The Death List

by J. R. Roberts

  “I need you to put this steak on two pieces of bread for me.”

  “It’s called a sandwich, Ray.”

  “I know it,” Ray said, standing up. “And make another one for this man. We’ll be eatin’ in the saddle.”

  “This some sort of emergency?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  She nodded and said, “Comin’ up.”

  “Let’s walk outside,” the sheriff said, grabbing his hat.

  They stepped out the door and waited.

  “She won’t take long.”

  “What’s your name?” Clint asked.

  “Ray Coffey,” the lawman said.

  “Why do you call her ma?”

  “Rest of the town calls her that because that’s what she named this place,” Coffey said.

  “And you?”

  “I got another reason,” he said. “She’s my ma.”

  Clint stared at the man closely.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Me? I’m sixty.”

  FOUR

  Sheriff Coffey told Clint that Bill Reardon had a ranch outside of town. Along the way Clint told Reardon about the telegram, the letter, and the list.

  “That sounds crazy,” Coffey said.

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “But you came all this way on the basis of this letter and list?”

  “I couldn’t take the chance,” Clint said. “I’m hoping this visit will tell me something, though.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe Mr. Reardon has some idea who’d like to kill him,” Clint said. “And maybe he will recognize some of the other names on the list.”

  “Well, I sure didn’t,” Coffey said. “Never heard of any of those people.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Ten.”

  “I was thinkin’ maybe they was a jury, but not ten.”

  “Maybe two others have already died,” Clint said. “I had that thought. Reardon can tell us if he ever served on a jury with these people. It’s doubtful, though. I mean, they live all over the country.”

  “And you’re gonna ride all over the country to try an’ save ’em?”

  “I guess that’ll depend on what we find out from Mr. Reardon.”

  Reardon’s ranch was only a couple of hours outside of town. They had finished their steak sandwiches long before they got there, and Clint thanked Coffey for the thought.

  “You looked hungry.”

  When they arrived, they reined in outside and dismounted.

  “Place looks empty,” Clint said. “Where are the hands?”

  “There are none,” Coffey said. “Used to be, but Bill’s fallen on hard times, had to let everybody go.”

  “When did that happen?” Clint asked.

  “Over the past few years.”

  They walked up to the door of the small main house and the sheriff knocked. Clint saw a bunkhouse, a barn, and a corral in a state of disrepair.

  “Bill!” Coffey shouted, banging on the door. “Come on, man, it’s Sheriff Coffey.”

  Still no answer.

  “We’ve got to go in,” Clint said.

  “No, wait a second,” Coffey said, putting his hand on Clint’s chest, “we can’t just go bustin’ in on a man’s home.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s walk around the house, look in the windows, see what we can see.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “I’ll go this way…”

  They split up.

  Clint walked around the left side of the house, stopping to look in windows. The house wasn’t that big. Before long he was in the back, and when he peered in a window, he saw a man lying on the floor.

  “Sheriff! Back here!”

  The sheriff came running from the other direction. Clint pointed in the window.

  “What do you say now?” he asked.

  “I say we better get in there,” Coffey said. “Come on, we’ll force the front door.”

  Together they ran to the front of the house. The sheriff attacked the door with his bulk and it slammed open. They ran to the back and looked down at the body.

  “Who is it?” Clint asked.

  “It’s him,” Coffey said. “It’s Reardon.”

  “Damn!” Clint said.

  FIVE

  “Take a look,” Coffey said.

  Clint knelt down, moved the body, found the bullet hole—in the back. He stood up.

  “I’m too late.”

  “Could be a coincidence,” Coffey said.

  “I don’t believe in them.”

  “We better go back to town, send the undertaker back with my deputy.”

  Clint nodded. They left the house.

  “Mind if I have a look around first?” Clint asked.

  “Go ahead,” Coffey said, mounting up. “Come and see me when you get back to town.”

  “Okay.”

  The sheriff rode off and Clint walked around the place, trailing Eclipse behind him. He checked the bunkhouse, and the barn, went to have a look at the corral.

  When he was done, he walked back to the house and went inside, dropping Eclipse’s reins to the ground.

  He went to the body again. This time he went through the dead man’s pockets, found nothing. What did he expect to find? Maybe a note from his letter sender?

  He went through the rest of the house, stopped at Reardon’s desk, went through the drawers. He found some unpaid bills, but nothing else.

  He went back out to his horse, looked around. Whoever had killed Reardon hadn’t left anything behind. He wondered if the letter writer had done it himself, or had sent someone to have it done?

  Did he mean to send Clint scurrying all over the country, while he himself simply used a different killer in each place? If that was the case, there was no way he could save any of them.

  And if there was no way to save any of them, then why try?

  He mounted up and rode toward town.

  When he got back to Vega, he rode to the sheriff’s office. He still had to get himself a room at a hotel, and get Eclipse taken care of.

  He entered the office and Coffey looked up at him.

  “You pass them on the road?” the man asked.

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “The undertaker and your deputy.”

  “My deputy was kinda mad at you,” Coffey said.

  “I guess I sort of insisted he tell me where you were,” Clint said. “I’ll apologize.”

  Clint sat across from the sheriff.

  “Coffee?”

  Clint hesitated, then said, “Sure.”

  The lawman poured two cups and handed Clint one.

  “You can call me Ray,” he said, “just to avoid confusion.”

  “Thanks.”

  The sheriff sat back down behind his desk.

  “What are you gonna do now?”

  “Get a room, get some sleep,” Clint said, “and then move on to the next one.”

  “Where will that be?”

  Clint took the list from his pocket and checked it.

  “Kansas.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Dave Britton.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Why don’t you send a telegram—oh, wait, yeah, you said.”

  “Right.”

  “You find anything out there?”

  “No,” Clint said, “nothing.”

  “Did you think he’d leave a note?”

  “It occurred to me.”

  “Maybe he left one at the hotel.”

  “How many hotels in town?”

  “One,” Coffey said.

  “Then maybe there is a note there.”

  “A man like that,” Coffey said, “would want to gloat, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “I do.”

  Clint finished his coffee and set the empty cup on the desk.

  “Thanks
. Good coffee.”

  “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”

  Clint stood up.

  “I’ll take care of my horse and get a room. I’ll leave early in the morning.”

  “You want a real steak dinner?” Coffey asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby of the hotel in an hour,” the lawman said.

  “Thanks,” Clint said.

  He left the sheriff’s office and walked Eclipse to the livery stable.

  SIX

  When he got to the hotel and checked in, the clerk said, “There’s a note here for you, Mr. Adams.”

  “I thought there might be. Thanks.”

  He carried the note up to his room and sat on the bed to read it.

  “Too late,” it said, “and in case you’re wondering, I did it myself. And I’ll keep doing it until you stop me.”

  That was it. Everything was spelled correctly, and the handwriting was almost elegant.

  He folded it and put it in his pocket with the list.

  There was water in a pitcher on the dresser, and a chipped basin. He poured some of the water into the basin and washed up. His stomach grumbled. The sandwich had staved off hunger to some extent, but now it was back full force. A steak dinner sounded great to him. He decided to count on that, and think about the death list later that night—or maybe in the morning.

  He went down to the lobby to wait for the sheriff.

  * * *

  “I’m surprised a town this small has two restaurants where the food is edible.”

  “Ma’s is edible,” the sheriff said. “This place has good steak dinners.”

  They each ordered one. When it came and Clint tasted the food, he told Sheriff Coffey he was right.

  “This is good.”

  “They do a steak and eggs in the morning, too, if you’re interested,” Coffey said. “And they open early.”

  “I’ll remember,” Clint said. “You get Reardon’s body to the undertaker’s?”

  “Yep.”

  “Find anything I should know about?”

  “Nothin’,” Coffey said. “Shot once in the back. Nothin’ unusual.”

  Clint nodded, chewed some potatoes.

  “What are your plans?”

  “The same,” Clint said. “I’ll head out tomorrow, ride to Kansas, see what I can do there. I’m behind, and wondering if I’ll always be behind.”

  “And you can’t jump ahead a name?”

  Clint didn’t answer right away. He cut a chunk of steak, and chewed it while he gave the question some thought.

  “If I jump ahead, I’ll be giving up a life in Kansas,” he said.

  “But if that man is already dead, you might be getting a head start on the next one. Where’s that?”

  Clint took out the list.

  “Tennessee.”

  “Same direction,” Coffey said. “If you send a telegram to Kansas, find out whether or not that man is dead or alive—”

  “The letter writer warned me against sending telegrams.”

  “How would he know?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “but can I take the chance?”

  They ate for a while, alone with their thoughts, before the sheriff spoke.

  “What if I send a telegram?” he asked. “Get the information for you?”

  “If a telegram comes in with the name of the next man, it might not matter who is sending it. No, for now I’ll just have to head to Kansas and see what I find when I get there.”

  “Then it doesn’t seem like I can be much help at all,” Coffey said.

  “Maybe not, but I appreciate the offer,” Clint said.

  Coffey walked Clint back to his hotel. It was quiet on the street.

  “Always this quiet?” he asked.

  “Just when the Gunsmith is in town,” Coffey said.

  “Word got around?”

  Coffey shrugged.

  “It is a small town.”

  “Guess I shouldn’t stop off in the saloon, then.”

  “You could stop for a beer.”

  “Nah,” Clint said. “I’m going to my room to get some rest. I’ve got to get going early.”

  “Don’t know that I’ll see you before you leave, then,” Coffey said as they got to the door of the hotel. He extended his hand. “I wish you luck.”

  Clint shook the man’s hand.

  “I appreciate your help.”

  The sheriff walked away and Clint entered the hotel and went to his room.

  SEVEN

  Clint rose very early the next morning, found that Coffey had been right. The restaurant opened very early, even before it was fully light. He saddled Eclipse, left him outside, and went in for a steak-and-eggs breakfast.

  He read the list again while he ate, and the note that had been left at the hotel. Also the letter that had accompanied the list. They all seemed to have been written by the same hand. That meant whoever had mailed the letter and list had been in Vega to write the note. He was going to have to go on the assumption that the same man was doing the killing. With that assumption, it became clear that the man was ahead of him.

  He finished his breakfast but, before leaving town, went back to the livery.

  “Problem?” the liveryman asked.

  “No, just a question. Any other strangers come to town in the last few days? Leave their horse here?”

  “Nope,” the man said. “Ain’t nobody been here all week ’cept you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He left the livery, went back to the hotel, and asked the clerk the same question.

  “No, sir,” the clerk said, showing him the register, “ain’t had no strangers all week ’ceptin’ you.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He mounted up and left town.

  That night, over a campfire, Clint pondered the results of his ride to Vega.

  The killer didn’t put his horse up in the livery, didn’t register at the hotel. But he managed to kill William Reardon. So he came to Vegas knowing what he wanted to do. He went directly to Reardon’s ranch, killed him, and moved on. Nobody saw him.

  That being the case, he was a good day—maybe more—ahead of Clint. The only way he could close that distance between them was to push Eclipse—hard. But he didn’t want to burn the big Darley Arabian out.

  He took the list out of his pocket. Instead of looking at the names, he looked at the locations. Kansas, Tennessee, Colorado (Denver), Minnesota, Saint Louis…there was no rhyme or reason to the order. He was riding Clint all over the country. Tennessee to Denver would be a hell of a ride. He wondered about leaving Eclipse somewhere and using the railroad. Would that get him where he was going on time? Was the killer riding everywhere? Or was he using other modes of transportation as well?

  Maybe a train trip from Kansas to Tennessee might answer a few questions, but first he had to get to Kansas.

  * * *

  Clint rode into Dexter, Kansas, in the afternoon. A small town, but twice the size of Vega. How was the killer picking his victims? Did they all live in small towns? Was that the point?

  He headed straight for the sheriff’s office. He was going to have to repeat this process each place he went.

  Or was he?

  Maybe it would make sense to change his method of operation sooner rather than later.

  Instead of riding to the sheriff’s office, he went looking for the undertaker.

  The undertaker was on Main Street. Outside was a shingle that said, jedediah blemish, undertaker.

  Clint entered.

  “Hello?” he said to the empty front room.

  “Hello!” came a response from the back. A curtain was pulled back and a strange-looking man appeared. He was barely five foot two, probably didn’t weigh a hundred pounds with a pocket full of rice.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Blemish?”

  “That’s me,” the man said. He appeared to be in his thirties, with a shock of red hair that a
lmost stood up on end. He extended his hand and Clint shook it. It felt like the hand of a child.

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  Blemish pulled his hand back.

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve made a lot of work for those in my profession,” Blemish said.

  “Probably not as much as you’ve heard.”

  “Hmm,” Blemish said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?”

  “I’m looking for a man named Dave Britton.”

  “And you have some reason to believe that he’s here?” the little man asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Well,” Blemish said, “he’s not.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I know the name,” Blemish said.

  “So he lives in town?”

  “Outside of town.”

  That was one similarity between William Reardon and Britton.

  “Is he a rancher?”

  “Hardly,” Blemish said. “I believe you’d get more information from the sheriff—or a bartender. That is all I know.”

  It was either all the undertaker knew, or all he wanted to say.

  “I see. Well, thanks anyway.”

  “Will you be in town long?”

  “I don’t think so,” Clint said. “It depends on what I find.”

  “Shall I keep some pine boxes ready?” Blemish asked.

  Clint left without answering the man’s question.

  EIGHT

  So Clint had his choice, the local law or a bartender. If he went to a bartender for the information, and later found Britton dead, he’d have a lot of explaining to do to the local sheriff. So he was better off going to the law.

  He rode to the sheriff’s office, which he had passed on the way into town. He draped Eclipse’s reins over a hitching post so nobody could get any ideas and entered the office.

  It was empty.

  He walked around, checked the cell block, looked at the sheriff’s desk. At least there was no dust covering everything, so he knew the office was in use. Also there was still some heat on the coffeepot, which was empty. Or almost empty. When he opened it, he smelled burning coffee. He moved the pot off the stove.

  He went back outside, looked up and down the street, wondering if the lawman was making rounds, or was in one of the saloons.

  He decided to check the saloon. He unlooped Eclipse’s reins and walked the horse down the block to the first of the two saloons he had seen when he rode into town.