Anatomy of a Lawman

by J. R. Roberts

  “’Mornin’, Buck,” Clint said. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  “I had enough sleep,” Buck said. “When the Graves boys hit us, I don’t want to miss it because I was asleep.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Clint said. “I want you and me to walk through town today, see if we can’t scare up another volunteer or two.”

  “Anybody in mind?”

  “I still don’t know many people in this town,” Clint said. “I thought we’d hit some stores, saloons, and just ask.”

  Buck shrugged and said, “Suits me.”

  “Have you had breakfast?” Clint asked.

  “No.”

  “Come on,” Clint said. “You can grab something on the way.”

  As Clint and Buck left the office, they almost ran into Wilkes and Commons.

  “Where you off to?” Commons asked.

  “Going to look for more volunteers,” Clint said. “You’re going to relieve the Prescotts, right?”

  “Soon,” Commons said.

  “You might as well stay in the office until then,” Clint said. “We’ll be back as soon as we can, hopefully with more bodies.”

  “Bodies that can shoot, I hope,” Commons said.

  “That’s the general idea,” Clint said. “See you in a while.”

  Clint and Buck walked down the street as Commons and Wilkes entered the office.

  Once they were in the office, Commons made a pot of coffee. When he turned around, he saw Wilkes sitting at the sheriff’s desk, looking through the drawers.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m just curious,” Wilkes said. “I ain’t never looked in a lawman’s desk before.”

  “Don’t make a mess.”

  “It’s already a mess,” Wilkes said. “Hey, here’s the wanted posters.”

  He started to leaf through them.

  “Looking for me, or you?” Commons asked.

  “Just familiar faces,” the big man said. “ ’ Sides, I tol’ you there’s no paper on me.”

  “And I told you there’s none on me,” Commons said.

  Wilkes looked at Commons.

  “Then there won’t be any surprises in here, will there?” he asked.

  “No,” Commons said, “there won’t.”

  Wilkes continued leafing through the posters. Commons walked over to take a look.

  “I know him,” he said.

  “So do I,” Wilkes said. “Nasty. Where was it we saw him last?”

  “Sante Fe, I think.”

  He went to the next one.

  “Whoa, I know him, too.”

  “So do I,” Commons said. “I don’t think I want to look anymore.”

  He went back to the stove to wait for the coffee. Wilkes kept going through the posters.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Clint noticed that Buck was walking with a spring in his step.

  “What’s going on with you?” he asked.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “You seem . . . different,” Clint said. “What did you do yesterday?”

  Buck’s face turned red and he said, “Nothin’.”

  Obviously, it was something embarrassing, but something good. Clint could only think of one thing, and he decided to leave Buck alone about it.

  “Let’s try over there,” Clint said. “The hardware store.”

  “That’s owned by Mr. Murchison,” Buck said as they crossed the street. “He’s a storekeeper through and through. I don’t even know if he can sit a horse.”

  They mounted the boardwalk and stood in front of the store.

  “I guess we’ll just go in and find out.”

  Murchison was not willing to join the acting sheriff’s home guard. Clint had decided to use the words “home guard” thinking they’d have an effect on the men in town. He was wrong.

  He and Buck talked to several more storekeepers, and some of their customers, then went into the saloons as they opened for the day, spoke to the bartenders and the owners. It was useless. The men in town were just not willing to risk their lives and go up against the Graves gang. Especially after Clint told them how many men he had so far.

  “Wait a minute,” Clint said, stopping Buck.

  “What?”

  They had almost worked their way through the whole town when Clint saw the gunsmith’s shop across the street.

  “There,” he said, pointing.

  “I guess that’s a possibility,” Buck said. “That’s run by Ned Dillon. He not only fixes guns, and builds ’em, but he knows how to use ’em.”

  “Then why didn’t you recommend him before?” Clint asked.

  “Well . . . he’s about sixty.”

  “So?”

  Buck shrugged.

  “I thought he was too old.”

  “I never gave you an age limit, Buck,” Clint said. “Come on, let’s go talk to him.”

  As they entered the gunsmith’s shop, Clint saw a whitehaired man sitting at a workbench. He was bent over an old Navy Colt.

  “Be right with ya,” the man said. He put down the gun and the brush he’d been using to clean the barrel. “Hey, Buck,” he said when he recognized the deputy.

  “Mr. Dillon,” Buck said. “This here’s our new temporary sheriff, Clint Adams.”

  “Clint Adams?” Dillon said in surprise. “The Gunsmith himself? Well, this is a real honor.”

  He shook Clint’s hand enthusiastically.

  “I heard Sheriff Harper got himself hurt, but I didn’t hear you were replacing him. Welcome to Guardian. Whataya think of our town?”

  “Not much,” Clint said.

  “Why’s that?”

  Clint explained to Dillon about the Graves gang, and how nobody in town was willing to step up.

  “So you here lookin’ for guns?” Dillon asked.

  “I’m here looking for men who can use guns, Mr. Dillon,” Clint said. “Buck tells me you fit that description.”

  “I’m not in your league, Mr. Adams, but I can hit what I shoot at with a rifle or a handgun,” Dillon said. “What do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to be ready, Mr. Dillon,” Clint said. “I’m going to need men with guns when the Graves gang comes riding in.”

  “You need me to do anything else in the meantime,” Dillon asked. “Got any more deputy badges?”

  “I don’t, and that’s the truth,” Clint said. “I’ve got some men working for me, standing watch and such, but all I need for you is to shoot when the time comes.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Dillon said. “You need to see me shoot. I got a range I set up in the back. Got all kinds of targets.”

  “You know,” Clint said, “I think I’ll bring the men in here and use that range, if it’s all right with you, Mr. Dillon. I still have to see how they shoot. I can watch you at the same time.”

  “Hell, bring ’em on in,” Dillon said. “And stop calling me Mr. Dillon. The name’s Ned.”

  “And I’m Clint.”

  The two men shook hands again.

  “I’ll get the targets ready for you,” Dillon promised.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  When Clint and Buck walked into the office, Commons and Wilkes were lounging around, drinking coffee. In fact, Wilkes had just finished putting things back in the desk. Commons had just made a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Coffee’s on, Sheriff,” he said.

  “Thanks, Commons. Buck?”

  “Yes, sir, thanks.”

  Clint walked to the stove, poured two mugs, and handed one to the deputy. He sat in his desk chair, which was warm. Somebody had been sitting there.

  “Find anybody?” Commons asked.

  “One man. He’s the town gunsmith.”

  “I thought that was you,” Wilkes said.

  “This man is a real gunsmith,” Clint said, not bothering to add that he was also a real gunsmith.

  “Can he shoot?” Commons asked.

  “We’re going find out,” Clint said. “He’s got a r
ange in the back of his shop, and we’re all going over there to try it out. It’ll give me an idea of who can shoot, and who can’t.”

  “I already told ya I can’t,” Wilkes said.

  “You said you don’t, not you can’t.”

  “Well, the truth is I’m pretty bad.”

  Clint looked at Commons.

  “It’s true,” the man said. “He’s terrible. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere around him if you give him a gun.”

  “That’s fine,” Clint said. “We’re going to try you out with a shotgun.”

  “When do we do this?” Commons asked.

  “In a couple of hours. I want everyone there, so Buck, you and Wilkes go out and find the others. I want everybody at the gunsmith shop in two hours.”

  “I’ll go with Wilkes,” Commons said.

  Clint was going to object to Commons changing his orders, but the look on the man’s face convinced him not to. Commons new Wilkes best.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Buck, you go and tell Ned that seven of us will be there in two hours.”

  “Right, Sheriff.”

  Buck left, putting his coffee mug down on the desk.

  “Come on, Wilkes,” Commons said. “Let’s go and find the others.”

  “The Prescotts should be on watch,” Clint said. “Minnesota is probably asleep. Wake him up if you have to.”

  “You got it, boss,” Commons said.

  Wilkes moved slowly, walking lazily to the door and going out ahead of Commons, who gave Clint a knowing look. Clint decided to allow Commons to handle Wilkes as much as he wanted.

  When the office was empty, he went to the gun rack. There were three rifles and a shotgun. He took them down to clean them. He wanted them in proper working order on the range.

  The shotgun was a twelve-gauge double-barreled weapon with twenty-inch barrels, the type carried by most stagecoach guards. The rifles were two Winchesters and a Henry.

  He settled down to clean them all and check their action, making sure none of them would be disappointing when pressed into service. If one of them was disappointing, it would be because of the man firing it.

  When he’d finished with the office guns, he worked on his own weapons, getting them ready for Ned Dillon’s range. He didn’t shoot targets much anymore. In fact, he rarely fired his weapons anymore unless he was threatened, but this was different. He didn’t want to show off for these men, but he wanted them to know what he expected of them.

  The last to arrive at Ned Dillon’s gunsmith shop was Minnesota.

  “Thanks for joining us,” Clint said.

  “Fell back asleep after those two woke me,” the young man said. “Sorry. What’s goin’ on?”

  “Time to show me what you got,” Clint said. “Ned here has got a range in the back. You’re all going to shoot so I can see what I’m working with.”

  “What about you?” Minnesota asked. “You gonna shoot, too?”

  “We’re all going to shoot,” Clint said. “Including Ned. He’s joining us, which gives us eight men.”

  “Let’s get to it,” Wilkes said. “I’ll show you how bad I really am.”

  “Don’t sound so proud of it,” Clint said.

  “I ain’t proud,” Wilkes said. “I’m just sayin’.”

  “Let him shoot first if he wants to,” Minnesota said. “We can all use a laugh.”

  “I may shoot lousy,” Wilkes said, “but I better not hear anybody laugh.”

  “Nobody’s going to laugh, Wilkes,” Clint said. “Come on, let’s not keep Ned waiting. He’s dying to show us his range.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Dillon’s range was one hundred feet long. Clay targets were set up against a wooden back wall. Clint introduced Dillon to the men he didn’t know. The Prescotts knew him from around town, but he was meeting Commons, Wilkes, and Minnesota for the first time.

  “This what we’re shootin’ at?” Minnesota asked.

  “I also have what I call silhouettes,” Dillon said.

  “Silly-what?” Wilkes asked.

  “Watch.”

  He picked up the end of a rope that was lying nearby and pulled. Immediately, half a dozen wooden cutouts of men’s torsos sprang up against the back wall. They weren’t really silhouettes because they weren’t black, and there was a bull’s-eye on each chest.

  “Those are good,” Clint said. “Leave them up.”

  “I have replacements when these get all shot up,” Dillon said. “They’re made of very thin wood.”

  “Wilkes, you’re up first,” Clint said.

  “I keep tellin’ you I’m a lousy shot,” the big man said.

  “I know,” Clint said. “Now show me. Pick up a rifle.”

  Clint had brought along the rifles and shotgun from the office gun rack.

  Wilkes picked up the rifle and toed the line that was drawn on the floor. He levered a round, aimed, and fired, struck the back wall, but didn’t hit a target at all. He did the same again, with the same results, then turned toward Clint.

  “See?”

  “We’ll work on it,” Clint said. “Who’s next?”

  “Me,” Harley Prescott said. “Okay if I use my own gun?”

  “I’d prefer it.”

  Harley toed the line, drew, and fired off six shots. Dillon walked down to eye the target.

  “Four hits, two misses, no bull’s-eyes, one killing shot.”

  “You ever fire your gun at a man before?” Clint asked Harley.

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “reload and put it away. James? You’re up.”

  James Prescott stepped up to the line, drew his gun, and fired off six shots. Once again Dillon walked down.

  “Three hits, three misses, no bull’s-eyes, no killing shots.”

  “Jesus,” Commons said, “we’re dead.”

  James gave him a hard look.

  “Reload and put it away, James,” Clint said. “Commons, why don’t you show us how it’s done?”

  “Gladly.”

  Commons stepped to the line, drew, and fired.

  “Five hits, one miss, no bull’s-eyes, three killing shots.”

  “You’ve got to do better,” Clint said.

  “I did better than they did,” Commons said.

  “They have to do even better,” Clint said. “You just have to improve.”

  “Like this,” Minnesota said. He stepped up, drew, and fired six quick shots.

  “Six hits,” Dillon called out, “five killing shots, two bull’seyes.”

  Minnesota stared down at his gun as if it had betrayed him, then holstered it.

  “Never holster your gun until you’ve reloaded,” Clint said. “If somebody stormed in here with guns blazing, you’d be dead.”

  Minnesota didn’t like being called out in front of the others, but he drew the gun again, ejected the spent shells, reloaded, and holstered the weapon.

  “Why don’t you show us how it’s done?” Commons suggested.

  “Yeah,” Minnesota said, “let’s see the Gunsmith shoot.”

  “I quit shooting at targets years ago,” Clint said, “but all right.”

  He stepped up to the line.

  “You’re all aiming,” he said. “You don’t have to aim, just point.”

  He drew his gun, not going for speed, fired six measured shots, then ejected and reloaded even before Dillon could get down to the target.

  “Six hits,” Dillon said, “all killing shots . . . all bull’seyes.” He turned and looked at Clint. “Perfect shooting.”

  “Wasn’t so fast,” Commons muttered.

  “It isn’t who’s the fastest,” Clint said. “It’s who’s the most accurate.”

  Dillon returned to the line.

  “Let’s see the gunsmith shoot,” Wilkes suggested. “I mean, the real gunsmith.”

  Dillon looked at Clint, who nodded. He walked over to the side, where a gun belt was lying, picked it up, and put it on. Then he stepped up to the line, drew, and fi
red six incredibly quick shots by fanning the gun.

  Everyone was quiet.

  Clint walked down to the target.

  “Six hits,” he said, “no bull’s-eyes, but all killing shots.”

  He walked back and looked at Dillon, who was reloading. Clint noticed the gun had no trigger in the trigger guard. Dillon had removed it.

  “That was incredible,” he said.

  “No bull’s-eyes,” Commons said. “What’s incredible about that?”

  Clint looked at Commons, then the rest.

  “He just fanned his gun six times and all six hit the target,” Clint said. “It’s incredibly hard to hit a target while fanning a gun. It takes skill with both hands, the one doing the fanning, and the one holding the gun.”

  “How hard could it be just to hit the target?” Commons asked.

  “You try it,” Clint said.

  Commons toed the line, drew, and hired six awkward shots while fanning his gun.

  “I can see the results from here,” Clint said. “Six misses, all high. When you fan a gun, you jerk the barrel up unless you know how to hold it with your other hand. Like I told you, it takes practice.”

  “That why you built this range?” James Prescott asked Dillon. “So you could practice?”

  “I built it so my customers could try out their guns after I repair them. Or so I can fire a customer’s gun and see what’s wrong. But since I have it, I come back here and practice quite a bit.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Buck, step up to the line.”

  “I can’t match that,” Buck said. “Not you or Dillon, or even Commons.”

  “Just hit what you’re shooting at,” Clint said.

  Buck stepped to the line, drew, and fired six measured shots. Dillon walked to the targets.

  “Four hits, two killing shots.”

  “Reload,” Clint said to the deputy. “You’ll have to do better.”

  “What about you, Adams?” Commons asked. “Can you fan a gun and hit what you’re aiming at?”

  “That’s not important,” Clint said as Dillon returned.

  “Humor us,” Commons said. “Let’s see how hard it is.”

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  “You want my gun?” Dillon asked.