“What’s goin’ on—” he started to demand, but they followed him in and Kelly slammed the door.
“Dear, what’s wrong?” a woman’s voice called out. “Who is it?”
“That’s my wife,” the mayor said. “Don’t hurt her.”
“We’re not here to hurt anyone, Mayor,” Clint said. “We’re here to talk about today’s bank robbery. Just tell her you’ll be there in a minute.”
“I’ll be there in—in a minute, love,” the mayor called out. “It’s just some . . . city business.”
“Don’t they know not to bother you at home?” she asked wearily.
“We’ll make it fast,” Clint said. “What’s being done about the robbery?”
“Nothin’ yet,” the Mayor said. “I’m gonna send a telegram to the Texas Rangers tomorrow.”
“And if they agree to come, how long will it take?” Clint asked.
“Probably three days to get here.”
“That’s not soon enough,” Kelly said. “They’ll be gone by then.”
“Who are you men?”
“My name’s Kelly,” Kelly said. “I’m the foreman on Billy Dixon’s ranch.”
“Too bad about Dixon. How is he?”
“Still alive,” Clint said.
“And you?”
“I’m Clint Adams.”
The mayor’s eyes widened.
“I heard you were in town, but I thought you left,” he said.
“Well, I’m back. Look, you’ve got to send someone after those bank robbers.”
“That’s the problem with havin’ your sheriff rob the bank,” the mayor said. “You don’t have anyone to send after ’em. Unless you . . .”
Clint stared back at the man for a few moments, then said, “Well, damn it, if there’s no one else.”
“I’ll go with you,” Kelly said. “The rest of the men will, too, if we have time to get them.”
“Wait a minute,” the mayor said, and disappeared into his house. He returned a moment later, holding out the sheriff’s badge.
“He left this at the bank. I had it in my pocket when I came home.” He held it out to Clint. “You take it.”
“Not me,” Clint said. “Kelly, you take it.”
The mayor held it out to the foreman.
“You’ll need some official standing.”
Kelly hesitated, then accepted the badge.
“Don’t we need some words?” he asked.
“Consider yourself sworn in,” the mayor said. “Here.” He took the badge back and pinned it on the foreman’s chest.
“We can get an early start in the morning,” Clint said. “We won’t be able to track them at night.”
“The town appreciates this, men.”
“Yeah, well,” Clint said. “We’re doing it for Billy Dixon.”
“Whatever the reason,” the mayor said, “come by my office in the morning and I’ll give you a few deputies’ badges, just in case you can recruit anyone.”
“We’ll see you in the morning, Mayor,” Clint said. “Sorry we interrupted your supper.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Clint and Kelly left the house, stopped just outside the door. Kelly looked down at the badge on his chest.
“Sure didn’t expect this when I woke up this morning,” he said.
TWENTY-SIX
Clint and Kelly went back to the Tumbleweed.
“Hey,” the bartender said, “looks like you made some progress.” He drew two beers and set them down. “On the house . . . Sheriff.”
“Is there anybody in here who works at the bank?” Clint asked.
“Lemme see.” The man looked out over the sea of faces in the place.
“Or maybe just somebody who was in the bank when it was robbed?” Kelly asked. “Or outside of it?”
“I think I saw Andy Sawyer in here before,” the bartender said. “He was telling folks how he was in the bank just minutes before the robbery, and that he saw everything from across the street.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “where is Sawyer?”
“Here comes Delores,” the bartender said. “Ask her if she’s seen him?”
Delores came over to the bar and settled herself between Clint and Kelly, leaning on Clint.
“I bet you’re not here to see me,” she said.
“We’re looking for Andy Sawyer,” Clint said.
She craned her neck and said, “I think I saw him sittin’ near the back with some friends . . . yeah, there he is.”
“Where?” Clint asked.
“All the way in the back, but red hair that kinda stands up on his head, like he was hit by lightning or somethin’.”
Clint could see the shock of red hair from across the room.
“What’s he drinking?” he asked.
“Whiskey.”
“Bring him one on me,” Clint said.
“He’s got a bottle, but it’s almost empty.”
“Then bring him another one.”
“Okay.”
She turned to the bartender, who handed her a full bottle. Clint paid the man for it while she took it to Sawyer. When she handed it to him, she pointed to the bar, and Clint raised his beer mug. Sawyer grinned and accepted the bottle.
“Let’s go,” Clint said, “before he gets too drunk to talk.”
“Just remember one thing when you talk to him,” the bartender suggested.
“What’s that?”
“Andy Sawyer is a big liar.”
By the time they reached Sawyer, he already had the new bottle open. Clint grabbed it out of his hand.
“Hey!” Sawyer complained. “You just bought that for me.”
“We need you to answer a few questions first,” Clint said.
Kelly looked at the two men who were sitting with Sawyer and said, “Get lost.”
They did.
“Hey, you scared my friends away!”
“So when I give you back the bottle,” Clint said, “you won’t have to share it with anybody.”
Sawyer thought for a moment then a toothless grin spread over his freckled face and he said, “Hey, yeah!”
Clint and Kelly took the chairs Sawyer’s two friends had just vacated.
“What’s this all about?” Sawyer asked.
“The bank robbery today,” Clint said. “You’ve been telling people you were in the bank moments before the robbery, and that you saw everything from across the street.”
“I was,” Sawyer said. “I did . . . I saw everything.”
“You saw everything that happened outside the bank,” Clint clarified.
“That’s right.”
“Tell us.”
“Tell you what?”
“Everything you saw,” Clint said. “Come on.”
“Okay, okay,” Sawyer said. “I came out of the bank and crossed the street. I went into Little Jim’s but I couldn’t get a drink because he wasn’t there. I came back out and saw the men come running out of the bank—oh, after a couple of shots.”
“That’s when Garver shot the bank manager,” Clint said. “Go ahead.”
“Well, the men came runnin’ out and got on their horses.
They started to ride out, and I saw the postmaster come out of the post office.”
“Did he have a gun?” Kelly asked.
“He had a rifle.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “go ahead.”
“The postmaster came out, looked around, but before he knew what was happening, they were on him. One of them shot him twice.”
“What about the men?”
“What about them?”
“Well, how many of them were there?”
“Four.”
“What did they look like?”
“They had masks on.”
“Body types, then.”
“I dunno,” Sawyer said. “Kinda tall, I guess . . . wait, one of them was small.”
“How small?” Clint asked.
“I dunno,” Sawyer said. �
�Shorter than the others.”
“Okay, so one was short, three were tall,” Clint said. “Were they husky, thin . . . what?”
“Lemme think.” Sawyer eyed the whiskey bottle. “Two . . . two of them were thin, one was thick.”
“The thick one had to be the sheriff,” Kelly said.
“Thin,” Clint said, “two tall thin men, one short . . . was the short man thick or thin?”
“Thin,” Sawyer said.
“Little Jim thin?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Clint gave Sawyer the bottle, turned to Kelly.
“One night I thought I saw two men outside my window. I think one was tall and thin, the other short.”
“You think one was Little Jim?”
“A Little Jim type,” Clint said, “but maybe . . . Billy told me that Little Jim is a killer, just runs the saloon for something to do.”
“That’s true enough,” Kelly said.
“Garver drank there, so maybe they were friends.”
“So the thick man was Garver, and the small man was Jim?” Kelly asked.
“It’s possible,” Clint said.
“So what do you want to do now?” Kelly asked.
“Let’s go over to Little Jim’s,” Clint said. “Since his face was covered, maybe he’ll go back there.”
“You really think he would?”
“Sawyer said the front door was open and nobody was behind the bar,” Clint said. “Maybe he left it open because he knew he’d be back.”
“But leavin’ it unlocked,” Kelly said, “that leaves him open to havin’ folks come in to drink for free.”
“Well, supposedly he doesn’t care,” Clint said. “He’s just running the place to have something to do.”
Kelly shrugged then and said, “Well, it don’t hurt to check.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
They left their horses in front of the saloon and walked over to Little Jim’s. Like Sawyer said, the front doors were wide open. They went in, found the place empty with nobody behind the bar.
“I thought there’d be some men in here drinkin’ for free,” Kelly said.
“Well, since folks seem to know that Little Jim’s a killer, maybe that’s as good as keeping the doors locked.”
“You might be right.”
“Let’s see if there’s an office, or a back door, or something.”
They searched, found a small office with a rolltop desk. Clint went through the drawers, found one drawer filled with unpaid bills.
“He really doesn’t care about this place,” he said, closing the drawer. “He doesn’t bother to pay his bills.”
“Maybe his creditors are afraid of him, too.”
They left the office and went back into the saloon. In the back they found a store room, and a back door that was also unlocked.
“Whataya wanna do?” Kelly asked.
“There’s nothing to do,” Clint said, “so let’s wait here awhile and see if he comes back.”
Kelly eyed the bar and asked Clint, “Want a drink while we wait?”
Just outside of town Garver was hunkered down by a fire, waiting for the second pot of coffee to be ready. With him were Wycliffe and Little Jim and a man named Stanford, who was nervous.
“You sure a posse ain’t out there lookin’ for us?” he asked.
“I told you,” Garver said. “I’m the sheriff—I was the sheriff—so there’s nobody to get a posse together.”
“Won’t they just name a new sheriff?” the man asked.
“Believe me, Stanford,” Garver said, “even if they do name a new sheriff, it’ll take them days. Nobody in that town wants the job. Now why don’t you go and stand watch?”
Stanford stood up, then asked, “If there ain’t no posse, why are we standin’ watch?”
“We’re just being careful, Stanford,” Garver said. “Now go.”
As the man left, taking his rifle and a cup of coffee with him, Wycliffe asked, “What if Clint Adams takes that badge?”
“He wasn’t even in town when we left,” Garver said. “Even if he takes it, it’ll be a while.”
Little Jim dumped the remains of his coffee into the fire and stood up.
“I’m goin’ back into town,” he said.
“What for?” Wycliffe asked.
“I left my place open.”
“Nobody’s going to touch anything there,” Garver said. “They’re afraid of you.”
“Don’t matter,” Jim said. “I gotta go. ’Sides, I’m changing the name.”
“To what?” Wycliffe asked.
“Big Jim’s.”
“Ain’t gonna work,” Wycliffe said.
“Why not?” Jim asked.
“Nobody’s gonna believe it.”
“It’s got . . . what’s it got?” Jim asked Garver.
“Irony.”
“Yeah,” Jim said, “it’s got irony.”
“Here’s your cut,” Garver said, handing Jim some packs of cash. It took two hands to hold them.
“How much?” Jim asked.
“Thirty thousand.”
Jim took the money and shoved it into his saddlebags.
“Don’t start spending it too soon,” Garver said.
“I don’t spend my money,” Jim said.
He saddled his horse while the other two watched him, then rode off with a wave.
“Why not kill him instead of lettin’ him go back?” Wy-cliffe asked.
“You want to try and kill him?” Garver asked. “Be my guest.”
“No, not me,” Wycliffe said. “The little monster is a killin’ machine.”
“You answered your own question, then.”
“Maybe I shoulda went with him,” Wycliffe said.
“What for?”
“He might find himself goin’ up against the Gunsmith,” Wycliffe said, “since you shot the postmaster, Dixon.”
“He was about to take some shots at us,” Garver said. “He might have hit any of us. Seems to me I might have saved your life.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Wycliffe said, “but killin’ the bank manager, that pretty much makes sure there’ll be a posse after us eventually.”
“Well, he recognized me. I had no choice. Besides, you know what they’re gonna do?” Garver asked. “They’re gonna track Little Jim right back to town.”
“How they gonna do that?”
“When we break camp,” Garver said, “we’re gonna wipe our tracks out.”
“But not Jim’s?”
“Not Jim’s.”
“So that’s why you didn’t want to kill him,” Wycliffe said. “It wasn’t that you was afraid of him.”
“No,” Garver said, “I’m not afraid of the little monster.”
“Yeah,” Garver said with a shrug, “me neither.”
Jim rode back to town, rode his horse right up to the back door of his place. He knew he’d taken a chance, leaving the front doors open, but he didn’t want anyone questioning the fact that he was closed. Besides, Garver and Wycliffe were right. Nobody would have the nerve to drink his beer or booze while he was gone—not without leaving some money on the bar anyway.
He dismounted, shouldered his saddlebags, and went in the back door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Little Jim went into his saloon and moved around behind the bar. He took the saddlebags off his shoulder and placed them on top of the bar.
Clint came out of the little office, and Kelly walked through the front door.
“Hey,” Jim said to Kelly, “want a drink?”
“No drinks, Jim,” Clint said.
Jim turned quickly and looked at Clint. Then he looked at Kelly and noticed the badge. Then looked at Clint again.
“What the hell—” he said. “What the hell were you doin’ in my office?”
“Where’ve you been, Jim?” Clint said.
“What’s it to you?”
“I got a better question,” Kelly said. “What’s in the saddlebags?”
“None of your business.”
“I think we’re going to make it our business, Little Jim,” Clint said.
“Big Jim,” the small man said. “I’m changin’ my name to Big Jim.”
Clint studied the man. He wasn’t wearing a gun, and he wasn’t carrying a rifle, yet he had been described as a killer.
“Little J—Big Jim,” Clint said, “have you seen your friend Garver?”
Jim looked at Kelly.
“Why are you wearin’ the sheriff’s badge?” Jim asked.
“I’m the new sheriff.”
“Since when?”
“Since you and Garver robbed the bank, and killed the bank manager.”
“We’re gonna have to take a look inside those saddlebags, Jim,” Kelly said.
“Like hell,” the little man said.
Kelly took one step toward him, and Jim reached under the bar. Clint knew he had a split second to make a decision. If he was too slow to act, Kelly would be dead.
Jim was coming out from under the bar with a shotgun when Clint drew. As if he sensed his danger was from Clint, the little killer turned toward him, ignoring Kelly. As Clint fired, Jim pulled both triggers on the shotgun. Both barrels discharged into the bar, splintering it. Clint’s bullet went into Jim’s chest, and he went down behind the bar.
Clint walked to the bar, checked Jim to determine that he was dead.
“He was pretty quick with that shotgun,” Kelly said. “I didn’t have time to react.”
“Forget it,” Clint said. He replaced the spent shell and holstered his gun. “Check the saddlebags.”
Kelly opened the bags and found the cash.
“Jeez,” he said. “I never seen this much money.”
Clint spread the bank bundles out on top of the bar.
“Looks like thirty thousand,” he said. “We should find out how much was taken from the bank.”
“We’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow, then,” Clint said. “We’ll have to talk to somebody at the bank before we go—or maybe the mayor will have the numbers.”
“The mayor . . .” Kelly said, shaking his head. “What a waste.”
“That’s the way he seemed to me, but right now we have to deal with him.”
“Okay. What do we do with the money for now?”
Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) Page 7
