œNow tell me what you did.”
    Evans listened intently while the doctor told him of the big man’s visit.
    â€œWell, Doc,” he said, when the sawbones was done, “I met the man you’re talkin’ about, so I can’t say I blame you.”
    â€œB-but, we’ve got to warn Adams.”
    â€œHow do we do that?” Evans asked. “We don’t know where he and those women went.”
    â€œCan’t you figure it out?”
    â€œI don’t even know what direction they went when they left town.”
    Jacobs’s shoulders slumped and he said, “What have I done?”
    â€œDoc,” Evans said, “Adams is gonna have to face this kind of situation sooner or later. If this man—”
    â€œDillon,” Jacobs said. “He said his name was Dillon.”
    â€œIf this man Dillon kills the Gunsmith, you can bet we’ll hear about it.”
    â€œAnd if Adams kills him?”
    â€œWe won’t hear a word,” Evans said. “That’s the way it is with reputation. No one notices the dead man who didn’t have one.”
    â€œRidiculous,” Evans said. “Men are killed for the most ludicrous reasons.”
    â€œMaybe Adams can take this man left-handed, like he did here in town.”
    â€œMaybe . . .”
    â€œAnd maybe by the