The University Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  “Okay, then,” Fitz said. “I’ll see you all in the morning.”

  Taylor told the five men to leave. He also turned to leave when Fitz said, “Steve.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can they handle those rifles?”

  “They’re the five who can shoot,” Steve said. “That’s why I picked them.”

  “I want the next sonofabitch who tries to damage or burn any part of our building shot dead. Is that understood?”

  “I understand, Fitz,” Taylor said, “but when did you get so bloodthirsty?”

  “Just recently, Steve,” Fitz said. “And I don’t like it.”

  Taylor nodded, and left the shack.

  Sideman, the architect, was asleep in the other room, snoring rhythmically. Fitz looked at the plans they agreed would be final. He’d managed to get the man back around to the original plans.

  He walked to the table to roll the plans up and put them away. As he did, there was a shot, the window broke, and a bullet went through the plans and into his chest. He gasped, had only a moment to comprehend what was happening, and then fell dead, facedown on the table.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A knock on his door awoke Clint the next morning. He’d fallen asleep with the Dickens in his hands. It fell to the floor as he got up. He’d only managed to get this boots off, but he’d still made sure his gun was hanging on the bedpost, at the ready. He drew it and took it with him to the door.

  When he opened it and saw Fellows, he relaxed and lowered the gun.

  “It’s pretty early, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I have bad news,” Fellows said.

  “It finally happened?” Clint asked.

  Fellows nodded.

  “Who was killed?” Clint asked. “How many?”

  “One man, Clint.”

  Clint waited, knew it was bad when Fellows didn’t speak right away, then said. “All right, Fred. Who was it?”

  “Your friend,” Fellows said. “Fitz.”

  “Damn,” Clint said.

  When Clint rode out to the site with Detective Fellows, he was glad to see Chief Coleman there as well.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Coleman said to Clint. “As soon as we learned it was him, I sent Fellows to get you.”

  “Much obliged,” Clint said. “What happened?”

  “Near as we can figure,” Fellows said, “he was standing at the table, rolling up the set of plans, when a bullet came through the window. Went through the plans and into his chest.”

  “He was assassinated,” Clint said.

  “Seems like it,” Coleman said.

  “Where was Sideman? The architect?”

  “Asleep,” Fellows said.

  “And Taylor, the foreman?”

  “On watch,” Fellows said, “with another man. They had just set up shifts, two men at a time. The first shift had just started.”

  “So somebody just sneaked into the camp, shot him, and slipped away.”

  “Yes,” Fellows said.

  “Goddamnit!” He looked around. “Where’s the body?”

  “We sent it to town, to the undertaker’s,” Coleman said. “Did he have family?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I’ll pay for his burial.”

  “The town will handle that, I’m sure,” Coleman said.

  Clint looked around again. Something to hit or shoot at would have been good at that moment.

  “We’ll find out who did it, Clint,” Fellows said.

  “I’ll find out who did it!” Clint swore.

  “Mr. Adams,” Coleman said, “I know he was your friend, but—”

  “Talk to your mayor,” Clint said. “He himself asked me to make sure this building gets built.”

  “Well, they’re going to have to hire somebody to replace Fitzgerald on this project,” the chief said.

  “I’ll take that job.”

  “You just said you’ll be trying to find out who killed Fitz—” Fellows started.

  “I’ll do both, believe me,” Clint said. “I’ll catch the killer, the man who hired him, and get this goddamn building built.”

  “You’re sure he was for hire?” Coleman said. “The killer, I mean?”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Clint said. “And I’m sure I know who hired it done.”

  “You’re saying Bodeen did it?” Fellows asked.

  “I am.”

  “You’re going to have to prove it,” Coleman said.

  “I will.”

  He started walking to his horse.

  “Sir?” Fellows said to his chief.

  “Go on, go with him,” Coleman said. “Keep me informed.”

  Fellows ran to catch up.

  Steve Taylor walked over to the chief and asked, “And what do we do?”

  “You and your men keep working,” Coleman said. “Just keep working.”

  “Where are you going?” Fellows asked, catching up to Clint.

  “There have to be fresh tracks somewhere around here,” Clint said. “I’m going to find them.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Suit yourself,” Clint said, “but if I have to run, I’m not going to wait for you.”

  “Understood.”

  They mounted up and rode out.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “What’s wrong?” Fellows asked.

  Clint stared at the ground, then got up off his knee and looked at Clint.

  “They were careful this time,” he said. “I think they came a long way on foot.”

  “Can’t you find their boot prints?”

  Clint walked back to Eclipse, mounted up, and looked at Fellows.

  “If this killer knew what he was doing, he wore moccasins. When he got back to his horse, he might have changed into boots.”

  “Then how do we find him?”

  “We keep looking,” Clint said. “There’s got to be a likely place for someone to leave their horse for as long as he would have had to, and then walk the rest of the way.”

  “Yes,” Fellows said, “but where?”

  “Out there, somewhere,” Clint said.

  Chief Coleman got back to town and immediately went to the mayor’s office.

  “What’s on your mind, Chief?” Darling asked when the chief was shown in.

  “Murder, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Damn it,” Darling said. “It’s happened, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The mayor opened a drawer and took out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He looked over at the chief, who nodded, and then took out a second glass. He poured them both half full and passed one to the chief. It was not yet 10 a.m.

  “Who was killed?” the mayor asked.

  “Fitzgerald.”

  “How?”

  “Murdered,” Coleman said. “Shot.”

  “Damn it, again. Do we know who did it?”

  “The Gunsmith thinks he knows.”

  “Is he going after Bodeen?”

  “He thinks Bodeen hired it done,” Coleman said. “First he’ll find the man that did it, then the man who hired him.”

  Darling sat back, finished his drink, then leaned forward and poured another. He offered it to the chief, who waved it away. He had not yet finished his first.

  “We’ll have to hire somebody to replace Fitzgerald,” the mayor said.

  “Adams wants that job.”

  “He’s out manhunting.”

  “He still says he’ll get the university built.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I believe him.”

  “I’ll have to get the council’s okay.”

  “You’re the mayor,” Coleman said. “Do what you have to do.”

  “We haven’t always seen eye to eye, Robert,” Darling said. “Will you back me on this? The Gunsmith to replace Fitzgerald?”

  “I will.”

  “All right, then,” the mayor said. “I’ll call a meeting this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there,” Coleman said. He fini
shed his drink and set the glass on the desk. Standing up, he said again, “I’ll be there,” and left.

  THIRTY

  Clint and Fellows rode in circles for most of the day. At no time were they more than a couple of hours from the university site.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” Fellows said. “We have no provisions to stay out all night.”

  “We’ll go back to the site, eat, stay there, and head out in the morning,” Clint said, “with some provisions. Tomorrow I’m going to find this sonofabitch’s trail.”

  “We still have a little daylight,” Fellows said.

  “I’ve got to go back, talk to the foreman and the architect, and to the men,” Clint said. “We’ll need to put out more than two men at a time on watch.”

  “Do you think they’ll accept you as their new boss?” the detective asked.

  “Let’s ride back and find out.”

  They got back to the site just as it was getting dark. They saw the campfires from a distance, smelled the food cooking as they got closer.

  Steve Taylor greeted them as they rode in.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Clint said, dismounting.

  “Are you taking over?” Taylor asked.

  “Is that what you heard from town?” Clint asked.

  “We haven’t heard a thing,” Taylor said. “It just makes sense to me.”

  “What about your men? Will it make sense to them?” Clint asked.

  “It will if I tell them it will,” Taylor said. “You tell me what you want them to do, and I’ll see to it they do it.”

  “And what about Sideman?”

  “Can I speak frankly?”

  “Of course.”

  “We don’t need an architect anymore,” Taylor said. “All he is now is a lot of trouble, always trying to change the plans. I say ship him back where he came from.”

  “He’s not needed if there’s a problem?”

  “The only problems we’re having are coming from without, Clint,” Taylor said. “We don’t need him to come up with problems from within. I say pay him off.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s stew tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint and Fellows went and ate with the men. After eating, Clint explained to the men about the increased watches.

  “Didn’t help last night, did it?” one man said. “Mr. Fitzgerald ended up dead.”

  “That’s why we’re going to increase the watch,” Clint said. “Four men at a time, with rifles.”

  “We’re builders,” another man said, “not gunmen.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “There will be three shifts. I’ll be on one, Detective Fellows on a second, and Steve Taylor on the third.”

  “And what are we guarding?” another man asked. “Are we gonna continue with the building?”

  “Definitely,” Clint said. “I’ll be taking Mr. Fitzgerald’s place.”

  “What do you know about—”

  “I know about getting a job done,” Clint said. “As for the actual building knowledge, I’ll depend on you and Mr. Taylor for that. I’m not going to try to tell you what to do, I’m just going to make sure it gets done.”

  “And Mr. Taylor stays foreman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Sideman?” another man asked. “Do we have to put up with him?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I think Mr. Sideman’s work here is done.”

  The men cheered and one asked, “Who’s going to tell him, sir?”

  “I’ll be doing that,” Clint said, “probably in the morning. Mr. Taylor will now give you your shifts. He will either choose the men who’ll stand watch, or you can volunteer.”

  Clint went and sat down next to Fellows, who was having coffee. He poured a cup for Clint and handed it to him.

  “Looks like they’re volunteering,” Fellows said.

  “That’s good,” Clint said. “Volunteers work harder than draftees.”

  “Are we still going back out tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t be doing anyone any good here. Taylor can handle the men.” He looked at the detective. “Do you want to go back to town?”

  “No,” Fellows said. “There’s no need. My case is out here.”

  “No lady in town?”

  “No.”

  “Your boss won’t mind?”

  “He’d probably prefer it.”

  “All right, then,” Clint said. “You can bunk in with the men.”

  “Is there room?”

  “That’s what we’ll find out.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be bunking in with the architect.”

  “Before or after you fire him?” Fellows asked.

  “That’s a good point,” Clint said.

  “If you fire him first, and then you’re killed during the night, I’ll have to suspect him and arrest him.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “you’re right. I won’t fire him until the morning.”

  “And you don’t have to say ‘fired,’” Fellows suggested. “Why don’t you find another word?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hmm…you’re not much firing him as his job is done, finished. He’s not needed anymore.”

  “So I should just…let him go,” Clint said. “Tell him his services are no longer needed.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll try that,” Clint said. “We’ll see how that works out.”

  “What could he do?” Fellows asked. “He’s just an architect.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Clint didn’t have time to deal with—or even interact with—Art Sideman that night. When he went into the shack to sleep, the architect was snoring away. The shack smelled sour, obviously a result of the man’s body odor and hygiene. Clint went to sleep, determined to deal with him in the morning.

  The smell of coffee woke him up early. He went outside and found a couple of fires with bacon sizzling and coffee brewing over them. He was eating bacon and drinking coffee when Art Sideman came stumbling out of the shack, no pants on, just long underwear. He grabbed a cup of coffee without speaking to anyone, and Clint could see why the men didn’t want him around anymore.

  Fellows ambled over, sat next to Clint, and started to eat.

  “Gonna take care of the architect today?”

  “As soon as I finish eating,” Clint said. “I think it’ll do wonders for the men’s morale not to have him stumbling around here in his long johns.”

  Fellows looked over at the architect, who was still staggering around, at times scratching his butt through his underwear, and said, “I agree.”

  Clint finished his breakfast. By that time, Sideman was back inside the shack. When Clint entered, he saw the man once again bent over a set of plans. These plans had a hole through them, and some bloodstains on them, but were still readable.

  “Mr. Sideman,” Clint said.

  “Huh?” Sideman looked up at Clint. His face was sweaty and heavily stubbled, his eyes red-rimmed.

  “Clint Adams, remember?”

  Sideman stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Fitzgerald’s friend.”

  “Well, I was Mr. Fitzgerald’s friend,” Clint said, “but he’s dead.”

  “Yes, of course I know that!” Sideman snapped. “I’m not a child.”

  “Good. If you’re not a child, then you’ll understand that your job is done here.”

  “What?”

  “It’s time for you to go, Art.”

  The man stood up straight and ignored the plans for a change.

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m not trying to tell you,” Clint said, “I am telling you that you’re done here. Time to go.”

  “You are presuming to fire me?”

  “I’m not presuming anything,” Clint said. “And I’m not firing you. It’s just that you’re finished. You’ve been paid, and you’re done.”<
br />
  “These plans—”

  “The plans are fine,” Clint said. “You can’t keep changing them. It’s done. We want you to go.”

  “Who wants me to go?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Does Mr. Taylor know about this? He is, after all, the foreman.”

  “He’s the foreman, but I’m in charge now,” Clint said. “However, if you need to hear it from him, I’ll send him in.”

  “Please do! And what about Mr. Eiland?”

  “I haven’t met Mr. Eiland. Does he ever come out here?”

  “Mr. Eiland stays at the best hotel in town,” Sideman said. “He represents the university.”

  “Well, you go and tell Mr. Eiland what’s going on,” Clint said, “and if he wants to talk to me, he can come out here. I have the blessing of the town council and the mayor.” He was lying, but he thought it would be true eventually. “After you talk to Steve, I’d like you to pack up and leave.”

  And when the man was gone, Clint was going to open all the doors and windows and air the shack out.

  He left and went in search of Steve Taylor.

  “So he’s fired?” Taylor asked.

  “He’s not fired, he’s done, finished, his job is over,” Clint said. “Just tell him to go.”

  “Okay,” Taylor said happily. “No problem. I’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Fellows and I are going to go out again to look for tracks. There’s got to be something somewhere.”

  “Fine,” Taylor said. “I’ll get rid of Sideman and keep the men working.”

  “Very good. We’ll most likely see you later tonight, but I’m going to take some provisions in case we have to camp out.”

  “Okay, that’s fine.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” Clint said. “After he leaves, air that shack out.”

  “Gotcha,” Taylor said with a smile.

  Clint watched Taylor go to finish the dirty work, then turned and looked for Fellows. The man was still eating, and raised his coffee cup to Clint.

  “Finish that plate and let’s go,” he said to the detective.

  “What? I was gonna have more. I haven’t had food like this before. It really tastes better when you eat it out here, from a campfire.”