Let It Bleed

by J. R. Roberts

  “So you’re not any happier than he is that the Old West is becoming modernized.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you afraid you won’t be able to make the transition?”

  Clint stared at Temple and asked, “Why does this sound like an interview?”

  Temple looked sheepish and said, “Oh, sorry.”

  “The turn of the century is coming for all of us, Harry,” Clint said. “There’s not much we can do about it, is there?”

  “I guess not.”

  The door opened at that moment and Sheriff Evans walked in. He stopped short when he saw them, then came the rest of the way in and closed the door.

  “You could’ve made coffee,” he said.

  “Didn’t know where the makings were,” Clint said.

  “Well,” Evans said, “if you fellas are gonna stay, I’ll make some.”

  “Sounds good,” Clint said.

  “What brings you here?” Evans said, opening a cabinet and taking out a sack of coffee.

  “We need to talk,” Clint said. “We have some information, but we don’t want to give it to the police.”

  “Clint would rather give it to you,” Temple said. “He says you’re a good man.”

  “He says that, huh?” He poured some water in the pot, then dropped in a few handfuls of coffee. Clint was glad to see that. The coffee would be plenty strong.

  “Then I guess we should siddown and talk about some things, huh?”

  FORTY

  The smell of coffee quickly filled the room as Evans sat down behind his desk.

  “I hear the chief and the mayor are on the warpath,” he said.

  “That’s what we heard,” Clint said.

  “So you’re hidin’ out here?”

  “For a while,” Clint said. “Stokes sort of already warned us off.”

  “Yeah, I talked to him,” Evans said. “He don’t seem like such a bad guy.”

  “He said the same about you,” Temple said. “Kind of.”

  “So what can I do for you fellas?” Evans asked.

  “Pour us some of that coffee,” Clint suggested, “and we’ll talk about it.”

  Evans heaved himself up out of his chair and said, “Comin’ up.”

  * * *

  “Stokes!”

  Stokes was expecting to hear the chief roar his name, so he reacted immediately.

  “Sir?” he asked, coming through the office door.

  “You find that reporter yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I want his carcass in here today!” Landry said, his face almost purple with rage.

  “I understand, sir,” Stokes said. “I was just going out to look again.”

  “If you don’t find his ass and drag it in here,” Landry yelled after him, “don’t bother coming back!”

  * * *

  Clint, Temple, and Evans sat around the office with steaming coffee mugs in their hands.

  “. . . so we have this mental image of the killer,” Clint said, “and we know he was in the café yesterday afternoon.”

  “And in front of the photography studio,” Temple added.

  “Do you think he was around this mornin’,” Evans asked, “watchin’?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Then he saw you questionin’ people,” Evans said. “Questioning the photographer—Ed Morgan by the way.”

  “He probably did,” Temple said.

  “Damn,” Clint said.

  “Yeah,” Evans said. They both set down their mugs and stood up.

  “What is it?” Temple asked.

  “The photographer,” Clint said. “He might be in trouble.”

  Temple hastily set his mug down as they headed for the door, and said, “Wait for me!”

  * * *

  When they got to the photography studio, the front door was locked.

  “That’s bad,” Evans said. “He’s usually open at this time of day.”

  “Maybe he had a job somewhere?” Clint suggested.

  “He’d put a sign on his door saying when he’d be back,” Evans said. “Ed doesn’t want to lose any business.”

  Clint tried to see through the window into the interior of the shop.

  “Anything?” Evans asked.

  “I don’t see anybody,” Clint said.

  “Should we try the back door?” Temple asked.

  “To hell with that,” the sheriff said. “Let’s force the front.”

  Clint and Evans pressed their shoulders to the door. It slammed open, shattering the glass, but that was the least of their worries.

  The three of them filed in and started looking around. Clint found Ed Morgan in his back room.

  “Sheriff! Harry!”

  “Damnit!” Evans said, fearing the worst. He and Temple went to the doorway that led to the back room, looked at each other, and went through.

  Ed Morgan was lying on the floor on his back. Clint was crouching down next to him.

  “Dead?” Evans asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How?” Temple asked.

  “Stabbed,” Clint said, “looks like in the back.”

  “Not strangled?” Temple asked.

  “No.” Clint stood up. The three of them stood there, looking down.

  “Now what?” Temple asked.

  “We have to send for the police,” Clint said.

  “But—” Temple started.

  “I know,” Clint said. “We can’t be here when they arrive.”

  They both looked at Evans.

  “Yeah, okay,” the sheriff said, “get out of here. Meet me at my office.”

  “We owe you, Sher—” Clint started.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Evans said. “Just get out of here.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Clint and Temple waited for Sheriff Evans at his office, hoping nobody else would walk in. They finished the coffee in the pot and then Clint made another. It took hours, but Evans finally returned, and Clint handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Well, Stokes wasn’t happy, and I’m not sure he believed that I just happened to go to the studio to question Ed. But in the end he accepted it.”

  “So now what?” Temple asked. “He was our only witness.”

  “He told us what he saw,” Clint said. “It’s not as if there was something he could have testified to in court.”

  “So I repeat, what do we do now?”

  “Abilene has grown too big,” Evans said. “It’s not like we can go out on the street and try to match the description we have.”

  Temple looked over at Clint, who seemed to be deep in thought.

  “Okay,” he said, “what are you thinking?”

  Clint looked at Evans.

  “Do you know any artists in town?”

  “Not me,” he said. “You’d be better off asking Tanner about that.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I think I know where you’re headed,” Temple said.

  “Can somebody tell me?” Evans asked.

  “I’m thinking of giving the photographer’s description to an artist, and then printing the sketch in the newspaper.”

  “If you do that,” Evans said, “the killer is gonna leave town.”

  “And if we can watch the roads leading out of town, we might spot him.”

  “On the other hand,” Temple said, “that actually might make him come after us.”

  “But he kills women,” Evans said.

  “He already broke that pattern by killing Ed Morgan,” Clint pointed out.

  Evans shrugged, conceding that point to Clint.

  “You think Tanner will agree to it?” Evans asked. “Doesn’t he have enough trouble after your first two ar
ticles?”

  “He’s in trouble?” Temple asked.

  “You didn’t hear?” Evans asked.

  “Hear what?”

  “The mayor is closing the newspaper down.”

  “He can’t do that,” Temple said.

  “He can if he keeps anybody from ever buying the paper.”

  Temple looked at Clint, who shook his head. If the sheriff didn’t know that Tanner funded the newspaper himself, who were they to tell him?

  “So,” Evans went on, “if you want to get a sketch into that newspaper, you better hurry.”

  “He’s right,” Clint said. “Let’s go. Sheriff, thanks for your help.”

  “Let me know what else I can do.”

  “We will,” Clint said.

  * * *

  “Sure, I know an artist,” Tanner said.

  “Good,” Clint said. “If we get a sketch, will you run it?”

  “I will.”

  “What about your trouble?” Temple asked. Tanner looked at him. “The sheriff told us.”

  “The mayor can make it illegal to read my paper if he wants,” Tanner said, “but I’ll still put it out there. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “We have to stay off the street. Find your artist and bring him here, and we’ll get started.”

  “I know just where he is,” Tanner said, grabbing his hat. “I’ll be right back.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Clint and Temple were confusing the artist.

  “Look,” the young man said, “this would go better if only one of you talked.”

  Temple shrugged and said to Clint, “Go ahead.”

  The artist’s name was Leo Wilkins. Clint recognized him because he worked at the livery stable, but Tanner said he was a talented artist.

  “I use him for the paper sometimes—like today.”

  So Leo listened intently while Clint gave him the description that the photographer had given them. When he was done, they had a sketch of a man’s face that seemed very clear.

  “Is that him?” Leo asked.

  Clint looked at the picture and said, “I hope so. Thanks, Leo.”

  “I hope it helps.”

  Clint took out some money and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” Leo said, and left to go back to work at the livery. Tanner walked him out.

  “Don’t worry,” he said when he came back. “He’s not going to talk to anyone.”

  “Here,” Clint said, handing him the sketch, “do whatever it is you do with this to put it in the paper.”

  “It’ll be out tomorrow morning.”

  Clint nodded.

  “And in the meantime?” Temple asked.

  “We stay out of sight,” Clint said.

  “At the hotel?”

  “No, if the mayor or the chief wants us badly enough, they’ll go to the hotel.”

  “Here,” Tanner said, handing Clint a key, “go to my house. There’s food there, and an extra room. You fellas can stay there until the morning, when the edition comes out.”

  “That’s as good a place as any,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  The editor gave them directions to his house, then went to work after they left.

  * * *

  “No sign of them,” the chief told the mayor.

  Mayor Stanley stood up from his desk and pointed his finger at Chief Landry.

  “You better find them, Chief, or this is the last time you’ll be called that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Angrily, Landry left the mayor’s office, running into Ned Beaumont before he left City Hall.

  “You better find them, W.T.,” Beaumont said.

  “You got any ideas how?”

  “Your man Stokes.”

  “I’m not so sure he’s my man,” Landry said. “I think he might have his own agenda.”

  “Don’t we all?” Beaumont said. “Do the best you can, Chief. I know you’ll get it done.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ned.”

  As the chief left, the district attorney went back to his own office.

  * * *

  The killer looked up as the door opened.

  “What are you doing in my office?” the man demanded, glaring at the intruder, who was sitting in a visitor’s chair.

  “I wondered when you’d come back.”

  “I told you not to come here,” the man said, moving around behind his desk and sitting down. “That’s our agreement.”

  “Our agreement has changed.”

  “Yes, it has,” the man said, “now that you’ve killed another girl. I told you to wait.”

  “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “Too bad,” the man said, “because now you’ve put us in a bad position.”

  “Tsk tsk,” the killer said. “You know, when I came to Abilene and we met, I thought I’d found a kindred spirit.”

  The man behind the desk looked at the killer. Not a kindred spirit exactly, but someone who saw the killer for what he was, and thought he had a use for him.

  “When you killed Laurie, I didn’t mind—much,” he said. “And I let you take a shot at the Gunsmith and his partner just for the fun of it. But we agreed no more until—”

  “Until you found another use for me,” the killer said. “But you took your time, so—”

  “So you killed Mathilda. And now everyone’s after you with renewed vigor.”

  “I don’t mind,” the killer said. “You’ll think of something. You’re a smart man. You don’t become district attorney without being smart.”

  “Mayor,” Ned Beaumont said. “I’m going to be mayor. And for that, I thought I’d need a man like you.”

  “If you could control me,” the killer said.

  “Yes.”

  “And now you know you can’t.”

  “Can’t I?”

  The killer stood up. “Those men you promised me?”

  “They’re waiting in the Red Queen Saloon,” Beaumont said. “Talk to a man named Mick, tell him I sent you.”

  “And they’ll do what I tell them?”

  “They will,” Beaumont said. “You’re going to have to really take care of Clint Adams and the reporter this time.”

  “I know that,” the killer said. “I’ve known it all along.”

  “And then we can get back on track.”

  “Well,” the killer said, moving around the desk, “I think your track and my track have sort of been . . . derailed.”

  Beaumont looked up at the killer, pushed his chair back in alarm, and said, “What do you—”

  He got no further.

  FORTY-THREE

  When Tanner didn’t come to his house that night, Clint got worried.

  “He’s probably just working late,” Temple said, “getting tomorrow’s edition out.”

  “He said he’d come home.”

  “He told me he spends a lot of nights in his office when he’s working,” Temple said.

  He collected from the table the plates from their meager meal and carried them into the kitchen. When he came back into the living room, Clint was looking out the window.

  “If you’re that worried, let’s go look for him.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Clint said.

  * * *

  When they got to the newspaper office, the front door was wide open.

  “That’s not a good sign,” Clint said.

  They went inside, found the place in shambles. The printing press had been smashed, and the place was strewn with broken furniture, shattered glass, and torn paper.

  “The only thing they didn’t do was burn the place down,” Temple said.

  “Tanner!” Clint said.

  “His office.”

  They ra
n back to the editor’s office, but it was in the same condition, completely destroyed.

  “The killer?” Temple asked.

  “I don’t see any blood,” Clint said, looking around. “And more than one man did this.”

  “So either the killer had help, or the mayor sent some men to destroy this place.”

  “But why would they take Tanner?” Clint asked.

  “I guess there’s one way to find out,” the reporter said.

  Clint nodded and said, “We ask him.”

  * * *

  They didn’t know where the mayor lived, so they went to City Hall. “We’ll break in if we have to, and find his address.”

  “We could ask the sheriff,” Temple said.

  “Let’s leave him out of this for now,” Clint said.

  Clint tried the front door and found it unlocked.

  “Another bad sign,” Temple said.

  “Not necessarily,” Clint said. “He might just be working late.”

  They opened the door and entered. The large building felt very empty. Standing just inside the door, in the entry foyer, they didn’t hear a sound.

  “Let’s check the mayor’s office,” Clint said.

  They went upstairs, made their way to Mayor Stanley’s office, and entered. It was empty.

  “Check his desk,” Clint said. “See if you can find anything that tells us where he lives.”

  Temple went to the desk, while Clint looked around the rest of the room. There were some file cabinets, but they were locked. A small bar with expensive-looking bottles of liquor. A small writing desk in a corner, with nothing on it or in it.

  “Here’s an envelope addressed to him,” Temple said.

  “At City Hall?”

  “No, another address in town.”

  “That’s got to be it,” Clint said.

  At that moment they heard a door close in the hall and then footsteps. Clint held his hand out to Temple to be quiet. He put his hand on his gun, and they waited. The footsteps came closer, and then the mayor entered and stopped short.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Where did you just come from?” Clint demanded.

  “The water closet, if it’s any of your business.”

  “Where’s Pete Tanner?”