Anatomy of a Lawman

by J. R. Roberts

  “Awful. Where’s the kid?”

  “I left him with the whores,” Dudley said.

  “What for?”

  “Make a man out of him.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Around town.”

  “Come on, Dudley.”

  “We got two cousins playin’ poker, one shootin’ pool, one playin’ horseshoes. We got one brother sleepin’, one playin’ poker, and Del is . . . well, I don’t know where Del is.”

  “And the rest of the men?”

  “I don’t keep such good track of the nonrelatives,” Dudley said. “Except Sammy.”

  “And he’s with your whores.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ain’t like you to share your women, Dud,” Frank said.

  “Hell, I paid for ’em already.”

  “You coulda got your money back.”

  Dudley stared a moment, then said, “I never thought of that.”

  Frank finished his beer and started on the fresh one his brother had brought him.

  “What’d you wanna see me about?”

  “I wanna go and take care of Guardian.”

  “Where?”

  “Stupid,” Frank said, “the town where we shot the sheriff.”

  “And he shot you,” Dudley said. “And killed Mack.”

  Mack Reynolds had been riding with them, and the sheriff in Guardian had not only shot Frank in the leg, but killed Mack.

  “We gotta go back there, get our money outta that bank, and take care of that town,” Frank said.

  “So when do we go?” Dudley asked. “You can’t ride with that leg yet.”

  “It’s getting’ better,” Frank said. “It’ll be healed soon.”

  “Still be stiff, though.”

  “That don’t matter,” Frank said. “Once I know that ridin’ a horse won’t make me bleed to death, we’re goin’ back there.”

  “They might have a new lawman by now.”

  “It don’t matter,” Frank said. “If they do have a new sheriff, then he’ll have to pay for what the old one did.”

  “Suits me,” Dudley said. “Nothin’ I like more than killin’ lawmen.”

  “I’ll need you to round up Del, Hap, and Clell,” Frank said, speaking of their brothers, “and the cousins. Let them know what we’re plannin’ on doin’.”

  “When do ya want me to do that?”

  “Today.”

  “So soon? You ain’t gonna be ready for a while yet—” Dudley started to argue, but Frank cut him off.

  “I don’t want anybody makin’ any other plans,” he said. “I want them all to know what we’re plannin’.”

  “You know,” Dudley said, “as the older brother, I should probably be the one doin’ the plannin’.”

  “You’re right, Dudley,” Frank said, “you are the older brother. But I’m the smarter one, so I’m makin’ the decisions.”

  Dudley fell silent for a few moments, then said, “Well, you don’t mind if I finish my beer first, do ya?”

  TWENTY

  At the end of one week Clint had convinced Minnesota to join him and Buck, but the young man wanted a badge.

  “You can hire everybody else for a dollar a day,” he said, “but I wanna be a deputy, with a deputy’s pay.”

  “Ain’t much better,” Buck had told him.

  “It’s a status thing,” Minnesota said with a smile.

  Clint agreed and made Minnesota a deputy.

  Also at the end of that time they knew that Jack Harper had had his surgery, and had come through alive. What they didn’t know was if he would walk again. Doc Foster’s telegram said it would take some time after the surgery before they knew.

  “Will keep you informed,” the telegram ended.

  Clint checked with the telegraph office each day at ten, when they had been open an hour.

  Clint entered the sheriff’s office, found both deputies there, drinking coffee.

  “No word, today?” Buck asked.

  “No.”

  He walked to the stove and poured himself some coffee, then turned and walked to the desk.

  “When are we gonna get some more men?” Minnesota asked.

  Clint looked at Buck.

  “I got a couple of suggestions, but that’s it,” the deputy said.

  “What about you, Minnesota?” Clint asked. “You know anybody?”

  Minnesota shrugged.

  “I don’t know too many men in town, and the ones I do wouldn’t help us. And I mean, even if they were willin’, they wouldn’t be any help.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “nobody said all the help had to come from town.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Minnesota asked him.

  “It makes a difference?” Clint asked.

  “Hell, it makes a big difference. I know a couple of good boys, but they’re in a town called Sensible.”

  “What?” Buck asked.

  “Yeah,” Minnesota said, “the town is actually called Sensible.”

  “Why not?” Clint said to Buck. “I know two other towns called Normal and Peculiar.” He looked at Minnesota. “Is there a telegraph there?”

  “No,” Minnesota said. “If you want them, you’ll have to go and get them.”

  Clint stood up.

  “Then let’s go ask them.”

  “What about the Graves gang?” Minnesota asked. “They might show up while we’re gone.”

  “How far is Sensible?”

  “Half a day.”

  “Graves isn’t going to come back until he heals,” Clint said. “Harper said he hit him in the leg. He also has to round up the rest of his family. I think we can spare one more day.”

  “What about me?” Buck asked.

  “You stay here, Buck. We’ll be back sometime after midnight. Talk to your boys and see if you can get them interested.”

  “We gonna ride at night?” Minnesota asked.

  “We are,” Clint said. “I only want to be gone one day.”

  “Well, then, we better get goin’,” Minnesota said.

  As they went out the front door, Clint called back to Buck, “Hold the fort!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Half a day’s ride brought them into the town of Sensible by dark. They left their horses in the livery but told the liveryman not to bed them down. Then they walked down the main street—one of two streets the town had.

  “Small place,” Clint said. “What are your friends doing here?”

  “Just laying low.”

  “Who are these guys?”

  “Their names are Wilkes and Commons,” Minnesota said.

  “First names or last names?”

  “Only names.”

  “Like Minnesota?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where’d you get that name anyway?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Minnesota said. “I like the name.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Clint said. “It’s just a little . . . unusual.”

  “I picked it myself,” Minnesota said.

  “What was your name before that?”

  Minnesota looked at Clint.

  “If I wanted anybody to know that, I wouldn’ta picked a new name, would I?”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Okay.”

  They walked up to the only saloon Clint could see.

  “If they’re still here,” Minnesota said, “they’ll be in there.”

  “You mean we rode all the way here and they might not be here?”

  Minnesota shrugged.

  “They might already have a job.”

  “What do they hire out to do?” Clint asked.

  “Anything they can.”

  They entered the saloon, found it quiet, almost empty. No girls, no gaming tables. Almost no customers, except for two men sitting at separate tables.

  “That’s them,” Minnesota said.

  “Sitting at separate tables?”

  Minnesota shrugged.

/>   “They don’t like each other.”

  “But they work together?”

  “They work together real well,” Minnesota said, “but they don’t like each other. I can’t figure it out, but it works for them.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We talk to them, one at a time,” Minnesota said.

  “Okay.”

  Clint started forward, but Minnesota put out his hand to stop him.

  “Gotta buy them a beer.”

  Clint walked to the bar, bought three beers, and handed one to Minnesota.

  “Okay,” the smaller man said.

  They approached the man sitting to their left, leaving the man on the right for later.

  “Hey, Wilkes,” Minnesota said.

  The man looked up at them. He had a face that looked as if it had spent more than a few rounds in the ring. A scar split his left eyebrow right in half. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle. He looked around thirty-five.

  “Minnesota,” he said in a deep voice. “Whataya say?”

  “Meet a friend of mine,” Minnesota said. “Clint Adams.”

  Wilkes looked at Clint, who put the beer in front of him.

  “Your friend’s got a name I recognize, but he’s wearin’ a badge.”

  “He’s not here lookin’ for you behind a badge,” Minnesota said. “Well, yeah, he is, but he wants your help.”

  “My help,” Wilkes said. “With what?”

  “Can we sit?” Clint asked.

  “Sure,” Wilkes said. “Why not?”

  Clint and Minnesota pulled out chairs, sat down, and put their beers on the table.

  Clint explained the situation—Harper getting shot stopping a bank robbery and the Graves gang planning to come back and finish the job.

  “Graves,” Wilkes said. “I heard of them. Family, right? Brothers? Cousins?”

  “That’s them.”

  “And you want my help stoppin’ them?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I’ll get you paid,” Clint said. “I don’t know how much yet.”

  “More than Minnesota’s makin’ as a deputy?” Wilkes asked.

  “Probably.”

  “I tell you what,” Wilkes said. “You talk to Commons over there. If he agrees to go, I’ll agree to go.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “we’ll talk to your friend—”

  “He ain’t no friend of mine!” Wilkes snapped.

  “Sorry.”

  “We just work together,” Wilkes said, “and if he says it’s okay, I’ll do it.”

  “All right,” Clint said, standing up. “We’ll talk to him.”

  Wilkes sipped his beer, then looked up at Clint.

  “Gonna take more than a beer to get him to talk to you.”

  “Like what?” Clint asked.

  “Like a bottle.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “a bottle it is.”

  “Good luck,” Wilkes said. “He ain’t in as good a mood as I am.”

  “I guess we’ll have to see how persuasive I can be,” Clint said.

  He and Minnesota walked to the bar and collected a bottle of whiskey from the bartender.

  “You ain’t gonna bust up my place, are ya?” the barman asked.

  “Why would we do that?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Those two do it almost every night.”

  “How?”

  “Fightin’.”

  “With who?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “With each other,” he said, “or whoever tries to get between ’em.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “We’re not here to fight with them, or get between them.”

  “Yeah,” Minnesota said, “we’re just here to drink with ’em.”

  Clint started away from the bar, then turned back.

  “You got law here?”

  “No,” the bartender said. “We only got about twenty-two people living’ here. Don’t need no law. We take care of ourselves.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “whatever works for you, I guess.”

  “If you was to take those two out of here,” the bartender said, “it’d be a lot quieter, though. A lot quieter.”

  “They seem pretty quiet,” Clint said.

  “Yeah,” the bartender said, “now.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Minnesota and Clint carried their beers and the bottle over to the other table. The man called Commons had his head down on his crossed arms.

  “Commons,” Minnesota said.

  The man didn’t stir.

  “Commons,” Minnesota said, again, “we got whiskey.”

  Commons lifted his head. His eyes surprised Clint. They were bright blue, and clear. He hadn’t been sleeping, and he wasn’t drunk.

  Clint put the bottle on the table, with a shot glass over the top.

  “Hello, Minnesota,” Commons said. “What the hell is that thing on your chest?”

  “A badge,” Minnesota said. “I’m a deputy.”

  “And who’s your friend?”

  “He’s the sheriff of a town called Guardian.”

  “Stupid name for a town.”

  “That from a man sitting in a town called Sensible?” Clint asked.

  Commons looked at him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hell,” Commons said, grabbing the bottle and removing the glass. “Siddown. I’ll drink with the Gunsmith.”

  Clint and Minnesota sat down while Commons poured himself a drink.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff Clint Adams, the Gunsmith?”

  “I’ve got an offer for you,” Clint said.

  “Well, let me have it, then.”

  Clint told his story for the second time in twenty minutes. Commons drank while he listened.

  “So that’s it,” Clint said. “I’ve got a town to save and I need help doing it.”

  “Not enough men in your town to do it?” Commons asked.

  “Not enough men who can handle a gun,” Clint said, “and are willing to risk it.”

  “So you want me to risk my life when the people who live there won’t?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “And you asked Wilkes the same thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he’ll do it if you do it.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yeah,” Minnesota said, “he did.”

  Commons looked annoyed.

  “That sonofabitch,” he muttered. “Can’t never make a decision for himself.”

  “I think he made a decision,” Clint said.

  “How’s that?” Commons asked.

  “He made a decision to go with your decision,” Clint said. “I guess he must trust you.”

  Commons stared up at Clint, then poured another drink and downed it.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said.

  “You’ll do it?”

  Commons nodded.

  “We’ll both do it,” Commons said. “Hell, we got nothin’ else to do but sit around this lousy little saloon in this lousy little town.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Minnesota and I are heading back tonight.”

  “We’ll be along,” Commons said.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Don’t worry, Sheriff, we’ll be along.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint and Minnesota stood up.

  “One thing,” Commons said.

  “What’s that?”

  “We ain’t wearin’ no badges.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I don’t have any more badges anyway.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Clint and Minnesota took their horses to the livery in Guardian, where they rubbed and bedded them down.

  “I’m turnin’ in,” Minnesota sai
d.

  “I’ll be at the office,” Clint said. “Probably catch some sleep in one of the cells.”

  “You gonna check with Buck?” Minnesota asked. “See if he got anybody?”

  “Yup.”

  Minnesota yawned.

  “Well, let me know what he says.”

  They left the livery, walked together to the center of town, then split up. Minnesota went to the hotel, where Clint had gotten him a room. Clint walked over to the sheriff’s office. When he walked in, Buck sat straight up in his chair, his feet falling off the sheriff’s desk.

  “Oh, Sheriff,” Buck said.

  “What are you doing here so late, Buck?”

  “I’m in charge,” Buck said. “Thought I’d stay in the office.”

  “Well, go get some sleep.”

  Buck stood up, rubbing his face with his hands.

  “You just get back?”

  “Yep.”

  “Get those men?”

  “Yeah, names are Wilkes and Commons,” Clint said. “They’ll be here sometime after sunup”

  “Any good?”

  “Minnesota says they are,” Clint said, “and you recommended him.”

  Buck headed for the door.

  “What about you?” Clint asked.

  Buck turned.

  “You sign anybody up?”

  “Two men,” Buck said. “They’re brothers, which is why I think they took the job.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Harley and James Prescott,” Buck said.

  “Any good?”

  “They’ve ridden on some posses with me and Sheriff Harper,” Buck said. “They do what they’re told, know how to use their guns.”

  “What do they do normally?”

  “Odd jobs,” Buck said. “Just odd jobs.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “this is an odd job.”

  Buck stood there, nodding.

  “Okay, Buck,” Clint said. “Go get some sleep. When you wake up, bring the Prescott boys over here for me to meet.”

  “Okay, Sheriff.”

  Wilkes and Commons spoke very little until they rode into Guardian.

  “At least it’s a real town,” Wilkes said. “More than one saloon, probably more than one whorehouse.”

  “More important,” Commons said, “more than one place to eat.”

  “You got that right.”

  They rode to the livery, where they turned their horses over to the liveryman.