Free Trail to Shasta (9781101622049) by J. R. Roberts

Bride said, entering her room.
    â€œNight, Bride.”
    Bridget gave him a look and said, “Yes, good night, Clint.”
    The look in her eyes wasn’t saying good night, though.
    * * * 
    â€œHey, can you help me?” the man asked.
    The clerk looked up from what he was doing at the man who had just entered the hotel lobby.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI need some help out here,” Ames said. Of the three compadres, Ames was the one who was unknown to this particular desk clerk.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œThere’s somethin’ happenin’ in the alley out here, next to your hotel,” Ames said. “You’re gonna wanna know about it.”
    The clerk came around the desk and approached Ames, frowning.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, come out here and I’ll show ya,” Ames said.
    â€œI’m not supposed to leave the lobby.”
    â€œIt’ll take a minute,” Ames said. “Two, at the most.”
    â€œWell . . . okay,” the clerk said. “Show me.”
    â€œCome on.”
    Ames led the way and the clerk left the lobby.
    As soon as they were gone, Fred and Denny entered.
    â€œStay by the door,” Denny said. “Lemme know if anybody’s comin’.”
    Denny ran behind the desk, opened the register, and ran his finger over the names until he came to the one he wanted.
    â€œGot it?” Fred asked.
    â€œI got it,” Denny said. “The Gunsmith is in Room 15.”
    â€œLet’s get out of here!” Fred said.
    Denny joined Fred at the door and the two men left. Moments later the clerk came in, shaking his head and talking to himself.
    â€œCrazy sonofabitch,” he said, getting back behind the desk. “Callin’ me outside for no reason. Damn it.”
    Nothing was amiss in the lobby or behind the desk, so he went back to work.
    * * * 
    The door to the sheriff’s office slammed open and two men entered, dragging a third man between them.
    â€œWhat happened?” Sheriff Cargill asked.
    â€œOwen got a snoutful, that’s what happened,” one of the men said. Cargill knew his name was Paul. He didn’t know the other man. “The barkeep said we should bring him here so he could sleep it off.”
    â€œDamn it,” Cargill said. “He’s not wearin’ his badge, is he?”
    â€œDon’t think so,” the other man said. “Coulda fell off, though.”
    â€œThat’s all I need,” Cargill said. “Put him on a cot in one of the cells.”
    They dragged him into the cell block, dropped him in one of the cells, and came out.
    â€œWhat was he doin’ there?” Cargill asked.
    â€œHe came in and started drinkin’, then started tellin’ wild tales.”
    â€œWhat kind of tales?”
    â€œOh, somethin’ about the Gunsmith bein’ in Saint Joe,” Paul said.
    â€œCrazy talk,” the other man said.
    â€œYeah,” Cargill said, “crazy.”
    â€œWe gotta go,” Paul said.
    â€œThanks for bringin’ him in.”
    â€œSure, Sheriff.”
    After the two men left, Cargill went into the cell block and looked down at his snoring deputy. He wondered if anyone in the saloon had believed Owen about Clint Adams being in town.
    That would definitely be trouble.

TWENTY-FOUR
    Clint wasn’t happy.
    He’d hoped to get in and out of Saint Joe without anyone knowing he was there. Now not only did the sheriff know, but his part-time deputy as well. If one if them talked, the word would get around, and there was always—without exception, no matter what town he was in—always someone who wanted to try him. And as the years went by, it did not become easier. Each time he survived, his reputation got bigger, so the next time they came at him not by ones and twos, but by threes and sixes.
    He lay on his bed, with his holster hanging by his head. All he needed was