The Deadly Chest

by J. R. Roberts

  “Yes!” she said, her eyes widening. “Can we go now?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Right now. The sheriff told me about a café that has good steaks.”

  “Then let’s go!” she said.

  Duffy and Franks came to the place in the road Clint and Loretta had found the drag marks.

  “Yeah,” Duffy said, “somethin’ was dragged here.”

  “The box?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe somebody found it and took it into that town up ahead. Bolden.”

  “And maybe,” Duffy said, “Adams and the woman went there.”

  “So we go there, too?” Franks said.

  Duffy mounted up and said, “We go there.”

  At Dave’s, they ordered two steak dinners and, while eating, Clint told her about his conversation with the sheriff.

  “Wow, he’s in awe of you.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Does that happen to you a lot?”

  “Sometimes?”

  “With women, too?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were when we met,” she said.

  “Why should you?”

  “Well, you’re famous,” she said. “Maybe if I hadn’t been so angry—”

  “Do you know who I am now?”

  “Well, because you told me, but . . . I still never heard of you before.”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of people who haven’t heard of me,” he said.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No, why should it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just thought men with reputations liked it when people knew who they were. I mean, isn’t that the point of having a reputation?”

  “I guess I don’t really know the point of having a reputation, then,” he said. “See, I just . . . have one. I never went looking for it.”

  “So you don’t like having a reputation?”

  “Not very much, no.”

  “Then why don’t you . . . stop?”

  He laughed. “Can you tell me how to do that?”

  “Take off your guns and get a regular job.”

  “If I did that,” Clint said, “I’d be dead in a week.”

  She paused in her chewing and asked, “Why?”

  “As soon as some young gun heard I wasn’t wearing my gun, they’d come looking for me,” Clint said. “Unarmed, I’d be dead.”

  “So, you have to live like this, whether you like it or not?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Eat your steak,” he said. “I’m used to it, after all these years.”

  Over dessert she said to him, “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?’

  “About being a bitch,” she said. “I mean, from the moment we met.”

  “You were having a hard time.”

  “No reason to take it out on you,” she said. “It sounds like you’ve been having a hard time a lot longer than I have.”

  “Ah,” he said, “you’re feeling sorry for me.”

  “Well, yeah, I probably am,” she said. “I can’t imagine living the way you live.”

  “Well,” he said, “you’ll never have to. Be thankful for that—and eat your pie.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After they finished, they stepped outside the café.

  “I guess you’ve been to a lot of towns like this over the years,” she said.

  “Like this, like Westbrook, like Dodge City,” he said. “Yeah, a lot of towns.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to . . . settle down?”

  “No,” he said. “Settling down’s not for me. I’ll just keep moving . . .”

  “Until.”

  “What?”

  “It sounded like there was an ‘until’ there,” she said.

  “Until I meet a faster gun,” Clint said.

  “And then what?”

  “And then he’ll kill me.”

  “That’s the way you expect to die?”

  “That seems like the only way my life could end,” he said.

  “But . . . that’s so sad.”

  “Maybe it is,” he said. “But I’d rather die like that than in bed, wasting away.” He was thinking of Doc Holliday.

  She was about to say something but instead broke off and said, “Is that the sheriff coming at us?”

  “It sure is. Looks like he has something on his mind.”

  They waited for the man to reach them.

  Duffy and Franks reined their horses in just outside of town.

  “What?” Franks asked.

  “Two strangers riding into town together will attract attention.”

  “So we’ll ride in separate.”

  “No,” Duffy said. “Two strangers riding in that way would attract attention, also. Especially if Adams and the woman have already ridden in.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “It’s what you do,” Duffy said. “You ride in and find out if Adams is there.”

  “How do I find that out?”

  “Hey,” Duffy said, “if the Gunsmith is in a small town like Bolden, you’ll hear about it. Just have a drink.”

  “And a whore?”

  “Whatever,” Duffy said.

  “I’ll need some money.”

  Duffy passed him some.

  “A couple of drinks, and one whore,” he said, warningly. “You’re there to get information about Adams, or about the box, not to have a good time.”

  “I’ll see if I can do both,” Franks said.

  “How was the food?” Ryker asked.

  “As good as you said,” Clint said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve got something to show you,” the lawman said. “You want to come with me?”

  “Sure.”

  They both stepped down from the boardwalk.

  “Both of you?” Ryker asked.

  “Why not?” Clint asked. “If it’s about the chest, Miss Burns has a right to know.”

  “I suppose,” the sheriff said with a shrug. “Okay, then, this way.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint became concerned as they approached the undertaker’s office.

  “Maybe you should stay outside,” he said to Loretta.

  “Why? Are we going to see a body?” she asked the sheriff.

  “Not really,” he said. “But it is an undertaker’s office. I can’t guarantee there isn’t a body lying around.”

  “I’ve seen bodies before,” Loretta said. “Let’s just go in and see what the sheriff has to show us.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Let’s go.”

  Sheriff Ryker led the way into the office.

  “Eddie!” he shouted.

  A man came through a curtained doorway from a back room. He was in his forties, looked more like an accountant than an undertaker.

  “My God, but you’re beautiful!” he said to Loretta.

  “Well . . . thank you.”

  “This is Eddie Dowd. He’s the town’s new undertaker.”

  “The old one died,” Dowd said with a shrug. “He was my first customer.”

  “Eddie, these folks think something was brought into town from the road, something that had to be dragged, and then transported by wagon.”

  “Oh,” he said, “that.”

  “What was it?” Clint asked.

  Eddie Dowd looked embarrassed.

  “I was driving my rig back to town and the coffin I was transporting . . . fell off.”

  “Oh,” Loretta said.

  “I was alone, so I had to drag it to the wagon and put it back in. It wasn’t easy, but—”

  “That’s enough, Eddie,” Ryker said. “You can go back to work now.”

  Dowd shrugged, said, “Ma’ am,” to Loretta, and then back through the curtained doorway.

  “When we talked earlier, I forgot that Eddie told me this story yesterday,” Ryker said to Clint. He looked at Loretta. “I’m sorry it�
�s not what you were looking for, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Guess you folks better get some rest and then start out again in the morning.”

  “We’ll do that, Sheriff.”

  They went back to the hotel. Along the way, Clint saw a rider come into town and rein in his horse in front of the saloon. He appeared not to be from around those parts. What were the odds, he thought, of three strangers coming to town on the same day?

  “What is it?” Loretta asked.

  “Nothing,” Clint said. “I just saw somebody.”

  “Somebody you know?”

  “No,” he said, “that’s the problem. Somebody I don’t know.”

  He walked her to her room and then told her he’d be back.

  “Wait!” She grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “The saloon.”

  “Now?” she asked. “You want a drink now?”

  “I want to go over to the saloon,” he said. “It’s got nothing to do with getting a drink.”

  “Well, make sure you come back,” she said.

  “I will.”

  “No, I mean come back here,” she said. “To my room.”

  “I’ll be back, Loretta,” he said. “Don’t worry. You can see the saloon from your window. Watch me walk over there.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “I’m going to do that.”

  He left her room, closing the door behind him. She was already at the window.

  Down on the street, he looked up and saw her standing at the window. She was starting to get more and more frightened, and clingy. He knew it had been a bad idea for her to come along.

  He crossed the street, stopped at the stranger’s horse. The animal was wet, had been ridden a long way, and quickly. Somebody leaving Westbrook and riding hard could make up a one-day lag on Clint and Loretta.

  But there was no point in sending someone after them to kill them. Most likely, the sheriff would send someone to trail them, wait for them to find the chest, and then take it away from them.

  However, Clint did not think the sheriff would send a single man to do that. This one had probably ridden in to do some scouting.

  Clint decided to go into the saloon and give the man something to scout.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint entered the saloon, which, even at this late hour in the day, was almost empty. He looked around, saw a couple of men seated at tables, and the stranger standing at the bar.

  “Got a whorehouse in town?” the man was asking.

  “Nope,” the bartender said.

  “What? How can a town not have a cathouse?”

  Clint walked to the bar, gave the man a wide berth, and ordered a beer.

  “You know where I can get a whore, then?” the man asked.

  “Next town,” the bartender said. “Called Denbow. They’ve got a whore.”

  “One whore?”

  “One whore.”

  “What the hell is goin’ on around here?” the man demanded, looking around.

  The two seated men ignored him, one working on a beer, the other a bottle of whiskey. So the man looked at Clint.

  “You believe this? No whores?”

  “I believe it,” Clint said. “It’s a nice little town.”

  “How can it be a nice town when a man can’t get his ashes hauled?”

  “Guess you’ll just have to content yourself with drinking,” Clint said.

  “You been in town long?” the man asked.

  “Yep,” Clint said. “Most of the day, in fact.”

  He saw a wary look come into the man’s eyes.

  “Just got to town today?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I, uh, just got here, myself.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “I saw you ride in.”

  “Mmm,” the man said, turning back toward the bar. He started working on his beer, studiously avoiding Clint’s eyes.

  “What brings you to town?” Clint asked.

  “Oh, uh, just passin’ through.”

  “Lookin’ for a whore?”

  “Among other things,” he said. “A whore, a beer, you know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Name?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “I’m Clint Adams.”

  “My name’s, uh, Franks.”

  “You’re Clint Adams?” the bartender asked. “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wow,” the barman said. “Whaddaya think of that?” He was looking at Franks.

  “Um, yeah, what about it?” Franks said. “A famous man. Well, thanks for the beer. I’ll, uh, head for that other town to find that whore.”

  “Be careful out there,” Clint said. “It can be kind of dangerous.”

  Franks hesitated, then turned and headed for the door.

  “I think you scared him,” the bartender said.

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “I hope so.”

  THIRTY

  Clint crossed the street to return to the hotel. Loretta was still at the window. The stranger was riding hell-bent for leather out of town. He had to go and report that Clint was, indeed, in town, but what would he say about the chest? He couldn’t tell if Clint had it or not.

  By the time he got to Loretta’s door, it was open and she was standing there, waiting.

  “What happened?” she asked. “That man came running out and rode out of town like he was on fire.”

  “I introduced myself.”

  “You threatened him?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I introduced myself. That’s all.”

  “And he ran like that?”

  Clint nodded. “I’m going to my room,” he said. “We need to get an early start in the morning.”

  “Why don’t you come in and . . . and talk?” she asked.

  “Loretta,” he said, “get some rest. You must be sore from riding.”

  “I ride fairly often, actually,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go and get some rest. See you in the morning.”

  Clint walked to his room, entered without looking back, and closed his door.

  Franks found Duffy’s camp and dismounted before the horse stopped.

  “What the hell—” Duffy said.

  “No whores . . .” Franks said breathlessly. “. . . saw the Gunsmith . . . don’t know about chest . . .”

  “Hey, hey,” Duffy said, “take it easy. What the hell happened?”

  “Went to saloon . . .”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No!”

  “Here,” Duffy said, pouring a cup of coffee, “drink this and sit down.”

  Franks sat down and caught his breath and then, while drinking the coffee, told Duffy about meeting the Gunsmith.

  “He introduced himself to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What were you doin’?”

  “I was havin’ a beer . . .”

  “And?”

  “And talkin’.”

  “About what?”

  “About whores! What’s the difference?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he saw me ride into town.”

  “And you went right to the saloon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he came in right behind you.”

  “Yeah. We got any whiskey left?”

  “No whiskey,” Duffy said. “You’ve got first watch.”

  “Watch? What for?”

  “Because if we both go to sleep,” Duffy said, “the Gunsmith may slip up here and kill us in our sleep.”

  Franks looked at Duffy and said, “Naw.”

  “Oh, yeah. He knows you went in to scout around.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “Because he’s smart,” Duffy said, “and you’re not. You should’ve gone in and kept your mouth shut.”

  “I was looking for a whorehouse,” Franks said. “They don’t got one!”

  “You
got first watch,” Duffy said. “Wake me if you hear anythin’ . Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “If you fall asleep, we could both die. Got it?”

  “I got it, Duffy!”

  Idiot, Duffy thought.

  Clint was lying on his bed, reading.

  He spent a lot of time in hotel rooms this way, with his gun hanging on the bedpost. He even tried to read by campfire light when he was on the trail. His reading tended to be Twain, Dickens, and some other popular material.

  There was a knock on the door, so light he missed it at first. When it came again, he got off the bed, grabbed his gun from the holster, and went to the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see Loretta standing there.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I . . . wanted to talk,” she said, shrugging.

  “Well, okay,” Clint said. “Come in.”

  She entered and he closed the door.

  “Oh,” she said, when she saw his gun. “I guess you answer the door like that . . . all the time?”

  “Yes,” he said, “all the time.”

  He walked to he bedpost and slid his gun back into its holster.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “I don’t know,” she said, sitting on the bed. “I just didn’t want to be alone.” She picked up the book he was reading. “Dickens?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  He took the book from her and set it on the table next to the bed. Then he sat, leaving a wide space between them. She was beautiful, she smelled good, and she was vulnerable. Better to keep some space between them.

  “Clint . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you sitting so far away?”

  He didn’t want to tell her what he was just thinking, so he tried to think of something else.

  “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

  “Well,” she said, “you’re being too much of a gentleman. The lady needs some . . . comfort.”

  “Comfort?”

  “As in a hug?”

  “Oh.”

  He scooted over on the bed and gave her a hug.