The Devil's Collector
Page 5
“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
MONROE CITY, COLORADO
“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.”
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.”
• • •
&n
bsp; 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?”