The Gunsmith 386 by J. R. Roberts

said. “I just thought I’d have him ready for you to go.”
    â€œI’ll take him as is,” Clint said. “Got a name?”
    â€œHe answers to Dusty.” Ingram stood up, grabbed his hat. “I’ll walk out with you.”
    The two men went outside, stood in front of the office looking at the horse.
    â€œWhat is he? Five?”
    â€œSix.”
    Clint walked to the horse, patted his neck, then tossed his saddlebags over him. He checked the cinch on the saddle, found it nice and tight.
    â€œWell, thanks for everything, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I hope I’ll be able to settle my problem in Orwell, and then I’ll bring back your horse.”
    Ingram put his hand out and the two men shook.
    â€œGood luck,” he said. “I know the sheriff in Orwell. He’s a good man. His name’s Paul Roberts. I’ll send that telegram right away.”
    â€œThanks.” Clint mounted the horse, liked the way it felt underneath him.
    â€œPush him as hard as you like,” Ingram said. “He can take it.”
    â€œI’ll bet he can,” Clint said, patting the horse’s neck. “Okay, Dusty, let’s get a move on.”
    He pulled on the reins, turning the horse, then waved at the sheriff and rode up the street, heading out of town.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Sheriff Ingram waited until Clint Adams was out of sight, then stepped down off the boardwalk and walked to the telegraph office to send that telegram to Orwell, Texas. Sheriff Paul Roberts would be very interested to hear that the Gunsmith was coming to his town. Very interested, indeed.

SEVENTEEN
    Clint stopped off in Kirby first, a small town that—for some reason—had a telegraph office.
    Clint rode in, stopped in front of the office right away. He had no intention of staying any longer than he had to. He tied the horse off and went inside.
    â€œHelp ya?” the older clerk asked. He had gray hair and was missing one of his front teeth.
    â€œDo you remember receiving this telegram?” Clint asked. He showed him the slip of paper with “Orwell, Texas” written on it.
    â€œYou law?”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œThen who’s askin’?”
    â€œMy name’s Clint Adams.”
    The clerk swallowed and asked, “T-The Gunsmith?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œI got this telegram yesterday,” he said quickly. “Gave it to the feller and he left town.”
    â€œFellow named Dunn?”
    â€œDunn, yeah, that’s right, Adam Dunn—like your last name.”
    Clint nodded. “He left town right away?”
    â€œWalked outta here, got on his horse, and rode out.”
    â€œOkay,” Clint said, folding the slip of paper and putting it in his pocket, “thanks.”
    â€œSure thing.”
    Clint walked out and mounted Sheriff Ingram’s steeldust. So far, the horse had done everything Clint had asked. He turned the horse, preparing to ride out, when the clerk came out the door.
    â€œMr. Adams?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œThere’s somethin’ else ya might wanna know.”
    Clint turned the horse to face the man.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œWhen Dunn left, he didn’t leave alone.”
    That was interesting to Clint.
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œHe had three men with him.”
    â€œYou know who they were?”
    â€œJust gunnies for hire,” the clerk said. “Not local.”
    The three men had probably met Dunn there. What about Sands, then? Had he left Hastings alone, or had he also picked up a few men?
    Suddenly, Clint was thinking maybe that piece of paper he’d found in Sands’s room with Orwell written on it had not been left behind by accident.
    Clint dug a silver dollar out of his pocket and flipped it to the clerk, who caught it neatly in one hand.
    â€œThanks for the information.”
    â€œSure thing.”
    Clint turned Dusty around