The Devil's Collector (5 page)

FIFTEEN

Clint didn't know where to find Jack Sonnet. All he knew was that Sonnet had not yet found Cole Damon.

He decided to get himself a room at the hotel closest to the last place he'd seen Sonnet, the café. Turned out there were only two hotels in town anyway, so it didn't matter.

He went to both hotels to see if Sonnet had checked in yet. He had not. So he picked one and got himself a room. He went upstairs, sat on the thin mattress for a moment, then walked to the window and stared out at the street. There didn't seem to be any way he could keep Cole Damon from waiting for Sonnet. What he was going to have to do was find the kid and try to convince him that Damon was innocent. He knew Jack Sonnet would never be able to forgive himself if he killed an innocent man.

At least, he hoped that was something he knew about the young man.

He walked to the door of his room and went out.

• • •

Clint found Sonnet in the second saloon he checked. While the town only had two hotels, it had five saloons.

Sonnet was standing at the bar with a beer in front of him. Clint stood next to him.

“You get a room?” Clint asked.

“Nope.”

“I did. I'll take you over there so you can get one.”

“Sure.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Lookin'.”

“You find him?”

“Not yet.”

The bartender came over. “Somethin'?”

“A beer.”

“Comin' up.”

Clint realized Sonnet was looking at him.

“Oh, yeah, well,” Clint said, “I did. I found him.”

Sonnet turned to face him.

“Where is he?”

“First we have to talk.”

“Why?”

The bartender brought over a cold beer. Clint picked it up and said, “Let's go sit down.”

The place was practically empty, so they had their pick of tables.

“Come on,” Clint said. “This won't take long.”

Clint walked to a table, and Sonnet followed.

“What are you tryin' to pull?”

“I talked to the man,” Clint said. “He says he's innocent.”

“That's why I don't talk to them first,” Sonnet said. “Not for long anyway.”

“You did talk to the other two, and neither of them claimed they were innocent,” Clint said. “But this one does.”

“Clint—”

“Just listen for a second,” Clint said. “What if he's telling the truth?”

“He's not.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“No, Jack,” Clint said, “you don't know, you've been told.”

“Clint,” Sonnet said, “where is he? You know I'll find him.”

“Talk to him first, Jack.”

Sonnet just stared at him.

“All right,” Clint said wearily, “I'll take you to him.”

• • •

Clint felt he had to take Sonnet to Cole Damon; otherwise the young man would find him on his own. And he might find him in the midst of a bunch of innocent bystanders.

“The whorehouse?” Sonnet said as they stopped in front of the building. “That's where he is?”

“That's where he is.”

“Stay out of the way, Clint,” Sonnet said.

“You can't go in there, Jack.”

“Why not?”

“There are a lot of innocent people in there.”

“I'm not going to accidentally hit a bystander,” Sonnet said.

“Maybe you're not,” Clint said, “but he might.”

Sonnet studied Clint for a few moments, then said, “Yeah, okay.”

He turned to face the building.

“Cole Damon!” he yelled. “Cole Damon, I'm calling you out!”

SIXTEEN

Inside, Carlotta looked at Damon.

“See?” Damon said. “Adams brought him.” He stood up.

“Cole, go out the back,” she said. “I'll keep them busy.”

“I ain't runnin' from no kid,” Damon said. “Especially for somethin' I didn't even do.”

He headed for the front door.

“Isaac!” Carlotta yelled.

• • •

When the front door opened, Cole Damon stepped out. Clint had hoped the man would go out the back door, try to get away.

“You Damon?” Sonnet asked.

“That's right. Who are you?”

“Jack Sonnet,” Sonnet said. “You and your friends killed my brother.”

“I never knew your brother, friend,” Damon said.

“That ain't the word I got.”

“Well, the word you got is wrong.”

“Step down off that porch.”

“I step down off this porch, I'm gonna have to kill you.”

“You're welcome to try.”

Cole Damon shook his head and came down the steps, stopped just at the bottom.

• • •

Clint was watching Damon and Sonnet when he saw a rifle barrel poke out one of the upper windows in the front of the house. He watched carefully, eventually saw the black face of the man holding the gun. Carlotta had put her man, Isaac, in the window to back Damon's play.

Clint shook his head.

Innocent bystanders.

• • •

Sonnet's move surprised Damon.

The man flinched as Sonnet drew, but that was the only move he had time to make. The bullet struck him in the chest and left him sprawled on his back on the steps, staring up at the sky.

• • •

On the second floor, Isaac watched as Sonnet gunned down Cole Damon.

“Oh Lord,” he said to himself. “That Gunsmith fella was s'pposed to keep her young man alive. Miz Carlyle's gon' give him hell now.”

He rose up, leaned out the window with his rifle.

• • •

Clint had no choice. As the black man sighted down the barrel at Sonnet, Clint drew and fired. Sonnet turned quickly, saw Clint, then looked up at the window as the black man fell to the ground.

Sonnet walked over to Damon's body to make sure he was dead.

Clint walked over to where the black man lay, found that he was very dead, too.

The front door opened and Carlotta stepped out, looked down at Damon, then glared at Clint and Sonnet.

“Damn you both to hell,” she spat, then ducked back and closed the door.

• • •

Sheriff Atticus came to the scene, looked at the bodies, then stood off to one side with Clint.

“I tried to talk them both out of it,” Clint explained. “They wouldn't have it.”

“I suppose I'll have to go inside and talk to Carlotta. Of course, she'll claim you both murdered him and Isaac.”

“Isaac gave me no choice,” Clint said. “He tried to bushwhack Sonnet.”

“And Sonnet?” Atticus asked. “He as fast as his grandpa?”

“Maybe faster.”

“That'd be pretty damn fast. Why don't you take him to your hotel? I'll talk to both of you later.”

“Sure. You figuring on an arrest?”

“I'm figurin' on you and your friend leavin' town in the mornin',” Atticus said. “That sound like a problem to you?”

“That doesn't sound like a problem to me at all, Sheriff,” Clint said.

“Very good. Then I'll talk to you both later.”

He went into the whorehouse.

SEVENTEEN

At the hotel they got Sonnet his own room, and Clint walked him there.

“Satisfied?” Clint asked.

“I told you I was satisfied even before I killed him,” Sonnet said. “Why wouldn't I be satisfied now?”

“I meant with the room,” Clint said.

“Oh,” Sonnet said. “Yes, it's fine.”

“I'll look in on you later,” Clint said. “Maybe we'll get some supper.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Clint walked to the door.

“You're not mad at me?” Sonnet asked.

Clint stopped at the door and turned around.

“Why should I be mad at you?”

“Well, if you think I killed an innocent man—”

“Whether or not you killed an innocent man is your burden to bear, not mine, Jack,” Clint said. “Besides, right now the only one of us we know for sure killed an innocent man is me.”

He left.

• • •

“I've been thinking,” Sonnet said later.

They were eating at Molly's, the small café that Sheriff Atticus claimed served a decent steak. Clint thought he was right. It was decent.

“About what?”

“About what you said.”

Clint chewed his steak. Sonnet moved his around his plate.

“What did I say, Jack?”

“You know, about how maybe I was killing . . . an innocent man. This time.”

“So,” Clint said, “what are you thinking?”

“That maybe I should find out for sure who's guilty and who isn't.”

“And if we find out that Damon was innocent?” Clint asked.

“I'll have to deal with that when the time comes,” Sonnet said.

“Okay,” Clint said. “Right now I suggest you finish your steak. It'll only be decent as long as it's hot.”

Sonnet nodded, cut into it.

“Will you go with me?”

“To find out who killed your brother?” Clint asked. “Sure I will.”

“I'm not sure I know where to start.”

“That's because you're too used to having somebody tell you,” Clint said. “We'll go back to where your brother was killed. We'll also try to track down where the telegrams have been coming from. Okay?”

“Okay.”

• • •

They finished eating, then continued to talk over coffee.

“Haven't you wondered how he knows where to telegraph you?”

“No,” Sonnet said. “I guess I was just happy that he was. So how does he do it?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “The only thing I can figure is that he's having you watched. Followed.”

“Have you noticed anyone following us?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“That's just something else we'll have to learn later.”

“When can we start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Do you think the sheriff will let us leave tomorrow?” Sonnet asked.

“Jack,” Clint said, “I think he'll insist on it.”

• • •

They were finishing up when Sheriff Atticus walked in and joined them.

“What'd you think?” the old man asked.

“You were right,” Clint said. “The steak was . . . decent.”

“Yeah, well,” Atticus said, “it's the best in town.” He waved to the waiter. “Coffee, Bill.”

“Comin' up, Sheriff.”

The waiter brought a second pot to the table, and all fresh cups.

“Steak, Sheriff?”

“Yeah, Bill.”

“Comin' up.”

As the waiter walked away, Clint poured the three of them some coffee.

“How did it go in the house?” he asked the old sheriff.

“Just like I said,” Atticus answered, “Carlotta demanded I arrest the two of you for murderin' her two men.”

“What'd you tell her?”

“That it was a fair fight,” he answered. “Except for Isaac, that is. I told her that she's the one got him killed.”

“She probably didn't take that well.”

“She didn't. But that ain't gonna stop you fellas from leavin' town in the mornin'.”

Clint looked at Sonnet, who nodded.

“If we're going to get an early start, we'd better get to our hotel and turn in, Sheriff,” Clint said. “You don't need company while you eat, do you?”

“Naw,” Atticus said, “I hate company while I eat. I hate talkin' while I eat.”

Clint stood up, and Sonnet followed.

“Then we'll just say good night,” Clint said, “and good-bye.”

Atticus drank his coffee and waved as Clint and Sonnet went out the door.

EIGHTEEN

M
ONROE
C
ITY
, C
OLORADO

“What was your brother doing here?” Clint asked as they rode in.

“Meeting me.”

“That's it?” Clint asked. “No business.”

“Not that I know of.”

“When did you find out he'd been shot?”

“When I got here.”

“After you recovered from being bushwhacked?”

“Right.”

“Where did that happen?”

“About fifty miles from here.”

“And where did you recover?”

“At a farmhouse,” Sonnet said. “Some people found me and took me in. They nursed me back to health.”

“And who told you about what happened to your brother?”

“The local sheriff.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “we'll check in with him after we get a hotel room.”

“And a real steak?”

“And a real steak.”

• • •

Deputy Will Romer entered the sheriff's office, slamming the door behind him.

“Will, damn it,” Sheriff Jubal Koster said, “how many times I gotta tell you not to slam that door?”

“Sorry, Sheriff, but I got news.”

“Yeah, what news?”

“Two guys rode into town.”

“That's news?”

“It's who they are that's news,” the deputy said.

Koster, age forty and the sheriff of Monroe City for five years, looked at his young deputy.

“So who are they?”

“One of them is Jack Sonnet. You remember, that kid whose brother—”

“I remember,” Clint said. “Who's the other one?”

“Clint Adams.”

Koster frowned.

“What the hell is the Gunsmith doin' in Monroe City with Jack Sonnet?”

“Want me to go ask 'im?” Romer asked.

“No, Will, I don't want you to go and ask him,” Koster said. “My guess is Mr. Adams will be comin' to see me.”

“About what?”

“I guess we'll find that out when he gets here.”

“You want me to watch him and Sonnet?”

“No,” Koster said, “I want you to make your rounds and stay away from both of them.”

“But—”

“You understand me?”

“Yeah, Sheriff,” Will Romer said, “I understand.”

“Now get out,” Koster said.

“Okay, Sheriff.”

Koster waited for his deputy to leave, then stood up, put on his hat, and left the office himself.

• • •

“This is a lot better than the steak we had in Deline,” Jack Sonnet said.

“It sure is,” Clint agreed.

There were also a lot more vegetables on the plate, and the coffee was better.

“We gonna see the sheriff today?”

“No, we'll make him wait until tomorrow.”

“Make him wait?”

“If he's any kind of lawman, I'm sure he knows by now that we're here.”

“Then shouldn't we see him right away?”

Clint shook his head.

“I want to give him time to think.”

“About what?” Sonnet asked.

“His story.”

“Are you sayin' he lied about my brother? About how he was killed?”

“We'll ask him about it,” Clint said. “See if his story is the same as what he told you.”

“Okay.”

“Then I want to take a ride to that farmhouse where they nursed you back to health.”

“What do you think they can tell you?”

“Do you have any idea who bushwhacked you?”

“No,” Sonnet said. “I was gonna look into it after . . . after I finished with the men who killed Carl.”

“Well, we're going to see if we can find it all out, Jack,” Clint said.

“I really appreciate your help, Clint,” Sonnet said. “My pa and my grandpa, they would, too.”

“That's okay, kid,” Clint said. “That's okay.”