The Bisbee Massacre by J. Roberts Page A

might encourage some people out here to try to help him.”
    â€œInside’s better,” Clint said. “It cuts down on his options.”
    â€œWhat about hostages?” Dodge asked.
    â€œDoes he know you?” Clint asked.
    â€œOn sight, yeah.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll go in first, see how many other people are in there. I might be able to safeguard them when you walk in. Give me five minutes.”
    â€œWhat if he starts to come out?” Manuel said.
    â€œThen I’ll follow him out and we’ll brace him there,” Clint said. He looked at Dodge. “Okay with you?”
    â€œThat’s fine. Let’s do it.”

    Clint walked into the building and was glad to see only two people, the man behind the counter and the fellow who had to be Jack Dowd. Dowd was a big man who looked and smelled as if he’d been in his clothes for a long time. He was wearing a jacket, with his gun belt on the outside, where it was always available. Clint had no idea how good Dowd was with a gun, and didn’t want to find out. It would be better to take him without a shot fired.
    Clint walked around the small store while Dowd told the clerk what he wanted. He found himself a position where he could see the man from just behind him, only Dowd then noticed him from the corner of his eye and stopped talking.
    â€œHey, friend?” Dowd said.
    â€œYeah?” Clint responded. “Are you talking to me?”
    â€œYeah, I am,” Dowd said. “You wanna stand where I can see you?”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œI don’t like havin’ you behind me.”
    â€œHey, friend, I’m just looking around.”
    Dowd turned to face Clint.
    â€œI’m askin’ you to stand where I can see you,” he said, his hand hovering near his gun.
    â€œYou don’t want to do that, Dowd.”
    Dowd frowned.
    â€œHow do you know my name?”
    â€œJust stand easy—”
    â€œI asked you how you know my name.”
    â€œBecause I told him,” Dodge said, from the door.
    Dodge stepped in and moved to the right, while Manuel stepped to the left.
    â€œDodge,” Dowd said.
    â€œTake it easy, Jack,” Dodge said. “You’re comin’ back to Tombstone.”
    Dowd licked his lips. Clint thought there was a look of relief on his face, as if he as glad to see Dodge.
    â€œThis fella with you?” he asked, indicating Clint.
    â€œYeah, he is,” Dodge said. “That’s Clint Adams.” That shook Dowd.
    â€œJesus, I almost threw down with the Gunsmith?” he asked. He raised his hands, then. “Take my gun, Dodge.”
    â€œGet it, Manuel,” Dodge said.
    Manuel stepped up, quickly plucked Dowd’s gun from his holster.
    â€œTime to head back?” Clint asked.
    â€œWe’ll talk outside,” Dodge said. “Come on, Dowd.”
    They marched Dowd outside, came face-to-face with about half a dozen armed Mexicans. At the head of them was Manuel’s friend.
    â€œI thought you said they listened to you?” Dodge asked.
    â€œThey do,” the man said, from behind his rifle.

EIGHTEEN
    Clint studied the six men. The years had made it easy for him to read men, to see if they were really ready to fire the weapons they were holding. What he saw here were some clerks with guns who weren’t ready to go to war.
    Clint looked at Manuel’s friend, whose name he had never learned.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he asked. “We never heard.”
    â€œI am Armando.”
    â€œArmando, you’re about to get five men—and maybe yourself—killed, and for what?”
    â€œThese are good men,” the Mexican insisted.
    â€œI’m sure they are,” Clint said, “but Dodge and me, we live by our guns. I guarantee we can put all six of you down, especially with Manuel’s help.”
    â€œWe will get one of you.”
    â€œMaybe,” Clint said, “but what