“No,” Clint said. “I want to check the ground back here. Might be some tracks to follow.”
They walked down the alley behind the building and Clint thought he could identify the tracks of the man with the ladder.
“How can you tell?” Buck asked.
“These tracks are right in front of where the ladder would have been,” Clint said. “See that rundown heel?”
“Don’t lots of men’s boots have rundown heels?”
“Yes, they do. But we’re going to follow this one anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
They followed the tracks until they started to commingle with others in the dirt.
“I can’t see ’em anymore,” Buck said.
“We’re behind the saloon,” Clint said. “More foot traffic back here. Let’s keep going.”
They kept going and eventually found a ladder propped against the back of the building.
“Think this is the one?” Buck asked.
“It’s long enough,” Clint said. “What building is this?”
“I think it’s the whorehouse,” Buck said. “Miss Jean’s.”
“So it’s either our ladder, or somebody’s planning to elope with a whore,” Clint said.
“Naaaw!” Buck said.
“Let’s go inside.”
In the front hall of the whorehouse, Clint was greeted by Miss Jean, a past-her-prime whore running her own house now. She was fifty or more, with lots of pancake makeup on her face and about thirty pounds more than she needed to pack on her five-two frame.
“You want to know what?” she asked.
“If anybody came in here in the past twenty minutes or so.”
“Well . . . yeah,” Miss Jean said. “A few men.”
“Men you know?”
“I know most of the men in this town . . . except you,” she said. “You the new sheriff? What happened to Jack Harper?”
“Jack got shot by the Graves gang,” Clint said. “I’m taking his place until he can come back. Can we get back to those men? Regular customers?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“Three men, three regular customers,” she said.
“Who are they?”
Miss Jean looked at Buck.
“Ya gotta tell him, ma’am,” Buck said.
“Well . . . Ben Bratton.”
Clint looked at Buck.
“Runs the Feed and Grain,” Buck said. “He’s fifty, weighs about three hundred pounds.”
“Always chooses the smallest girl in the house,” Miss Jean said. “Go figure.”
“Can’t see him using a ladder to get up on a roof,” Clint said. “Who else?”
“Eric Young.”
Again, Clint looked at Buck.
“Sixty or so,” Buck said. “Does odd jobs. Married but tries to stay away from home as much as he can.”
“Can’t see him on a roof with a rifle,” Clint said. “Who else?”
“Ben Manning.”
“Don’t think I know him,” Buck said.
“He comes to town from the Crooked K Ranch to use a girl once in a while,” she said, “but then he goes right back. He doesn’t hang around town much.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Young,” she said, “in his late twenties, kinda shy.”
“Does he wear a gun?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Didn’t have a rifle with him when he got here, did he?”
“No.”
“There’s a ladder propped against the back of the house,” Clint said. “You know anything about that?”
“We been havin’ some work done on the roof,” she said. “Must be the carpenter’s.”
“Somebody could have borrowed it and brought it back,” Clint said.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said.
“I have to talk to this Ben Manning,” Clint said.
“Can you wait until he’s done?” she asked. “I don’t want to scare my girls.”
“I can wait for him, Sheriff,” Buck said, “bring him over to you.”
Clint was about to say no, but changed his mind. This might be a good test for Buck.
“Okay,” he said. “Stay here. Miss Jean will point him out when he comes down and then you bring him to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No trouble, Buck.”
“No, sir,” Buck said. “I’ll just bring ’im.”
“Okay.”
THIRTEEN
Clint went back to the office to wait for Buck to bring Ben Manning in. When the door opened, a young man looking the worse for wear entered, with Buck behind him. Clint assumed this was Ben Manning. He had a swelling under one eye that would soon turn black, and a bloody lip. He had an empty holster and Buck was carrying his gun.
“I thought I said no trouble, Buck,” Clint said.
“I didn’t start any trouble, Sheriff,” Buck said. “He did. Didn’t wanna come.”
“You tell him all I wanted was to talk to him?” Clint asked.
“I told him,” Buck said. “Still didn’t wanna come, and took a swing at me.”
“That so? Toss him in a cell—”
“Hey, wait,” Manning said. “Look, I’m sorry, but if I’m late back to the ranch, I’ll lose my job. You put me in a cell, I’ll lose my job for sure.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you took a swing at a lawman, Ben,” Clint said.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Manning said.
“Well . . . okay,” Clint said. “If you answer some questions, maybe I’ll just let you go back to the ranch.”
“What kind of questions?”
Clint put his hand out for Buck to hand him Manning’s gun. Clint sniffed it. Hadn’t been fired in a while.
“Why you smellin’ my gun?”
“Did you take a couple of shots at me a little while ago?” Clint asked.
“And one at me?” Buck added.
“What? Why would I wanna shoot at you?”
“Answer the question.”
“No, I didn’t take a shot at either one of you.”
“Where’s your horse?”
“At the livery.”
“If I check your rifle, what will I find?”
“Ain’t been fired.”
“Buck.”
“I’ll walk over there and check it,” Buck said, and left.
“Sit down,” Clint said.
The young man pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Did you see a ladder leaning against the back of the whorehouse when you got there?”
“That ladder’s been there for days.”
“See a man with a rifle around there?”
“No.”
“You know any reason why anybody would want to take a shot at me and Buck?”
“Hell, no.”
“Do you know what happened to Sheriff Harper?”
“No.”
“He was shot by the Graves gang,” Clint said.
“That’s too bad. Dead?”
“No.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m taking his place until he’s back on his feet. Do you know how to use a gun?”
Manning averted his eyes.
“No.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Okay, so I can shoot,” Manning said, “but I ain’t fired either of my guns in a while.”
“How long’s a while?”
“Few months.”
“How long you been working at the Crooked K?”
“A few months.”
“So you haven’t fired your gun since you started working there?”
“That’s right.”
“Why not?”
“Ain’t had a reason to.”
“Where’d you live before you came here?”
“Nowhere,” Manning said. “I just . . . drifted.”
“What made you decide to stop here?”
Manning shrugged.
“Got ti
red of driftin’.”
“How long you plan on working there?”
“I don’t know,” Manning said, “but awhile longer anyway. That’s why I don’t wanna get fired.”
At that point Buck reentered the room, carrying a rifle. He handed it to Clint.
“Ain’t been fired that I can see,” he said.
Clint sniffed the rifle, came to the same conclusion.
“This your rifle?” he asked Manning.
“Yeah.”
Clint stared at the young man, then said, “Okay, you can go.”
Manning stood up.
“Can I have my guns?”
“Sure.”
Clint handed him the rifle and the handgun, which Manning holstered.
“I’m sorry I took a swing at you, Deputy,” Manning said to Buck.
“That’s okay.”
Manning nodded, nodded again to Clint, and then left.
“You sure it wasn’t him?” Buck asked.
“I’m sure.”
“What do we do now?”
“Now,” Clint said, “we go and get something go eat—and we watch our backs.”
FOURTEEN
“There’s something about Manning,” Clint said.
“Like what?” Buck asked.
The deputy had taken Clint to a nearby café, which he said made good steaks. He was right.
“He didn’t want to talk about guns,” Clint said. “I get the feeling there’s more to him than meets the eye.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but he’s hiding something. Who owns the Crooked K?”
“Feller named Ian Kennedy.”
“And who runs it for him?”
“The foreman’s name is Ed Michaels.”
“What’s Michaels like?”
A good ramrod,” Buck said. “Tough.”
“Young?”
Buck shook his head. “Old.”
“Older than you?”
“Yeah.”
“Younger than me?”
Buck hesitated.
“Go ahead,” Clint said. “Say it.”
“ ’Bout your age.”
“Any men on that ranch who can shoot?”
“Maybe.”
“Guess I should talk with Mr. Michaels.”
“There’s a feller in town you might want to talk to, also.”
“Oh? Who?”
“His name’s Minnesota.”
“That’s his name?”
Buck shrugged.
“First or last?”
Buck shrugged again.
“Why should I talk to him?”
“He can shoot.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Once.”
“Trick shooting?”
Buck shook his head.
“Two men drew down on him one day.”
“What happened?”
“He killed ’em.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“That happened here?”
Buck nodded.
“And Jack didn’t arrest him?”
“It was a fair fight,” Buck said. “In fact, they pushed him into it.”
“Why?”
“They were makin’ fun of him.”
“Fun of him . . . how?”
“Well . . . he’s kinda . . . little.”
“Short, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“And sensitive about it?”
“Not sensitive, really . . . not unless you push him, I guess.”
“Where is he?”
“Usually hangin’ out at the Red Queen.”
“Saloon?”
Buck nodded.
“Buck,” Clint said, “we have to come to an agreement.”
“About what?”
“When I ask you a question,” Clint said, “I’m going to need more than a nod or a head shake from you. Understand?”
Buck nodded . . . then quickly said, “Yes, sir.”
FIFTEEN
Clint locked the sheriff’s office, told Buck to get a good night’s sleep, then crossed the street to the hotel. He entered his room carefully, just in case the shooter from earlier in the day had found his way into his room.
There was a straight-backed wooden chair in the room. He locked the door, then lodged the chair beneath the doorknob. There was no access by the window, so he simply made sure it was locked.
That done, he undressed and got into bed. It had been a long day, things happening that he never would have expected. Being shot at, that was pretty much a common occurrence in his life, but the rest of the day had been odd, to say the least.
He’d never expected to come out of this day as the new town sheriff. But now that he was, he was going to do his damndest to make sure he had the shortest tenure of any sheriff in history.
Clint woke early the next morning to a persistent knocking at his door. He slid out of bed, grabbed his gun, and went to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Doc Foster. We’re ready to move Sheriff Harper to the stage.”
“I’ll be right there, Doc,” Clint said.
He dressed quickly and then hurried down the hall to Harper’s room. The door was open and the room looked full of men.
“There you are,” Foster said.
Clint entered the room, saw a wooden door lying on the floor.
“We’re gonna move him to that door, facedown, and then carry him down.”
Clint looked around, didn’t recognize any of the men, but they all looked able enough.
“That you, Clint?” Harper yelled.
“I’m here, Jack.”
“Make sure these jaspers don’t drop me down the stairs,” Harper said. “Doc says it might kill me.”
“Don’t worry, Jack,” Clint said. “I’ll shoot the first man who drops you.”
The other men in the room widened their eyes.
“All right, then,” Foster said. “Let’s get movin’!”
They managed to carry Harper down the stairs without dropping him, and got him situated inside the stage, still on the door.
“Doc, how are you going to ride with him?” Clint asked.
“I’ll squeeze in,” the old sawbones said.
“Well, send me a telegram when the surgery’s finished,” Clint said. “Let me know how he comes through it.”
“I’ll do that,” Foster said, squeezing into the stage.
Clint stuck his head in the window and said, “Good luck, Jack.”
“Hey,” Harper said, “I heard somebody took a shot at you last night.”
“A couple of shots.”
“That because you’re wearin’ my badge?”
“Could be,” Clint said. “Could also be because of my reputation. You never know. Why don’t you just worry about your surgery?”
“Hey, Clint.”
“Yeah.”
“If I don’t come out of this alive—”
“Don’t get sappy on me, Jack.”
“No, I just wanna say . . . thanks.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Okay.”
Clint moved around to the front of the stage, climbed up to talk to the driver.
“You just have to remember one thing,” Clint said.
“What’s that?”
“If he dies on your stage, you’ll have to answer to me. Got it?”
“Um, yeah, sure, Mr. Adams. I got it.”
Clint climbed back down, went over to talk to Doc Foster.
“You got a gun, Doc?” he asked.
“Why would I need a gun?”
“You never know.”
Doc held up his black bag and patted it.
“I’ve got one.”
“Good.”
Clint stepped away from the stage, looked up at the driver, and said, “Go!”
SIXTEEN
Later in the day Buck took Clint to the Red Queen to look for Minnesota.
The Red Queen was
smaller than the Dust Cutter Saloon, with no gambling and no girls, just a bartender behind the bar and a few patrons.
“Is he here?” Clint asked.
“No,” Buck said, “but he should be here soon.”
“Let’s have a beer, then,” Clint said.
They went to the bar, told the bartender to ring two beers.
“Sure, Sheriff,” the barman said.
He set two beers in front of them and then went back to doing nothing at the other end of the bar.
“Has Minnesota been in today?” Buck called out to him.
“Not yet,” the man said, “but he’ll be here. He always comes in here.”
“That’s what I said,” Buck told Clint.
“I know,” Clint said. “We’ll wait.”
“Okay, Clint.”
They drank their beer in silence until Buck asked, “So you think the sheriff will be okay?”
“Sure,” Clint said. “Sure. He’s a strong man, and Doc Foster said the doctors in Kansas City are real good. He’ll be fine.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes, Buck, I really think so.”
“That’s good,” Buck said. “Real good.”
Clint drank the rest of his beer and signaled the bartender for another one.
“What would you do if he didn’t come back?” Buck asked.
“What?”
“If the sheriff doesn’t come back,” Buck said. “What would you do?”
“Well, Buck, I hope that when he does come back, I’ll already be gone.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Just gone.”
“But . . . who would be the sheriff, then?”
“I don’t know . . . look, I told Jack I’d wear the badge until I found somebody else who could wear it.”
“So . . . you’re not stayin’?”
“No, I’m not staying.”
“No, I mean, until the Graves gang comes back. You’re stayin’ until then, right?”
“Probably,” Clint said. “I mean, it depends on when they come back. I expect that they’ll come back sooner than later. I hope to get some men together before then, men who’ll be able to stand up to them.”
“But you’ll be here, too, right? When they come back?” Buck asked.
“Probably.”
“Clint—”
“Have another beer, Buck,” Clint said, “and stop asking so many questions.”
Anatomy of a Lawman Page 4
