The Town Council Meeting

by J. R. Roberts

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Adams? Are you here to steal? Investigate? What?”

  “Investigate, I suppose,” Clint said. “The town council has hired me to look into your husband’s murder.”

  “That’s because they know the sheriff is incapable of finding out who killed him.”

  “Barbara, who do you think killed him?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” she said. “You probably thought I had a lover who did it, but I didn’t have a lover. Haven’t had a lover for a very . . . very long time. Don’t you think that’s a shame, Clint?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I think it’s a terrible shame.”

  He noticed that, somehow, while she was pouring drinks, she had managed to undo her robe and open it, revealing a very nice pair of breasts encased in a silk nightgown. The slopes of her breasts, and her cleavage, were dotted with freckles.

  “But you didn’t tell me, Barbara,” Clint said, aware that there was heat coming from her body, “who do you think killed your husband?”

  “Well,” she said, “I think the first person who should be suspected is . . . me. After me, I suppose Matt Holmes and Andy Rivers would seem likely.”

  “Did you know that Holmes and Rivers would sometimes work together against your husband?”

  “No,” she said, “but I’m not surprised. Those two were here before Big Ed got here. And I suppose him coming here gave them a common enemy. So they stopped fighting with each other to fight against him?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “They hid it well, then,” she said, “because everybody in town still thinks of those two as competitors.”

  “Well, maybe they only joined forces when it involved your husband.”

  “That could be true,” she said, “but then why kill him?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Well then, I see your point, Mr. Adams,” she said. “I guess that just leaves me.”

  “I don’t think you killed him.”

  “Well, maybe I had him killed.”

  “By who? You already told me you didn’t have any lovers.”

  “What if I hired it done?”

  “Would you know how?”

  “Oh my, what’s to know?” she asked. “You find a man and you offer him money. If you offer him enough money, he’ll do it.”

  “You think it’s that simple?”

  “When you have enough money,” she said. “What if I offered you, say, a thousand dollars to kill my husband? What would you say?”

  “I’d say let me see the money,” Clint answered. “Do you have that much money to spend, Barbara?”

  “No,” she said, “but I’d have it after my husband was dead.”

  “And you think a man would kill your husband for an IOU that he can collect on after the job is done?” he asked.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m ashamed to say that I know for a fact that they won’t.”

  “You mean you tried?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you got no takers?”

  “None,” she said.

  “And should I believe you?”

  “Oh my,” she said, “after we’ve been so frank with one another, why would I lie about a thing like that? I tried to have my husband killed, no one would do it, but someone finally did.”

  “And has anyone come forward for the money?”

  She blinked.

  “Oh, I see,” she said, “you think I just put the amount out there and asked for takers? No, no, I talked to several men directly. This was not a . . . what would you call it? An open offer.”

  “So someone else killed your husband, for reasons having nothing to do with you?”

  “That’s how I see it,” she said. “No lovers, no hired guns. Another drink?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Arnie Coleman knew he was doing the right thing. He just wished he had somebody more reliable than Charlie Hicks. The kid was a crack shot with a rifle, but he was young. Coleman didn’t think he’d killed anyone before. He just hoped that wouldn’t stop him from taking the shot when he had it.

  Charlie Hicks was scared.

  He knew what Arnie Coleman told him was true. Clint Adams deserved to die for killing Big Ed Kennedy. And Charlie was the best shot on the ranch. He knew both of those things were true, but the other truth he knew was that he’d never shot anything but an animal before and that was only when he was hunting for food.

  He got up on the highest roof he could find and hoped that when the time came he’d be able to take the shot. If he didn’t, he didn’t see how he could stay on the ranch anymore.

  “I know who you are, you know,” Barbara Kennedy said to Clint.

  “What?”

  She nodded.

  “The hands were talking, and Arnie Coleman told me that you killed Ed.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “No.”

  “Or how he knew?”

  “He said everyone knew Big Ed was going to hire you,” she said.

  “To do what?”

  “Nobody knows,” she said. “Arnie thought it might be to kill Andy Rivers or Matt Holmes.”

  “Did your husband ever say anything to you about having them killed?”

  “Oh no,” she said, “Big Ed never talked to me about his business.”

  “Did he ever talk to anyone about his business?” Clint asked.

  “I assume Arnie, since he’s the foreman.”

  “So Arnie would know if Big Ed had hired me,” Clint said. “And he’d know why.”

  “I guess.”

  “And he’d know if Big Ed didn’t hire me.”

  She sipped her drink and noticed her glass was empty. “I would say so. Could you fill my glass for me again, please?”

  “Sure.”

  He stood up and she handed him her drink. From that position he was looking right down the front of her nightgown.

  “So,” he continued, yanking his eyes away from her cleavage and walking across the room, “Arnie Coleman should be the only man who knows the whole truth.”

  “If you say so. Are you coming with that drink?”

  He poured some whiskey in the glass and carried it back to her. She reached for the glass and took it. Her other hand brushed against his thigh as he sat back down next to her.

  “Barbara, would Arnie Coleman have any reason to kill Big Ed?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I mean . . . why would Arnie kill the man who was paying him?”

  “Maybe,” Clint said, “Arnie got fired?”

  “I don’t know anything about Arnie getting fired,” she said.

  “You said your husband didn’t talk to you about his business,” Clint said. “So why would he tell you if he had decided to fire Arnie?”

  She tapped her nail on the glass she held.

  “So Arnie is trying to blame you?”

  “By telling all the hands that Big Ed was hiring the Gunsmith,” Clint said. “That’s why they all knew about Big Ed’s plans. And for everyone to know, that would be unusual, right?”

  “Yes, correct,” she said. “Tell me, how do you intend to prove this?”

  “Well,” he said, “we’ll have to question all the hands, find out how they heard that Big Ed was planning to hire me.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll need you to testify that your husband would only discuss his business with his foreman.”

  “So, you need me to come to town with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Well . . . that would be helpful.”

  She thought it over for a few moments, then said, “I don’t think so.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to ride into town tonight.”

  “But . . . why not?”

  “Well . . . for one thing,” she said, “I’m kind of drunk. Who’s going to believe anything I say in this condition?”

  Clint had been wonder
ing when she would show some effect of the whiskey she was drinking. He assumed she’d been drinking before he got there, and so far she was remarkably lucid.

  “I think I can convince the judge to believe what you say, Barbara.”

  “Well, maybe, but . . . I still don’t want to go.”

  “Why not?”

  “You need me to do this, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t need you.”

  “Well,” she said, “I need you, and I need you to do something for me, first.”

  “Okay.”

  “And after you do something for me,” she said, “then I’ll do something for you.”

  “Okay, Barbara,” he asked, “what do you want me to do for you?”

  She put her drink down, settled her hands primly into her lap, tossed back her hair, and looked at him.

  “I want you to fuck me.”

  “Barbara—”

  “Now, hear me out,” she said, raising one hand. “I know that’s a rather lowbrow word for what I want you to do, but that’s what I want. I don’t want to ‘make love,’ and I don’t want to ‘have sex.’ What I want to do, pure and simple, is fuck.”

  “Barbara, I don’t have time—”

  “Where do you have to go?” she asked. “Back to town? To take sanctuary in the saloon again? I have a wonderful bed upstairs. All you have to do is come up there with me, get naked with me, sweaty, and fuck.”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, reaching out and running her hand over his thigh. “Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Gunsmith. I told you, my husband hasn’t touched me for years, and no other man dared while he was alive. I need to find out if what you said earlier is right.”

  “What did I say earlier?”

  “That my juices are not all dried up.” She leaned forward and gripped his thigh tightly. Her breasts almost fell out of her nightgown. “Do you know why I dress like this to go to bed?”

  He had to moisten his mouth to answer.

  “No, why?”

  “Because I like to touch myself when I’m in bed,” she said. “No, that’s not right. It’s because I have to touch myself, because nobody else will.”

  “Barbara—”

  “I need a man’s touch, Clint Adams.”

  “You have a lot of men working on this ranch,” he said. “I’m sure any one of them would be happy to oblige you.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said, “and now that Big Ed is dead I’ll probably pick out a couple, but tonight . . . I want you.”

  She stood up, looked down at him, and dropped her robe to the floor.

  “I’ll make it easy for you,” she said.

  Next, she shrugged off the nightgown.

  “I’ll let you see what you’ll get if you agree.”

  She had a marvelous body. Full breasts and hips, brown nipples, nice thighs, only the slightest signs that she was in middle age. And her smell—she was in heat, all right, like an animal, and he could smell her—and like any male animal, his body reacted.

  She reached out and took his chin in her hand.

  “Stand up and kiss me,” she said. “If you tell me you didn’t like it, I’ll get dressed and go with you.”

  So that was his way out. All he had to do was kiss her and tell her he didn’t like it. How hard could that be?

  He stood up and faced her. The heat coming from her body actually made him start to sweat. But he was in control. He knew he could do this. A simple kiss, and then they’d be on their way.

  But two things undid his resolve as he leaned forward and their lips met. It wasn’t that she pressed her body against him, crushing her breasts into his chest.

  And it wasn’t that the smell of her started to make him dizzy.

  It was something she did and a sound she made.

  First, just before their lips touched she moistened her mouth with her tongue. It was an incredibly sexy thing for her to do at that moment.

  And second, as their lips met, she made a sound into his mouth. He wasn’t sure he could describe it, because it was a decidedly female sound.

  The only way he could describe it was that it was kind of like . . . “Mmmm.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Where do you suppose he went?” Delbert Chambers asked the table at large.

  “Maybe he went to see Rivers and Holmes,” Ben Lawson suggested.

  “Why would he do that?” The judge asked. “Both of them came here and spoke to him.”

  “Maybe he wants to see each of them alone,” Lawson said.

  “Yeah,” Chambers said, “maybe he wants to beat the truth out of them.”

  “Or threaten them with his gun,” Lawson said.

  “Didn’t the two of you pay any attention when he was here?” the judge asked. “That’s not the kind of man he is.”

  “The judge is right,” the mayor said. “Adams wouldn’t threaten them with his gun—he’d just shoot them.”

  Lawson looked at the mayor.

  “You think he killed Kennedy?”

  “No,” the mayor said, “I don’t.”

  “You know,” the judge said, “you can ask him all these questions when he comes back.”

  “You really think he’s comin’ back?” Lawson asked.

  “Oh yes,” the judge said, “I’m certain of it.”

  “How certain?” Lawson asked.

  All four men put their cards down.

  “Are you proposing a wager, Ben?”

  “This is interesting,” Chambers said.

  “Quiet,” the mayor said. “Let’s listen to Ben and the judge.”

  “I say Adams is gone,” Lawson said, “never to return to this table, this saloon, or this town.”

  “And how much are you willin’ to risk on your belief, Ben?”

  “Two hundred?”

  “You don’t have much faith in your beliefs, do you?” the judge asked.

  “Okay, five hundred,” Lawson said. “Five hundred dollars says Adams doesn’t come back.”

  “I’ll cover that, Ben,” the judge said, “but I’ve got another five hundred that says he’s back by this time tomorrow.”

  “What time is it, Delbert?” Lawson asked.

  Chambers took out his watch and checked the face.

  “It’s ten p.m.”

  “All right,” Ben Lawson said, “five hundred more says he’s not back by this time tomorrow.”

  “We’ll each write two checks,” the judge said, “and the mayor will hold them.”

  “Agreed,” Lawson said.

  “Well, get to writing the checks, then,” the mayor said, “so we can get back to our game.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Andy Rivers sat in the most comfortable chair in his study and smoked his cigar. On the table next to the chair was a snifter of brandy. When Parker Stark came to the door he stopped right there.

  “Cigar?” Rivers asked.

  “No.”

  “Brandy?”

  “No.”

  Rivers took his cigar out of his mouth and blew a long plume of smoke before speaking again.

  “Every time you come in here I offer you a cigar and a brandy, and you always say no. Why is that?”

  “You pay me for my services, Mr. Rivers,” Stark said, “and you pay me well. I wouldn’t enjoy your cigars and your brandy. I smoke three-for-a-nickel cheroots and drink rotgut . . . and I like it. You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes,” Rivers said. “Do you think you can take the Gunsmith?”

  “I don’t know,” Stark said. “How can anybody know that?”

  “I’d like you to try.”

  “Then the question is,” Stark said, “can you pay me enough to try?”

  “I might have a bottle of cheap whiskey around here somewhere, Stark,” Rivers said. “Maybe we can have a drink and . . . discuss it?”

  “Why not?”

  Over drinks—Rivers expensive brandy, and Stark c
heap rotgut whiskey—they discussed the price and came to an arrangement.

  “When do you want it done?” Stark asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Stark finished his whiskey and stood up.

  “I want it done in the street, Stark,” Rivers said, “All legal.”

  Stark sat down, poured the last of the rotgut into his glass.

  “We have more talkin’ to do.”

  By the time he finished that glass they had agreed on a price. Stark would face the Gunsmith in the street and kill him. Hopefully.

  Stark stood up.

  “Half now, half after it’s done,” Rivers said.

  Stark sat down.

  “Give me some of that brandy you’re always braggin’ about.”

  By the time they finished their brandy Stark saw the wisdom of Rivers’s offer.

  “If he kills me,” he said, “I won’t have any need of the second half.”

  “Or the first, for that matter,” Rivers said.

  “I might be able to figure out a way to hedge my bet,” Stark said. “Any objection to that?”

  “As long as it looks legal,” Rivers said, “I don’t have a problem.”

  Stark stood up, staggered a bit.

  “That brandy of yours has quite a kick,” he said.

  Or, Rivers thought as Stark went out the door, half a bottle of rotgut.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint kissed Barbara Kennedy, and then kept on kissing her. While he was kissing her, and feeling her body against his, he thought, well, why not? What was the rush to get back to town? The morning would do.

  His hands roamed over her body, kneading her opulent flesh, enjoying the feel of her smooth, hot skin.

  Her hands were between them, doing some kneading of her own through his pants.

  Finally, the kiss broke and she pulled her head back, but did not take a step back.

  “So?” she asked. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  She squeezed him through his pants.

  “Yes, I think I can.”

  She took his hand, then led him to the stairway, up to the second floor, along a long hallway to her bedroom. Inside he saw the bed she had been talking about. It was, as she had said, wonderful—large, comfortable, perfect for sex or sleep . . . or both.