The Killing Blow (6 page)

Clint then looked at the spot where Ordell's finger was tapping against the wall.

The notice read:

$800 REWARD FOR SKIN OF BLACK BEAR. KILLED MEN AND CHILDREN. BRING HIDE HERE FOR PAYMENT.

“That there's a lot of money and it's why those boys were after us,” Ordell said.

“And that's how those boys knew you?”

“I been a hunter all my life, Clint. I do most of my trading here, so I suppose some of these men know me. You were there. You saw them ride up on us with their guns drawn. By my count, you killed two to my one.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.”

“You know what'll make me happy?” Ordell asked with a smirk. “Eight hundred dollars. Let me cash this in and I'll give you your cut.”

“Just hand over that rifle,” Clint replied. “I passed a blacksmith on the way over here.”

Clint walked into the blacksmith's shop carrying Ordell's rifle. By the time he finally made it into the cramped little shop, Clint actually felt as if he might need to lean against the rifle before he fell over. The gun was heavier than a pickax and twice as difficult to manage.

The blacksmith's shop was the shape of a barn, but about half the size. Outside, there were stray bits of iron and rods of all lengths propped against the wall. Inside, there was a similar mess, but combined with a few anvils and buckets of water scattered in different spots on the floor. In the middle of it all was a stout man with a thick black mustache. He was bald, except for a ring of hair that connected the back of one ear to the back of the other. He wore a dirty shirt with the sleeves torn off and a thick apron stained the same color as the charred floor.

When he saw Clint walk into his shop, the stout man immediately squinted at the rifle he was carrying. “Hey, there. What're you doing carrying Mr. Ordell's gun?”

Clint held the rifle out and blinked in surprise. “You know whose gun this is?”

“Sure I do. I made that barrel.”

“Then perhaps you could help me straighten it.”

The stout man had his hands full with a large pair of tongs and a hammer. He dropped both of those and rushed over to Clint the moment he heard those words. “What'd you do to that gun? Where's Mr. Ordell?” Rather than wait for an answer, he stopped as if he'd been smacked and started shaking his head. “Oh, Lord. This isn't good at all.”

“I know,” Clint said. “The barrel's bent, but—”

“Bent?! That barrel's nearly twisted in half!”

Clint looked down at it and said, “It's not that bad.”

“What's this?” the man asked as he squatted down to get a closer look at the hammer. “This wasn't there before.”

“I know. I fixed that up a bit.”

“You?”

“The name's Clint Adams. Before you ask, I do know what I'm doing. I'm a gunsmith.”

“A gunsmith, huh? I suppose you have some little tools and such to straighten out that iron?”

“No. That's why I came here.”

The stout man blinked and straightened up. He used both callused hands to rub his face. When he lowered his hands, he revealed a wide grin and a bit of color in his cheeks. “Sorry about that, mister. I'm just awfully proud of that rifle. It's not often that I get to put together something like that. My name's Aldo.”

“You're the one that built this gun?”

“Parts of it, yes. Mr. Ordell designed it, but I had to make the barrel and a good amount of the pieces. It sure was a nice change of pace from all the horseshoes and pots I have to fix.”

“I knew these parts were custom-made, but I figured they were put together from parts of other old guns.”

“No, sir,” Aldo said proudly. “Most of those were made here in my shop. I still got the molds for when Mr. Ordell needs something replaced.”

“And how often is that?” Clint asked, knowing that the blacksmith was busting at the seams to answer.

“Never. Not once.”

“You wouldn't have another barrel lying around, would you?”

Aldo took the rifle from Clint's hands and looked along it from every angle. “No and I don't need one. Besides, it'd be easier to straighten this one out than to bore out a new one. Mr. Ordell makes his own ammunition, so it takes something extra special to keep them slugs in the air. What happened to this beauty, anyway?”

Clint couldn't help but wince at the thought of what Aldo would say when he heard his pride and joy had been used as a lever. “Just an accident while out hunting. You know how things happen.”

“Was it a good hunt?”

“You heard about that bear that's got the price on his head?”

“That black bear that killed them folks?” Aldo asked. “Everyone's heard of that bear.”

“Well, it won't be bothering anyone anymore.”

Aldo looked down at the rifle in his hands the way a proud parent would look at their baby. “Well, then, I guess I can't be too upset if she's just a little bent. I'll get her straightened out in no time.” While making his way toward the small furnace at the back of his shop, Aldo said, “If you've got some time to spare, I wouldn't mind hearing about what you did to this here gun.”

At first, Clint tested the waters with a few bits and pieces of the basic things he did to spruce up Ordell's weapon. When he saw the blacksmith responding with genuine interest, Clint slipped right into telling some of the more technical details.

Aldo listened intently as he heated up the rifle's barrel. “That ought to make this here weapon a real work of art. Before you know it, Mr. Ordell's nephew will be coming around trying get one like it for himself.”

“His nephew?”

Nodding, Aldo said, “That's right. The boy ain't much of a hunter just yet, but he's eager to learn. He'll be real sore when he hears his uncle got to that bear before he did.”

Thinking back to Joseph's eager face, Clint asked, “How old's the boy?”

“Eh . . . I'd say he's damn near twenty. Maybe a little more'n that. I guess that means he ain't exactly a boy no more.”

“Twenty, huh? What's he look like?”

Aldo stopped what he was doing to give Clint a puzzled look. “What's he look like? I dunno. Tall kid, dark hair. Clean face.”

“Did he have a harelip?”

“Yeah. He did. You know him?”

Clint now thought back to the rider who'd come up to stare down Ordell while demanding rights to that bear skin. “I think I just might.”

When Clint walked down the street from the blacksmith's, Ordell was walking along the opposite side and headed straight toward him. Ordell saw Clint almost immediately and put on a wide grin as he approached.

Holding out both hands to pat Clint on the shoulders, Ordell said, “Getting that money was even easier than I thought. Seems the locals that put up that reward were more worried about getting rid of that bear than keeping hold of their cash. How about you buy some whiskey and we can split up the haul?”

Clint kept quiet, since the street was fairly crowded. He bit his tongue all the way to a small shack that was one step away from being out of town. Half of the shack was facing Westerlake, while the other half stretched out into the surrounding woods.

As soon as they got close to the shack's front door, Clint stopped and fixed his eyes on Ordell. The only set of eyes and ears in the vicinity that didn't belong to either man were carried around on four legs. “Who was that kid you shot?”

“You mean the one who jumped us along with those other two? Is that the kid you mean?”

“You know damn well who I mean,” Clint said.

Ordell looked around as if he was being ambushed. When he looked at Clint once more, there was a mix of disbelief and humor in his eyes. “I told you before, Clint. That was just a bunch of kids out to get that reward money without having to work for it.”

“You sure that wasn't your nephew?” When he asked that question, Clint stared at Ordell the way he would stare at a man from the other side of a poker table. It was a way for him to get a grip on whether someone was lying and it rarely let him down.

This was no exception.

In fact, it worked so well that Ordell knew he wouldn't be able to lie even before he tried to get the words out.

Slowly, the humor on Ordell's face melted away. He nodded slowly and said, “All right. That was my nephew. How'd you know?”

“Your own flesh and blood? Why would you kill—”

“You were there, Clint,” Ordell snapped. “I didn't go after that boy. He came after us. With his gun drawn!”

“That's true. And it's a downright shame to be forced to kill someone from your own family under those circumstances. What I don't understand is how you could do that so lightly. You didn't even flinch.”

“That kid's always been trouble. You don't know the half of it.”

“Then tell me. I've got time to listen.”

Clint picked up an unmistakable shiftiness in Ordell's posture and expression as he led the way into the small shack where they'd originally been headed. The older man walked with his shoulders hunched forward and his eyes cast toward the floor. The longer Clint followed him, the more he found himself instinctively allowing his hand to drift toward his holstered pistol.

Inside, the shack was filled with a little bit of everything someone might need if they were on their way to or from the surrounding woods. There were supplies for sale in one corner, food being served in another and a small bar serving liquor in dirty glasses.

Ordell went straight for the bar and ordered two drinks. Apparently, the barkeep knew Ordell well enough that he didn't have to ask what the man wanted when he made his order. With his drinks in hand, Ordell led the way to a small table close to the small stove where food was prepared.

Taking a glass from Ordell, Clint took a cautious sniff of the liquor before drinking it. The stuff was probably some sort of whiskey, but there was some sort of foam around the edges that didn't seem to belong there. Despite his own misgivings about the drink, Clint saw Ordell swig it down without hesitation.

“Don't ask what's in it,” Ordell said after wheezing and setting his glass down. “The owner makes it himself and it's damn good.”

Clint took a gamble along with a sip from the glass. Despite the fact that he couldn't quite pin down what he was tasting, he had to admit it tasted pretty good. Even so, he set the glass down before diving in again.

“Here's your money,” Ordell said as he slapped a stack of bills onto the table.

Thumbing through the stack, Clint took a quick count and looked back up to Ordell. “That's about half the reward.”

“You wore that bear down pretty good and had him on his last legs. I figure we should split the money.”

Clint shook his head and took his hand off the cash. “I'm fixing up your rifle. That makes us even.”

“For God's sake, just take the damn money before someone in here gets it in their head to take it fer themselves.”

Clint reached out and took half the stack, leaving the rest as if it no longer existed. Sighing loudly, Ordell snatched up the rest of the money and shoved it under the top few layers of skins he wore.

“I'm a peaceful man, Clint. I may be a hunter, but I ain't no killer. Surely someone like you knows the difference.”

“Yeah. I know the difference very well.”

“I just bet you do. You took out them other two gun hands without much trouble. That, put together with the fancy gun you carry, tells me what sort of things you must do fer a living. And don't tell me you smith guns to put food in yer belly. I know better'n that.”

“I've done plenty that I regret,” Clint said. “And I'm not here to pass judgment on anyone else. I just didn't have you figured for someone who would do something like that.”

“Things happen and most the time we don't have much of a say about it. You want to know what makes them pass a lot easier?”

“Sure.”

Ordell held up his glass, smiled and took a sip. “That boy threatened to kill me more'n once over the years. He decided to try and get rich with this hunt no matter what. I told him before I set out on that bear's trail that if he faced me down one more time, I wouldn't think about the blood flowing through our veins before I spilled his. He pushed it. I did what I had to do. Story's over.”

Perhaps it was the convincing way that Ordell spoke, or perhaps it was the strange concoction he was drinking, but Clint felt his blood cool and his anger dwindle. Just thinking about a few of the corners he'd been forced into made Clint much more sympathetic to Ordell's situation. Even so, there was plenty more that even the liquor couldn't wash away.

“All right, then,” Clint said. “I wanted an explanation and I got it. Why'd you start off trying to lie? We may not be old friends, but we've saved each other's lives twice in one trip. That usually carries a bit more weight.”

“I said it before and I'll say it again,” Ordell declared. “Yer a good man and one hell of a fine shooter. Just riding with you and them other two for that short amount of time was enough to give me a notion of how you'd react if you knew that boy was my own kin.”

Clint couldn't help but wince at that one. “I can't really fault you for that.”

“At least you had the decency to accuse me over a drink.”

Raising his glass, Clint said, “Here's to not making the same mistake twice.”

“Too late for me on that account,” Ordell grumbled. “Way too damn late.”