Way with a Gun by J. R. Roberts Page A

about him—not even Tell Barlow. Everybody thought that Jerry Corbett did his jobs alone, and that was the way he wanted it.
    They watched, giving the appearance of two men who were about to fall into their mugs, as one by one the other men left until, finally, Clint Adams was sitting at the table alone.
    What the two gunmen didn’t realize was that Joe Ransom was not leaving the saloon, he was just going up to the bar.
    It wasn’t Clint Adams who made a fatal mistake after all.
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Ransom felt like having a whiskey with his beer. As he turned to ask Clint if he wanted one too, he saw the two men making their move. They took their heads out of their mugs and, without a hint of drunkenness, stood and drew their guns.
    Ransom moved immediately.
    â€œClint!” he shouted, drawing his gun.
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Clint heard the sound of chairs scraping the floor, then heard Ransom yell. For an instant he didn’t know which way to look, and in that instant he knew he could have died—had it not been for Joe Ransom.
    He turned to look at Ransom, saw that he was drawing his gun, saw where his eyes were trained, and knew he’d looked the wrong way. He immediately threw himself out of his chair and dove for the floor, clawing for his gun. Meanwhile, the sound of shots filled the air in the small saloon. . . .
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Corbett saw Clint Adams hit the floor as he pulled the trigger, and knew he was going to miss. He saw his bullet gouge a hole in the table where Clint Adams had been sitting, then became aware of the other man at the bar, who had shouted. In his mind Adams had moved, and then the shout came. It was the way things happened sometimes— or seemed to—in the wrong order.
    Whichever came first, he knew he was a goner. . . .
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Joe Ransom drew his gun and fired in one quick move. His bullet caught Bankhead just under the chin as the man fired. His lifeless body was thrown backward across another table, where he came to rest. His gun dropped from his hand and hit the floor.
    Ransom turned to the other man, who was just turning toward him. They fired at roughly the same time. . . .
    As Corbett fired his gun at the meddler, Clint fired at him from the floor. His bullet hit the man square in the chest, so that when Corbett pulled his trigger his shot went wild. Then Ransom’s bullet struck him, also in the chest, and he was dead before he hit the floor.
    In seconds, it was over. . . .

THIRTY-TWO
    By the time Sheriff Taylor returned to the saloon— having heard the shots from down the street—the shooting was over and Clint and Ransom had checked the two men to be sure they were dead.
    â€œWhat happened?” Taylor demanded.
    â€œThose two threw down on Clint,” Ransom said. “They was gonna shoot him in the back.”
    â€œRansom saved my ass,” Clint said. He put his hand out for the younger man to shake. “I guess I don’t have to wait any longer to find out if you can shoot. I’m much obliged, Joe.”
    â€œWell,” Ransom said, shaking Clint’s hand, “I couldn’t let ’em shoot ya. We got too much to do.”
    â€œWho are these fellas?” Taylor asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Clint said. “I was just about to go through their pockets.”
    Clint took out the contents of Jerry Corbett’s pocket, and Taylor fished around in the other man’s.
    â€œI got nothin’,” the lawman said.
    â€œI got something,” Clint said.
    â€œWhat?” Ransom asked.
    Clint looked at both men and said, “A telegram.”
    â€œThat mean somethin’ to you?” Ransom asked.
    â€œYeah,” Clint said. “Yeah, I’m afraid it does. Let’s get this mess cleaned up and I’ll tell you about it.”
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In the sheriff’s office, Clint explained about the previous attempt on his life and the telegram he’d found in the pocket of one of the men.
    â€œIt was like this one,”