The Gunsmith 406

by JR Roberts

  Moreland found him sitting at his usual table near the front window. The bartender, a tall, dour looking man in his forties named Buck, was wiping down the bar with a dry rag – dry because the bar never got wet, because nobody ever went inside.

  “Buck,” Restin said, “bring the sheriff a beer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sit down, Moreland.”

  The sheriff sat and Buck set a beer in front of him. Restin had a bottle of whiskey and a glass, poured himself a shot.

  “You get him?”

  “I did.”

  “Any problem?”

  “No,” Moreland said, “he came peaceful.”

  “So he’s in a cell?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, let him stew for a while,” Restin said, “and then tell him what he’s being charged with.”

  “Can I feed him?”

  “Sure.”

  “And after I charge him?”

  “Tell me how he reacts?”

  “And then what?”

  Restin drank his drink and poured himself another glass. The sheriff took the opportunity to drink some beer.

  “And then we’ll move onto the next step.”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ll offer him a job again,” Restin said. “I think he’ll take it, then, don’t you?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When the cell block door opened, the sheriff appeared carry a tray covered by a cloth napkin.

  “Got your lunch,” he said to Clint.

  “I’d rather have some answers.”

  “I got those, too,” the sheriff said, “but you better eat first.”

  There was a cut-out in the cell bars where the tray could be pushed through. Clint accepted it, mainly because he was hungry.

  “Something to drink?”

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  “I’d rather have coffee.”

  “Okay.”

  While the sheriff went for the coffee, Clint uncovered the tray, found a plate with fried chicken and potatoes. He had a fork, but no knife. That was okay. He picked up the chicken with his hands, and speared the potatoes with the fork.

  The sheriff came in, handed him a tin cup of coffee through the bars.

  “Thanks. This is pretty good.”

  “Yeah, comes from a good café down the street.” He turned to leave.

  “Why not stay?” Clint asked. “We can talk while I eat.”

  “Naw,” Moreland said. “A man should be left alone to eat in peace.”

  He turned to leave, and Clint let him go without objection this time. The sheriff would tell him what this was all about, soon enough.

  He decided to relax and enjoy his free lunch.

  A couple of hours later, Clint was lying on his back on his cot when the cell block door slammed open and Moreland came walking in.

  “Okay, Adams, stand up,” he said.

  Clint sat up.

  “What now?”

  “Just stand up.”

  Clint stood.

  “Mrs. Nolan?” Moreland said, looking at someone outside the cell block.

  A middle-aged woman came walking into the cell block timidly, flinching as if she was waiting to be hit.

  “Now take your time, Meg,” Moreland said. “Take a good long look.”

  The woman raised her eyes to look at Clint, then quickly looked away. Clint had a sudden inkling as to what was going on, and he felt that this woman was not here of her own free will.

  “Is this him?” Moreland asked. “Is this the man you saw shoot your husband?”

  Meg Nolan reluctantly lifted her eyes and looked at Clint again. He thought he saw apology in her eyes.

  “Y-yes,” she said, “that’s him.”

  “You have to say it, Meg,” the sheriff told her.

  “T-that’s the man who shot my husband.”

  “All right, then,” Moreland said. He put his arms around the woman and turned her. “That’s all, Meg.”

  She walked out.

  Moreland turned to face Clint.

  “I get it now,” Clint said.

  “Get what?”

  “This is a frame,” he said. “A put-up job. You put her up to identifying me as the man who shot her husband. If he was even really shot. Is he dead? Or just wounded? Did you actually have someone shot in order to make it stick?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Adams,” Moreland said. “It’s not unusual for you to shoot a man, is it?”

  “I don’t know what the game is, sheriff,” Clint said, “but I’m thinking you’ll let me know, sooner or later.” He sat down on his cot. “All I have to do is be patient and wait.”

  Moreland stared at Clint for a moment, then turned and walked out, closing the cell block door behind him.

  Moments later he was back in the Drinkwater Saloon, sitting across from Restin, again.

  “Well?”

  “She identified him.”

  “And?”

  “He knows something’s up,” Moreland said. “That it’s a put-up job.”

  “He thinks it is,” Restin corrected him.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s gonna be patient,” the lawmen said, “and wait until I tell him what’s goin’ on.”

  “He’s good,” Restin said. “I’m impressed. But he’ll have to go along. He won’t have a choice, will he?”

  “What if he wants to see a body?” Moreland asked. “What if he wants to see the man he’s supposed to have shot?”

  Vance Restin poured himself another drink – same bottle as before – and said, “Then we’ll give him one.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Moreland came in that evening with another tray.

  “Supper,” he said.

  “From the same place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Clint said. He accepted the tray. “Some more coffee?”

  “I’ll bring it.”

  Clint sat down, took the napkin off the tray. Steak, this time. He was glad. At least he was eating well.

  Moreland came in with the coffee and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” He walked to his cot, sat down, set the coffee cup down and picked up the tray. This time he had a knife and fork.

  “Can you tell me how long this will take?” Clint asked.

  “We have to wait for the circuit judge.”

  “A town this size has no judge?”

  “He died. We haven’t been able to replace him, yet.”

  “Very convenient.”

  Moreland didn’t comment.

  “Can you stay while I eat and talk?” Clint asked.

  “Naw,” Moreland said, “a man—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Clint said, “should be left alone to eat in peace.”

  “Just let me know when you’re done,” Moreland said, and left.

  Harry Ballard ran into the house and said, “Clint’s been arrested.”

  “What?” Beth said.

  “What do you mean, arrested?” Ben asked. “For what?”

  “I dunno,” the boy said. “All I know is, he’s in the jail.”

  “How do you know?” Ben asked.

  “I was in the café when the sheriff came in to buy a steak dinner for his prisoner,” Harry said. “He told the lady the prisoner was the Gunsmith. That’s what they call Clint, ain’t it? The Gunsmith?”

  “Yes, that’s what they call him,” Ben said.

  “We have to do something,” Beth said to her husband.

  “What can we do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but he has no friends in town.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Never mind that, Ben,” she said. “Do something.”

  “There’s nothing I can do—”

  “Oh God,” she said, grabbing her shawl from a hook on the wall, “you’re hopeless. Stay with Harry!”

  She stormed out the door.r />
  Moments later Beth stormed into the sheriff’s office.

  “Sheriff, do you have Clint Adams in a cell?”

  “Mrs. Ballard,” Moreland said, “that’s no concern of you—”

  “I assume that means yes,” she said. “What have you arrested him for?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well … let him out,” she said. “I’ll pay his bail.”

  “No bail yet, ma’am,” Moreland said. “We’re waitin’ on the circuit judge.”

  “How long will that take?”

  Moreland shrugged.

  “Who knows?”

  “Then let me talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” she asked. “Are you afraid I’ll break him out of your jail?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then where’s the harm in letting me talk to him?” she asked.

  He stared at her for a few moments, then shrugged and said, “Well, what the hell? Okay. Come on.”

  He walked her to the door of the cell block, unlocked it and said, “Five minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  She went in.

  Clint was lying on his back on the cot, his left arm across his forehead, when she said, “Clint?”

  He jerked up and looked at her.

  “Beth?” He sat up. “What are you doing here?”

  She came close to the bars.

  “I heard you were arrested.”

  “How?”

  “Harry was at the café when the sheriff picked up your supper.”

  He approached the bars and she took his hand.

  “What did he arrest you for?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “He hasn’t really told me yet but … do you know a woman named Meg Nolan?”

  “Of course I know Meg,” she said. “I make dresses for her.”

  “Well, he dragged her in here and had her identify me as the man who shot her husband.”

  “Ed was shot?”

  “Who is Ed Nolan?”

  “Just a merchant here in town,” she said. “Runs the Hardware Store. Why would anybody shoot him? Why would you shoot him?”

  “I didn’t,” Clint said. “In fact, I don’t even know if he was really shot. Hey, maybe you could find out for me.”

  “Well,” she said, “I tried to bail you out and couldn’t. I’d like to help you, somehow.”

  “Great. See if you can find out if good ol’ Ed has even been shot.”

  “Why would they arrest you for shootin’ him if he wasn’t shot?”

  “And why would she identify me if he wasn’t shot?” Clint asked. “Those are good questions.”

  “Are they … framin’ you?”

  “It sure sounds like it,” Clint said, “but maybe there’s really no crime to frame me for. That’s the first thing I’d like to know.”

  “I’ll try and find out.”

  “But don’t try to come back here tonight,” he said. “I don’t want you to get into trouble. Come back in the morning.”

  “I’ll arrange with the sheriff for me to bring you breakfast,” she suggested.

  “That’s a great idea,’ Clint said, “but tell him you’ll bring him some, too.”

  “Why should I feed him?”

  “Because then he’ll let you in.”

  “Ah, I see,” she said. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  He squeezed her hand and said, “Thanks, Beth.”

  She squeezed back and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  As she left, Clint realized how good it felt to actually have somebody on his side.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He woke early with the sun streaming through the barred window. At least there was no hammering. Nobody was building a gallows outside his cell.

  Not yet, anyway.

  He heard something outside the cell block, and then the key in the lock. When the door opened Beth came walking in with a tray.

  “The sheriff says I have to slide it through here to you,” she said, putting it through the slot.

  “That’s fine.”

  “It’s ham and eggs, he wouldn’t let me include a knife,” she went on.

  “Also okay.”

  “He has coffee outside. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He started eating and she brought in the coffee and handed it to him.

  “Did you give the sheriff his breakfast?”

  “I did.”

  “Can you stay?”

  “He said I can.”

  “All right, then.” He lowered his voice. “Did you talk to Mrs. Nolan? Was her husband shot?”

  “She says he was,” Beth said, “but …”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t believe she’s tellin’ the truth,” Beth said. “I think she’s lyin’.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No,” Beth said, “she wouldn’t let me.”

  “Then she probably is lying,” Clint said. “That’s good.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It means nobody has really been shot. I think I’ve got this figured out.”

  “What do you think is happenin’?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “If I’m right, this will probably all be resolved sometime today.”

  “So you’re satisfied to sit here and wait?”

  “Yes.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Well, all right,” she said, “if you say so.”

  “You should just go and be with your family, Beth,” Clint said. “Tell Harry I said hi, and that everything will be just fine.”

  “All right,” she said.

  He finished eating and passed the tray back to her.

  “Can you get me some more coffee before you go?”

  “Of course.”

  Beth went out and came back with another cup of coffee.

  “Thanks. Now go back to your family and relax. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fairly sure.”

  “All right, then.” Still unconvinced, she left.

  Clint drank his coffee and went over the matter again in his mind. There was only one reason he could think this was happening, and that was because he turned down a job from Vance Restin. If he was right, he’d be seeing Restin very soon.

  Vance Restin entered the sheriff’s office later that afternoon.

  “Moreland,” he said, “how’s our guest doing?”

  “He’s remarkably calm,” the lawman said. “Not complaining at all, not asking any questions.”

  “Is that right?” Restin didn’t like that. “What do you think is going on?”

  “He’s a smart man,” Moreland said. “He might have figured this out.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Restin said. “Whether he figured it out or not, he’s in jail until I say so.”

  “Maybe he should know that,” Moreland said.

  “I’m about to go in and tell him,” the rancher said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Vance Restin entered the cell block Clint knew he’d figured it correctly. Now he had to play it right.

  “Mr. Adams,” Restin said. “I hope the sheriff is making you comfortable in here?”

  “Very,” Clint said. “I’m being fed very well.”

  “That’s good,” Restin said. “I suppose you’d like to know what you’re being charged with?”

  “I was assuming the sheriff would let me know,” Clint replied. “I didn’t expect to hear it from you.”

  “Well,” Restin said, “the situation is sort of … unique.”

  “In what way?”

  “In the way that I could make it go away, if I wanted to,” the man said.

  “Wait,” Clint said, “I assume I’m being charged with … what? Shooting someone?”

  “Assault,” Restin said, “and attempted murder.”

  “Of a man I don’t even know.�
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  “I’m sure a man like you is used to shooting men you don’t know,” Restin said.

  “That’s not strictly true,” Clint said. “I try not to shoot anyone unless I’m forced into it.”

  “As I understand it,” Restin said, “Ed Nolan had no chance against you. There’s such a thing as a man being totally overmatched.”

  “Well, I can’t comment on that since I’ve never even seen the man I’m supposed to have shot.”

  “Well, there’s a witness—”

  “His wife,” Clint said, cutting him off, “who I’m sure has been forced to say what you want her to say.”

  “That’s entirely possible,” Restin said.

  Clint was surprised that the rancher admitted it.

  “And she can be convinced to unsay it.”

  “So you’re saying that you can arrange for me to walk out of here free and clear?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And all I have to do is … what? Take your daughter to Sacramento?”

  Restin smiled.

  “I knew you were a smart man,” he said. “Yes, all you have to do is accept the job I offered you.”

  “At the same pay rate? Ten thousand?”

  “Five.”

  “I thought the last offer was ten.”

  “It was,” Restin said, “but now the offer is five – payable at the other end when you deliver her to the university.”

  This was exactly what Clint had been expecting. The only thing was, he hadn’t figured out a way out of it.

  “And if you go part way and decide to run off,” Restin went on, “the charges will be refiled, and a wanted poster will be issued for you. You’ll be a man on the run.”

  “You’re a sonofabitch, you know that?”

  “Of course I know it,” Restin said. “So what’s your answer?”

  “I have to think about it.”

  “Still thinking you can come up with a way out?” Restin asked, and then didn’t give Clint a chance to reply. “Sure, go ahead and think about it. You have until tomorrow morning, and then the charges stick. You’ll be sitting in here until the circuit judge comes to town.”

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow,” Clint said.

  “Think long and hard, my friend,” Restin said. “I’m not a man you want to cross.”

  With that Restin turned and walked out.