“Notice what’s missing?” Clint asked as they came out of the cell block, where they had piled everything into one cell.
“A wallet,” the sheriff said, “or anything saying who they were.”
“No letters either,” Clint said. “A family like this, the mother would most likely save all her letters.”
“So the killers were smart enough to take them,” Murphy said, “not wanting these people to be identified.”
“I think one thing’s pretty certain, though,” Clint said.
“And what’s that?”
“They were the boy’s family,” Clint said. “There are enough boy’s clothes to indicate that. By the way, can I take them over to Lily’s?”
“Sure,” Murphy said, “use one of the small suitcases.”
Clint went back into the cell block, came out a few minutes later with a small suitcase filled with boy’s clothes, and some toys.
Murphy was seated behind his desk, his hat and gun belt hanging on the wall. He looked tired, his hair—or what was left of it—lank and thin. In fact, he looked more like the swamper Clint had thought he was when he first saw him.
“Coffee?” Clint asked.
“Should be ready,” Murphy said. He had put a pot on the stove when they got there.
Clint went to it and poured two mugs full. It was very black and strong. He carried one to the desk, set it down in front of Murphy, and then sat across from him.
“What will you do now?” Murphy asked.
“Tomorrow I’ll take the boy to the doc’s so he can look him over,”
“That ain’t gonna help find out who he is,” Murphy said. “Or get us to any of his relatives.”
“I could go out to the site again, look around. Maybe the killers left something behind. Might be an envelope or letter blowing around out there.”
“That’s a long shot.”
“I’m a gambler.”
The office door opened and Doc Simon walked in with his bag.
“Finished?” the lawman asked.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” Simon asked. “Any more of that coffee?”
“I’ll get you a cup,” Clint said, standing. “Have a seat.”
The doctor took his chair, accepted a mug of coffee. Clint remained standing.
“What’d you find, Doc?” Murphy said.
“They’re all dead,” Simons said, and sipped the coffee.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” Clint asked.
Simon looked up at him.
“Am I smiling?” he asked.
“Sorry.”
“They were all shot, the man three times, the woman twice, and the little girl once.”
“Bastards!” Murphy said.
“And both women—the woman and the girl, that is—were raped.”
“The girl, too?” Clint asked.
Simon nodded.
“How old was she, do you think?”
“She was big for her age,” the doctor said. “Eleven or twelve.”
“Bastards,” Murphy said again.
“How long?” Clint asked.
“Were they buried?”
Clint nodded.
“Just yesterday,” Simon said. “Probably within hours of you finding the boy. They are his folks, aren’t they?”
“Looks like it,” Clint said.
“Did you find anything that would identify them?” Simon asked. “Tell you where they’re from?”
“Nothing.”
“So you can’t find any of the boy’s family?”
“Not so far.”
Simon finished his coffee, set the cup down on the desk, and stood up.
“Are you still bringing him to me so I can examine him?” he asked.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Try to make it during business hours, okay?”
“I’ll do that, Doc.”
Simon nodded, said, “Sheriff,” and left.
“He’s a hard man,” Clint said.
“Seeing some of the things he sees,” Sheriff Murphy said, “I guess that’s a good thing.”
“I’m going to go through their things once more before I go back to my hotel. Is that okay with you?”
“Be my guest,” Murphy said.
Clint poured another cup of coffee to take into the cell block with him.
ELEVEN
Clint couldn’t find anything his second time through the dead family’s things, so he went back to his hotel room for the night. He made a conscious decision not to spend any time that night in a saloon, either nursing a couple of beers or playing some poker. He wanted to get an early start in the morning.
Which he did. He rose early, had breakfast the same place as the day before, and then went to Maddy’s to pick up the boy. He brought the bag of clothes with him.
“I thought we might change him into something of his own before I took him to the doctor,” he said to Lily after he was let in.
“Great,” she said, putting her hand out. “Let me find something for him.”
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs with two of the girls,” she said. “They’re playing with him. I’ll go up and dress him. You wait here in my office.”
“Okay.”
She took the bag with her and left. He was curious about her, almost enough to snoop around her office, but just as he was making up his mind, the door opened and a girl walked in. He recognized her as the blonde Lily had sent to do the shopping for the boy.
“Angie, right?” he asked.
“You remembered,” she said. “I’m flattered.” She was wearing a filmy robe that showed all her curves, and some shadowed cleavage beneath it. “Lily sent me down to keep you company while she dresses our boy.”
“Your boy?” he asked.
She shrugged. “That’s how we girls have been thinkin’ about him.”
“I see.”
“We heard you found his family dead,” she said. “I guess we’ll never know his name, then. We should probably give him one.”
“You can all work on it while I take him to the doctor’s,” Clint said.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she said. “And he’s so happy.”
“That’s good.”
“In fact,” she said, “maybe we should call him Happy.”
“That would make him sound like a clown.”
She laughed and said, “You’re right. And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do we call you?”
“Clint,” he said, “just call me Clint.”
“So this is our formal introduction,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Hi, Clint, I’m Angie.”
“Hi, Angie,” he said, shaking her hand.
She held on to his hand longer than necessary, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. He didn’t know what else might have happened if Lily hadn’t walked in at that point, carrying the boy.
“Down, Angie!” she said. “He’s not here for our particular brand of business.”
“Too bad,” Angie said. She turned, headed for the door, saying over her shoulder, “See you later, Clint.”
As she left the room, Lily approached Clint and held the baby out to him.
“You’re not one of the ones who wants to name him Happy, are you?”
“What?”
“Just something Angie said.”
“Happy? Well,” she said, stroking the baby’s face, “he is kind of happy. But wouldn’t that make him sound like a clown?”
“Just what I said,” Clint commented. “Okay, I’ll bring the boy back after the doc sees him.”
“Fine,” she said. “I guess he can stay here until the law decides what to do with him.”
Clint nodded his thanks
and left with the boy.
* * *
Hiram Anderson reined his horse in by the copse of trees and waited. He was five minutes early for his meeting with Milton Perryman. In a matter of seconds, though, he heard the horses approaching. Perryman and two of his men topped the rise and appeared. His horse fidgeted impatiently as they rode up to him.
“Anderson,” Perryman said.
“Mr. Perryman.”
“Tell me,” the rancher said, “are you under the impression that your job is done?”
“What? Well, yes, sir. I mean . . . they’re dead. We buried ’em and all.”
“Not all of them.”
“Well, no . . . I mean . . . not the kid . . . but . . . he was out there all alone . . .”
“So you couldn’t kill the child, but you could leave him out there to die?”
“Yes, sir,” Hiram said. “I mean, no, sir.”
“When I give a man a job, I expect him to do it,” Perryman said. “All of it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Perryman,” Hiram said, “but me and Willie, we just couldn’t shoot that little boy.”
“But I’ll bet you raped the woman.”
“Well, yeah . . .”
“And the little girl?”
“She wasn’t so little,” Hiram said. “Twelve, or so. Plenty old enough for Willie.”
Perryman shook his head.
“I won’t be needing you anymore, Anderson,” he said.
“But . . . we still get paid for what we did, right?” Hiram asked. “I mean, Willie’s waitin’ for me to come with the money.”
“I see,” Perryman said. “Yes, you’ll get paid.” He turned his horse, started away, and said to his men, “Pay him.”
“Two hundred . . . hey—” Hiram said as the two men drew their guns.
TWELVE
“How is he?” Clint asked.
The boy was seated on the doctor’s examining table, playing with Simon’s stethoscope as it hung around the doctor’s neck.
The doctor finished probing the boy’s chest and belly, turned his head to Clint.
“He’s a little undernourished, but generally in good health,” he said. “His parents must not have been able to feed him well. He wasn’t wandering out there long enough to become undernourished.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
The doctor put the boy’s shirt back on, patted him on the cheek, and took his stethoscope away from him. The boy looked as if he might cry, but he didn’t.
“What are you going to do with him?” Simon asked.
“For now, leave him at Maddy’s,” Clint said. “The girls there like him; they’ll take good care of him.”
“Make sure they feed him,” the doctor said.
“Oh, they’re feeding him just fine, but what do you suggest I do with him in the long run?” Clint asked.
“Well, there are a couple of families around here who’d like a baby.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Clint said. “Let a family adopt him.”
“Just let me know,” Simon said. “I can talk to them, see which one would be a better fit. Or which one wants him more.”
Clint picked the child up. The boy’s arms immediately went around his neck. He was surprised how good they felt there.
“You’re talking about giving him to them, right?”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “You’re not thinking that I’d sell him, are you?”
“No,” Clint said, “of course not. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Simon said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Clint turned and left the office.
* * *
Milton Perryman dismounted, let one of his ranch hands take his horse. He mounted the steps of his house and went inside.
“Well?” his wife asked.
“They killed the parents, and the girl,” he said.
“What about the boy?”
“No.”
She looked at Perryman with a knitted brow that did nothing to hide her beauty. She was ten years younger than him, but at forty she felt like an old lady. No amount of praise about how beautiful she was could help.
“Then where is he?”
“They just . . . let him go.”
“You mean he’s wandering around alone out there?”
“I suppose so,” Perryman said.
“He won’t last long,” she said. “He’ll die, Milton, of hunger or . . . or worse. Some animal will get him.”
Perryman studied her.
“Are you upset they didn’t kill him? Or that he’s out there all alone?”
“Both,” she said. “I would rather they finished it than leave him out there.”
“The men will be going to town to see if there’s any news,” Perryman said.
“What about the men who did it?”
“One’s dead,” he said, “the other one is as good as.”
“You better find him.”
“We will.”
She was wearing a simple high-necked cotton dress, had her arms crossed, cradling herself. No one seeing her would guess she was married to the richest man in the county.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Actually, I am.”
“I’ll fix you something.”
“Thanks, Veronica.”
She nodded and went to the kitchen. Although she had servants in the house, she sometimes liked to do the cooking and cleaning herself.
He walked to a sideboard in the living room and poured himself a drink. He drank it thoughtfully, pondering the fate of that little boy.
* * *
Lily took the boy from Clint, having to pry his arms from around his neck.
“He likes you,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I like him, too.”
She turned and handed the baby to the little brunette, Helen.
“Take him to his room,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And stay with him.”
“I will.”
The girl turned and left the room.
“He has his own room?” Clint asked.
“For now. What’d the doc say?”
“He’s pretty healthy,” Clint said, “just a little undernourished.”
“We’ll feed him good here.”
“I know you will, Lily. I appreciate it. You should let me pay you.”
“Why? He’s not yours.”
“He’s my responsibility.”
“Why?” she asked. “You could ride out right now and forget about him.”
“I don’t think I could do that, Lily,” he said. “Not until I know he’s all right.”
She smiled.
“You’re a good man, Clint Adams. I didn’t expect that from a man like you.”
“Like me?”
“The Gunsmith.”
“Who told you?”
“It’s around town.”
“Great,” Clint said. “That means sooner or later somebody’s going to get itchy.”
“Itchy?”
“To try me,” Clint said. “Or shoot me in the back.”
“That’s the life you lead,” she said. “The life you chose.”
“It’s the life I lead,” he agreed. “But it’s not the life I chose.”
“Then you take him,” she said.
“What?”
“Why don’t you take the boy?” she said. “Change your life. Be a father.”
“I’m nobody’s father,” Clint said. “I couldn’t be.”
“I’ve seen you with him, Clint,” she said. “I think you’re wrong.”
“Well, that’s not on this particular table,” Clint said. “But I’ll do my
best to make sure he ends up someplace he’ll be loved and cared for.”
She smiled and said, “See? That’s exactly what a father would say.”
THIRTEEN
Sheriff Tom Murphy looked up as his office door opened and Willie Delvin walked in. Willie was an odd-job man in town, and would pretty much do anything for a nickel.
“What can I do for you, Willie?”
“Ya gotta hide me, Sheriff.”
“Hide you?” Murphy asked. “Why? From who?”
“I can’t tell ya.”
“Can’t tell me why? Or from who?”
“Either one,” Willie said.
“Then why should I hide you?”
“I did a bad thing,” Willie said.
“How bad?”
“Really bad.” Willie, who was in his mid-twenties, was almost in tears and was very close to falling to his knees.
“Willie,” Murphy said, “I can’t help you unless you tell me what you did.”
“I can’t,” Willie said, shaking his head, “I can’t . . .”
“Then get out, Willie,” Murphy said. “You’re wasting my time.”
“Sheriff—”
“Come back when you want to tell me the whole story,” Murphy said.
Willie looked as if he was about to cry, but he turned and left the office.
“Goddamned idiot!” Murphy muttered.
* * *
Willie knew that Hiram Anderson was dead. If he weren’t, he would have already been back with the money they were owed. Hiram had come to him with the job, which he said would be an easy one.
“Just some Easterners comin’ out here to steal our land,” he’d said.
“I ain’t got no land.”
“It don’t matter,” Hiram told him. “We’ll be gettin’ paid a lot of money. That’s the only part that matters.”
But the job hadn’t gone so easy. They didn’t know there’d be a baby boy on the wagon. The girl, that was okay. After all, she was about twelve. Plenty old enough for what Willie wanted. And the mother, she was tasty enough for Hiram. They’d made the husband watch, then made the women watch while they killed him. But after they killed the females, they saw the boy in the wagon.
“What do we do with him?” Willie asked.
“Shoot ’im,” Hiram said.
“Okay, well . . . Wait. You mean me?”
Death in the Family Page 4
