The Devil's Collector (8 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

Busby was a collection of falling-down shacks that could only be called a town through great generosity.

“Look familiar?” Clint asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Sonnet said, “it does.”

They reined in their horses in front of the trading post. When they entered, they saw that it was a combination general store and saloon. There was one man behind the bar, and three more in front, drinking. They all turned to look at the two strangers as they entered.

“You got a lot of nerve,” the bartender said.

“Are you talking to me?” Clint asked.

“I'm talkin' to your friend,” the man said.

“You didn't learn your lesson last time?” one of the other men asked Sonnet.

“My lesson?”

“Don't act like you don't understand,” the bartender said. “When we kicked you outta town, we tol' you never to come back.”

“I—I don't remember,” Sonnet said.

“Can I ask a question?” Clint said.

“What?” the bartender asked.

“What gives you the right to kick anyone out of town?”

The bartender laughed, moved his vest aside to reveal a badge underneath.

“I'm the sheriff,” he said. “I got the right to do anything I want.”

“The sheriff.”

“That's right.”

“Of this . . . town.”

“It ain't much,” the man said, “but it's ours.”

“And what did my friend do to get kicked out?” Clint asked.

“He knows.”

“That's just it,” Clint said. “He doesn't. Apparently, after he left, he got bushwhacked. Took him a while to recover, and he seems to have lost some of his memory.”

“That's too bad,” one of the other men said.

The sheriff and the three customers were all cut from the same cloth—dirty, unwashed rags. He didn't know what smelled worse, them or their clothes. They all looked to be in their thirties.

“Who are you?” Clint asked.

“Just a citizen.”

“And you helped kick my friend out?”

“Oh, yeah.”

The other two men laughed.

“And you?” Clint asked one of them.

“Just a citizen.”

“And you?” Clint asked the third. “You just a citizen, too?”

“That's right,” the man said around a chaw, “and we citizens like to help out whenever we can.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said, “you fellas have to leave now.”

“We just got here,” Clint said.

The sheriff pointed at Sonnet.

“He has to leave now,” he said, “and since you're with him, so do you.”

“I have some questions first.”

“No questions,” the sheriff said. He reached under the bar.

“Friend,” Clint said, “if you come up from there with a shotgun, there's going to be a big mess to clean up here.”

The sheriff hesitated just for a moment. Clint could tell from the look on his face he was going to make a terrible mistake. Then the man yelled,
“Boys!”
and went for the shotgun.

Clint drew and shot the “sheriff” right through the flimsy bar. He turned his attention to the “citizens,” shot one of them as he was grabbing for his gun.

Sonnet was right there with him. He drew and fired twice, taking care of the other two citizens.

And then it was quiet.

“Look outside,” Clint said.

Sonnet went to the door, peered out, and said, “Nobody.”

“Could these be the only citizens in this town?” Clint asked. “And what the hell was that all about?”

“I don't know.”

Clint reloaded as he checked the bodies. They were all dead. The “sheriff” had an old Greener shotgun behind the bar.

“Do you think he really was the sheriff?” Sonnet asked.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “That star on his chest is kind of tarnished.”

They stepped outside.

“Look around,” Clint said. “Do you remember anything at all?”

“Like I said when we rode in,” Sonnet answered, “it looks familiar.”

“And those four inside?” Clint asked. “They look familiar?”

“No.”

“They could be the ones who bushwhacked you,” Clint said. “Apparently, they kicked you out of town, but that wasn't good enough. They rode after you and tried to kill you.”

“But why?”

“I guess we won't find that out,” Clint said. “Unless there's something—or someone—around here that can help.”

“Let's take a look in these other buildings, then,” Sonnet said.

“Okay,” Clint said, “I'll take this one and the one next to it. You take the other two. Sing out if you find another citizen.”

“Okay.”

Clint turned around and went back inside while Sonnet walked across the street.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Clint went through the trading post front and back and found nothing. He stepped over the bodies as he was leaving. He didn't feel any responsibility to bury them. They'd made their own decisions.

The next building was smaller, and managed to look lived in and abandoned at the same time. He went through it and found nothing.

As he stepped outside, he saw Sonnet crossing back to him.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No,” Sonnet said.

“I didn't find any records, any town charter,” Clint said. “I doubt we killed an actual lawman here today.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Sonnet said. “So, what do we do now?”

“Head for Garfield,” Clint said. “If that's a legitimate town, there's probably a sheriff we can talk to about what happened here.”

“Turn ourselves in?”

“Report what happened,” Clint said. “That's a little different. You want to get a drink before we go?”

“No,” Sonnet said. “I don't want to go back in there.”

“No,” Clint said, “neither do I. Let's just go.”

They mounted up and rode out of Busby.

• • •

It only took a few hours to reach Garfield, which may have been smaller than Monroe City but certainly qualified as a town. There were people on the streets, several saloons, a couple of hotels, and—to Clint's satisfaction—a telegraph office. He realized at that moment that they had never asked Betty where she'd been receiving her telegrams. Sonnet would have known if he had only asked while he was sending one, but apparently it never mattered to him.

“There,” Clint said, pointing at the sheriff's office.

“Right now?” Sonnet asked.

“No time like the present,” Clint said. “I'd like to get it over with.”

“Okay,” Sonnet said. “I'll follow your lead.”

• • •

They were about to enter the sheriff's office when the door opened and a man stepped out. He stopped short and stared at them. Clint saw the shiny badge on his chest.

“Sheriff,” he said. “We were just coming to see you.”

“Well,” the man said, “you don't wanna go in there. It's a mess.” He was a short, rotund man in his forties, who used a pudgy hand to wipe his mouth. “Can we talk in, say, the saloon?”

“Sure,” Clint said, “why not?”

“Then come across here with me, boys,” the lawman said. “Saloon's right over here.”

They followed the man across the street to a small saloon. As they entered, several men called out to the sheriff, and he returned their greeting.

At the bar he said, “Jasper, I'll have a beer. Let these gents have what they want.”

“And who's payin', Sheriff?” the barman asked.

“Well . . .”

“I am,” Clint said.

“See?” the sheriff said. “Set 'em up. Three beers.”

The bartender obeyed, and accepted the money from Clint.

The sheriff drank down half of his beer and then turned to Clint.

“What can I do for you boys?”

“Well, we just came from a town called Busby.”

“Busby?” the lawman said. “That ain't no town. Nothin' but a collection of wood.”

“Then there's no legal law there? A sheriff?” Clint asked.

“There's a fella there wears a rusty badge, uses it to try to fleece folks who ride by,” the lawman said. “But he ain't no legal lawman.”

“Well . . . I suppose that's good to hear,” Clint said.

“Why's that?”

“Because I killed him.”

“What?” The sheriff stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth.

“Actually,” Sonnet said, “we killed him—him and three of his citizens.”

“Wait a minute,” the sheriff said. “You killed all four of 'em?”

“They didn't leave us much choice,” Clint said. “No choice at all.”

“You mean somebody finally stood up to those fuckers?” he asked, laughing. “Well, that's great.”

“You, uh, might want to send some men out there to bury them.”

“No need for that,” the sheriff said. “No need at all. I'm sure that'll be taken care of.”

“By varmints,” Sonnet said.

“Most likely,” the lawman agreed. “You fellas want another?”

“No, thanks,” Clint said. “We've got some . . . other things to do.” He was going to say they had some “eating” to do, but he was afraid the sheriff might try to invite himself along.

“Well, all right, then,” the sheriff said. “Enjoy your time in our town.”

“Don't you even want to know who we are?” Clint asked. “After we killed four men?”

“Naw, I don't need to know that,” the man said. “Just like you fellas don't need to know my name. Now, off with you. Enjoy your time in Garfield. Oh, and try not to kill anybody.”

Clint looked at the sheriff, who was hard at work trying to wheedle a free beer out of the bartender, then turned and said to Sonnet, “Come on.”

TWENTY-NINE

“That's a lawman?” Sonnet asked.

“Not much of one, obviously,” Clint said, “but at least we won't have any trouble because of Busby.”

“So now what?”

“Let's go to the telegraph office and ask a few questions.”

“You ask,” Sonnet said. “Like I said, I'll follow your lead.”

Clint nodded, and led the way.

• • •

When they reached the telegraph office, they had to wait for the clerk to finish with another customer before he turned his attention to them.

“What can I do for you gents?” the tall, middle-aged man asked.

“Do you know the Rayfield family?” Clint asked.

“Sure do,” he said. “They've got a farm outside of town. Right pretty young daughter, too.”

“Betty,” Sonnet said.

“That's right.”

“Tell me something,” Clint said. “For a while she was coming in here receiving telegrams, wasn't she?”

“Well, yeah, she was.”

“Do you know where the telegrams came from?”

“All different places.”

“But who from?”

“The same fella each time.”

“What fellow?” Clint asked.

“I don't remember his name.”

“Jack Sonnet?”

The man brightened.

“Yeah, that was it. Sonnet.”

“That's me,” Sonnet said.

“You're the lad?” he asked.

“That's right.”

“Then why you askin'—”

“I want to know,” Clint said, “who else saw those telegrams.”

“Well . . . no one,” the clerk said. “I ain't allowed to show 'em to anybody else.”

“You could get fired, right?” Clint asked.

“That's right.”

“Well,” Clint said, taking some money from his pocket, “we're not going to tell anyone, are we, Jack?”

“No, we ain't,” Sonnet said.

“Watch the door, will you, Jack?”

“Gotcha.”

Sonnet went to the door.

“I—I can't tell ya nothin',” the clerk said.

“Well, there are two ways we can do this,” Clint said. “You can tell me what I want to know and I'll give you some money.”

“Or?”

“Or,” Clint said, “we can do it the hard way.”

“The hard way?”

Clint nodded.

“W-What's the hard way?” the clerk asked.

“You don't really want to know,” Clint said. He held up the money. “You choose.”

• • •

He slapped Jack Sonnet on the back and said, “Let's go.”

“He told you?”

“He told me.”

They stepped outside.

“He gave you a name?”

“He did,” Clint said. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a man named Benny Nickles?”

THIRTY

They rode back into Monroe City several days later.

“They're back,” Deputy Will Romer told Sheriff Koster.

“I knew they'd be back.”

“What are you gonna do now?” the deputy asked.

Koster already had his feet up on his desk, so he just folded his hands in his lap and said, “I'm gonna wait.”

“For what?”

“Never mind,” Koster said. “Just make your rounds.”

“Make my rounds, make my rounds,” Romer complained. “You're always tellin' me to make my rounds.”

“That's because it's your job!” Koster shouted after him as he went out.

• • •

“Where to first?” Sonnet asked as they rode in.

“Hotel,” Clint said.

“Then what?”

“Steak?”

“You always eat steak.”

“Not always,” Clint said. “Just most of the time.”

“Are we gonna go lookin' for this fella Benny Nickles?” Sonnet asked. “I mean, the clerk did say he lived here, didn't he?”

“He said he picked up the telegrams and brought them here.”

“I don't get that part,” Sonnet said. “Why pick up the telegrams? Why not just have them sent on to the telegraph office here?”

“Maybe they didn't want anyone else involved,” Clint said. “We just have to find this Benny Nickles and find out who hired him to pick up your telegrams.”

“And do what with them?”

“Keep track of you,” Clint said. “Send you telegrams. Have you kill people for them.”

“But why?”

“We'll find that out,” Clint said. “This time we won't leave Monroe City without some answers.”

“But first a hotel,” Sonnet said.

“And a livery stable for the horses,” Clint said.

“You think the sheriff knows anything about this?” Sonnet asked.

“I suppose we'll have to ask him, won't we?”

• • •

Koster entered Michael Albert's office.

“What is it?”

“They're back,” Koster said. “You said you wanted to know when they came back. Well, they're back.”

“What are they doing?”

“They put their horses up in the livery, got a hotel room, and now they're eating.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

Albert thought a moment, then said, “All right.”

“All right?”

“You can go,” Albert said.

“What should I do?”

“Nothing,” Albert said, “don't do a thing, Sheriff. And make sure the same goes for your deputy.”

“All right.”

Koster left, and Albert sat back in his chair to think. Now that Clint Adams and Jack Sonnet were back, they were going to have to be dealt with. And he thought he knew who could deal with them.

Benny Nickles.