When Garver went into the saloon, Clint stopped, found another post, and leaned against it. He had two choices. He could stand there and wait, or go in and have a beer. Maybe the lawman would tell him something.
Yeah, he decided he could use a beer.
“What’s goin’ on, Sheriff?” Jim asked. “Little early for you, innit?”
“I’ll have a beer, Jim,” Garver said, “and one for my friend.”
“Your friend?”
“Clint Adams,” Garver said, “should be followin’ me in here any minute.”
“The Gunsmith?” Jim asked. “He’s comin’ in here?” He put his hand beneath the bar to check that his shotgun was still there.
“Don’t get excited,” Garver said. “Leave the shotgun where it is.”
Jim pulled his hand away.
“Just wanted to make sure it was still there.”
“Come on,” Garver said, “two beers, before my new friend gets here.”
“Comin’ up.”
THIRTEEN
Clint walked into the saloon, which had a small, almost invisible sign on it that said, LITTLE JIM’S SALOON. The sheriff was standing at the bar, and there were only a few other men in the place, seated at tables. Little Jim’s was a bit smaller than the Big Tap, but the ambience was along the same lines.
The sheriff kept his back to the door, but he knew Clint was there. He was leaning over a beer mug. The bartender—a small man with a mean look on his face—watched as Clint approached the bar. When he got there, he saw the second beer.
“Sheriff.”
“Your beer’s gettin’ warm.”
Clint picked it up and drank from it.
“How’d you know I’d come in?” he asked.
“Why would you stand outside once you knew I saw you?” Garver asked.
“Thanks for the beer,” Clint said, drinking from it again.
“Sure,” Garver said. “What’s on your mind?”
“What makes you think something’s on my mind?”
“Well, you followed me and the bank manager to the telegraph office, and then you followed me here.”
“Would you believe curiosity?”
Garver half turned toward Clint and leaned an elbow on the bar.
“You know, I would believe that,” he said. “You know why?”
“No, why?”
“Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d follow me.”
“Boredom?”
“That, too,” Garver said, “but boredom can get you into trouble, Adams. You know that better than anybody.”
“You’re right, I do,” Clint said. “So I’ll apologize. I was out walking, saw you and the bank manager, and for want of something else to do, I followed you.”
“And you ended up gettin’ a free beer out of the deal.”
“Not bad,” Clint said.
“Not bad at all,” Garver said. He turned to the bar again, finished his beer, and set the empty mug down.
“I’ve got work to do,” he said to Clint. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t follow me anymore.”
“I’ll try to find some other way of relieving my boredom,” Clint promised.
“Good.”
Garver left Clint with a half a glass of beer.
“You mind topping that off and making it colder?” he asked the bartender.
“I’ll just get you a fresh one,” the man said.
“Thanks.”
Jim brought him a full mug of beer.
“Are you Jim?”
“Little Jim,” the man said. “That’s me.”
“You don’t mind being called ‘Little Jim’?”
“Why would I?”
All the short men Clint had encountered in the past hated being referred to as “Little.”
“I’m five foot one,” Jim went on. “What else would you call me?”
“Big Jim?” Clint asked.
Jim laughed.
“That would be funny,” he said. “I never thought of that.”
“Have you been in town long?” Clint asked.
“A couple of years,” Jim said, “since I opened this place.”
“Have you known the sheriff all that time?”
“I’ve known Garver all that time, but he’s only been sheriff the last few months. Why?”
“No reason,” Clint said. “Like I told the sheriff, I’m just curious.”
Clint drank down half his beer and then said, “Thanks for the beer, Jim.”
“Big Jim,” Jim said again, chuckling as Clint went out the batwing doors.
Sheriff Garver took up position inside one of the buildings across from Little Jim’s, rather than standing out in the open the way Clint Adams had. He waited for Adams to leave, then watched as the man walked away in the direction of his hotel. He’d stayed in the saloon for a few minutes. Having another beer? the sheriff wondered. Or asking some questions?
He slipped out of the building by a side door and crossed the street to go back into Little Jim’s and ask.
FOURTEEN
“He didn’t ask anythin’ about me?” Garver said to Little Jim.
“No,” Jim said, “he asked about me.”
“What?” Garver said. “What did he ask?”
“Well, he wanted to know how long I been in town,” Jim said.
“And?”
“I tol’ him two years, since I opened up this place.”
“Yeah, yeah, but what else?” Garver said.
“Well”—Jim thought—“he wanted to know if I knew the sheriff all that time.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, yeah.”
Garver frowned.
“What did you think he’d ask?” Jim said.
“I thought he’d ask some more questions about me,” Garver said. “I thought I’d find out what was on his mind.”
“Sorry,” Jim said, “but that was it. Oh, I tol’ him one more thing.”
“What?”
“Well, when I told him I been here two years, and he asked me if I knew the sheriff all that time, I tol’ him I knew you all that time, but you wasn’t the sheriff the whole time.”
“And that’s all? Nothin’ else?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“Okay. Let me know if he comes in again.”
“Okay.”
As Garver started for the door, Little Jim called out, “Hey, Sheriff?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatayou think of me changing the name of this place to Big Jim’s Saloon?”
Garver stared at Jim, frowned, and asked, “Now, why would you do that?”
“Well,” Jim said, “see, I’m little, but if I called it Big—”
“That’s not a good idea, Jim,” Garver said. “It would just confuse your customers.”
“Yeah, okay,” Jim said, looking disappointed, “I guess you’re right.”
“I’m always right, Jim,” Garver said. “Remember that, huh?”
As Garver walked out, Jim rubbed his jaw, cocked his head, and said, “Big Jim.” It sounded okay to him.
Clint was waiting outside the post office when Billy Dixon came out and locked the door.
“What do people do for their mail while you have lunch?” he asked.
“They wait,” Dixon said. “A man’s gotta eat. You mind the same place?”
“No,” Clint said, “it’s fine with me.”
When they were seated, Clint asked Dixon about his ranch. His friend told him how he wanted to raise horses, and how he was off to a small start.
“Well,” Clint said, “you sure know horses.”
“That I do.”
“I met your foreman. Is he a good man?”
“He’s okay,” Dixon said. “And I’ve got three hands. They’re out collecting some wild mustangs today.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“You want me to put you to work while you’re here?” Dixon asked. “I could always use another hand—especially somebody a
s experienced as you.”
“How would your foreman feel?”
Dixon shrugged. “Why would he object? He’s still the foreman. I’m just givin’ him an extra hand.”
“You know,” Clint said, “that does sound like fun.”
“Good,” Dixon said. “Be at my place tomorrow morning, first thing. I’m sure they’ll be goin’ out again.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll even pay you a day’s wages.”
“I don’t need a day’s wages, Billy,” Clint said. “Not from you.”
“Well then, I’ll buy lunch. How about that?”
“That’s a deal,” Clint said.
“Saw the sheriff and the bank manager go to the telegraph office today,” Clint said.
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. They went in, then came out and split up.”
“Garver see you followin’ him?”
“Yeah, he did. And we talked, in a place called Little Jim’s.”
“Little Jim,” Dixon said. “There’s a stone-eyed killer if there ever was one.”
“Really?” Clint asked. “He looked kind of scruffy and harmless.”
“Until he gets riled,” Dixon said. “No, he’s a killer, all right, with no remorse. He only keeps that place to give him somethin’ to do between killin’.”
“That’s an odd person for a lawman to be associating with,” Clint said.
“I tol’ you, Garver’s dirty. If you saw him with the bank manager, then somethin’s goin’ on with the bank.”
“You think the sheriff is going to rob the bank?” Clint asked.
“I don’t know,” Dixon said. “It ain’t my job to know. I keep my nose out of other people’s business.”
“That’s something I’ve never been able to do,” Clint said.
“Well, if Garver already knows that you were watchin’ him, it’s a little too late for you to start now. I’d watch my back if I was you.”
“Maybe it’s a good idea I’ll be out at your place tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” Dixon said. “Maybe they’ll rob the bank and be gone by the time you get back.”
FIFTEEN
Garver figured if Wycliffe wasn’t at Little Jim’s, he’d be with his favorite whore. He found her room and banged on the door.
Inside the room Patty was riding Wycliffe, his stiff penis stuffed all the way up inside her. Her head was back, exposing her long, smooth neck, and her eyes were practically rolled up inside her head.
Wycliffe’s hands were on her tiny breasts, thumbing the brown nipples. The wide aureoles reminded him of fried eggs.
She was starting to gasp as her time approached, and then there was a knock on the door. Actually, it was more of a banging.
“No!” Patty yelled. She opened her eyes and glared down at him. “Don’t you dare!”
“Come on, then!” he said, grabbing her hips. “Finish up.”
“Damn you!” she said. She pressed her hands down flat on his chest and began to ride him harder, looking for her relief, but now she was distracted.
“Ahhh!” she screamed, and climbed off him as the banging started again. “See who it is, damn it!”
Wycliffe had been very near his own completion, and as he got off the bed and stalked to the door, his penis was well out in front of him—long, and hard, and throbbing.
When he opened the door, the man outside jumped back.
“Watch that thing!” Garver said, stepping back as Wycliffe opened the door. “You could poke somebody’s eyes out!”
“Garver,” Wycliffe said, “what the hell.”
“I wanted to talk, but are you busy?” Garver looked past him at the naked, angry whore on the bed.
“Look,” Wycliffe said, “give me ten minutes—”
“Oooh!” Patty growled.
“Okay,” Wycliffe amended, “a half hour and then I’ll meet you at Little Jim’s.”
“Yeah, okay,” Garver said, “but try to make it twenty minutes, will you?”
He looked down at Wycliffe’s erection, rolled his eyes, and walked away. He hoped the man wouldn’t catch it in the door when he closed it.
“Back already?” Jim asked as Garver entered.
“Waitin’ for Wycliffe,” he said.
“He with Patty?”
Garver nodded. Jim put a beer in front of him.
“Okay then,” Jim said, leaning his elbows on the bar, “while you’re here, let’s discuss this Big Jim idea.”
Garver nodded wearily, lifted his beer to his mouth.
“You gotta keep yer friends from bangin’ on the door when we’re fuckin’, Al,” Patty complained.
“I’ll do my best.”
She was lying on her back, catching her breath, sated now and not so mad. It had taken him twenty-five minutes to take her where she wanted to go.
“Come back when you’re done,” she said.
“More?” he asked.
She smiled at him.
“I got the day off from Miss Lily’s.”
Wycliffe nodded and said, “I’ll be back.”
What else was there to do in this town but eat, drink, and fuck until Garver’s plan was ready?
SIXTEEN
Clint walked Dixon back to the post office, waited while the man unlocked the door.
“I got some whiskey inside,” Dixon said.
“No,” Clint said, “not for me.”
“What you gonna do with the rest of your day?” Dixon asked.
“I guess I’ll find a poker game,” Clint said.
“Why don’t you come out to the ranch tonight and spend the night? That way you’ll already be there come mornin’, and ready to go find some mustangs.”
“I’ll think it over,” Clint said. “If I decide to come out, I’ll meet you here; otherwise go ahead and ride home without me.”
“Okay, but I’ll be leavin’ right at five,” Dixon said. “I’m gonna fix some supper and eat at my own table tonight.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clint said. “No matter what happens, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Right. Good luck. You’re gonna need it the way you play.”
“I’m a lot better than I used to be in our buffalo hunting days.”
Dixon opened the door, said, “You’d have to be,” and ducked inside, slamming the door behind him.
When Wycliffe entered Little Jim’s, both Jim and Garver turned to look at him. There was one other man at the bar holding a beer. Little Jim leaned over and said, “Sit down!”
The man immediately picked up his beer and moved to a table.
“Beer?” Jim asked Wycliffe.
“Yep.”
Garver looked at the time.
“Thirty-five minutes?”
“I couldn’t leave the girl unsatisfied, could I?” Wycliffe asked, accepting a beer from Jim.
“No, of course not,” Garver said. “Never let it be said you didn’t leave whores satisfied.”
“Hey,” Wycliffe said, lifting the beer, “whores are people, too.”
“If you say so.”
Wycliffe drank down half his beer.
“What’s on your mind this time?” he asked Garver.
“Clint Adams was following me today.”
“Why?” Wycliffe asked.
Garver shrugged and replied, “He said he was curious when he saw me walking down the street with the bank manager. Now, how do you think he knew that Harold Birzer was the bank manager?”
“He asked somebody?” Wycliffe said.
“Maybe,” Garver said, “but why?”
“Maybe he really was curious,” Jim said.
“What else is he doin’ here?” Wycliffe asked.
“I don’t know what he’s doin’ here,” Garver said, “but I don’t want him payin’ too much attention to me.”
“So what?” Wycliffe asked. “Now you want me to kill him?”
Garver thought it over for a moment, then said, “Maybe. First,
I have to be sure. If he’s gonna get in the way, then yes, I’ll want him killed. The two of you could probably do it, but I’d advise that you get some help. So between the two of you, come up with a couple of other names, hmm? Because if it’s got to be done, I want it done right the first time.”
“When?” Jim asked.
“I’ll let you know.”
He turned and walked out.
Garver stopped just outside the batwing doors and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to make the wrong decision, so he was going to have to think about this long and hard.
He decided to go ahead and start his rounds.
“Whataya think?” Wycliffe asked Jim.
Jim shrugged.
“One way or another we’re gonna kill the Gunsmith,” he said. “I don’t mind lettin’ Garver call it.”
“Whataya think about needin’ two other men?”
Again, Jim shrugged.
“I don’t mind,” he said. “After all, Garver’s gonna be payin’ the freight, right?”
“Right.”
“Another beer?” Jim asked.
“Sure,” Wycliffe said, pushing the empty mug over, “fill’er up.”
SEVENTEEN
Clint found a poker game in the Tumbleweed and spent the afternoon taking money from the locals. Not much, though, since it was just a way to spend the time.
He gave some thought to Dixon’s offer of spending the night out at the ranch. It probably made sense, but he would have had to meet Dixon at the post office at five, and it was already five-thirty.
Players had come in and out of the game over the past three hours, but it made no difference. Clint kept winning three out of every four hands. Most of them took it in good spirits, but for about half an hour one of the players had been fuming and complaining not about losing, but about Clint constantly winning.
“It don’t make sense,” he said. “How can one man win so much?”
“You shoulda been here all afternoon like me,” Sam Wilton said. He was the only player who was still there from the time Clint first sat down, and he didn’t much care that he was losing. It was more important to him who he was losing to. He was a merchant in town who had taken the afternoon off to play poker with the Gunsmith. He didn’t care what it cost him.
Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) Page 4
