The University Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  They reined in.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s going to be big.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “So,” Clint said, “the mental institution would have been bigger?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Fitz said, “bigger, and it would have yielded more jobs.”

  “And a lot of that money would have lined a lot of pockets.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Fitz said. “That, too.”

  Fitz led the way to the construction site, and then around it. Two small buildings, which had been hidden by the partially finished one, came into view—the bunkhouse and the shack Fitz slept in.

  The construction site was a flurry of activity. There were men on the ground, men up on scaffolding, men on the roof. Watching it all stood a man wearing a gun.

  “That’s Steve,” Fitz said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  They rode over to the shack and dismounted.

  “There’s a lean-to behind the bunkhouse. That’s where we keep the horses. There are also a couple of buckboards back there.”

  They walked over to where the foreman was standing, arms folded across his chest.

  “Steve!”

  Steve Taylor turned. He was in his forties, with a weathered face and big, scarred hands.

  “Boss.”

  “Steve, this is Clint Adams.”

  “Hey,” Steve said, shaking hands. “He said you’d come.”

  “Well, I hate being predictable.”

  “You gonna stay and help?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Good,” Taylor said. “I won’t be the only gun around here.”

  “Where’s Art?” Fitz asked.

  “In the shack, looking over his plans.”

  “Again?” Fitz looked at Clint. “He does this all the time. Goes over the plans, tries to change some things. I have to rein him in.”

  “Well, you better do it again,” Steve said. “Good to meet you. I gotta go up there. Somebody’s wavin’.”

  Clint looked up, saw a man waving.

  “Come on,” Fitz said. “I’ll introduce you to Art.”

  They walked over to the shack while Steve Taylor went into the building, presumably to make his way to the roof.

  When they opened the door of the shack and walked in, a man turned and looked at them. He’d been standing over a table, looking down. Now he stared at them through thick eyeglasses. He was tall, thin, looked to be all knees and elbows. Clint guessed him to be about forty.

  “Ted! I’m glad you’re here. Look at this. I figured out a way—”

  “Art, settle down,” Fitz said, cutting him off. “I want you to meet Clint Adams.”

  “Oh, hey, glad to meet you,” Art Sideman said. “Fitz, I figured out—”

  “Art!” Fitz said. “Take a breath. This is the man I told you I was going to ask for help. The Gunsmith.”

  “Oh!” Sideman looked surprised. His magnified eyes seemed incredibly wide. “You came!”

  “I came.”

  “Well, now maybe we can stop worryin’ about fires and vandalism and just concentrate on building this thing!”

  “We’ll do our best,” Fitz said.

  “Fitz, I gotta show you this!” Sideman said, pointing to the plans.

  “Art—”

  “Fitz, go ahead,” Clint said. “I’m going to take a walk around the site.”

  “Well, okay,” Fitz said. “I’ll talk to you later. Okay, Art, whataya got here?”

  Clint left the shack, walked over to the bunkhouse. It was empty, as everyone was either around or on the building. Behind the bunkhouse he found a few team horses, and a couple of buckboards they obviously used to haul building equipment.

  He came back around and watched the men work for a while. A few of them threw some glances his way, but they kept working. If they had any curiosity about him, they were waiting to satisfy it.

  Finally, Steve Taylor came back down to the ground and walked up to him.

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Heard you had some fires.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Can you show me where?”

  “Sure, come on.”

  They walked around to one side of the building. Clint immediately saw the charred wall. He walked up to it, touched it, then sniffed his fingers.

  “This was recent,” Clint said.

  “Last week.”

  “Were the police out here?”

  “Yeah, they sent a detective.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Talked to some of the men, looked around…he never did what you just did. What’d you smell?”

  “Something that was used to start the fire,” Clint said. “Maybe some lamp oil.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  Clint looked around. Anyone intending to sabotage the place would not just ride up to it. They’d leave their horse or wagon a ways off and walk the rest of the way.

  “I’m going to ride around for a while, see if I can find where they left their horse, or wagon.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “No, you’ve got work to do. I’ll be okay. Just tell Fitz where I am.”

  “I’ll tell ’im.”

  Clint went back to Eclipse, mounted up, and rode off.

  THIRTEEN

  He drove in an ever-widening circle away from the building until he came upon some tracks. He dismounted, got down on his knee, then walked around a bit. Somebody had been here with a wagon—probably a buckboard—and a horse. Two men, maybe more. Probably came out with a couple of large cans of lamp oil. The mounted man was probably their bodyguard.

  The tracks were a week old, and they could still be followed.

  Clint mounted up and rode back to the site.

  Fitz was standing next to Steve Taylor, watching the men work. When he saw Clint riding back, he said something to his foreman and walked over to meet him.

  “Where you been?” Fitz asked.

  “Found some tracks,” Clint said. “Buckboard and saddle horse.”

  “How old?”

  “About a week.”

  “That matches the fire,” Fitz said. “Can you follow them?”

  “I can. I wanted to come back and let you know.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I don’t know what I’ll run into and you don’t have a gun.”

  “Then take Steve,” Fitz said. “He can take my horse.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll take him.”

  Fitz ran over to Steve. They exchanged a few words, then Steve nodded and walked over to Clint.

  “Ready to go?” Clint asked.

  “I’m ready,” Steve said. “I hope we catch these sonsofbitches.”

  Steve mounted Fitz’s horse and followed Clint.

  They rode back to the tracks, which Clint pointed out to Steve.

  “Damn,” Steve said “I never came out here to look, and neither did the police. I coulda followed those buckboard tracks.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re going to do now.”

  They mounted up and started following the tracks.

  They followed the tracks for a few miles, and then suddenly the horse split off from the buckboard.

  “Now where’s he going?” Taylor asked, pointing at the saddle horse’s tracks.

  “Well, the buckboard looks like it’s circling,” Clint said. “It’s going to head back to town.”

  “And the horse?”

  “Well, he’s going somewhere else.”

  “But where?”

  “Well, that’s what we’re going to find out,” Clint said. “The buckboard’s going to town, so we can track that anytime. These other tracks will fade out long before those wheel ruts.”

  “Why don’t we split up?” Taylor asked. “One of us follows the buckboard and the other follows the horse.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Clint said. “Those wheel tracks aren’t going anywher
e. Let’s see where the rider is going, and then we can decide what to do.”

  “Well, okay,” Taylor said. “You’re in charge.”

  They turned their horses and started following the tracks of the horse.

  An hour later they were on top of a hill, looking down at a ranch.

  “Do you know whose ranch that is?”

  “I do,” Taylor said. “It belongs to Patrick Bodeen.”

  “Bodeen.”

  “So he’s the one behind the fire.”

  “Well, not necessarily him,” Clint said, “but it is somebody who rode here after the fire.”

  “You think somebody’s tryin’ to frame him?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “but I’m going to find out…eventually.”

  “We’re not gonna ride down there?”

  “Not right now, Steve,” Clint said. “I want to go back to the other tracks and follow them.”

  “So you’ll be going back to town.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Okay, then I’ll go back to the site,” Taylor said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “And you’ll tell Fitz where I went?”

  “Of course.”

  Taylor looked down the hill at the Bodeen spread.

  “You sure you don’t wanna go down there now?”

  “I’m sure,” Clint said. “I want to be armed with some more information first.”

  “You gonna tell this to the police?”

  “Eventually,” Clint said. “I don’t want them…doing anything before I’m ready.”

  “Doing anything? Do you mean arresting someone, or warning someone?”

  “Either one,” Clint said. “Come on. We’ll ride back to the buckboard tracks, and then split up there.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  FOURTEEN

  Clint followed the buckboard tracks back toward town, but about a mile outside they took to the main road, which was hard-packed dirt and filled with older ruts. It was obvious the buckboard went back to town, but where it went from there was anyone’s guess.

  He rode back into town, decided to stay there rather than ride back to the site. Fitz would know where to find him, and now that he had agreed to help, there was somebody he needed to talk with.

  He turned Eclipse back over to the liveryman and walked directly to the police station. The same young sergeant was on the desk, and when he looked up, his face colored, but it was more from anger than shame. He was annoyed that he’d been humiliated by Clint.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Sergeant, I’d like to see the detective who is investigating the vandalism out at the university building site.”

  “That would be Detective Fellows, sir,” the sergeant said. “I’m afraid he’s not available right now, but I can tell him you’d like to talk to him.”

  Clint decided not to push it. “Just tell him he can find me at my hotel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint turned and walked out. He went to a nearby small saloon and got himself a beer. He needed to talk to the detective, and to Patrick Bodeen. The tracks leading to his ranch implicated him, though circumstantially. And he thought he should probably talk to the mayor, as well. Might as well do whatever he could do to shake things up with the town fathers. Whatever was going on out at the university site, somebody in the local government had to be involved. No one else would be so upset about Tucson getting the university instead of the mental hospital.

  He finished his beer and walked back to his hotel.

  “Sir?” the desk clerk called.

  “Yes?”

  “There was a man here looking for you a little while ago.”

  “Did he leave his name?”

  “No, but he’s getting a drink while he waits for you.”

  Clint looked over at the doorway that led to the saloon.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Tall, thirties, black hair, he’s wearing an Eastern suit and a bowler hat. Oh yeah, and he’s got a badge.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint entered the saloon and looked around. The fact that the place was not popular with the locals made the man easy to pick out. He was seated at a table, nursing a beer. Clint walked over.

  “I’m going to guess that you’re Detective Fellows.”

  The man looked up at him and said, “That’s right. And you’re Mr. Adams?”

  “I am.”

  “Please, have a seat,” Fellows said. “Can I get you a beer?”

  “That’d be fine, but I’ll go to the bar and get it. The service here is terrible.”

  “Nonsense,” Fellows said, standing up. “I’ll get it, you sit down.”

  Clint sat while the detective went to the bar and came back with two beers, another for him despite the fact that his first one was still half full.

  “I was just over at the police station looking for you,” Clint said.

  “Is that a fact?” Fellows asked. “The chief just told me about you today, and I thought we should talk.”

  The detective was wearing his bowler hat, but he took it off, revealing a receding hairline, despite the fact he was only in his thirties.

  “What is your purpose for being in Tucson, Mr. Adams?” he asked.

  “I’m friends with Ted Fitzgerald, and I’m determined to see that he’s not injured.”

  “What makes you believe he’s in danger of being injured?”

  “From what I understand, the vandalism out at the building site seems to be escalating. Somebody’s bound to get hurt eventually. I don’t want it to be my friend.”

  “Seems to me your friend has other worries as far as getting hurt.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Ask him,” Fellows said. “Talk to him about Cynthia Bodeen.”

  “I understood her husband doesn’t care who she sleeps with.”

  “But there are other men who do care,” Fellows said. “She’s left quite a string of ex-lovers behind her, and they didn’t all go away willingly.”

  Clint tried to keep his reaction off his face. Fitz had told him about Cynthia, but had not mentioned that he was one of her lovers—and in fact, the current one.

  “What have you been able to find out so far about the vandalism, Detective?”

  “Not much,” Fellows said. “I’m still interviewing the workers.”

  “You think one of the workers did it?”

  “I think it’s possible that not all the workers are there for the benefit of the construction.”

  “I see.”

  “But I have no evidence against any of them.”

  “I was out there today, rode around some, found some tracks.”

  “Tracks?”

  Clint explained about the two sets of tracks, buckboard and saddle horse.

  “I didn’t see that,” Fellow said, frowning. “Tracking is not one of my strong points. I didn’t get to do a lot of that in Philadelphia. Tell me more.”

  Clint told him about following the tracks, and where they led.

  “Once the buckboard hit town, the tracks blended in with the tracks from all the regular traffic.”

  “And the horse tracks led to Mr. Bodeen’s ranch?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you been out there to talk to him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go out there with you,” Fellows said.

  “Suits me,” Clint said. “He won’t be able to refuse to talk to me, then. But I’ve got a question for you before we go out there, Detective.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Are you one of the ex-lovers who didn’t go away willingly?”

  Fellows actually smiled with such amusement that Clint totally believed his next words.

  “I’m afraid I’m a little below Mrs. Bodeen’s station, Mr. Adams, which suits me just fine. I don’t need the extra headache while I’m trying to establish myself here in Tucson.”

  The detective s
ounded like quite a smart young man.

  FIFTEEN

  Clint was surprised that Detective Fellows wanted to go out to Bodeen’s place immediately.

  “Why not?” Fellows asked. “There’s still plenty of light, so why wait?”

  “I’ll saddle my horse,” Clint said.

  “I’ll be taking a buggy,” Fellows said. “I’m not much of a horseman. Would you like to ride with me?”

  “I think I’d prefer to take my horse.”

  “Fine. Meet you out in front of your hotel.”

  They left the hotel together and split up. Clint went back to the livery to collect Eclipse for the second time that day.

  Sitting in his buggy in front of the hotel, Fellows looked more like a country doctor ready to go out to make his calls rather than a detective going out to conduct an investigation. In fact, he even had a leather bag on the seat that looked like a doctor’s bag.

  “What’s in the bag?” Clint asked, riding up alongside him.

  “Tools that I use to collect evidence,” Fellows said. “Ready to go?”

  “Let’s ride,” Clint said.

  When they reached the Bodeen place, Clint took Fellows to show him the tracks.

  “How can you tell these tracks from other horses?” the detective asked.

  “See there? There’s a nick on the horseshoe of the rear left foot. That’ll stand out from other horseshoes.”

  “Like fingerprints.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” Clint said. “In fact, Mark Twain used them in a couple of his books, Life on the Mississippi and Pudd’nhead Wilson.”

  “The British first began using them in eighteen fifty-eight,” Fellows said. “But I find this very interesting. If I had some water, I could take a plaster cast of this hoofprint.”

  “We can come back out and do that later,” Clint said. Why don’t we ride up to the house now and see how Mr. Bodeen reacts.”

  “I’m with you.”

  As they pulled up in front of the house, several hands drifted over from the corral and barn to greet them. The tracks they were following had disappeared among all the other tracks on the ground. They couldn’t tell if they led to the house, or the barn, or anywhere else.

  “Gentlemen,” Fellows said, “I’m Detective Fellows from the Tucson Police Department. I need to see your boss.”