The Pinkerton Job by J. R. Roberts Page A

“Is there any more coffee left?”
    â€œI thought you didn’t like my coffee,” Clint said, lifting the pot.
    â€œJust pour,” Siringo said, holding out his cup. “I’ll take what I can get.”
    They moved around after that, Horn rolling himself up in his bedroll with some effort, trying to get comfortable on the ground.
    Siringo got his own bedroll ready, but then came back to the fire. Clint handed him another cup of coffee, then set to making a new pot.
    â€œDamn you,” Siringo said. “I think I’m gettin’ used to this stuff.”
    â€œI told you, it’s good for you,” Clint said, putting the pot back on the fire.
    Siringo hunkered down and drank his coffee.
    â€œSomething on your mind?” Clint asked.
    â€œNope,” Siringo said, “I just wanted another cup before I turn in.” But he looked over his shoulder at Horn, leading Clint to believe there was, indeed, something on this mind.
    Finally he said, “Yeah, all right, I’m worried about Horn.”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œWhen we catch up to the gang, we’re gonna be outnumbered,” Siringo said. “If Tom was not injured, I wouldn’t worry about it so much. But the way he is . . . well, I don’t know.”
    â€œLook, Charlie,” Clint said, “Tom’s a grown man, he can make up his own mind. And if we get into a firefight with twelve men and you’re worried about him, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
    â€œYeah, you’re right, Clint,” Siringo said. “I know that.”
    â€œSo just get yourself some sleep and we’ll come up with a plan in the morning.”
    â€œYeah, okay, that works.” Siringo had a last sip, then threw the remnants into the fire, which flared up. “G’night.”
    Watching Siringo wrap himself up in his bedroll, Clint hoped it wasn’t going to be
him
getting killed because he was worried about the both of them.

EIGHTEEN
    Tom Horn stood the last watch and woke Clint and Siringo in the morning.
    â€œCoffee’s on,” he announced. “Come on, we gotta get goin’ before they get too far ahead of us.”
    â€œOkay, okay,” Clint grumbled, “I’m up.”
    Siringo rolled out and got his feet without complaint. They all had coffee and then went about breaking camp and saddling the horses.
    â€œWe’re gonna have to pick up the pace today, Tom,” Siringo said to Horn when the horses were ready. Horn knew what he meant. They were going to have to push everyone harder, the horses and themselves.
    â€œI’m ready,” Horn said. “Let’s catch up to those bastards today.”
    â€œOkay,” Siringo said, “but we’ve got to know what we’re gonna do when we do catch ’em.”
    â€œWhataya mean?” Horn said. “We’re gonna take ’em down.”
    â€œThere’s gonna be at least twelve of them, Tom,” Clint said. “Just how do you suggest we take twelve of them down?”
    â€œBy surprise.”
    â€œAnd how do you think three of us are going to surprise twelve of them?” Clint asked.
    â€œAmbush,” Horn said right away, like he had all the answers.
    That didn’t sit right with Clint. No matter who he was hunting, he felt no one ever deserved to be shot from an ambush.
    â€œI can’t do that,” Clint said.
    â€œWhy not?” Horn asked.
    â€œShooting anybody in the back just goes against the grain.”
    â€œYou mean after all these years of killin’ men, you’re gettin’ religion?” Horn asked.
    â€œReligion’s got nothing to do with it,” Clint said. “Nobody deserves to be shot in the back.” He let the comment about him killing so many men go for now. It had always been his contention—even before his friend Wild Bill was killed by a coward from behind—that shooting somebody