Now that they didn’t have drinks in front of them he couldn’t tell them apart.
“Not so fast.”
It didn’t matter which repeated the phrase. This was just getting stupid.
“You boys don’t want to do this,” Clint said.
“Oh? Why not?” one asked.
“Because I didn’t come here to kill anybody.”
“In case you ain’t noticed,” one said, “we’re two against you.”
“Your guns look well used, but you fellas don’t look like fast guns to me. And I don’t even know how accurate you are. Looks to me like you’re overmatched.”
Suddenly, the two men were not so sure of themselves.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” one finally asked.
“If I tell you that,” Clint said, “you’ll just think I’m showing off.”
Now the two men exchanged a glance, wondering what they’d stepped into.
“If you’re so good with a gun,” one of them said, “show us somethin’.”
“I don’t show off with my gun,” Clint said. “If you want to see something, you’ll have to go for your guns.”
Now they flexed their hands and fingers nervously.
“Okay, here it is,” Clint said. “I figure you boys were thinking of salvaging some stuff from those wagons I told you about. The sheriff of Hondo really is collecting the valuables to send to the families back East. So that’s a bad idea.”
The two men nodded, listening intently.
“And my name is Clint Adams,” he went on, “so making me draw my gun really isn’t a good idea.”
The two men stared at him.
“Adams?” one asked.
“The Gunsmith?” the other asked.
“That’s right,” Clint said. “Now, my best advice to you is to leave your guns where they are, in their holsters, and ride out. Now.”
He didn’t have to tell the two of them twice. They both hurried to their horses, mounted up, and rode off.
“You really the Gunsmith?” the proprietor asked from the doorway.
“I am,” Clint said.
“Hell,” the man said. “The Gunsmith in my place.”
“Yeah, see how many more customers that gets you,” Clint suggested.
Clint grabbed Eclipse’s reins and mounted up, then turned to face the proprietor.
“You sure you didn’t see any sign of those wagons?” he asked.
“Mister,” the man said, “if three wagonloads of people pulled up here, don’t you think I’d remember it?”
“I suppose you would,” Clint said. “But if they stopped here to eat and then died of poisoning on the trail, you wouldn’t want to admit that, would you?”
“Wha-what?” The guy looked at Clint, his eyes popping. “What’s that you say?”
Clint felt the man’s reaction was genuine.
“Never mind,” Clint said. “Thanks for the beer.”
He turned Eclipse and continued to ride southeast.
THIRTEEN
Clint camped without finding the tracks again.
Glad that the sheriff had given him the meager sack of supplies, he made himself some coffee and supped on dried beef jerky.
He had passed a signpost earlier that told him Roswell was twenty miles ahead. For want of a better idea, he figured when he woke in the morning, he’d just head for Roswell and see what he could find there. Maybe even send Sheriff Scott a telegram.
He didn’t see any reason not to turn in. He doubted the two men from the trading post would come looking for him in the dark. Even if they did, Eclipse would alert him if anyone neared the camp.
In any case, he removed his gun belt, folded it over, and set it right by his head. That done, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
When Clint woke the next morning, he had a cup of coffee that was left in the pot, doused the fire, stowed the coffeepot, and saddled Eclipse.
They headed for Roswell.
The wagon tracks reappeared a few miles from Roswell. They came from the town, then veered off, which explained why he hadn’t seen them for a while.
He wondered why the tracks kept veering off every so often, wondered still if the poison had already been working on the families? Maybe they had been disoriented?
The horses, left to their own devices, probably would have continued to go straight.
Back at the campsite, Clint had studied the ground, wondering how the wagon teams could have gotten free. If someone had released them, he’d managed to hide his tracks from Clint who—while not an expert—was a pretty good reader of signs. Maybe someone mounted had let them free, their horse’s tracks hidden by those left behind by the teams. Had to be six horses, and anyone who knew what he was doing could have camouflaged his own tracks.
Clint wondered if there might have been someone else among the family members who had done the poisoning, and then released the horses.
Who would the family have allowed to ride with them? Or might they have picked a stranger up along the way?
What kind of a man would sit with those eleven people—including five children—poison them, and watch them die?
Maybe the answers were in Roswell.
Roswell was a much larger town than Hondo. The main street was a busy thoroughfare and hardly anyone paid attention to Clint as he rode in. That suited him. He had to pause twice to let wagons go by, but spotted both the sheriff’s office and a large saloon before he finally came to the livery stable.
As he was putting Eclipse in the hands of the liveryman, Clint was trying to decide what his course of action should be. He had no reason to trust anyone in Roswell. If this was where those families were poisoned, it could have been anyone. Did he really want to announce his presence to the local sheriff?
He decided to check into a hotel, then walk over to the sheriff’s office and introduce himself. He wouldn’t tell him why he was there, just take his measure. After that, he intended to send a telegram to Hondo and see what Sheriff Scott knew about Roswell’s lawman.
He hefted his saddlebags over his shoulder, grabbed his rifle, and walked to the closest hotel. He only intended to stay one night, so the quality of the hotel was of little consequence.
Once he was registered and had deposited his bags in the room, he crossed the street and walked along to the sheriff’s office. The Roswell sheriff was much better situated than Sheriff Scott: The office was new, three times the size, kept clean, with a modern stove against the wall and a cellblock that was on a second floor.
“Nice place,” he said to the man behind the desk. He was in his forties, clean-shaven with a recent haircut, pleasant looking, but fit.
“Roswell’s growing, and we’re growing with it,” the sheriff said. “Of course, if they bring in a modern police force, I’ll be out. But why am I telling you this? Sheriff Dean Turner. What can I do for you, sir?”
“My name’s Clint Adams, Sheriff,” he said. “I just wanted to check in with you. I just rode into town.”
“I see,” Turner said. “What’s the Gunsmith’s business is Roswell?”
“No business,” Clint said. “I’m just riding through. I like to check in with the local law whenever I ride into a town.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” the sheriff said. “How long will you be staying?”
“A day, maybe two,” Clint said. “Certainly no more.”
Maybe long enough, Clint thought, to come up with a good story about why he’d be interested in three families traveling by wagon.
“Where are you staying?”
“Hotel closest to the livery,” Clint said. “It was convenient.”
“It’s an okay place,” the lawman said. “Well, as long as you avoid trouble, I don’t have any problem with you being in Roswell, Mr. Adams.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Clint said. “You’d be surprised how many lawmen try to come up with a reason to run me out of town in the first hour.”
“If I need to do that, I’ve got
a couple of deputies I can rely on. Keep that in mind, and we’ll get along fine.”
“Suits me,” Clint said. “Thanks very much, Sheriff. Maybe I can buy you a drink while I’m in town.”
“That suits me,” the sheriff said. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Have a good day, Sheriff.”
Clint left the office, feeling satisfied—for the moment.
FOURTEEN
The wagon tracks had led him into Roswell, but once he’d reached the main street they had disappeared among all the other tracks that crisscrossed the street.
He found the telegraph office without asking anyone where it was. He didn’t want anyone remembering him for asking.
He entered the telegraph office and had time to compose his message while the clerk took care of another customer ahead of him.
The clerk sent it while he waited.
TO SHERIFF SCOTT, HONDO, N.M.
AM IN ROSWELL. APPRECIATE ANY HELPFUL INFORMATION.
CLINT ADAMS
He hoped Sheriff Scott would read between the lines and tell him what he needed to know.
“Will you wait for a reply, sir?”
“Yes,” Clint said. “I’ll sit outside.”
“I’ll bring it right out as soon as it comes.”
Clint expected Scott to be in his office, or certainly in town, so a reply should come fairly quickly.
He grabbed a straight-backed wooden chair from inside, carried it out with him and got comfortable.
Sheriff Turner entered the office of Grant Sutcliffe, startling the man behind his desk.
“Didn’t hear you knock, Sheriff.”
“That’s because I didn’t. Where’s Cantrell?”
“Left town, went back to Carrizozo yesterday. What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” the Sheriff said. “I forgot, that’s all. Where’d Devlin go?”
“If I know him, probably in a saloon or a whorehouse,” Sutcliffe said.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Okay, I’ll find him.”
“Is it something I can help with, Sheriff?” Sutcliffe asked.
Sheriff Turner stared at Harry Cantrell’s partner. Sutcliffe was about ten years younger than Cantrell and had a good head for business, but didn’t know half of what Cantrell was into.
Turner reported to Cantrell, not Sutcliffe.
“No, Mr. Sutcliffe,” Turner said. “Sorry I bothered you.”
Goldy was surprised.
She’d been sucking Johnny Devlin’s pretty cock for almost a minute before he exploded. Maybe the drunker she got him, the longer he’d last. If only he’d last long enough for her to get that cock inside of her.
Devlin moaned, rolled over onto his side, and started to snore almost immediately.
She got off the bed, pulled on her robe. She’d managed to avoid the spray this time, the advantage of having Devlin on his back. He’d messed up his own belly and chest, and then rolled over onto it.
She left the room and went downstairs to tell the madam she’d need another room if she was going to keep working. When she got there, the sheriff was talking to the madam, whose name was Rose.
“Goldy,” Rose said, “is Devlin upstairs?”
“Yeah, passed out,” she said. “The room’s gonna need cleaning, Rose, and I’ll need another one.”
Rose looked at the sheriff.
“You wanna go up and get him?”
“No,” Turner said, “but I do have to talk to him. I’ll have someone come and get him, one of my deputies.”
As he went out the door, Rose said, “Goldy, take room six . . .”
FIFTEEN
“Here’s your answer, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said, reaching his arm out the door.
“Thanks.”
Clint took the telegram and unfolded it. It was from Sheriff Scott.
WATCH YOUR STEP.
That was Scott’s way of warning him to watch out for everyone in Roswell, even Sheriff Turner. At least, that’s the way he took it.
He folded the telegram, stood up, and stuck the note in his pocket. He was going to have to ask his questions while steering away from Sheriff Turner. That meant mostly bartenders. But before he started hitting saloons, he went back to the livery stable.
“Not takin’ that horse outta here already, are ya?” the liveryman asked.
“No,” Clint said. “He needs some rest.”
“That’s some animal, I gotta tell ya,” the old man said. “In all my years, I ain’t never seen a finer one.”
“Thanks. What’s your name, old-timer?”
“Name’s Jim Hacker. I prefer Jim to ‘old-timer,’ ” he said.
“Sorry,” Clint said, “I didn’t mean offense.”
“That’s okay. If ya ain’t takin’ yer horse out, why’d ya come back?”
“I need to ask somebody some questions,” Clint said. “You look like a man who knows what’s going on in town.”
“I keep my ears open,” Hacker admitted. “First, who are ya?”
“My name’s Clint Adams.”
“Ya don’t say!” Hacker replied gleefully. “The Gunsmith, in my place? Figures you’d have a horse like that. Well, what kin I do for ya?”
“I’m looking for any sign of three wagons that might have passed through here in the past week. Three families. Six adults, five kids. Might have been named Eckert?”
“They was here,” he said. “I never got no name.”
“They were?” This was much easier than he’d thought it would be. “When?”
“Like you said—well, maybe not week—five days ago, maybe.”
“Did you have occasion to talk to them?”
“I talked to a couple of the men,” Hacker said. “They left their rigs out in back of my place, and I took care of the horses.”
“Did they stay in a hotel?”
“Yeah, they spent one night in the New Hope Hotel. One of the newer places in town.”
“They had the money for that?”
“They had plenty of money, and like blamed-fool Easterners, they was flashin’ it. I’m surprised they got outta town in one piece.”
“They got out that way,” Clint said, “but they didn’t stay that way.”
“Huh?”
“They’re dead?”
“All of ’em?” Hacker asked. “Even the kids?”
“That’s right.”
“How’s that happen?”
“Somebody killed them.”
“Jesus.”
“What were they doing here, Jim?”
“They was askin’ about Mr. Sutcliffe.”
“Who’s he?”
“Grant Sutcliffe. He’s a businessman in town. Owns a lot of property.”
“You know what they wanted with him?”
“Somethin’ about some property, I think,” Hacker said. “One of the little boys kept askin’ his father when they was gonna get to their new home.”
“Tell me about Sutcliffe. Is he honest?”
“He’s in business,” Hacker said, “and he’s good at it. Ain’t nobody like that honest—not total.”
“You do business with him?”
“Hell no. This place is mine, free and clear. I ain’t partners with them.”
“Them?”
“Him and his partner,” Hacker said.
“And who’s that?”
“Harry Cantrell.”
“And he’s not honest at all, right?”
“What makes ya say that?”
“Just the way you say his name.”
“Well, let’s just say he has a reputation for gettin’ what he wants.”
“Were those families in his way?”
“That I don’t know.”
“But you do know where I can find Mr. Sutcliffe and his partner, Mr. Cantrell?”
“I can tell you where Sutcliffe is,” Hacker said. “You’ll hafta find Cantrell through him.”
“Good enough, Jim.” He took out some money.
�
��Ya ain’t gotta pay me, Mr. Adams,” Hacker said. “Them kids was cute. If I can help ya find out who killed’em, I will.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
He told Clint where to find Grant Sutcliffe.
SIXTEEN
Clint followed Jim Hacker’s directions to Grant Sutcliffe’s office. His name was on the door, but not what kind of business he was in. He thought about knocking, but he could see through the glass there was a man seated at a desk. He opened the door and entered.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“Sutcliffe?”
“I’m Grant Sutcliffe,” the man said, standing. “What can I do for you?”
“My name’s Clint Adams,” Clint said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about some people who were here in Roswell about a week ago.”
“What makes you think I know anything that would help you?”
“Because when they came to town they asked for you.”
“Okay, so they asked for me,” Sutcliffe said. “Maybe they even came to talk to me. Why do I have to discuss that with you?”
“You don’t. The family name was Eckert. At least, one of their names was Eckert.”
“Eckert,” Sutcliffe repeated. “Eckert . . . wait a minute, yes. I do remember.”
“How could you not? Three families in three wagons—” Clint started.
“Excuse me,” Sutcliffe said, sitting down, “but I only spoke to one man. I believe his name was Eckert.”
“And what did he want?”
“He wanted to buy some land.”
“And?”
“I didn’t have any to sell him.”
“And they went on their way?”
“They did.”
“But they went north,” Clint said. “If you didn’t have any land to sell them, why didn’t they head south? Back the way came?”
“I don’t know,” Sutcliffe said. “I couldn’t say.”
“Did Mr. Eckert talk to your partner?” Clint asked. “Mr. Cantrell?”
“How do you know—well, yes, I think Harry was here, at that time.”
“And where is he now?”
Unbound by Law Page 4
