The Deadly Chest

by J. R. Roberts

  “End over end,” Clint said, demonstrating with his hands. “If it falls and lands flat, it might sit right in the road. But if it rolls—or tumbles—it could end up off the road.”

  “By the side of the road?”

  “Unless there’s a hill, a gulley, or a dry wash for it to roll down.”

  “Then how do we find it?”

  He stood up and poured the remnants of the coffee on the fire to douse it.

  “We look, Loretta,” he said. “And we look very carefully.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint made Loretta saddle her own horse, showed her how to make sure it was cinched in tight. Then they saddled up and rode out.

  “You have to stay behind me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “If you ride ahead of me, you’ll trample any sign I might find,” he explained.

  “Why can’t I ride next to you?”

  “Because you’ll talk to me,” he said. “Distract me from what I’m doing.”

  “I won’t talk to you,” she said. “I promise.”

  “You’ll still distract me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He looked at her. “Because you’re beautiful.”

  He swore she blushed, then turned her head away. Finally, she dropped back to ride behind him.

  Clint smiled and led the way.

  Back in Westbrook Sheriff Lane had gotten an immediate reply to the telegram he’d sent the day Clint left.

  ON MY WAY it read, signed “Duffy.”

  Duffy showed up the next day, since he had only been a couple of towns away.

  As he entered the sheriff’s office, Lane looked up, then looked over at Deputy Simons.

  “Simons, go make some rounds.”

  “I already made my morning rounds, Sheriff—”

  “Then make your afternoon rounds early,” Lane said. “Go!”

  Simons left, looking Duffy up and down as he went. Duffy ignored him and sat down.

  “Coffee?”

  “Just tell me why I’m here?”

  Duffy stretched out his long legs, folded his hands in his lap and stared at the sheriff. He was thirty-three years old, and all he knew how to do was kill. It was a talent that had come to him naturally, which was odd because his parents were Quakers. Israel Duffy was the only Quaker killer Sheriff Lane had ever met.

  “You want to make a thousand dollars?”

  “You want me to burn down the town?”

  “I want you to track one man and one woman,” Lane said, “and kill ’em.”

  “When?” Duffy never even asked “Why?” It was none of his business.

  “Now. They left here yesterday.”

  “When do I get paid?”

  “When you kill the woman,” Lane said. “She has the money on her.”

  Lane had gone through the woman’s room during the day and found no money, but he was sure she had the thousand on her.

  What he wanted was the box.

  “And what do you get for this?” Duffy asked. “Do I bring anything back to you?”

  “Yes,” Lane said, “a black chest.”

  “Chest. What kinda chest?”

  “The kind a woman packs with clothes.”

  “You want the woman’s clothes?”

  “I want whatever’s in the box, Duffy,” Lane said. “In fact, you don’t even have to open it. Just bring it back here.”

  “I’ll need a packhorse or a buckboard.”

  “So?”

  “I ain’t buyin’ it with my own money.”

  Lane sighed, opened his bottom drawer, used a key to open a metal box, took out some cash, and locked the box back up.

  He reached across the desk. Duffy extended one of his long arms and accepted the money.

  “They’ll be movin’ slow,” Lane said, “so you shouldn’t have much trouble catchin’ up.”

  “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “Burns,” Lane said, “Loretta Burns.”

  “She anybody?”

  “No,” Lane said. “She came to town on the stage, only her black chest had fallen off along the way. She was tryin’ to hire somebody to go out and find it, for a hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred?” Duffy asked. “Where’s the thousand come in?”

  “She’s carryin’ it on her. I haven’t seen it, but somebody I know did.”

  “Okay,” Duffy said. He stood up. “So who’s the man?”

  Lane hesitated, then said, “His name is Clint Adams.”

  Duffy stopped short. “The Gunsmith?”

  Lane smiled.

  “What do you want done with him?”

  “He’s yours,” Lane said. “He’s in my way, so whatever you want to do, you do it. My preference is to have him dead so he don’t come back here. How you do it is up to you.”

  Duffy looked down at the money in his hand, suddenly aware that it was more than he expected.

  “Yeah,” Lane said, “you might want to get yourself some help.”

  “I don’t need help,” Duffy said, “but I’ll take along some backup.”

  “You do that,” Lane said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Loretta remained mounted while Clint stepped down to study the ground.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Something was dragged here,” he said, “but I can’t tell what”

  “Dragged how far?”

  “Well, to the end of the road, here,” Clint said, walking. “Then it must have been lifted up onto a wagon. There are several wheel ruts here, but that’s normal this close to a town.”

  “What town?”

  “That signpost we passed a mile or so back said Bolden, Arizona.”

  “Do you know it?”

  “No,” he said, mounting up, “never been there, never heard of it.”

  “But we’re going?”

  He nodded and said, “We’re going, just to see what’s what.”

  They rode into Bolden side by side. The street was filled with ruts from buckboard and wagons, possibly even a stage or two, if this was a stage stop.

  Clint had told Loretta to let him do the talking. Not to say one word, unless he asked her to.

  He thought she was going to protest, but in the end she just nodded her head and said, “All right.”

  But since they weren’t yet around other people, she asked, “What are we going to do first?”

  “Talk to the sheriff.”

  “You’re going to trust the sheriff?” she asked. “After what we went through in Westbrook?”

  “Not all sheriffs are crooked, Loretta,” he said. “I’m going to talk to the local lawman and try to figure him out. Once I have we’ll tell him why we’re here and see if he can help us.”

  She just shook her head and rode along with him. When he spotted the sheriff’s office he pointed Eclipse that way. Loretta followed.

  If he didn’t have Loretta with him he probably would have gone into a saloon to talk with a bartender first. They usually give him the straight story on the local lawman. But he wasn’t about to take Loretta into a saloon again. They’d had enough trouble with that.

  They dismounted and tied off their horses. When they mounted the boardwalk, Clint stopped in front of the door and said to her, “Remember, don’t talk.”

  “What if he asks me a question?”

  “Then answer it as briefly as possible.”

  She nodded, and he opened the door.

  Duffy picked up Clint Adams’s trail quickly, tracked him until he camped and was joined by another rider. Had to be the woman.

  As Lane had promised, they were moving slowly, probably because they were watching for any sign of the box along the way. Duffy knew he wasn’t going to be able to make a move on them until they found the box. He didn’t want to kill them, and then have to go and find the box himself. Leave that up to them.

  He was a few miles from the place where he’d agreed to meet his backup, Dennis Franks. Franks was a reliable gun wh
o worked fairly cheap. He would adequately watch Duffy’s back.

  Duffy had become one of those men curious about what was in that box.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Sheriff?” Clint asked, as they entered the office.

  The Sheriff of Bolden, Arizona looked around from what he had been doing and stared at the two of them. His eyes were drawn to Loretta’s beauty.

  “Hello,” he said. He was a young man, in his early thirties. At first Clint thought he was a deputy, but then the man turned and Clint saw the sheriff’s badge.

  He had been cleaning a rifle, which he now set aside.

  “I’m Sheriff Ryker. Can I help you?”

  “Sheriff, my name is Clint Adams. This is Miss Loretta Burns.”

  “Adams?” Ryker asked. “The Gunsmith, you mean?”

  “That’s right.”

  Suddenly, Clint became more interesting to him than Loretta. “Well,” he said, “what’s the Gunsmith doing in Bolden, Arizona?”

  “We’re passing through,” Clint said. “I usually check in with the local law when I ride into a town.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Adams,” Ryker said. “And the lady?”

  “She’s traveling with me,” Clint said.

  “Will you be stayin’ in Bolden?”

  “One night,” Clint said. “Then we’ll move on.”

  “Then maybe we could get a drink together?” Ryker asked.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Loretta said, “but I don’t think that would be—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Ryker said, “but I was talking to the Gunsmith.”

  Looking embarrassed, Loretta said, “I see.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t do that, Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “Good. The saloon across the street? In one hour? That’ll give you time to see to your horses and get, uh, rooms at the hotel.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Ryker said.

  Loretta only nodded, and she and Clint left the office.

  Outside on the boardwalk in front of the office she said, “He’s very impressed with you. Why didn’t you ask him?”

  “Because I didn’t get a read on him,” Clint said. “He’s too impressed. I’ll be able to figure him out over a drink.”

  “And what am I supposed to do while you and the sheriff are having a drink?” she asked.

  “Stay in your room,” he said.

  “And do what?”

  “Rest,” he said. “We’ll be leaving again in the morning. With or without your black chest.”

  “But why can’t I walk around—”

  “Have you already forgotten what happened when you walked around Westbrook?”

  She looked away. “No.”

  “Then we’ll get a couple of rooms, and you will stay in yours until I come and get you.”

  “Can we eat then?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Then we’ll eat.”

  “Okay.”

  They stepped down and mounted their horses.

  They left their horses in the livery, stopped at one of Bolden’s two hotels, and checked into a couple of rooms.

  “This is . . . filthy,” she said, looking around. They had left his gear in his room, and were now in hers. They were identical.

  “It’s filthy only by comparison with where you usually stay,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  “If you say so.”

  “How was your room in Westbrook?”

  “Better than this, I suppose.”

  “Why do you only suppose?”

  “I—I guess I was too angry the whole time I was there to notice.”

  “Staying here won’t hurt you, Loretta.”

  “I know it.”

  “I’m going to have that drink with the sheriff, now,” he said. “By the time I come back, I should know something helpful.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so,” he said. “Just get some rest.”

  She nodded and said, “Okay.”

  He opened her door and started out.

  “Clint?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  He smiled. “I will.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  As Clint walked into the hotel across from the sheriff’s office, he saw Sheriff Ryker standing at the bar. It was midday, and there weren’t very many other patrons in the place. It was a small place, no gaming tables, just whiskey and beer.

  “There you are,” Ryker said. “Beer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  Ryker signaled to the bartender, who brought over two beers. From the way the barman looked at him Clint felt that the Sheriff had not revealed his identify.

  “Thank you,” Clint said.

  “I don’t mind telling you,” Ryker said, “I’m impressed.”

  “With what?”

  “Your presence.”

  “Not my reputation?”

  “Reputations can be inflated,” Ryker said. “This is my opportunity to find out just how much. Do you mind answering questions?”

  Normally, Clint did mind. But answering the sheriff’s questions would help him evaluate the man.

  “No,” he said, “go ahead and ask.”

  Duffy met up with Dennis Franks at the appointed place and shared a bottle of whiskey the man had.

  “The Gunsmith, huh?” Franks asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “You gonna try to take him, face to face?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Duffy asked. “First I’ve got to find that box.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know,” Duffy said, “but it must be something worth more than five hundred dollars.”

  He had told Franks that the woman was carrying five hundred dollars, not a thousand. And he promised to pay the man a hundred.

  “Can we open it when we find it?” Franks asked. “Take a peek?”

  “I don’t know,” Duffy said, passing the bottle back. “I’m thinkin’ about that, too.”

  Ryker’s questions were the normal kind. Plenty of reporters had asked Clint the same question—when had he realized he was good with a gun, when did he kill his first man, did he know Bat Masterson and Wild Bill Hickok?—as well as many, many young men. Ryker was completely forgetting he was a lawman and was just in awe.

  Clint was convinced that this young man was clean as the driven snow. But still, he had some questions of his own.

  “So, when did you become a lawman?” he asked.

  “Oh, not long ago,” Ryker said. “This is my first badge. Our sheriff got killed and nobody wanted the job, so I stepped up.”

  “When is the next election?”

  “Next month, as a matter of fact.”

  “You going to run?”

  “Yes,” Ryker said, “I like this job. I want to try to keep it.”

  “Do you usually know when strangers come into town?”

  “Yes,” Ryker said. “If you hadn’t come to me, the clerk at the hotel would have told me about you.”

  “That’s good.”

  “The bartenders know to contact me, too.”

  They were sitting at a table, working on their second beers.

  “Did you tell this bartender who I am?”

  “No,” Ryker said.

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t think he needed to know.”

  Clint sat back, regarded the young man for a moment, then decided to go ahead and open up.

  “Sheriff,” he said. “Miss Burns and I are not really just passing through.”

  “Oh?” Ryker’s face lit up with curiosity, but then he frowned. “You’re not here to kill anyone, are you? Because I’d have to try to stop you. And that wouldn’t be good for the rest of my career.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’d probably kill me.”

  “And knowing that, you’d still try to stop me?”
<
br />   “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “You’re a good man, Ryker.”

  “Thank you, sir. So, are you? Here to kill somebody, I mean?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I’m not here to kill somebody. We’re here looking for an object.”

  “What kind of object?”

  “It’s a chest,” Clint said, “a big black box.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Some of Miss Burns’s possessions,” Clint said, “like clothes, and family, uh, items.” He almost said “heirlooms,” but that would have made it sound valuable.

  “So what makes you think it’s here?”

  “I don’t know if it is,” Clint said. “It fell off the back of the stage she took to Westbrook, so we’ve been backtracking the route. Outside of town we found a spot on the road that looks like something was dragged a few feet, and then possibly lifted—like put on a buckboard.”

  “Hmm,” Ryker said. “Let me give it some thought, and maybe I can come up with something. Have you eaten?”

  “Not for a while,” Clint said. “I thought I’d go back to the hotel and get Miss Burns and take her for something.”

  “The only good place in town to eat is called Dave’s Café. Down the street. Good steaks.”

  “Thanks,” Clint said. “I’ll take her there.”

  “And if I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, standing up. “Thanks for the beers.”

  “Anytime, Mr. Adams. Anytime.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint knocked on Loretta’s door. She answered it immediately, and rushed into his arms. He was very aware of her full breasts pressing against his chest.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I’m glad to see you, that’s all,” she said. “I—I’ve been afraid every time I heard footsteps in the hall.” Abruptly, she pushed him away from her and backed up, folding her arms. “I hate this place. I hate being like this.”

  “You hate the hotel, or the town?”

  “I hate your Wild West,” she said. “You can keep it. As soon as I have my property back, I’m heading east.”

  “Well, before you do that, would you like to go out and have a steak?”