The Gunsmith #399: Death in the Family (Gunsmith, The, Band 399) - Softcover

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

Clint Adams couldn’t believe his eyes.

He’d seen a lot of things in his life on the trail, but this was something new.

It started as just a glimpse of something moving in the Wyoming distance, something small. At first he thought it was a small animal, maybe a coyote. He intended to skirt around it, so as not to spook it, but the he realized his mistake. It wasn’t a coyote at all—or any kind of animal, for that matter.

It was a child.

As he got closer, he saw that it was a toddler, just walking along, occasionally tripping and almost falling, but holding its hands out and catching its balance at the last minute.

Closer still and he could see that it was a boy, and that he was still in a diaper. His chubby little legs were just pumping along, and when Clint could see his face, the boy wore a very determined expression.

Clint dismounted and approached the boy, who never looked up and never stopped walking. His arms, legs, and face were covered with dirt, so he must have been out there for a good while. Clint looked around, couldn’t see any houses or wagons in any direction. He wondered how far the boy had come, and what the heck he was doing out there.

Finally, Clint decided to stop him. He stepped in front of him and crouched down. As he approached, the boy finally looked up and saw Clint, but he didn’t stop walking even then until he walked into Clint’s hands.

“Hey, buddy,” Clint said. “How are ya doing?”

The boy frowned. Clint wasn’t good at guessing children’s ages, but the fact that he was still in a diaper had to make him under two.

Suddenly, looking into the boy’s eyes, he could see how tired the child was. And at that moment, the boy started to cry.

Clint stood, picking the child up and taking him with him. The tears made tracks in the dirt on his face.

“You must be starving and thirsty,” Clint said. Luckily, it was fall and the sun wasn’t beating down as relentlessly as it might have been.

“Come on,” Clint said, “let’s see if we’ve got anything for you to eat.”

He carried the child back to Eclipse. At the very least he could give the boy some water. He uncapped his canteen with his teeth, held it to the boy’s mouth, and the tot stopped crying long enough to drink greedily.

“That’s enough,” Clint said, taking the canteen away. “You don’t want to get sick.”

The boy started crying again, and Clint could smell the stench coming from the diaper.

“Good God,” he said, “you need to be cleaned and changed and fed, and that’s just not something I’m real good at, but we’re going to have to give it a go.”

It was early and there was still plenty of travel time, but he decided to camp right where he was and see what he could do to make the boy more comfortable.

“Well, Eclipse,” he said to the big Darley, “looks like you and me got some babysitting to do.”

Clint spread a blanket on the ground, then his bedroll, then put the boy down on it. He tore a shirt up into strips so he could use one part as a diaper and another to clean the boy with. First he wiped off the feces and urine, then tied a clean strip around him as a diaper. He used a third strip to wash the boy’s face, hands, arms, and legs.

After that, he looked through his saddlebags for something the boy could eat, but all he had was some beef jerky and a can of beans. The boy would not be able to chew the jerky, so Clint opened the can of beans and fed them to the boy cold, a bean at a time. The boy appreciated the food and kept opening his mouth for more.

“I wonder,” Clint said while he was feeding him, “can you talk at all at your age? Can you say any words?”

The boy was too busy eating to even try. Clint stopped feeding him before the boy was ready, gave him some water to wash it down. Too many beans might cause the boy to soil his makeshift diaper too soon. Clint was hoping he’d be able to find a house, a wagon, or a town the next day before he was forced to figure something out about a diaper again.

The boy complained for a while, wanting more to eat. Clint checked his bare feet, found a few cuts that he was able to clean, but they didn’t seem to be causing the boy too much discomfort. Most of it seemed to be from the fact that he was still hungry. Eventually, though, he was overcome by fatigue, and he fell asleep. Clint actually wrapped him in the blanket, so that when the night cooled a bit, the boy wouldn’t be too cold.

Clint built a fire, but ate some of the beans cold with beef jerky—leaving just a little that he’d be able to feed the boy in the morning—drank some water, then took the time to unsaddle Eclipse for the night. He let the animal feed on some brush, and tried to make himself comfortable against his saddle. He had given the boy his bedroll and blanket, so he folded his arms across his chest, hoping the night wouldn’t get too cold.

He had several theories about the boy. He’d wandered off from either a house or a wagon, possibly one that had been hit by outlaws or Indians. Clint didn’t know how far he’d walked, but it couldn’t have been that far, or his bare feet would have been in even worse shape. He felt fairly certain he’d find the answers in the morning.

He just hoped the boy would sleep through the night.

TWO

Clint woke up the next morning and realized the boy was standing by him, hitting him on the head with the flat of his hand.

“Okay, okay,” Clint said, “I’m up.”

He sat up and looked at the boy, who—amazingly—smiled at him.

“Do you have a name?”

The boy scrunched up his face.

“Can you say anything?” Clint asked.

“Mama,” the boy said.

“Well, that’s a start.”

This time Clint heated the remainder of the beans before feeding them to the boy. He had no coffee for himself, though, because they had not camped near water, and he didn’t want to use the water in his canteen, preferring to save it for the boy. So he ate the rest of the jerky for his own breakfast.

The fire had apparently kept the boy warm enough overnight, because he had not stirred once. Of course, that could have been because he was so exhausted.

The boy seemed to enjoy the warm beans and drank plenty of water.

“Okay,” Clint said, putting him back on the blanket, “wait there while I saddle up.”

By the time he finished saddling Eclipse, the boy had walked several yards, once again with that determined little march of his.

“Oh no,” Clint said, scooping him up, “not again. We’re going for a ride.”

He sniffed the boy’s bottom, was surprised to find that he hadn’t soiled himself again—yet.

He mounted Eclipse, holding the boy in one arm, then sat the boy just in front of him.

“We’re going to go and find your mama,” he said.

“Mama,” the boy said.

“Right.”

“Hi.”

“Right,” Clint said, “hi.”

He gigged Eclipse with his heels and they started off in an easterly direction.

*   *   *

Fairly quickly Clint came to a sign that said CHESTER, WYOMING, 3 MI.

He looked down at the top of the boy’s head.

“Could you have walked three miles?”

The boy grabbed a handful of Eclipse’s mane and pulled it.

“I don’t think...