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Showdown in Desperation

Page 4

by J. R. Roberts

“Mrs. O’Shea,” he said, “I just heard about Lanigan. I wanted to ask you—”

  “Why would I let you in my house?” she demanded.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” he asked. “I only want to talk.”

  “But—but—but . . . you shot him!” she exclaimed.

  “What?” he said. “Who told you that? Where did you hear that?”

  “Everywhere!” she said. “It’s all over town that the Gunsmith shot Mr. Lanigan.”

  “I don’t know who’s passing that around, ma’am,” he said, “but I most certainly didn’t shoot Lanigan. I don’t make a habit of shooting my friends.”

  “Then—then why would anyone say that?”

  “I can only guess,” he said, “that the person who is saying I killed him is actually the killer.”

  She said, “Oh!”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “Why, no,” she said. “I just heard it from . . . some of the boarders at breakfast.”

  “Ma’am,” he said, “would those boarders be home now?”

  “Um, no,” she said, “there’s no one in the house right now. Mr. Lanigan was the only one who used to . . . stay around during the day.”

  “Well, could you give me their names?”

  “You’re not going to . . . hurt them, are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Clint said. “I’d just like to find out who’s spreading those lies about me, and I’d also like to find out who actually killed Mr. Lanigan.”

  “Isn’t that the sheriff’s job?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Clint said. “Not when somebody is spreading the word that I did it. Then it becomes my job.”

  “Oh,” she said, “well, come in then.”

  She allowed him to enter and led him to the living room once again.

  “Ma’am—”

  “Please,” she said, “just call me Erin.”

  “All right,” he said. “Erin, I heard that Lanigan was shot in front of the house. Did you hear anything?”

  “I don’t understand it,” she said. “I heard nothing.”

  “Did anyone else hear anything?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she said. “You would have to ask them.”

  “How many boarders do you have?”

  “Five,” she said, “six, with . . . with poor Mr. Lanigan.”

  “Did he get along with the others?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You think perhaps one of them did it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m going to have to ask.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, “the very thought that I might have a . . . a killer staying in my house—”

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions, ma—Erin,” Clint said. “I’m just going to ask some questions.”

  “I’ll give you their names, if you think it will help find who killed Mr. Lanigan. He was such a nice man.”

  “Yes, he was,” Clint said. “And thank you for believing that I didn’t kill him.”

  “After you were here that time,” she said, “he spoke very highly of you. I got the impression that you were friends.”

  “I’d like to think we were.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said, sitting on the sofa and once again lifting her hanky to her face.

  “Well,” he said awkwardly, “if you’ll let me have those names, I’ll leave you to your, uh, grief.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Of course. Shall I write them down for you?”

  “Please,” he said, “and if you can give me some hint about where to find them, that would be great.”

  “Of course,” she said, standing. “I’ll be right back.”

  He waited there while she left the room, wondering how close Lanigan had gotten with his landlady.

  • • •

  Clint left the house armed with the names of her boarders, and some idea of where to find them. She also told him which ones had said that it was the Gunsmith who’d killed Lanigan.

  But before he went looking for them, he went to Dan Brennan’s general store and was surprised to find him there.

  “Gotta come into work sometime,” Brennan said. “I’m tryin’ to keep the wife happy—sort of.”

  “Did you hear about Lanigan?”

  “Gettin’ killed? Yeah, I heard it.”

  “The word’s going around town that I did it.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Brennan said, “but I don’t see any reason for it.”

  “There isn’t any reason, because I didn’t do it.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Do you have any idea who did?”

  “Well, I don’t wanna point the finger . . .” the man said.

  “Go ahead,” Clint said, “point it.”

  “Okay. If he’d been shot in the back, I’d be lookin’ at Johnny Creed. But I heard he was shot in the chest.”

  “That’s what I heard, too.”

  “So I guess he coulda been bushwhacked.”

  “Do you know where I can find Creed?”

  “His family had a house outside of town,” he said. “I suppose he still lives there.”

  “Tell me how to get there. Do I need my horse?”

  “Naw, you can walk,” Brennan said. “It’s . . .”

  ELEVEN

  Clint found all of Erin O’Shea’s boarders. None of them had heard anything outside the house either the night before or that morning. Pete Nixon had told her at breakfast that the Gunsmith had shot Lanigan over a poker hand.

  “Who told you that?” Clint asked him. He’d found Nixon working on the printing press at the town newspaper. Apparently that was his job, traveling from town to town doing repairs.

  “I don’t know,” the man said from under the press. “Somebody.”

  Clint leaned down, grabbed his legs, and pulled him out from under the thing.

  “I’m talking to you,” he said. “Stand up and look at me.”

  “What’s the problem?” the man asked. He stood, towering over Clint, but almost emaciated. “Why’s it so important to you who told me the Gunsmith killed the gambler?”

  “Because,” Clint said. “I am the Gunsmith.”

  The color drained from the man’s face, making him look more forty than his real age of thirty.

  “Oh, uh,” the man said, “s-sorry. I just, uh, heard it someplace.”

  “Okay, I know that already,” Clint said. “I want to know where you heard it. It was early this morning, before you even had breakfast. Where did you go?”

  “For a walk.”

  “Where?’

  “Into town.”

  “Did you stop anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you hear it?”

  “On the street,” Nixon said. “People were just talking about it.”

  “What people?”

  “I don’t know,” Nixon said, “just people on the street. I don’t know nobody’s name.”

  Clint got it. The word had hit the street. But he needed to know who started it.

  “Can I, uh, go back to work now?” the man asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Clint said. “Go ahead.”

  The young man got on the floor, but before he slid under the press, he looked up at Clint and asked, “So you didn’t kill the gambler?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I didn’t.”

  • • •

  He left the newspaper office and went back to the sheriff’s office. Cox was there without his deputies, but Clint knew where one of them was—right behind him.

  “Back so soon?” Cox asked.

  “You find out anything yet?”

  “No,” Cox said, “you?”

  “Just that people on the street are spreading the wor
d that I killed Lanigan,” Clint said. “I’d like to find out who started that story.”

  “Well,” Cox said, “I’m tryin’ to find out who killed the gambler. Maybe when I do that, I’ll find out.”

  “But you still think I did it.”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “so I need to do this myself.”

  “Just don’t leave town, Mr. Adams.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  He left the office, walked down the street with the young deputy behind him.

  • • •

  He went to the undertaker’s office next.

  “Have you lost a loved one?” the man asked as Clint entered. He was gray-haired, in his sixties, wearing a gray suit instead of the traditional black.

  “No,” Clint said, “not a loved one. Just a friend. The gambler that was shot this morning.”

  “Ah, Mr. Lanigan, yes. Will you be paying for his burial?”

  “What? Paying—yes, yes, I will. I’ll pay.”

  “Then you’ve come to pick out a casket and a marker.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” Clint said. “But first I want to see the body.”

  “Of course,” the man said, “one last viewing. This way.”

  He led Clint into a back room where Lanigan was laid out on a table.

  “Give me a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  The man left.

  Clint walked to the table and stared down at Lanigan. There was a neat hole in his chest. The bullet would certainly have exploded his heart.

  “Too bad you were so busy watching your back,” Clint said. “I guess you didn’t see it coming from the front.”

  Or maybe he did see it coming, and it was someone he knew, someone he didn’t fear. But this wasn’t his town. Who could that have been? Only somebody from the boardinghouse, or somebody from the poker game.

  Clint couldn’t think of anyone in the game who would want to kill Lanigan. At least, none of the local businessmen. Maybe Creed . . . or someone from the house.

  But he had talked to the other boarders. They were all passing through town, had never met Lanigan before. Who would have had a motive to kill him?

  Two of the boarders were men under thirty, one was in his forties, the other two were older. Maybe somebody knew that the landlady was sweet on Lanigan, and was jealous?

  To find that out, he’d have to talk to the lovely landlady, Mrs. O’Shea, again.

  TWELVE

  He found Mrs. O’Shea with a cloth in her hand, dusting her living room.

  “Oh, you’re back,” she said. “Did you find out anything?”

  “I think Lanigan was shot by somebody he knew,” Clint said.

  “Somebody from the house?”

  “He didn’t know the people here very well, did he?” Clint asked. “They’d all just met, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Let me ask you something, Erin,” Clint said, “and please don’t be insulted.”

  “All right.”

  “You’re a lovely woman.”

  “Why would that make me feel insulted?” she asked.

  “What about the men in this house?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you think any of them . . . like you?”

  “I hope that all of them like me, Mr. Adams,” she said.

  “No, I mean . . . really like you.”

  “What do you—oh? You mean . . . like that?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “like that.”

  “I don’t do that with boarders, Mr. Adams,” she said.

  “Well, you’ll excuse me for saying so,” Clint said, “but you seemed to like Mr. Lanigan.”

  “I did like him.”

  “A lot?” Clint asked. “More than the other boarders?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “He was . . . a gentleman.”

  “So do you think any of the others were jealous?”

  “Jealous? You mean . . . jealous enough to kill him?” she asked.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “That couldn’t be.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She seemed to give the matter some thought, then said, “No, it’s not possible. None of them have ever even suggested anything to me.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “okay. That just leaves the poker game.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll leave you to your cleaning now. Thanks.”

  He turned and left the house.

  • • •

  Wilkins, the drifter, could always be found in the saloon. If he wasn’t drinking, he was playing poker. At the moment he was standing at the bar, drinking.

  “Adams,” Wilkins said as Clint entered. “Come have a beer. We can lift one to poor Lanigan.”

  Clint approached the bar and nodded to Jasper, who drew him a cold one.

  “When was the last time you saw Lanigan, Wilkins?” Clint asked.

  “What? Last night, after the game.”

  “Not since?”

  “No, why? Oh, wait,” Wilkins said. “I heard some talk about you killing him.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Wilkins said, “but do you think I did?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I can’t see any reason why you would—unless you knew him before you both came here.”

  “No, never saw him before.”

  “Okay.”

  “So why do you want to know when I saw him last?”

  “I thought maybe you saw him with someone,” Clint said. “I’m thinking he was shot by somebody he knew.”

  “From the game?”

  “I don’t think any of us had a reason to do it.”

  “Then who?” Wilkins asked. “Somebody at the boardinghouse?”

  “I’ve talked to everyone involved,” Clint said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then who?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Clint said. “The only name I can come up with right now is Johnny Creed.”

  “The kid? You mean, because of what happened the other night?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then why don’t you find him?” Wilkins suggested.

  “It’s what I’m going to do next.”

  “Want somebody to watch your back?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Clint looked at Jasper.

  “How much do you know about the kid?”

  “Creed? He grew up here.”

  “Did you know his father?”

  “No, and I didn’t know his mother,” Jasper said. “She died when he was young.”

  “So who brought him up?” Clint asked. “An aunt? Perhaps an uncle?”

  “No,” Jasper said. “There were none of those. He pretty much grew up on the street.”

  “I have directions to get to his house,” Clint said. “That is, his family’s house. Does he still live there?”

  “I guess so,” Jasper said. “I don’t know of anyplace else he lives.”

  Clint looked at Wilkins.

  “I guess we’ll take a walk and see if he’s home.”

  “Fine with me,” Wilkins asked. “I kinda liked Lanigan. Thought I could learn a thing or two from him.”

  “I’m sure you could have,” Clint said. “He was a very good poker player.”

  “You’re pretty good, too,” Wilkins said. “I was learning a lot from the two of you.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “let’s go and find the kid and see what he’s learned.”

  THIRTEEN

  They found the house with no trouble. It appeared from the outside to be barely livable. In fact, i
t looked like it only had three walls.

  “Well,” Clint said, “we won’t have any trouble getting in, will we?”

  They walked around and entered the house through the missing wall. There were empty cans strewn about, a bedroll in one corner, and on an old kitchen counter some dirty silverware and coffee mugs.

  “He lives here,” Wilkins said, “kinda.”

  Clint looked around. There was nothing there that was any help to him. Especially since he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  “So now what?” Wilkins asked.

  “Just find him, I guess,” Clint said. “He’s probably somewhere around town.”

  “What if he’s gone?”

  “Why would he leave?”

  “You’re thinkin’ he killed Lanigan, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What better reason to leave town, then?” Wilkins asked. “To avoid the law.”

  They left the house, headed back to town.

  “If he has left town,” Clint said, “I’m going to have to go after him.”

  “I don’t mind helpin’ you find him here in town,” Wilkins said, “but I can’t—”

  “No,” Clint said, cutting him off, “I’m not asking you to go with me.”

  “Oh,” Wilkins said, “okay.”

  • • •

  They reached town and separated. If Wilkins saw the kid, Creed, he’d find Clint and tell him about it. He had no reason to brace him. That was up to Clint.

  Clint was crossing the street, about to check one of the saloons for Creed, when he saw Sheriff Cox coming toward him, flanked by his two deputies.

  “Now what?” Clint asked.

  “I’ve got a witness,” Cox said.

  “To what?” Clint asked. “It can’t be to me killing Lanigan, because I didn’t do it.”

  “No,” Cox said, “not to you killing him. But to you threatening to kill him.”

  “I didn’t do that either.”

  “Our witness said you did, during an argument. A real loud argument.”

  “And where did this argument take place?” Clint asked. “And who is the witness?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that now,” Cox said. “I don’t want my witnesses to . . . disappear.”

  “You think I’d kill him, or her?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “I hope you’re not planning to try taking my gun,” Clint said, staring at the two deputies. They both looked away.

 

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