The Devil's Collector (6 page)

NINETEEN

Sheriff Koster entered the Silver Queen Saloon, stopped at the bar.

“Is Mr. Albert in?”

“He's in his office, Sheriff.”

“Thanks.”

The sheriff started walking away from the bar, but the bartender stopped him.

“You can't go in there unless I announce you,” the man said.

“So announce me, then,” Koster said. “But give me a beer first.”

The bartender put a sloppily drawn beer on the bar for the sheriff, then walked to the back of the busy saloon.

“Come,” a voice said when he knocked.

He stuck his head in the door and looked at Michael Albert, who was standing at a filing cabinet, reading some papers.

“What?”

“The sheriff's here to see you.”

Albert looked at the bartender over his shoulder.

“What does he want?”

“He didn't say.”

“All right,” Albert said. He put the file back in and slammed the drawer closed. “Send him back.”

“Right.” The bartender returned to the bar, where the sheriff was nursing his beer.

“He says to go back.”

“Thanks.”

Koster slammed the beer mug down on the bar and walked to the back. He knocked and entered.

“Have a seat, Sheriff,” Albert said.

Koster sat down across the desk from Albert.

“What's on your mind?”

“That Sonnet kid rode back into town today,” Koster said.

“I thought we dealt with that,” Koster said, frowning. “What does he want?”

“I don't know.”

“You intend to find out?”

“If you say so.”

“I say so,” Albert said. “I want to know why the hell he's back here.”

“Okay,” Koster said, “I'll ask him.”

When the sheriff didn't move, Albert asked, “Is there something else?”

“Uh, well, he's got another man with him.”

“So?”

“It's Clint Adams.”

Albert stared at Koster for a few moments.

“The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“You couldn't lead with that?” Albert asked. “I mean, the news here is that the Sonnet kid rode back into town with the Gunsmith, right?”

“Well, yeah, I guess . . .”

“You guess?” Albert put his head back and stared at the ceiling for a few moments.

“You still want me to ask Sonnet what he's doin' here?”

“You better wait,” Albert said. “If they're here for trouble, they'll come to you.”

“That's what I told my deputy.”

“Is it?” Albert asked. “Well, you must be getting smarter in your old age, huh, Sheriff?”

“Mr. Albert—”

“Just get out,” Albert said. “Keep an eye on them and let me know when they come to you. Or if they do not come to you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

The sheriff stood up and left the office. The bartender watched him intently as he went out the batwings. Then he stole a look at his boss's door, which was closed.

• • •

Albert pushed his chair back from his desk, pressed his fingertips together in front of him, and stared at them. He should have had the Sonnet kid killed the last time he was here, but who thought he'd actually come back? And with the Gunsmith in tow? What was that all about?

Whatever was going on, he was sure that the sheriff wasn't going to be able to handle it.

He stood up and walked to the door of his office. He stood there until the bartender sensed him and turned to look, then he waved the man over.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Find me Benny Nickles.”

“Nickles?”

“That's right.”

“Bad news, boss?” the man asked.

“It is for somebody, Andy,” Michael Albert said. “It is for somebody.”

TWENTY

On the way back to their hotel, Jack Sonnet took Clint to the spot where his brother had died. It was a street outside Toth's Feed & Grain, across the street from the livery stable.

“Where was he going?” Clint asked. “Or coming from?”

“I don't know,” Sonnet said. “All I was told was that he was shot right here. Apparently, five men braced him and shot him down on the street.”

“And—if your information has been correct—three of those men are dead.”

“Yes,” Sonnet said, “if my information has been right.”

Clint looked around, studied the buildings.

“Somebody could have seen this happen,” he said. “Somebody outside the feed and grain, or the livery.”

“The sheriff told me he checked for witnesses and didn't find any.”

“Then how did he know five men shot and killed your brother?”

“I don't know.”

“Somebody told him that,” Clint said, “and that somebody was a witness.”

“Seems like that should be right.”

“Well,” Clint said, “that's one of the questions we're going to ask the sheriff tomorrow.”

“So what do we do tonight?”

“While we're here,” Clint said, “let's talk to people at these two businesses.”

“You want to split up?”

“No,” Clint said, “I want to stay together. After what happened to your brother, I want everything we do in this town to be done together. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

• • •

They started with the feed and grain, talking to a man named Emmett Toth who claimed he never saw a thing. There were two other employees in the building, and they made the same claim. They didn't see—or hear—anything.

Clint and Sonnet left the building.

“How could five men shoot your brother down in the street, and yet nobody even heard a shot?”

“They're lying,” Sonnet said.

“Hell yes, they're lying,” Clint said, “but before we call anyone a liar to their face, let's go and see who was in the livery when it happened.”

• • •

They entered the livery, found a kid about sixteen or seventeen mucking out stalls with a pitchfork. This was not the same livery where they had left their horses when they'd ridden in earlier. That one was in another part of town.

“Help you fellas?” the kid asked. “I don't see no horses with ya.”

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” Clint said.

The boy stuck his pitchfork in the ground and leaned on it.

“What's it about?”

“A few months ago a man was shot down right outside your door,” Clint said. “You remember that?”

“Sure do,” the kid said. “I ain't ever seen nothin' like that happen before.”

“So you saw it?” Sonnet asked.

“Uh, no, I didn't,” he said. “I mean, I ain't never been around when somethin' like that happened.”

“So you weren't here when it happened?” Clint asked.

“I was workin' here,” the kid said, “but I was in the back. In the corral.”

“So you didn't see anything.”

“Nossir.”

“And you didn't hear shots?”

“Oh, nossir.”

“But you said you were outside,” Sonnet said.

“I was, but I was out back.”

Clint decided to let that go for the moment.

“What about your boss?”

“What about 'im?”

“Was he here that day?”

“Um, I think he was around here . . . somewhere,” the kid said.

“What's your name, son?” Clint asked.

“Eddie.”

“Eddie, this fellow here is Jack Sonnet. It was his brother who was killed.”

“Aw, gee,” Eddie said. “I'm sure sorry.”

“We really need to find witnesses to the shooting,” Clint said.

“Are you a lawman?” Eddie asked.

“No,” Clint said, “I'm just a friend. My name is Clint Adams.”

The boy took a step backward.

“For real?” he asked. “The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“Oh, gee . . .”

“You got something you want to tell me now, Eddie?” Clint asked.

“I, uh, no . . .” Eddie said, but he couldn't look Clint in the eyes. “What, uh, what would you do if you found out who done it?”

“I'll kill anybody who killed my brother,” Sonnet said. “What would you do, Eddie?”

“Um, the same, I guess.”

“Look, Eddie,” Clint said, “we're going to be in town for a while. We're staying at the Merchant Hotel. If you think of anything—or remember anything—let us know, will you?”

“I sure will, Mr. Adams,” Eddie said. “I mean, I'd like to help, I really would.”

“That's good, Eddie,” Clint said. “That's really good, because we'd be willing to pay for the right kind of help.”

“Pay?” the boy asked.

Clint nodded and said, “Pay.”

TWENTY-ONE

They went back to their hotel, figuring they were done for the night.

“Tomorrow we'll start with the sheriff,” Clint said. “See what he's got to say for himself.”

“You think he'll remember?”

“A lawman doesn't forget that kind of shooting in his town,” Clint said. “He'll remember it, and he'll remember you. What I'm interested in is whether or not his story is the same.”

“Well,” Sonnet said, “I remember every word he told me.”

“I knew you would,” Clint said. “You don't forget when somebody tells you someone you loved died.”

“You've lost love ones?” Sonnet asked.

“Not family members,” Clint said, “but lots and lots of friends.”

• • •

They stopped in the saloon for a beer before going to their own rooms.

“What about somebody watchin' us?” Sonnet asked.

“I still haven't seen anybody,” Clint said. “On the other hand, you haven't gotten a telegram since Deline, have you?”

“No.”

“Then whoever was sending them must know that you've changed your plans.”

“How?”

Clint shook his head, then thought of something.

“Jack, you haven't been keeping in touch with anyone, have you? Sending telegrams yourself?”

Sonnet didn't answer right away.

“Jack . . .”

“Just Betty.”

“Who's Betty?”

“She's the daughter of the farmer who took me in,” he said. “She's the one nursed me back to health.”

“Oh yeah?” Clint smiled.

“We got . . . you know, friendly.”

“And you've been sending her telegrams?”

“Just to tell her where I am,” he said, “and that I'm all right.”

Clint stood there and studied what was left of his beer.

“You don't think she'd tell anybody, do you?” Jack asked.

“I don't know the girl, Jack,” Clint said. “But she wouldn't have to tell anybody.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody could just be watching her, reading her telegrams.”

“You mean . . . like her father?”

“Father, brother—”

“She doesn't have any brothers.”

“Uncles?”

“There's an uncle.”

“Okay, so maybe the father, maybe an uncle, maybe somebody in town. We'll find out when we get there. Meanwhile, don't send any more telegrams.”

“What? You mean . . . to Betty?”

“That's what I mean,” Clint said. “Have you sent one yet from here?”

“Uh, no,” Sonnet said. “I haven't had the time.”

“Okay, don't,” Clint said.

“But . . . she'll worry.”

“After we talk to the sheriff,” Clint said, “we'll take a ride out to that farm and see Betty and her family.”

“The Rayfields.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “we'll go and see the Rayfields.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sonnet said. “I'm gonna turn in.”

“I'll see you in the morning. We'll have breakfast right here in the hotel.”

“Sure.”

Sonnet left the saloon and went to his room, and Clint ordered a second beer . . .

He was halfway through the second beer when a man wearing a badge entered, not from the hotel lobby but from the street. He was young, obviously a deputy.

“Hey, Will,” the bartender greeted him. “Does the sheriff know you're here?”

“I've gotta do my rounds, don't I?” the deputy said. “Let me have a beer.”

“I'll give you a short one, just to keep you out of trouble.”

Clint noticed that the deputy was having a hard time keeping his eyes off him, so he assumed the young man knew who he was. That probably meant the sheriff knew he was in town, and probably Jack Sonnet, too.

But the deputy was trying his best to ignore him.

TWENTY-TWO

Clint nursed his beer while the deputy talked with the bartender, waiting to see if the badge toter would finally give in and talk to him. But as much as the young man was straining to, he was apparently able to resist the urge.

“I gotta get back to my rounds,” the deputy told the bartender.

“Yeah, you better get out there.”

The deputy gave one last sidelong look at Clint and then left.

“He's pretty young to be a deputy, isn't he?” Clint asked.

“Will? Yeah, he's a local kid the sheriff gave a job to.”

“He seemed real interested in me, didn't he?”

“Oh, you noticed that?” the bartender asked. “I guess you know when you get recognized, huh?”

“It's kind of hard not to notice,” Clint said. “What was his problem? He have orders not to bother me?”

“My guess is the sheriff wants to talk to you first,” the bartender said. “Will has a habit of sayin' the wrong thing.”

“I see.”

“You want another one, Mr. Adams?”

“No,” Clint said, pushing the empty mug away. “I think I'm going to turn in.”

“You have a good night.”

“Before I go,” Clint said.

“Yeah?”

“There was a shooting in town a few months ago.”

“Was that a friend of yours?”

“Didn't know him,” Clint said. “But I heard about it. What can you tell me?”

“Not much,” the man said, leaning on the bar. “Five men gunned down one. Nobody saw it.”

“Nobody?” Clint asked. “That kind of a shooting and not one witness?”

The bartender shrugged.

“Or is it just that nobody is coming forward?”

“Don't know why that would be,” the bartender said. “The man who was killed was a stranger. Nobody knew him.”

“That does sound odd,” Clint said. “What's your name?”

“I'm Dan.”

“Thanks for talking to me, Dan.”

“Sure, Mr. Adams,” Dan the bartender said. “You have yourself a good night.”

“You, too.”

Clint left the saloon.

• • •

Outside, Will Romer crossed the street to where Sheriff Koster stood.

“Well?”

“He was in there.”

“Alone?”

“Yup.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No, sir,” Romer said. “I did what you told me.”

“Okay,” Koster said. “Now go home.”

“But, Sheriff—”

“Go on home, Will,” Koster said. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Koster watched his deputy walk away, then turned his attention to the hotel. He watched for about half an hour before he turned and also went home.