The Pinkerton Job by J. R. Roberts

their faces, and in their eyes. It was hunger. A hunger for fame, and reputation.
    If they’d only ask him, he could tell them that neither was what they were all cracked up to be.
    There were five of them, and they all stood up from their table.
    He put his beer on the bar.
    *   *   *
    José Rios recognized the Gunsmith as soon as he walked in. He passed the word, which flowed through the room like wildfire. It eventually reached the table where Rodrigo Fuentes and his men were sitting.
    â€œCan it really be him?” one of them asked.
    â€œThere is one way to find out, Carlos,” Fuentes said. “Are we ready,
amigos
?”
    â€œWe have always been ready, Rodrigo,” Bernardo said.
    â€œWill others join us?” Eduardo asked.
    â€œOnly one way to find that out, too,
es verdad
?” Fuentes asked.
    Yes, it was true.
    They stood up.
    *   *   *
    Clint watched the five men stand up, with steely resolve on all their faces. Usually, in a group like that, he could count on one or two who were acting out of fear, or against their will. Not this time. Every one of these men knew what they were up against and they were ready—even anxious—for it.
    And it was infectious.
    As they stood, several others also stepped forward. Those who were not involved quickly moved away. It was as if the population of the cantina was suddenly drawn to the walls.
    Leaving a big circle in the center.
    *   *   *
    When the word reached one man in the back of the room, he wasn’t sure it was true. But he heard the buzz moving through the room. He waited, and when suddenly the center of the room was cleared out, he could see what was happening.
    One man standing at the bar alone.
    At least nine others, facing him, all armed with pistols.
    He shook his head.
    His goal had been to remain unnoticed in this cantina, unidentified for as long as he could. But he could not stand aside and watch this.
    Not when he knew that the lone man was Clint Adams, the Gunsmith.
    His friend.
    He took his badge from his pocket, pinned it on, and then stood up.
    â€œAttencion!”
he shouted.
    All eyes went to him.
    â€œI am a federal marshal from New Mexico,” he said. “This will not happen.”
    Rodrigo Fuentes looked at the young man with the badge and frowned.
    â€œYou are foolish,” he said. “This will happen, and you cannot stop it.”
    â€œYou misunderstand me,
señor
,” the lawman said. “What I meant to say was, this will not happen . . . without me.”
    Clint looked at the man with the badge, shook his head, and smiled. He hadn’t seen the young man in some time, and was not surprised to find him standing behind a badge.
    â€œHello, Baca,” he said.
    â€œHello, Clint.”
    Fuentes looked at the man with the badge and said, “You are even more foolish than I thought. This is not your business.”
    â€œI am making it my business.”
    â€œVery well,” Fuentes said, “if we are to kill you as well, we should know your name.”
    â€œGladly,” the man said. “My name is Baca, Elfego Baca.”

THIRTY-TWO
    Sandusky approached the bed.
    Delilah seemed to be entranced by the Mexican whore’s delicate breast and nipple. While she stroked the right one, Sandusky reached out to touch the left. The whore closed her eyes and got a dreamy look on her lips as the gringo and gringa played with her. Her name was Juanita, and unlike the forty-year-old Delilah, she was very young, and very pretty.
    Abruptly, Sandusky put his hand over her face and pushed her onto her back. She opened her eyes in surprise, gasped as he grabbed her by the ankles and spread her. It was his favorite way to take a woman, although later he planned to have her on all fours as well.
    Delilah knew the whore was going to come out of this battered and bruised, and she smiled, because better Juanita than