“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.
THIRTY-ONE
“Chicken,” Sonnet said to the waiter.
“And you, sir?” the waiter asked Clint.
“Steak.”
“Comin’ up.”
“Does it seem to you like we’re always eatin’?” Sonnet asked.
“Eating is one of the most important parts of the day,” Clint said. “That and drinking coffee.”
“Not your coffee.”
“Hey,” Clint said, “I make good coffee.”
“We been ridin’ together long enough for me to tell you, no, you don’t.”
“That’s just a matter of opinion,” Clint said, “and I’ll thank you to keep your opinion to yourself.”
• • •
“Clint Adams?” Benny Nickles said.
“That’s right.”
“And a member of the Sonnet family?”
“Right again.”
Nickles stared at his sometime boss.
“Do you have a problem with this?” Albert asked.
“Not as long as you’re willin’ to pay,” Nickles said.
“Oh, I’ll pay,” Albert said, “as long as you get the job done.”
“So let me get this straight,” Nickles said. “You want me to kill ’em?”
“I want you to kill them if it looks like they’re going to get close to me,” Albert corrected.
“And who decides that?”
“You can decide,” Albert said. “I’ll trust you to analyze the situation.”
“What if I kill Adams just because I want to?” Nickles asked.
“That’s up to you,” Albert said, “but in that case, you don’t get paid.”
“Might be worth it anyway,” Nickles said. “That man’s got a big reputation.”
“Like I said, up to you.”
“The kid,” Nickles said, “he’s supposed to be pretty good, too, right? Like his pa and grandpa?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
Nickles, a handsome man in his mid-thirties, tapped his knees with his right index finger while he thought over the situation.
“You taking the job, Benny?”
“I’ll need some money in advance.”
Albert opened his top drawer, took out a brown envelope, and tossed it to Nickles’s side of the desk.
“That do?” he asked.
Nickles picked it up, hefted it, then put it in his pocket without counting it.
“For now,” he said.
Nickles stood up and walked to the door.
“So I guess this means the kid didn’t get the whole job done, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Too bad.”
“Well,” Albert said, “that might leave more work for you later.”
“One thing at a time, Mike,” Nickles said, “one thing at a time.”
THIRTY-TWO
Clint and Jack Sonnet sat in wooden chairs in front of their hotel.
“Let me guess,” Sonnet said. “We’re makin’ the sheriff wait . . . again.”
“Right.”
“Or maybe somebody will try something.”
“Right again.”
“Wouldn’t that be stupid?” Sonnet asked. “I mean, it’s a big town. It’s gonna be pretty hard for us to find out who was sending me those telegrams.”
“Somebody wanted those men dead,” Clint said. “That somebody is going to get nervous the longer we’re in town.”
“So you think that person will send someone after us?” Sonnet asked.
“That would be helpful.”
“Do you think that’s what happened to my brother?”
“I don’t know, Jack,” Clint said. “Did your brother have any kind of reputation?”
“Carl was not a fast draw,” Sonnet said. “He didn’t inherit that family trait.”
“But he was still the son and grandson of men with reputations.”
“That’s right,” Sonnet said, “but why should he have to pay for that?”
“That’s the problem with reputations,” Clint said. “They tend to hurt a lot of people.”
“Have you had that problem?”
“More times than I care to count,” Clint said.
“Is that why you have to be careful about what you pursue?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t pursue it,” Clint said. “It pursued me.”
“Unlike me, you mean,” Sonnet said. “You think I’m tryin’ to build a reputation?”
“No,” Clint said, “you’re stuck with it. You’re third generation. Instead of pursuing it, you’re going to have to run from it.”
“Maybe,” Sonnet said, “but not yet. Not until I find the men who killed Carl.”
“And we’re back where we started,” Clint said.
“You have a lot of patience,” Sonnet observed.
“Patience keeps you from going off half-cocked, Jack,” Clint said. “You just need to take the time to think before you act.”
“Well, you’re sure giving me a lot of time to do that.”
“I’m giving someone else the time to think, too.”
• • •
They sat there until late afternoon, and then Clint said, “Time to talk to the sheriff.”
“You think he’s got something to tell us?”
“I think he does,” Clint said. “The question is, will he tell us?”
Clint got up and Sonnet followed. They walked to the sheriff’s office and entered. Koster wasn’t there, but Deputy Will Romer was.
“Hello, Deputy,” Clint said.
“Uh . . .” the deputy said.
“Clint Adams.”
“Uh, yeah, I know,” Romer said. “And, uh, Jack Sonnet, right?”
“That’s right,” Sonnet said.
“Uh, the sheriff’s not here right now,” Romer said. “He should be back soon.”
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “We can talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About five men gunning down one. Where were you when that happened, Deputy?”
“Uh, I dunno.”
“You know about the shooting, right?” Clint asked.
“Well, sure,” Romer said. “Everybody in town knows about it.”
“Were you a deputy then?”
“I was, yeah.”
“So where were you when it happened?”
“I dunno,” he said again. “Probably makin’ my rounds.”
“If you were here—right here in this office—would you have been able to hear the shots?”
“I dunno.”
“Come on,” Clint said, “five shooters. How many shots must that have been? Somebody had to have heard it. It must have sounded like a battle.”
“I guess.”
“Isn’t that something that would bring most lawmen running?”
“Um, sure.”
“So where was the sheriff?”
“I, uh . . .” He hesitated.
“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “You don’t know. Is he off talking to his boss now?”
“He’s probably with Mr. Alb—”
The door opened then and Sheriff Koster walked in. He stopped short when he saw them. The deputy stopped before he could say the name that was on his lips. So close, Clint thought.
“What’s goin’ on?” the sheriff asked.
“Nothing much,” Clint said. “Your deputy was just helping us out with some information about the shooting.”
“What the—�
��
“I didn’t say nothin’, Sheriff. I swear.”
“Get out,” Koster said. “Make your rounds.”
“Yessir.”
Romer hurried from the office. Koster moved around behind his desk.
“What did he tell you?” he demanded.
“Something about the noise,” Clint said. “I mean, with that many men firing their guns, it must’ve sounded like the Battle of Bull Run.”
“He didn’t hear a thing,” Koster said. “He wasn’t even here.”
“Here in town?” Clint asked. “Or here in the office?”
“Whatayou—”
“I mean, from here,” Clint said, “I think you’d be able to hear the shots. One shot, maybe two might go unnoticed, but that many? Makes me wonder why half the town didn’t come running, let alone the sheriff.”
“I told you,” Koster said, “I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Not sure I believe that, Sheriff,” Clint said, “not sure at all.”
THIRTY-THREE
“You’re callin’ me a liar?”
“Oh yeah,” Clint said, “and so’s my friend here. Only he’s not as patient as I am. He won’t wait for me to prove you’re a liar.”
“Really?” Koster asked. “So you’re threatenin’ me?”
“No threat,” Sonnet said. “If I find out—no, if I think you had something to do with my brother’s death, I’ll kill you.”
“A lawman?” Koster asked. “You’ll kill a lawman?”
“I’ll kill you,” Sonnet said. “Whether or not you’re wearin’ a badge won’t matter to me.”
“That is,” Clint said, “unless you want to tell us that somebody else was involved?”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
“I think you fellas better get out of my office,” Koster said.
“Sure, Sheriff,” Clint said.
“But I’ll be seein’ you again,” Sonnet said. “Soon.”
They turned and went outside.
• • •
Outside, Clint said, “You caught on pretty quick.”
“It seemed to me you wanted to press him,” Sonnet said.
“I did,” Clint said. “Let’s see what he does now.”
“You think he’s workin’ for someone here in town?” Sonnet said.
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