“You got any idea who disliked him enough to kill him?”
“Have you talked to the folks who run things?” Clem asked.
“You mean like the town council?”
“Sure,” Delbert said, “and maybe the mayor.”
“Dan Carter owned a business in town,” Clem said, “and he wanted to be a—whatayacallit?—town father.”
“Look around town,” Delbert said.
“That’s all we’re sayin’.”
Clint studied the two brothers. Suddenly, there was a distance in their eyes, as if they were able to turn their intelligence on and off.
“Okay,” Clint said, “thanks for the drink.”
He stood up, then swayed a minute before catching himself on the table.
“Mash is kinda strong,” Clem said.
“Gotta be careful,” Delbert said.
“Yeah,” Clint said, “I see what you mean. Thank you, boys.”
“Good luck, Mr. Gunsmith,” Clem said.
“Let us know if you find out who killed them two ol’ boys,” Delbert said.
“Yeah,” Clint said. “I’ll do that.”
THIRTY
It was getting dark when Clint got back to Griggsville. He put Eclipse up at the livery and walked to the saloon. He entered and approached the bar. The place was about half full, but two men entered right behind him, so it was continuing to fill.
“Beer, Eddie,” he said.
“Comin’ up, Mr. Adams.”
Hearing his name, two men standing at the bar moved farther away. Eddie came and set down his beer.
“Eddie, what can you tell me about Dan Carter?” Clint asked.
“Dan was an okay guy,” Eddie said. “He ran his shop, came in here at night and drank.”
“What about him and Adele Whittington getting married?” Clint asked. “Was he happy about that?”
“Why are you askin’ me that?” Eddie asked.
“You’re the bartender,” Clint said. “You know everything.”
Eddie looked pleased.
“Well, I don’t know everythin’,” Eddie said, “but I know Dan didn’t wanna to get married.”
“Then why was he?”
“He didn’t know how to tell Ben Whittington no.”
“Was he afraid of Whittington?”
“That’s hard to say,” Eddie said. “I don’t know if it was fear, but somethin’ was makin’ him marry Adele.”
“Until he disappeared the day of the wedding.”
“Right.”
“And then Whittington stormed off, and later they’re both found hanging from a tree.”
“If you’re gonna ask me if I know who killed ’em,” Eddie said, “the answer is no.”
Clint sipped his beer and looked around.
“Any friends of Carter’s in here now?” he asked.
“You know,” Eddie said, “he drank in here, but he didn’t really talk to anybody but me.”
“And Whittington?”
“When he came to town, he had a drink,” Eddie said, “but the only people I ever saw him talkin’ to was those crazy Dagen brothers.”
“Are they crazy?”
“Oh, yeah. You ever met them?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “I’ve talked to them.”
“They know who killed Whittington?”
“No.”
“Well,” Eddie said, “you really can’t believe anythin’ they say. And another thing…”
“What?”
“Don’t drink their mash. It’ll make you go blind.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Clint left the saloon after one beer and started back to his hotel, but halfway there he decided to go somewhere else and changed direction.
He walked to Dan Carter’s hardware store and tried the front door. It was locked. The sheriff must have seen to it that it was locked.
He remembered that someone had said that Carter lived above the store. He decided to walk around the building to find a way in. Maybe something in Carter’s home would help him figure out what happened.
He walked around to the back and found a flimsy back door. He pressed his shoulder to it, shoved, and the door gave way. Inside he let his eyes adjust to the dark, then saw that he was in the storage room. If Carter lived upstairs, there had to be a stairway somewhere.
He found it in the shadows, and slowly made his way up. It was darker still up there, but eventually he was able to make out shapes. He groped, found a lamp on a table, and decided to light it. If the sheriff spotted the light on his rounds and showed up, he’d just explain.
He lit a match, got the lamp going, and the room was bathed in yellow light. He was in a room with an old sofa and table, and against a wall was an old stove. There was a doorway that led to a second room, where he found an unmade bed. Only two rooms, but there was everything a man could need there.
He went through both rooms, looking for anything helpful. However, Dan Carter didn’t seem to keep anything where he lived. There were no papers, no files. He must have had a desk or office downstairs for business. Clint had not done a thorough search of the hardware store his first time there, so he decided to go back down and take the lamp with him to light the way.
He went down the steps, and halfway down there was a shot. The bullet slammed into the wall as he dropped to the floor. Somebody ran out the back door, but he had dropped the lamp and a small fire had started. He had two choices. Chase the shooter and let the building burn down, or put out the fire.
He looked around for something to beat the flames with.
THIRTY-ONE
The fire might have gotten out of hand, but somebody had seen the flame and several more men showed up to help Clint put out the fire.
They had the flames out by the time the sheriff arrived.
“What the hell happened?” Bricker asked.
“It was my fault,” Clint said. “I was having a look around. Somebody took a shot at me and I dropped a lamp.”
“Who was the shooter?” Bricker asked.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe the same shooter from this morning, but I didn’t get a look at him either time.”
“He must have been usin’ a handgun this time,” Bricker said.
“He was.”
“Well then, he ain’t been a very good shot with either one, has he. Short or long gun?”
“You’re right, he hasn’t,” Clint said.
“Seems to me,” Bricker said, “somebody just ain’t tryin’ that hard to actually hit you.”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “somebody’s just trying to keep me interested.”
“You mean they just don’t want you to leave town?”
“Maybe. Look, can you get me in to see the mayor tomorrow?”
“The mayor?”
“Yeah, and the other members of the town council,” Clint added. “I’d like to talk to all of them.”
“About what?”
“About the killings.”
The sheriff frowned.
“What do you think they’ll know about the killings?” he asked.
“I won’t know that until I ask them,” Clint said, “will I?”
“I guess not.” Bricker looked around. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I could use a beer,” Clint said.
“Yeah, me, too,” the lawman said. “Okay, everybody out!” he yelled.
The other men turned and looked at Clint and Bricker.
“And thank you,” Clint added, “to all of you. Come on, the beer’s on me.”
THIRTY-TWO
Clint and Bricker took the other three men into the saloon and Clint bought them all a beer.
“What the hell went on?” Eddie asked. “You all look like crap and smell like soot.”
“That’s because we were fightin’ a fire,” one of them said.
“Where?”
“The hardware store,” another said.
“Dan Carter’s store?” Eddie a
sked. “Who started a fire there?”
“It was an accident,” the sheriff said. “But it’s out now, with no great damage. Drink up!”
Clint appreciated the fact that the sheriff fielded the question and skirted it.
The three men who helped put out the fire finished their beers and left to return home. Clint bought the sheriff a second one.
“Are you thinking that someone on the town council killed Ben Whittington?” Bricker asked.
“I’m wondering who killed Dan Carter. He was a businessman in town, so he had some contact with the mayor and the council, right?”
“That’s right.”
“So it makes sense for me to talk to them,” Clint said. “First thing in the morning okay with you?”
“Fine with me,” Bricker said. “I guess we’ll find out how it sits with our town fathers.”
They each finished their second beer and then left the saloon. They split up, Bricker heading for his office and Clint going to his hotel. It was fairly early, but he didn’t feel like any more beer, and there was nothing else to do in the saloon. He might as well get a good night’s rest.
He was trying to read but with little success. He’d been shot at twice that day, and he didn’t know if it was by the same person. Maybe one was a warning, and one was trying to kill him.
He walked to the window and looked down at the darkened street.
If it was the same person who shot at him both times, that meant they were keeping an eye on him, or following him. The shooter knew he was at the hanging tree, and knew he was in the hardware store. What bothered him was that somebody was following him without him knowing it.
He dimmed the light in the room and continued to stare at the street. As his eyes adjusted, he couldn’t see anyone standing down there.
If somebody wanted to kill him, why not come at him when he was in his room?
He left the light out, went back to the bed, and sat on it. He took his gun from his holster and sat with it in his lap.
Waiting…
Two hours later he heard someone walking down the hall. He was tired, but he had not nodded off even once, remaining alert. He gripped his gun and waited.
The footsteps continued, then stopped. Apparently, they were in front of his door. He pointed his gun at the door, waiting for it to slam open from a kick. Instead, someone tried the doorknob, attempting gently to turn it, but he had made sure the door was locked.
And then someone knocked.
Would they knock, and then fire at him through the door? Or wait until it was opened.
He got off the bed and flattened himself against the wall next to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Clint?” a woman’s voice called. “It’s Debra.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, if course I’m alone.”
If he opened the door, would she shoot him? He reached for the doorknob, unlocked the door, then turned the knob and let the door fall ajar. He peered out, saw only Debra, but there could have been someone else off to the side.
“Come on in.”
“Clint?” she said, pushing the door open.
When she stepped inside, he quickly stuck his head out in the hall. Seeing there was no one there, he withdrew and shut the door, then turned up the lamp on the wall. She turned and stared at him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Did you think I was going to shoot you?”
“I didn’t know who it was,” he said. “Somebody took a shot at me again tonight.”
“Where?”
“At the hardware store.”
“Why were you there?”
“I was just looking for something—anything—that might help.”
He walked to the bedpost and holstered his gun, then turned to face her. He was still dressed, except for his boots.
“Why are you here?”
“Well… I thought you’d know.”
“Debra, where’s Adele?”
“She’s home, asleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “She’s sound asleep, and she will be ’til morning.”
“Debra,” he said, “this is not a good idea.”
“You don’t want me?” She was wearing a shawl, and lowered it now so he could see she was wearing a dress that showed her shoulders, and some cleavage.
“Of course I do,” he said, “but someone might try to kill me tonight.”
“Here? In your room?”
“Yes,” he said, “thinking I’m asleep.”
“So… you’re waiting for them?”
“Let’s just say I’m ready,” he said. “So you have to go home.”
“I could stay,” she said. “I could help.”
“No,” he said, “if you stay, you could get hurt, or die.” He walked to her and took her by the shoulders. Her bare skin burned his hands. “You have to leave.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her soundly. She slid her hand down the front of his pants and grabbed him. He reacted immediately and began to swell.
“This is not the way to persuade me to go,” she said, pressing her face to his shoulder. His nose was in her hair, and he inhaled.
“Believe me,” he said, “it’s not easy for me either.”
He pushed her away.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll go, but first…”
She grabbed for his belt.
“Debra—”
“I just need something, Clint,” she said. She reached in and brought out his cock, all swollen and red. “So do you, I see.”
“Debra—shit!” He dropped his pants to the ground and his erection sprang out at her.
She got to her knees and took him in both hands. She rubbed the palm of her right had over the swollen head of his cock. She wet it with her tongue, then took it in her mouth and began to suck it—just the head.
“Jesus…” he breathed.
“Mmm,” she said, using her left hand to fondle his heavy balls. She began to suck him more fully, but instead of opening her mouth and taking him in, she pressed the head of his cock against her lips, then pushed past them into her mouth. Each time she did that, it was like an extra sensation.
She began to suck him more quickly, moaning and making wet noises. He wanted it to go on forever, yet he wanted it to end quickly so he could get her out of there. Finally, he exploded into her mouth, spurting almost painfully…
“All right,” she said moments later, “but the next time I come to your door, you better let me in and be prepared for a long night.”
“Oh, I’ll let you in,” he promised.
She walked to the door and put her hand on the doorknob.
“Wait,” he said.
He grabbed his gun, went to the door, and opened it. He peered out again, saw that it was empty, and said, “All right. You can go.”
“Remember,” she said, “when this is over…”
“Don’t worry,” he promised, “I’ll remember.”
She went out into the hall, and he closed the door and locked it.
THIRTY-THREE
Clint sat in the dark the remainder of the night with his gun in his lap. When first light filtered through the window, he allowed himself to nod off, but only briefly. When he awoke, he stripped down, washed himself, then dressed again and left the room.
He went out onto the street and walked up one side of the town and down the other. He was sure he wasn’t being followed, but this was such a small town somebody could have been watching him all the way.
He crossed the street and went to the church. Finding it empty, he walked to the door of Father Joe’s office and knocked.
“Come!” his friend’s voice called.
Clint opened the door and entered. Father Joe stood up from behind his desk and came around.
“Breakfast?” Clint asked.
“Why not? Mrs. Colton’s?”
“Why not?” Clint repeated.
They left the church and started
for Mrs. Colton’s house.
“I heard you had some excitement last night.”
“The shooting or the fire?” Clint asked.
“Both.”
“The fire was my fault, I shouldn’t have dropped that lamp.”
“You were probably scampering for your life at the time.”
“I was, but that’s still no excuse. I almost burned the building down.”
“Did you manage to find anything while you were in there?”
“No,” Clint said.
“Mrs. Colton’s is this way,” Father Joe reminded him.
“I know, but I’m supposed to meet with the sheriff this morning. Let’s see if he wants to have breakfast with us.”
They headed for the sheriff’s office.
“What are you doing with the sheriff today?” Father Joe asked.
“He’s going to take me to meet the mayor, and the other members of the town council.”
“What do you want with them?” Father Joe asked.
“It’s been pointed out to me that maybe I’m looking into the wrong killing,” Clint said.
“Dan Carter? I assumed he was killed because he got in the way.”
“In whose way?”
“Whoever killed Whittington.”
“What if it was the other way around?”
“Why would anyone want to kill Carter? He ran the hardware store.”
“So what did Whittington do that was so different? What makes him more important?”
“He owns property,” Father Joe said. “You know as well as I do that a lot of men have been killed over property.”
“It’s not much of a farm to be killed over,” Clint pointed out.
They stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the sheriff’s office, and Clint opened the door.
“I wondered what happened to you,” Bricker said from behind his desk.
“How about some breakfast before we get started?” Clint asked.
“On you?” Bricker asked.
“Of course.”
The lawman reached for his hat and said, “Lead the way.”
As always, Mrs. Colton was very welcoming, while the rest of the people in the place cast sideways glances at them.
“Am I wrong or are people lookin’ at me funny?” Bricker asked.
The Vicar of St. James Page 8
