The Gunsmith 397: Let It Bleed (Gunsmith, The, Band 397) - Softcover

Roberts, J. R.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0515155004 ISBN 13: 9780515155006

Verlag: Berkley, 2014

Inhaltsangabe

BURY THE LEAD
 
Two years ago, a killer stalked the streets of Boston, and reporter Harry Temple covered the case. After an informant gave Harry the criminal’s identity, the police ordered him not to run the story—but he did anyway. The killer fled the city, and Harry has been on his trail ever since, hunting for a chance at redemption.
 
Now, Harry is in Abilene, Kansas, with a burden on his shoulders and a news clipping in his pocket. A woman has been strangled, and the perpetrator left a calling card that is all too familiar. The town council is hoping to keep the story quiet, and the police are on high alert as they wait for the madman to strike again. But Harry doesn’t have time for that. Luckily, there’s one man in town who can help: Clint Adams, the Gunsmith. 
 
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Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

J.R. Roberts is the author of the long-running Gunsmith western series, featuring the adventures of gunslinger Clint Adams.

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ONE

Harry Temple rode into the town of Abilene, Kansas, feeling the weight of a two-year hunt on his back. The saddle he sat on and the gun belt around his waist were worn. That was because they had once belonged to someone else. The trail clothes he was wearing still felt odd to him, not because they, too, had once been worn by someone else, but because he’d once dressed in very different clothes.

Temple was from the East. Born and raised in Philadelphia, he wasn’t used to cowboy boots and gun belts. At least, he hadn’t been until about two years ago, when he came west. This was a whole new Harry Temple, not the one who had spent his first thirty-two years in Philadelphia, and then several years working in Boston.

Over the past two years the man had changed drastically. Not just in the way he dressed, but the way he thought, and felt and acted.

He reined in his horse in front of the first saloon he came to and dismounted. After tying the horse to a hitching post among a few others, he entered the place and found himself a spot at the crowded bar.

“Beer,” he said to the bartender.

“Comin’ up.” The bartender’s hand dwarfed the mug he set down in front of Temple. He was a big, meaty man in his forties. “There ya go.”

“Thanks.”

Temple heard some raised voices in the back of the saloon and looked that way, as did the others at the bar. There was a crowd of men back there, watching some activity or another.

“Passin’ through?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing,” Temple said. “What’s going on back there?”

“Poker game.”

“High stakes?”

“Not really.”

“So what’s all the fuss about, then?”

The bartender leaned his massive forearms on the bar.

“It’s who’s playin’.”

“And who’s that?”

“The mayor, the district attorney,” the bartender said, “a couple of local ranchers.”

“Doesn’t sound like a whole lot to attract a crowd like that.”

“There’s one more player in the game.”

“And who’s that?”

“Clint Adams.”

Temple paused with his mug halfway to his mouth.

“The Gunsmith?”

“The same,” the bartender said.

“Well, friend,” Temple said, “where I come from, that’s called burying the lead. Maybe it’s worth taking a look. Thanks.”

He took his beer and walked to the rear of the saloon.

*   *   *

There were five men around the table, as the bartender had said, and they weren’t hard to identify. The best dressed of them, a big, florid-faced man, had to be the mayor. Another man wearing a suit, a few years younger—with his jacket hanging on the back of the chair and dark sweat rings soaking his white shirt beneath his arms—had to be the district attorney. Two other men, both in their fifties, wearing clean ranch clothes, had to be the ranchers.

That left the fifth man.

Clint Adams.

Tall, wearing trail clothes that were worn but not old, he also seemed to have most of the chips in front of him. He sat, calmly looking at his cards, while the other men made their plays, and then he tossed some chips into the pot. While Temple watched, more times than not, he also raked in the pot.

Temple nursed his beer while he watched the game progress. An idea was forming in his head, and he wanted to let it roll around awhile, as he always did. He prided himself on never jumping the gun, and always giving situations enough thought. He’d done that even with the decision he’d made that had backfired on him and sent him out here to the West. And even so, he didn’t completely regret it.

The people around him changed positions, as some left and new ones came. They weren’t there to see the game as much as they were there to see the Gunsmith.

Temple could see the chips on the table, and from listening closely, he knew what the denominations were. They may not have been playing high stakes, but there was still hundreds of dollars on the table.

He asked a passing girl for another beer, and settled in to watch Clint Adams clean them all out.

TWO

While Temple nursed his second beer, people gradually lost interest as Clint Adams won three out of every four hands. Eventually the mayor and the district attorney tapped out and quit, leaving only Clint Adams and the two ranchers. From the conversation, it soon became clear that Adams was friends with one of the men; maybe they’d known each other before he came to town.

“I’ve had it,” the other rancher said. “Thanks for the poker lesson, Adams.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Blake,” Clint Adams said. “Anytime.”

The rancher stood, shook hands with Adams and the other man, and left.

Clint Adams looked up and saw Temple standing there.

“You looking for a game?” he asked.

“Me?” Temple said. “No, sir. I’m no gambler. I was just passing through, saw the crowd, and stepped up to see what the fuss was.”

“Lot of fuss over nothing, if you ask me,” Clint Adams said.

“You’re too modest,” the other man said. He was older, with the gray hair and wrinkles to go with the years. “What’s your name, son?” he asked Temple.

“Harry Temple.”

“My name’s Abraham Corman,” the older man said. “This is Clint Adams.”

“I know that,” Temple said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Adams. You, too, Mr. Corman.”

“Well,” Corman said, “I better get on home. My wife’s gonna be waitin’. Clint, you want to come to dinner?”

“Thanks, Abe, but I think I’ll just stay in town tonight, spend some of my winnings on a steak and beer.”

“Suit yourself. Make sure you stop by before you leave Abilene, though.”

“You know I will.”

Corman left while Clint Adams collected his chips and went to cash them in.

Temple took his beer back to the bar.

“Another one?” the bartender asked.

“No,” Temple said, “I think I had enough. You can answer a question, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Clint Adams,” Temple said. “Any idea how long he’ll be in town?”

“Not sure,” the barman said. “He came to town like you, just passing through. Found out he knew Abe Corman.”

“Any idea how long he’s staying?”

“I don’t know that either. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Temple turned and looked around the saloon. Clint Adams had collected his money and left.

“Any idea where I can get a good steak?” he asked the bartender.

“Now, there I can help you,” the bartender said. “Go across the street and two blocks west to Jake’s Steakhouse. Best in town.”

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

“Two bits,” the barman said. “First beer was on the house for a first timer.”

Temple dropped two bits on the bar and said, “Thanks.”

He turned and left the saloon.

As he entered Jake’s, he saw Clint Adams sitting at a back table, working on a beer and probably waiting for that steak he’d mentioned.

“Take any table,” a waiter said as he passed. The place...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Berkley
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2014
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0515155004
• ISBN 13: 9780515155006
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 192
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar