The Devil's Collector
Page 11
“Okay, then.”
Clint poured them both more coffee.
“What was the name of that fella?” Sonnet asked.
“Which one?”
“The one the clerk in Garfield told us about.”
“Oh. Benny Nickles.”
“Maybe he’s the one coming,” Sonnet said.
“Could be.”
“Maybe we should have asked around town about him.”
“You’re probably right,” Clint said. “We can go and ask a bartender or two about him. But how about some pie first?”
• • •
“Benny Nickles?” the bartender said. “Sure, I know him.”
“How well?” Clint asked.
“Well enough not to answer questions about him.”
“He’s that kind of man?” Clint asked.
“Yeah,” the bartender said, “that kind.”
“Hard man?”
“The hardest.”
They were in a small saloon called The Buffalo Chip. Not the most attractive name for a place, but Clint wanted to ask his questions in a small saloon, not a large one.
“He ever come in here?” Clint asked.
“I tol’ you,” the bartender said, “I don’t answer questions that could get me killed.”
“So he’s a killer,” Clint said. “For hire?”
The man didn’t answer. He was a small man, with small hands and features. His features looked worried now.
“Like a special deputy?” Clint asked.
“Mister . . .”
“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”
Outside, Sonnet said, “His help?”
“What he said without saying it.”
“So now we know Benny Nickles is not just an errand boy, he’s a killer.”
“Right.”
“So let’s find him.”
“Let’s let him find us, Jack,” Clint said.
“But maybe we’ll find him alone,” Sonnet said. “If he finds us, he’ll have some men with him.”
“I know.”
“You think you and I can go up against five, six men?” Sonnet asked. “And live?”
“I’ve seen you use a gun, Jack,” Clint said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where should we wait for them?”
Clint thought a moment, then said, “I think I know the perfect place.”
FORTY-TWO
Nickles had four men out scouting the town, looking for Clint Adams and Jack Sonnet. It was Dent who spotted them and went to the saloon to tell Nickles.
“I got ’em,” Dent said.
“Where?”
“You ain’t gonna believe it.”
Nickles stared at him and said, “Try me.”
After Dent told him, he said, “Find the others. It’s time.”
• • •
“Here?” Jack Sonnet asked Clint. “Right here?”
“Right here,” Clint said.
Sonnet looked around at the livery, and the feed and grain, then down at the ground where his brother had been found.
“But why?”
“Because,” Clint said, “they won’t be able to resist.”
“You think?”
Clint nodded, said, “I think.”
“So we . . . what?” Jack Sonnet asked. “Just stand here?”
“No,” Clint said, “we stand here . . . and wait.”
• • •
Dent said, “Should we surround ’em? Come in from the other side?”
“No,” Nickles said.
“Why not?”
They stopped walking when they came within sight of the street in front of the feed and grain.
“Look at ’em, Dent,” Nickles said. “They’re waitin’ for us.”
“Why are they doin’ that, Benny?” one of the others asked.
“Maybe,” Nickles said, “they just got a hankerin’ to die.”
“You sure we got enough guns, Benny?” Dent asked. “I mean, I ain’t got a hankerin’ to die.”
“Hey,” Nickles said, “five of us were enough to take care of one Sonnet. I think eight of us can kill a Sonnet and the Gunsmith.”
Nickles turned to look at his “deputies.”
“I’m keyin’ on the Gunsmith,” he said. “I’ll make the first move, and then the rest of you start shootin’.”
“You think you can take Adams?” Dent asked.
“I think I’m gonna try,” Nickles said.
“W-What if he kills you?”
“We can’t all live forever,” Nickles said.
Dent knew Benny Nickles was crazy. The man had no fear of death.
“Start walkin’,” Nickles said.
• • •
“Here they come,” Clint said.
The special deputies came walking up the street toward them. Clint looked around. There was nobody watching from the feed and grain, or from the livery. And there was nobody on the street.
“This is the perfect place in town to kill somebody,” Clint said. “Nobody can see anything, and nobody will come running to see what happened.”
“That’s real comforting,” Sonnet said. “There’s eight of ’em, Clint.”
“Well,” Clint said, “at least three of them killed your brother, Jack. And that big one in front? Got to be Benny Nickles. I’ll take him.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to try to keep him alive.”
Sonnet sighed and said, “Okay.”
The eight men were getting closer.
“Shouldn’t we have more guns?” Sonnet asked.
“You got six bullets?” Clint asked.
“Well, yeah.”
“Me, too,” Clint said. “That should be plenty.”
“What if we miss?”
Clint looked at Sonnet and said, “Don’t.”
FORTY-THREE
Sheriff Koster sat at his desk, waiting for the noise. It was probably going to sound even louder and longer than the last time. And this time, he was going to have to wait longer before he showed up.
“Sheriff?” Will Romer said.
“Yeah?”
“Should I make my rounds?”
“Just sit tight, Will,” Koster said. “Just sit tight.”
• • •
Mayor Atwill stood at his plate glass window, looking down at his town. He’d seen Benny Nickles and the other deputies walking down the street, so he knew they were moments away from getting the job done. He listened intently for the shots.
• • •
Michael Albert sat behind his desk. Business was brisk in his saloon, and the racket would keep him from hearing the shots.
If this didn’t work, he would lose everything.
He opened his top drawer and looked at the .32 Colt he kept there.
• • •
“How close do we let them get?” Sonnet asked.
“Not much closer,” Clint said. “Remember, try not to hit the big guy in front. I think that’s Nickles.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sonnet said. “Jesus, what would my grandpa think if he knew I was drawing my gun and trying not to kill somebody?”
“I’m sure, in this instance, he’d forgive you.”
“Aw, crap,” Sonnet said as the group of men started to draw.
• • •
As they closed in on the two men, Benny Nickles grinned, kept his eyes on Clint Adams, and drew his gun, knowing his men would follow.
What a reputation he’d have after this!
• • •
Clint drew quickly. Even a man with his skill knew better than to try any
trick shots in this kind of situation. Grandpa Sonnet was right—when you drew your gun, you shot to kill.
But Clint fired his first shot very carefully, watched as his bullet struck the big man—Nickles—in the right hip. He knew that bone shattered as the man went down . . . and then lead was ripping through the air . . .
Jack Sonnet fired twice, each shot striking home. Then he dropped to one knee as a couple of bullets whizzed over his head. After that everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, but that’s what his grandpa told him it meant to be a Sonnet. In this kind of situation, you saw everything . . .
• • •
Clint fired again as the special deputies opened up—those who were still standing. Sonnet had already put two down, and Clint had done the same. With Benny Nickles on the ground, that left three deputies standing.
Two of them turned to flee. Clint might have let them go, but Jack Sonnet had other ideas. He didn’t know which of these men had actually killed his brother, so he just figured to kill them all.
The final man was in a complete state of panic. He didn’t know whether to fire at Clint or at Sonnet, but the decision was made for him when they both shot him . . .
• • •
Koster thought the barrage of shots had ended too quickly.
Way too quickly.
“Sheriff?” Will asked. “Are we goin’?”
“In a minute.”
• • •
The mayor heard the shots, felt like the job was being done properly, until the shots suddenly stopped.
Too soon.
Way too soon.
• • •
Michael Albert’s office door opened and the bartender stuck his head in.
“Boss?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s over.”
“Over?” Albert asked. “W-When did it start?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“And it’s over already?’
“Yessir.”
Albert covered his eyes with his left hand.
“Okay,” he said. “Get out.”
As the door closed, he reached for the .32 with his right hand.
• • •
Clint and Sonnet walked among the bodies, found them all dead—except for the big man. They reloaded as they went along.
“Jesus!” the man screamed. “This hurts!”
“Are you Benny?” Clint asked.
“Yeah,” Nickles said. “Get me a doctor. Why’d you shoot me in the hip?”
“I wanted to keep you alive.”
“Christ,” Nickles said, squeezing his eyes shut, “I think I’d rather be dead.”
“That can be arranged,” Sonnet said, drawing his gun again.
“No, no, wait!” Benny said, extending his hands.
“You want a doctor?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, I do!”
“Then you got some talking to do,” Clint said.
FORTY-FOUR
Clint and Sonnet entered City Hall with some onlookers watching them.
“Seems like folks don’t have a problem coming out to see what’s happening in this part of town,” Clint said.
They went up the stairs to the second floor. The door to the mayor’s office was closed. They went in without knocking.
“Jesus,” Mayor Atwill said, “stop him, will you?”
Standing in front of the man’s desk, pointing a gun at him, was Michael Albert.
“Get out, Adams.”
“Can’t do that, Albert,” Clint said. “We’ve got business with the two of you. See, Benny Nickles told us you were the one sending Jack those telegrams, sending him after those men.”
“Yeah, that’s because Mayor Atwill here told me to. It’s all his fault.” He risked a look over his shoulder at Sonnet. “Hey, kid, he’s the one had your brother killed.”
“That’s a lie!” Atwill said. “He did that, sent Nickles and those others after your brother.”
“Because he told me to!” Albert said. “He’s the one you wanna kill. I’ve been holding him here for you.”
“Why?” Sonnet asked.
“What?” Albert asked.
“Why was my brother killed?”
“He found out that the mayor has been looting this town since he took office,” Albert said. “Little by little.”
“Yes, but with his help,” the mayor said.
“He’s the one in charge.”
“So you both had Carl Sonnet killed,” Clint said, “and you just tried to have us killed.”
“He told me to send those special deputies after you,” Albert said.
“Special deputies were his idea,” Atwill said.
“What about the men I killed?” Sonnet asked. “Kennedy, Williams, Damon—did they shoot my brother down, or were you just using me to get rid of your enemies?”
“Relax, kid,” Albert said. “Kennedy and Williams were guilty as sin. Those two were in the shoot-out that killed your brother. You and your friend here just finished off the other three. Damon, well, he was the mayor’s partner in raiding the town coffers, until he ran off—”
“With your portion of the take,” the mayor finished for him.
“You mean yours,” Albert said. “So you see, kid—”
“I’m not a kid,” Sonnet grumbled, but he was relieved that he hadn’t murdered any truly innocent men.
“What’s going on?”
Clint turned, saw Sheriff Koster standing in the doorway with his deputy.
“Sheriff, you’re just in time,” Clint said.
“For what?”
“Like I said before,” Clint said, “to pick sides. We have a witness who will testify that these two men sent eight men to kill us, just as they sent five men to kill Carl Sonnet.”
“Mayor?” Koster asked.
“Arrest him, you idiot!” Atwill said, pointing at Michael Albert.
“Albert,” Clint said, “put the gun down. You know you’re not going to use it. You don’t have the nerve.”
“I—I wasn’t going to kill him,” Albert said. “I was just h-holding him.”
Clint stepped forward and plucked the gun from Albert’s hand.
“Sheriff,” Clint said, “would you like to arrest these men and hold them for the federal marshal?”
“Federal marshal?” Koster asked.
“Yes,” Clint said, “along with Benny Nickles, after the doctor finishes patching him up.”
“Benny?”
“Clint,” Sonnet said, “wait—”
“Jack,” Clint said. “It’s over. Let the federal marshals take it from here.”
Sonnet looked at the mayor, and at Albert, both of whom appeared very frightened.
“Jack?”
“Yes,” Sonnet said, “yes, all right, Clint. I suppose it’s over. The five men who killed my brother are dead.”
Clint slapped him on the back.
“Sheriff?” Clint said. “You’ve been looking the other way. Now’s the time to do the right thing.”
Koster ran his hand over his face.
“Sheriff?” the deputy asked.
“Yeah, Will,” Koster said, “yeah, put them under arrest.”
“Yes!” Deputy Romer said, looking at Clint. “This is much better than making my rounds.”
Watch for
KENTUCKY SHOWDOWN
380th novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove
Coming in August!
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