The Gunsmith 386 by J. R. Roberts Page A

and rode out of town.
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    It was getting on toward dusk when Clint got to Orwell. He reined Dusty in and looked at the town as the lights began to come on. If Dunn and Sands were waiting for him there with extra men, it would be better for him to ride in after dark, so he dismounted, sat on a rock to wait. The steeldust nuzzled him, so he rubbed the horse’s nose and spoke to him soothingly.
    â€œDon’t worry, fella,” he said, “we’ll be riding in soon.”
    He’d go in and see the sheriff first. He knew Ingram was going to send the man a telegram about him, but he didn’t know what else he’d tell him, whether or not he’d mention Sands and Dunn—and only Clint knew about the extra men.
    He took out a piece of beef jerky and chomped on it while he waited. Finally, it was fully dark, and he mounted up again and rode into the town of Orwell.
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    Four men sat together in a saloon in Orwell, passing around a bottle of whiskey.
    â€œTake it easy on that stuff,” one of them said.
    â€œWhy?” another asked. “The Gunsmith ain’t gonna be fool enough to ride at night, is he? If he ain’t here by now, he’ll be here sometime tomorrow.”
    â€œIf he’s comin’ here at all,” one of the other men said.
    â€œHey,” the first man said, “we’re only gettin’ paid if he shows up, so he better.” He grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “And you guys better be sober when he gets here!”
    â€œHey, give that here!”
    â€œYou should be out there watchin’ the street,” the first man said.
    â€œI wanna drink!”
    â€œYou had enough, Pierce,” said the first man, whose name was Mike Torrey. “Now get out there and watch the street. Let us know if anybody—and I mean anybody—rides in.”
    Pierce stood up, shifted his holster, and trudged toward the batwing doors, muttering, “This is stupid. Ain’t nobody gonna ride in at night.”
    He stepped outside, just missing the Gunsmith, who had ridden by only seconds before.
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    Clint reined in his horse in front of the sheriff’s office. Tied Dusty’s reins off to a hitching post, and stepped to the door. He knocked, and entered when a man’s gruff voice yelled, “Come in, already!”
    Clint stepped inside. A man holding a broom stopped sweeping and looked at him. He was wearing a badge.
    â€œSheriff Roberts?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s right. You Adams?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œDidn’t think you’d be ridin’ in at night.” Sheriff Roberts put the broom aside. “Well, you better have a seat and tell me what this is all about.”

EIGHTEEN
    â€œHow much did Sheriff Ingram tell you in his telegram?” Clint asked.
    â€œNot much, just that you’d be comin’ here.” Sheriff Roberts got himself comfortable behind his desk. He was a barrel-chested fellow in his forties. His gun belt and hat were hanging on pegs on the wall.
    â€œWell, a couple of days ago three men tried to bushwhack me . . .” Clint told Roberts the whole story, finishing up with the information he’d gotten when he stopped in Kirby.
    â€œSo they’re here? With a gang?”
    â€œYou haven’t seen a bunch of men ride in?” Clint asked.
    â€œIf they rode in, they didn’t come in all at once,” Roberts said. “If they were smart, they came in one or two at a time.”
    â€œDo you know of any strangers who came to town today?”
    â€œA few,” Roberts said, “but I had no reason to brace them when they did. Maybe now, though, it’s a different story.”
    â€œI rode in after dark on purpose,” Clint said, “just in case they were watching, and waiting.”
    â€œChances are if they all met up, they did it in one of the