The Gunsmith 386 by J. R. Roberts Page B

saloons,” Roberts said. “I guess we oughtta go and check that out.”
    â€œAnd then do what?” Clint asked. “If we find them, I mean.”
    â€œRun ’em out of town,” Roberts said.
    â€œFirst I’d like to find out if my men are among them,” Clint said. “Sands or Dunn.”
    Roberts stood up, grabbed his gun belt and hat, and put them on.
    â€œWe might as well take a walk. Before we decide what to do, let’s see if they’re here.”
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    Pierce was scowling as he looked up and down the street. Chewing on a toothpick. When he looked to his left, he saw two men walking down the street. It was dark, and the streetlamps weren’t doing such a good job of lighting the street, but he thought he saw a badge on one man’s chest.
    He turned and hurried through the batwings.
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    â€œDid you see that?” Roberts asked.
    â€œI did,” Clint said. “Looks like they may have had a man on watch.”
    â€œHow do you want to play this?” the lawman asked.
    â€œI think I should go in the front,” Clint said. “You take the back.”
    â€œMy town,” Roberts said. “I should go in the front.”
    â€œThey won’t try anything,” Clint said. “They’re not after you. It’s me they want.”
    â€œOkay, then,” Roberts said. “You go in the front, I’ll take the back.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Roberts grabbed Clint’s left arm.
    â€œI know your rep, Adams,” he said, “but Sheriff Ingram vouched for you, which is the only reason I’m lettin’ you call the play. Got it?”
    â€œI’ve got it, Sheriff.”
    â€œGood luck, then. Give me ’til a count of ten and I’ll be in place.”
    â€œRight.”
    They split, the sheriff moving alongside the building to the back.
    Clint approached the front of the saloon, slowly counting to ten. One . . . two . . .
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    â€œLaw comin’!” Pierce said as he rushed into the saloon.
    â€œAlone?” Mike Torrey asked.
    â€œNo,” Pierce said, “got a man with him.”
    â€œOkay, don’t panic,” Torrey said. “He’s probably just makin’ his regular rounds.”
    â€œWhere do you want us, Mike?” one of the men sitting with him asked.
    â€œSplit up,” Torrey said. “Tate, you and Holcomb at opposite ends of the bar.”
    â€œAnd me?” Pierce asked.
    â€œIn the back,” Torrey said, “and don’t panic. Nobody shoots unless I do. Got it?”
    â€œWe got it,” Tate said.
    â€œPierce?”
    â€œI got it!”
    â€œThen move.”
    Torrey watched the three men get into position. The only one he worried about was Pierce. He, Holcomb, and Tate had ridden into Orwell with Dunn. It was the other fella, Sands, who had brought Pierce in. Torrey didn’t trust Pierce at all.
    He remained seated at the table, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and watched the door.
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    Seven . . . eight . . .
    The sheriff reached the back of the saloon and opened the rear door, which he knew from experience was never locked. He entered, closed it quietly, and crept across the expanse of the back storeroom until he came to another door. From there he could see the inside of the small saloon.
    He settled in to do what the men in the saloon were doing . . . wait.
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    Nine . . . ten.
    Clint stepped up onto the boardwalk and approached the front door of the saloon. It was quiet inside. No music. No sounds of men cursing and gambling.
    Just the silence of a bunch of men . . .
    . . . waiting.

NINETEEN
    Clint stepped inside.
    The saloon was less than half filled—a few men at the bar, some more seated at tables. However, there