The Devil's Collector

by J. R. Roberts

  “You’ll get them back when you leave town.”

  “We’re gonna leave now.”

  “You’ll leave in the mornin’,” Booker said. “You’ll get them back then. Now get out!”

  “Are you givin’ them their guns back?”

  “Out!”

  The three men slunk out of the office.

  “Now you two,” Booker said.

  “I’m not leaving here without my gun, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I’m a walking target without it.”

  “I understand that,” Booker said. “But I don’t need anyone else killed.”

  “I haven’t killed anyone at all,” Clint said.

  “That’s true.”

  “And I doubt Mr. Sonnet here has plans to kill anyone else.”

  “That’s right,” Sonnet said, “I don’t.”

  Booker stared at them both for a few moments, then opened his drawer and took out their guns. He set them on the desk.

  “I need you both to leave town,” he said. “The sooner the better.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” Clint asked.

  “Right now,” Booker said. “You’ve still got a few hours of daylight.”

  “That suits me,” Sonnet said. “I planned on leaving right after anyway.”

  “I have no problem with that either,” Clint said, “although I’d like that steak.”

  “Then have your steak,” Booker said, “and ride out right after.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “thanks, Sheriff.”

  They both picked their guns up off the desk and holstered them.

  “Oh,” the lawman said, “don’t go back to the saloon for your steak. There’s a café down the street called Victor’s. Best steaks in town.”

  “Thanks again.”

  Clint and Sonnet left the office.

  “I owe you,” Sonnet said. “Let me buy you that steak. I could use one myself.”

  “That works for me,” Clint said. “Let’s go.”

  FOUR

  They found the café the sheriff recommended to them, went inside, and got a table with no trouble, as it was too late for the townspeople to be eating lunch, and too early for supper.

  After the waiter took their order and poured them some coffee, Clint said, “I knew your grandfather.”

  “Will?”

  Clint nodded. “And your dad, but only some.”

  Sonnet nodded.

  “They were both real fast,” Clint said. “I think you’re actually faster.”

  “Might be,” Jack Sonnet said. “But I never would’ve said that to Grandpa. And I never would’ve wanted to test it out either.”

  “No, me neither,” Clint said. “Even late in his life, he was like lightning.”

  “He sure was.” A small smile was the first hint of emotion from the young man.

  “Where you headed after this?”

  “Wichita.”

  “What’s in Kansas?”

  Sonnet sipped his coffee and didn’t answer.

  “Oh,” Clint said, “you’re not finished hunting, are you?”

  “No,” Sonnet said. “It took more than that one man to kill my brother, Carl.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “And this man, Kennedy?”

  “He’s the first I found.”

  “How many in Wichita?”

  “One that I know of,” Sonnet said. “I heard he settled there.”

  “When was your brother killed?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “And it’s taken you this long to find the first man?” Clint asked. “Not that I’m criticizing you now. No offense.”

  “None taken. I was laid up for a while.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was bushwhacked,” Jack said. “I was hurt bad, but survived. Carl didn’t.”

  “Shot at the same time?”

  Jack shook his head, then said, “Well, same time maybe, but different places.”

  “Sounds like it might’ve been planned?”

  “That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

  “By the same men?”

  “No,” Jack said, “happened about fifty miles apart. I was on my way to meet him in Monroe City, Colorado. I was laid up a month. When I got to Monroe City, I heard he’d been shot in the street by five men.”

  “And you got their names?”

  Sonnet nodded. “Some of ’em. I know where to get the rest.”

  “What about those three who were with Kennedy?” Clint asked. “Any of them?”

  They had heard all the men’s names in the sheriff’s office.

  “No,” Sonnet said. “I never heard of any of them. He was just ridin’ with them now, I guess.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “they might not be done with you yet.”

  “That’d be too bad for them,” Sonnet said.

  The waiter came and set their steaks down. They were both starving, so they tucked in and left the rest of the talk for later.

  Then, over dessert, Clint asked, “Do you have anybody you can ask to back your play?”

  “No,” Sonnet said. “I’ll do this myself.”

  “What if you get bushwhacked again?”

  “I’m gonna try not to.”

  “You can’t have eyes in back of your head.”

  “My grandpa did.”

  “Yeah, he did.” Clint laughed.

  “I’ll bet you do, too.”

  Clint didn’t answer. Even though he was good at watching his own back, he did have people he could ask for help if he needed it. And in spite of that, he figured that was the way he was eventually going to leave this world, shot in the back, like Hickok.

  “What about me?” he asked.

  “What about you?”

  “I could watch your back.”

  “I ain’t askin’.”

  “I know that,” Clint said. “I’m offering.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you,” Clint said, “I knew your grandpa. He was a hell of a man. I can’t just stand by and watch his grandson get gunned down.”

  “Well,” Sonnet said, “you did save my bacon in the saloon.”

  “You might have been able to take them.”

  “I might’ve,” Sonnet agreed.

  “What do you say?”

  Sonnet thought a moment.

  “Am I gonna have to keep buyin’ the steaks?”

  “No,” Clint said. “We’ll split the cost of the meals, and supplies.”

  “Well then,” Sonnet said, “I don’t see any reason why not.”

  “I don’t either.”

  Sonnet put his right hand out.

  “I thank you, Clint,” he said, “for what you did, and for what you’re offerin’ now.”

  “You’re welcome.” They shook hands.

  “One thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When we find the men we’re looking for, they’re mine,” Sonnet said.

  “Agreed,” Clint said. “I’m just there to watch your back, and keep things fair.”

  “All right, then,” Sonnet said. He looked around for the waiter. “Let’s settle up and get moving.”

  FIVE

  WICHITA, KANSAS

  Dixon Williams stepped from the general store and took a deep breath. The Wichita streets were busy, with foot traffic as well as wagons and buckboards going by. Anybody not watching where they were going when they crossed the street was likely to get run over. Kids playing in the streets yelled at each other and dodged the wheels, enjoying the danger. Dix knew if their mothers could see them, they’d be in a lot more danger.

  Dix had arrived in Wichita only a couple of months ago, but he’d arrived with a wall
et full of cash. Tired of making his living from stealing and killing, and the life he’d been leading, he bought himself a piece of the general store, and now he was a businessman. On top of that, he had a woman in town who—he hoped—felt the same way about him that he felt about her.

  In quite a reversal of fortunes, life could not have gotten any better for Dix Williams.

  • • •

  Clint Adams and Jack Sonnet rode into Wichita in the afternoon. They’d been riding a long time and were bone tired. The only good thing about spending that much time on the trail was that they had gotten to know each other a lot better.

  Sonnet enjoyed listening to the stories Clint had to tell about knowing not only his grandfather, but also the likes of Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Buffalo Bill Cody, and Luke Short.

  Sonnet, Clint learned, was twenty-four, although he looked younger. That was something that bothered the younger man, who did not like being called “kid.” Clint could understand that. He most assuredly was not a kid. Not anymore.

  Killing a man—or men—made someone grow up awfully fast.

  “Hotel,” Clint said, using his chin to point.

  “Sheriff’s office,” Sonnet said.

  “Let’s find the livery, get the horses settled,” Clint said. “After that we can get a room, and then a hot meal.”

  “That all sounds good to me,” Sonnet said.

  At the livery Clint and Sonnet decided to unsaddle their own horses, but they allowed the livery owner to rub them down and feed them.

  They left the stable with their saddlebags and rifles, stopped at the first saloon they came to, The Royal Rose.

  “Two beers,” Clint said at the bar.

  They looked around, found the place about half full of sleepy-looking men.

  “See anybody matching the description?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Sonnet said, “but we’ve got a name. All we gotta do is ask around.”

  “Guess that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether your man is passing through, or he settled here.”

  “Why would a killer settle down here?”

  “Maybe he’s tired of killing,” Clint said. “Everybody settles down eventually.”

  “Are you ever gonna settle down?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “that’s different. I don’t think I’ll ever settle down.”

  “Really? Why not? Everybody’s always tellin’ me to get married and have a family.”

  “Well, not me,” Clint said. “Not with my reputation. If I settled down in one place, too many wannabe gunfighters would know just where to find me.”

  “I guess that’s the price you have to pay for a reputation,” Sonnet said. “Happened to my pa, and my grandpa.”

  “Well, you’ve still got time to keep it from happening to you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Give this thing up,” Clint said. “Get on with your life.”

  “Is that what you’d do?”

  “Now? No,” Clint said, “but at your age, maybe.”

  “Well, I can’t,” Sonnet said. “I have to get this done, Clint.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said. He turned and waved the bartender over.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You know where we can find a man named Dixon Williams?”

  “Dix Williams?” the bartender said. “Sure. He’s part owner of the general store, just down the street.”

  Sonnet frowned.

  “He’s a merchant?”

  “Sure is.”

  Sonnet looked at Clint.

  “That can’t be the right man.”

  Clint looked at the bartender.

  “How long has he owned the general store?”

  “Well, I figure he came to town a couple of months ago, bought him a piece of the place. Don’t know what he was doing before that.”

  “I do,” Sonnet said. He slammed his mug down on the bar, turned, and left.

  “Thanks,” Clint said. He put his mug down, paid the man, and hurried after Sonnet.

  “Jack!”

  Clint caught up to him, grabbed his arm.

  “What?”

  “Don’t go off half-cocked.”

  “I just wanna make sure it’s the right man,” Sonnet said.

  “Sounds like it could be.”

  “What the hell is he doing bein’ a store owner?” the younger man asked.

  “Maybe he’s trying to change his life,” Clint said.

  “Well, it’s too late for that,” Sonnet said.

  “We’ve got to be careful, Jack,” Clint said. “If he’s a town merchant now, you can’t just gun him down.”

  “I’ll give him a chance,” Sonnet said. “Same chance him and his partners gave my brother.”

  “Maybe,” Clint said, “we should just go into the store and you should let me do the talking for now.”

  “Well, all right,” Sonnet said, “but I ain’t gonna wait for long, Clint. I’ve got to get this done and move on to the next one.”

  “And where is that?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Sonnet said. “I’m waitin’ for a telegram.”

  Sonnet was getting information from somebody about where these men he was hunting were, but Clint didn’t know who was feeding him the info. At some point, he was going to have to ask.

  “All right,” Clint said. “Let’s go and see what’s going on at the general store.”

  SIX

  They entered the general store, which was actually called Grenke’s Emporium. The inside was very spacious, and they seemed to have everything a person could need, from men and women’s clothes to staples to weapons and ammunition.

  There was an older man with gray hair, wearing a white body-length apron, stocking shelves in the back, and an attractive girl in her twenties behind the counter, waiting on customers.

  Clint stepped up to the counter, with Sonnet close behind. The girl finished waiting on a middle-aged woman, who turned to leave then stopped and stared when she saw Clint standing there.

  “Oh!”

  “Sorry to startle you, ma’am,” Clint said.

  “Hmph,” the woman said, and went around him.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the girl asked with a bright smile. She sneaked a look past him at Sonnet.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Clint said, “my friend and I are looking for Dixon Williams.”

  “Dix?” she asked. “You just missed him.”

  “That’s too bad,” Clint said. “Can you tell us where he went?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “I understand he owns this store?”

  “I own this store,” the older man said firmly.

  “Dix bought a piece of the business from my father when he came to town a few months ago,” the girl explained.

  “Huh,” the older man said. “Sarah, go take care of the women’s clothes.”

  “There’s nothin’ wrong with the women’s clothes, Pa.”

  “Move’em around,” the man growled.

  She looked down, then said to Clint, “Excuse me,” and slid from behind the counter.

  “My name’s Ed Grenke. You friends of his?” the man asked. “Dixon Williams?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Clint replied.

  “Well, he forced me to sell him a piece of my business cheap.”

  “Forced how?”

  “How d’ya think?” the man asked. “He threatened me.”

  “You go to the sheriff?”

  “The man is useless,” Grenke said. “If you’re here for Dix Williams, good luck to you.”

  “Do you know where he is, Mr. Grenke?” Sonnet asked.

  “If I was you, I’d look in a saloon,” Grenke said. “One of the b
igger ones.”

  “Thank you,” Clint said.

  They started to leave, then Clint stopped and turned back.

  “Does he have any friends in town?” he asked.

  “Not a one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do us all a favor,” Grenke said as they went out the door. “Kill ’im.”

  As they stepped out, Sonnet looked at Clint.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “I don’t have to,” Sonnet said. “Come on, let’s find him and get this over with.”

  • • •

  Williams lifted the shot glass to his mouth, drained it, then poured himself a fresh drink. The saloon girl sitting in his lap wriggled in his grasp.

  “Sit still, damn it!” he snapped.

  “I gotta go to work, Dix,” she complained.

  “You are workin’, darlin’,” he told her.

  She looked toward the bartender for help, but he averted his eyes. Nobody wanted to go against Dix Williams’s gun.

  The rest of the patrons in the Golden Garter Saloon paid attention to their own drinking. They ignored Dix Williams as long as he ignored them.

  Williams really liked this town. He had a new business, plenty of money, plenty of women in town—including the daughter of his “partner”—and he had the run of it all.

  His life couldn’t get any better.

  • • •

  Clint and Sonnet had checked two large saloons before they came to the Golden Garter. They entered and went to the bar, ordered two beers.

  “Don’t look around,” Clint said as the bartender set the beers down. “Just tell me if Dix Williams is in the place.”

  “He sure is.”

  “Where?” Sonnet asked.

  “Behind you,” the bartender said. “The girl with the green dress is in his lap, only she don’t wanna be.”

  “He a friend of yours?” Clint asked.

  “Hell, no,” the man said. “He’s been ridin’ roughshod over this town since he got here. You’d be doin’ us all a favor if you killed him.”

  Sonnet looked at Clint, who avoided his gaze.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “Are you gonna?” the man asked.

  “What?” Clint asked.

  “Kill ’im?”

  “No . . .” Clint said.

  “But I am,” Jack Sonnet said, and turned.