“I don’t know why you’d want to keep this place,” Garver said, “but no, you won’t have to give it up.”
“Good.”
“So when do we go?” Wycliffe asked.
“I’ll let you know,” Garver said, “but it’ll be soon. I just have to talk to a guy tomorrow.”
Wycliffe pushed his empty mug over to Little Jim and said, “Gimme another one.”
“You, Sheriff?” Jim asked.
“No,” Garver said, “not me. I’ve got something to do.”
Little Jim drew Wycliffe another beer and pushed it over to him.
Garver walked to the end of the bar and signaled for Jim to come over.
“What?” Jim asked.
“Under no circumstances,” the lawman said, “are you to let him go and try to kill Clint Adams.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than that.”
“Where is Adams stayin’?”
“Why?”
“I need to know what hotel to keep Al away from.”
“Keep him away from the Stetson.”
“Like I said,” Jim replied, “I’ll do my best.”
EIGHT
As Billy Dixon left town and headed for his ranch, Clint walked into the Tumbleweed Saloon. The young bartender saw him and waved him over.
“You interested in—” the man started, but Clint cut him off.
“I’m interested in a beer,” he said. “That’s it.”
“Comin’ up.”
The bartender put a cold one down in front of him and waited.
“That’s it,” Clint said.
“That’s all?”
Clint looked around, saw the gaming tables and the girls working the floor.
“It looks to me like I’ll be able to find anything else I want in here,” he said.
“That’s for sure,” the bartender said.
“Then I’ll call you when I’m ready for another beer,” Clint said.
“Okay,” the bartender said, moving away.
As Clint turned to look the place over some more, the batwings opened and Sheriff Garver came walking in. He stopped just inside, looked around, spotted Clint, and came over to him.
“Mr. Adams.”
“Sheriff,” Clint said. “Can I buy you a beer?”
“Sure, why not?” Garver said. “I don’t usually drink here, but I was doing my rounds, and saw you here, so I thought I’d stop in.”
The bartender brought the sheriff a beer.
“Don’t usually see you drinkin’ in here, Sheriff.”
Garver looked at the young man and said, “Go away.”
The bartender obeyed.
Garver picked up his beer and looked at Clint.
“How was your visit with our postmaster?”
“Fine,” Clint said. “We did some catching up.”
“That mean you’re leavin’?”
“No,” Clint said, “we still have more catching up to do.”
“So you’re stayin’ at his ranch?”
“No again,” Clint said. “I have a room at the Stetson. You’re sure in a hurry to have me leave town, Sheriff.”
“I’m just thinkin’ about my town, Mr. Adams,” Garver said. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’ll forgive me, but I don’t think you always have a choice, do you?”
“You’re probably right, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Let me ask you something.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“How’d you come to be sheriff of this town?”
“Every town deserves a good sheriff, don’t you think?” Garver asked.
“And you’re a good sheriff?”
“I like to think so.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not as uneducated as you like people to think?”
Garver smiled.
“What makes you say that?”
“Every once in a while you sound educated,” Clint said. “It slips through.”
“Does it?” Garver said. “I guess I’ll have to watch that.”
“Was it the act that got you voted in?”
“Probably,” Garver said. “That’s why I’ll have to watch it.” He put his empty mug down on the bar. “Thanks for the beer.”
NINE
After Garver left Little Jim’s, Wycliffe leaned on the bar and said, “Have a beer with me, Jim.”
“Sure.”
Jim drew two beers and brought them over to where Wycliffe was standing. There were about half a dozen other drinkers in the place by this time, but none of them were standing at the bar.
“Whataya think of Garver’s plan?” Wycliffe asked.
“Sounds good to me,” Little Jim said. “You got a problem with it?”
“I didn’t,” Wycliffe said, “until I heard that Adams was in town.”
“You wanna go after him bad, don’t ya?” Jim asked.
“Real bad.”
“Well, seems to me,” Jim said, “if we pull this job with the Gunsmith in town, he’s liable to get himself involved. In which case—”
“I get my shot at him after all.”
“Right.”
Wycliffe nodded.
“They should call you Smart Jim.”
“Yeah,” Little Jim said, “they should.”
They sipped some beer.
“You gonna do it alone?” Jim asked.
“What?” Wycliffe said.
“The Gunsmith,” Jim said. “Are you gonna kill him alone?”
“Why?” Wycliffe asked. “You want to be in on it?”
“A chance to kill the Gunsmith?” Jim asked. “Who wouldn’t be interested in that?”
“A lot of men wouldn’t want any part of him,” Wycliffe pointed out. “I think our sheriff is a man like that.”
“You think Garver’s afraid of Adams?”
“I think Garver’s smart,” Wycliffe said. “Smart men are always afraid.”
“Why?” Jim asked.
“Because they’re smart enough to be afraid,” Wycliffe said.
“And you and me?”
Wycliffe grinned. “We ain’t smart enough to let fear get in our way, Jim,” he said. “That’s why men like you and me, we usually do what we want and we don’t worry about paying the price.”
Jim nodded and asked, “How about some whiskey?” He reached behind the bar and picked up a bottle.
Wycliffe grinned and took it from him.
Clint read for a while in his room before deciding it was time to turn in. He got up off the bed, turned down the gas lamp on the wall, then walked to the window. Just for a moment he thought he saw two men in the street, but when he looked again, there was no one there.
Bad enough there were often men in the shadows, watching him. If he started to imagine them, he was done for.
He went to bed.
Jim grabbed the whiskey bottle from Wycliffe and pulled him out of the street.
“You don’t want him to see you,” Jim said.
“Why not?” Wycliffe asked.
“Because the time and place must be left to us,” Jim said. “And when the time comes, we have to be sober.”
“But the time is not now, is it?” Wycliffe asked.
“No,” Jim conceded. “Not now.”
“Then gimme back the bottle!”
TEN
Clint awoke the next morning, still thinking about the shadowy figures he’d seen on the street the night before. It was not like him to imagine such a thing, and he hadn’t drunk enough for it to affect his perception.
After he washed up and dressed, he walked to the window and looked out. There were people crossing the street, walking on both sides, but no one seemed to be standing and watching the hotel with any interest.
He strapped on his gun and went downstairs to find some breakfast. He considered stopping at the post office to see if Dixon would be interested, but as postmaster, he probably would have reported to work early
, and wouldn’t be able to leave.
Clint went out onto the street, decided to go and find the place where he’d had the pie the day before. It seemed like a likely place to get breakfast. Also, he wanted to walk awhile to see if he could spot anybody following him this morning.
He arrived at the café without noticing any kind of a tail. There were plenty of tables so he was able to secure one in the back, against the wall and away from the windows. He ordered steak and eggs and remained alert while eating it. No one stopped in front of the café to peer in the windows. The coffee was not strong enough, so he made do with one pot, then paid his bill and left.
He stopped just outside the door and looked around. No one seemed to be paying any special attention to him, but he still refused to admit he might have been imagining things the night before. Perhaps whoever had been watching him then simply had something else to do during the day.
He decided to stop by the post office and bounce some questions off the postmaster while he did his job.
Billy Dixon had a small breakfast at home that he fixed himself, then spoke briefly with his foreman, Joe Kelly. Besides Kelly, he had three other employees, all ranch hands. Dixon had an idea that he might someday have a herd of decent horses, but at the moment there were about half a dozen ponies in the corral.
“There’s a small herd of wild mustangs about ten miles south, in Central Valley, so I thought me and the boys would go and take a look,” Kelly said.
“Leave one behind to watch over those six,” Dixon said.
“Right.”
“Joe, were you here yesterday when I got a visitor?”
“You mean Clint Adams?”
“So you were here.”
“Yeah, I talked to him. I told him you was in town. Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
“No, no,” Dixon said. The foreman was about his age, but lacked Dixon’s life experience. He had spent most of his life on one ranch or another.
“Did you tell anyone that the Gunsmith was here?” he asked.
“I guess I mentioned it to the boys.”
“And did any of the boys go into town?”
“Nope,” Kelly said, “I told them nobody goes to town until the weekend.”
“Okay,” Dixon said, “I don’t want anybody talkin’ about Clint Adams. Got that?”
“I’ll let them know, boss.”
“You do that,” Dixon said. “Tell ’em I don’t take kindly to anybody gossipin’.”
“I’ll tell ’em.”
“Okay,” Dixon said. “See what you can find out about them mustangs.”
“I bet we’ll have some of them in the corral when you get back.”
“I’m lookin’ forward to that.”
When Clint entered the post office, the counter was empty and Dixon was nowhere in sight. Then he heard some noise in the back and walked to the rear. He found Dixon lugging a heavy burlap bag and rushed to help him.
“Looks like you need at least one more person here,” he said as they hauled the sack to the front.
“Yeah, tell the town council that. They claim there’s no more money.” He straightened and rubbed his lower back. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“You wouldn’t think a bunch of letters would be so damn heavy.”
“I’m thinking if your back’s hurting you, it’s got a lot more to do with working your ranch than the post office.”
“You’re probably right.” Dixon stepped behind the counter. “What’s on your mind this mornin’?”
“I had the feelin’ somebody was watching my hotel last night,” Clint said.
“Like who?”
“Two men,” Clint said. “Saw them standing in the street, kind of convinced myself I was imagining it.”
“That wouldn’t be like you.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Clint said. “I decided this morning they were there. Now I just need to figure out who it was.”
“Anybody followin’ you this mornin’?”
“No, I checked,” Clint said.
“Well, let me know if you need anybody to watch your back.”
“Your gun at home?”
“My gun and holster’s home,” Dixon said, “but I keep a Winchester right here.” He picked the rifle up from behind the counter.
“Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Watch yerself,” Dixon said. “Don’t hesitate to call on me if you need to.”
“I’ll remember.”
“I take an hour for lunch around one,” Dixon said. “Come and join me.”
“I will.”
ELEVEN
Sheriff Garver was at the bank, in a meeting with the manager, Harold Birzer.
“Do you have enough guards?” Birzer asked nervously. He mopped his face with a handkerchief, even though it wasn’t particularly warm in his office.
“I don’t wanna have too many,” Garver said. “Don’t want to give ourselves away that somethin’ big is goin’ on. But don’t worry, I’ve got good men.”
“So then you’re ready?”
“I think we’re ready, Mr. Birzer,” Garver said. “Send your telegram and have your money delivered.”
Birzer nodded, then said, “Will you come to the telegraph office with me?”
Garver wanted to ask the bank manager what he thought anyone might steal from him as he went to and from the telegraph office, but instead he said, “Of course, Mr. Birzer.”
“Thank you,” Birzer said. “I’m very nervous about this.”
“I can see that, sir,” Garver said. “After you?”
Clint came out of the post office and saw Sheriff Garver walking on the other side of the street with a nervous-looking man in a suit.
“Hey, Billy.”
Dixon came around the counter and joined Clint at the door.
“Yeah?”
“Who’s that walking with the sheriff?”
“That’s Harold Birzer. He’s the manager of the bank,” Dixon answered.
“The bank manager?” Clint asked. “How many banks in town?”
“Just the one.”
“What do you know about Birzer?”
“He’s always nervous, always sweatin’,” Dixon said. “He thinks everybody who walks into the bank wants to rob it.”
“Sounds like he’s got the wrong job,” Clint said.
“Or he’s the right man for the job,” Dixon said. “Far as I know, the bank has never been robbed.”
“I wonder where they’re going,” Clint said.
“Could be anywhere,” Dixon said. “Telegraph office is in that direction, but maybe they’re just goin’ to get coffee together.”
“Think I’ll tag along on this side of the street,” Clint said. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah,” Dixon said, “let me know what you find out, huh?”
“Sure.”
Dixon went back inside while Clint started walking, keeping the sheriff and the bank manager in mind. They passed a saloon and a café without pausing, finally came to the telegraph office, and went inside.
He wondered what was going on only because Dixon had told him the lawman was crooked. Why was the crooked lawman walking with the bank manager? Was he also crooked? Were they planning something? Well, if the sheriff and the bank manager were planning on robbing the bank, that was their business. Clint was only supposed to be in town for a few days visiting Dixon. Why should he even care?
The answer was simple.
He had a hard time minding his own business when he knew a crime was about to be committed.
TWELVE
Clint found a post to lean against as he waited for the sheriff and the bank manager to come out of the telegraph office. At the same time he took a casual look around to see if anyone was watching him. No one seemed to be paying him any special attention. He still refused to believe, though, that he’d imagined the two men watching his hotel the night before.
He hated to think that he was
starting to see things that weren’t there.
While Bank Manager Birzer sent his telegram, Sheriff Garver looked out the front window and saw something he didn’t like. Clint Adams was across the street, leaning against a post. He seemed to be watching the door of the telegraph office. Had he been standing there the whole time, or had he—for some reason—followed them there?
“Sheriff?”
Garver turned, realizing that Birzer was speaking to him.
“It’s done,” the bank manager said. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Garver said, “you’ll just have to make your way back to the bank yourself, Mr. Birzer. I’ve got somethin’ I need to take care of.”
“Oh, well, all right,” Birzer said. “I, uh, suppose I can do that.”
“Yeah, you can,” Garver said. “Nobody’s gonna bother you.”
“Well,” Birzer said, “I hope not.”
The two men walked out together, and Garver slapped the bank manager on the back.
“Go ahead,” Garver said.
The bank manager nodded and headed back to the bank. Garver looked across at Clint Adams to see if he’d follow Birzer. He didn’t. He remained where he was, looking at Garver. The sheriff considered walking across and asking Adams what was on his mind, but instead he turned and walked in the opposite direction from the bank manager.
Clint watched the bank manager walk back toward the bank. The sheriff stayed where he was, looking across at Clint. Clint had considered ducking inside to avoid the man, but he was standing in front of a hat shop. He would have looked more suspicious if he’d gone in there. So instead he stayed where he was and stared back, decided to see what would happen. After all, he was just killing time.
Abruptly, Sheriff Garver turned and walked away from the bank manager. Clint decided to keep pace, staying across the street, and see what occurred.
Garver saw that Clint Adams was following him—or at least, was keeping pace with him.
What did the man have on his mind?
The sheriff came to Little Jim’s, stopped, thought a moment, then went inside. Let’s see, he thought, if the Gunsmith is curious enough to follow me.
Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) Page 3
