Thousand Mile Case (9781101619520)

by Roberts, J. R.

  Clint walked Eclipse outside, and mounted up.

  “You might as well sell the horses and rigs of the other men, too,” Clint said. “And their guns. Give the money to some poor families that could use it.”

  “That’s a mighty fine idea, Adams,” Hastings said. “I’ll do it.”

  Clint nodded, turned Eclipse in the right direction.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more hospitable to you, Adams,” Hastings said.

  “No problem, Sheriff,” Clint said. “If our roles were reversed, I’d be feeling the same way.”

  “I appreciate that,” Hastings said. “I wish you good luck.”

  “You, too,” Clint said. “I hope there’s no more trouble in your town.”

  “There’s always gonna be trouble,” Hastings said. “But maybe it’s a ways off. Anyway, I can hope so.”

  “Good-bye to you,” Clint said with a little salute.

  THIRTEEN

  It took Clint almost three weeks to cover the better than a thousand miles from Arizona to Missouri. He rode into Black Rock at midday, surprised to find the town was kind of large, and busy. A town this size—two banks, several hotels, and half a dozen saloons—was one he thought he would have heard of.

  As he passed them, some of the buildings had both the look and the smell of fresh wood, as if they’d just recently sprung up.

  He rode to the livery stable, handed Eclipse over to a youngster who seemed to form an immediate rapport with the big horse. Clint took his rifle and saddlebags and asked the boy about a hotel.

  “You can’t miss with any of ’em, sir,” he said. “They’re all clean and reasonable. You might wanna stay at the Mayflower, though. Got a good saloon and a steak house right across the street.”

  “Thanks,” Clint said.

  “And don’t worry about your horse, sir,” the boy said. “I’ll take good care of him.”

  “Do you own this place?”

  “No, sir, it’s my pa’s,” he said, “but I pretty much take care of the horses. I’m real good with ’em.”

  “I can see that,” Clint said. “Thanks again.”

  * * *

  He took the boy’s advice and registered at the Mayflower Hotel. He’d considered asking the boy about Tom Angel and a girl named Claire, but decided against it. His intention had been to talk with the local sheriff when he arrived, and he decided to stick to that plan.

  He got a room that overlooked the main street and had no access from outside the window. That suited him just fine. He watched the street for a little while. The people appeared outgoing and energetic, greeting one another as they passed with a word or a gesture. A town that was on the rise, and happy about it. Even the desk clerk had been overly cheerful. What, Clint wondered, had happened to send Callahan and his men a thousand miles to try to catch and kill Tom Angel?

  He freshened himself up with water from the pitcher and basin on the dresser, then strapped his gun back on and returned to the window. Just as the boy had told him, there was a steak house across the street, next to a saloon.

  That’s where he headed.

  * * *

  Midday was between meals for the townspeople, so Clint had no trouble picking out a table in the back.

  “Steak, all the trimmings,” he told the waiter. “Let ’er bleed.”

  “Yes, sir. To drink?”

  Clint considered coffee, then said, “Beer, if it’s cold.”

  “It’s real cold, sir.”

  “Then bring it.”

  The beer was cold, the steak was bloody and tasty, the vegetables prepared just right. So far Black Rock was just too good to be true.

  “Dessert, sir?”

  “Only if the pie is as good as everything else.”

  “It is. Peach?”

  “Apple.”

  “Good enough,” the waiter said.

  The waiter brought the pie and it was like silk.

  “Who does the cooking?” Clint asked as he paid the bill.

  “A big, fat, sweaty guy,” the waiter said. “You don’t wanna meet him. He ain’t very friendly.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have to be, the way he cooks,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “Come back again, sir.”

  “I will.”

  Clint stepped out onto the street, looked around. A couple of well-dressed ladies walked past and said, “Good day.” He tipped his hat to them. Then a couple of gents went by and nodded. He returned the nod.

  He walked a few blocks before he came to the sheriff’s office. He tried the door and found it locked. Knocking did no good. Obviously there was no one inside.

  He turned and looked up and down the street. If the lawman was making his rounds, Clint should be able to find him just by walking the streets. That would also enable him to familiarize himself with the place.

  He started walking, again exchanging greetings and nods with people who seemed very welcoming of strangers in their town.

  He walked a few blocks again, then crossed over, found himself in front of a store that made him stop and look more closely. The window was filled with dresses, and on the window was stenciled the words CLAIRE’S DRESS SHOP.

  FOURTEEN

  For a moment he was stuck there. Could this be Tom Angel’s Claire, who had sent him the letter? And if it was, should he go in and talk to her now? Or wait until he saw the sheriff?

  He scanned the street, didn’t see anybody wearing a badge. But a few doors away from the dress shop was a small saloon, so he decided to go in, have a beer, and maybe get some information about the local law.

  As he entered the saloon, two men were coming out. They stepped aside to allow him to enter, and tipped their hats.

  The interior of the salon was well lit, and about half full. But it was a small place, and didn’t take that many bodies to fill it.

  Clint went to the bar, where a smiling bartender was waiting for him. The man wore a boiled white shirt, a bow tie, and suspenders. His hair and mustache were impeccably trimmed.

  “Help ya, friend?”

  “A beer.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  He drew the beer, leveled the head, and brought it over to Clint.

  “Just get to town?” he asked.

  “I did, yes.”

  “Well, first beer in town’s on the house.”

  “Same rule in every saloon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you know I haven’t been to a few other saloons already?”

  The man frowned.

  “Why would you lie about that?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” Clint said. “This sure is a friendly little town.”

  “Little, maybe,” the bartender said, “but it’s growin’. And friendly? We sure are.”

  Clint drank down half his beer.

  “You mind if I ask you a question?” he asked.

  “I’m here to help,” the bartender said.

  “I’m looking for the sheriff,” Clint said. “Went to his office, but it’s locked.”

  “He must be out doin’ his rounds.”

  “That’s what I thought. Can you tell me what he looks like?”

  “Sure,” the bartender said. “You can’t miss him. Sheriff Bodie is six-foot-six, got a big, bushy mustache. Need more?”

  “No,” Clint said, “that sure sounds like a man I’d notice.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “I’m sure this town would vote a good man into office.”

  “We sure did,” the bartender said. “’Scuse me.” He moved down the bar to serve another customer.

  Clint worked on the remainder of the beer, wondering what further questions he should ask the bartender. Ask about Tom Angel? That might not be a good idea. Apparently, Angel had done something so bad the town had sent Ed Callahan after him. Or Callahan had taken it upon himself to chase him down and kill him. So maybe mentioning his name was not the way to go. But maybe he could ask about Callahan.

  The bartender cam
e back and said, “Sorry. You got more questions I can help ya with?”

  “Yeah, maybe a few,” Clint said. “You know Big Ed Callahan?”

  “Everybody knows Big Ed,” the man said. “He’s well respected in this town.”

  “Any idea where I could find him?”

  “Well, he’s got a spread outside of town, about five miles east, but he ain’t there right now.”

  “Oh? Where is he?”

  “He’s been out of town for a while.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “No idea.”

  “Is there anybody else out there I could talk to?” Clint asked.

  “Sure. Big Ed’s wife, and the ranch foreman. They could probably tell you somethin’.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “You, uh, ain’t bringin’ Mrs. Callahan no bad news, are ya?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “It’s just that we here in town wouldn’t want anythin’ to upset her.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I can tell you that it’s not my intention to say anything to upset her.”

  The bartender smiled broadly and said, “Well, that’s good.”

  Clint finished his beer, set the empty mug down, and said, “Much obliged.”

  “Come on back.”

  “I will,” Clint promised, and left.

  FIFTEEN

  Clint left the saloon, having decided that he’d asked enough questions in one place. He thought about a six-foot-six lawman and figured he shouldn’t be so hard to find.

  He went back to the sheriff’s office, but the door was still locked. He walked the town in the other direction, and when he still didn’t see the lawman on the streets, he decided that maybe he should be looking elsewhere—like inside.

  He stopped in front of several restaurants and saloons, peering in the window for a large man wearing a badge, before he finally saw him. It had to be him, standing at the bar in a saloon called the Lucky Eight. He was standing so that Clint could see the badge on his chest. It would be too much of a coincidence for there to be two men that size in town…wearing a badge.

  Clint entered the saloon and approached the man at the bar, who was deep in conversation with another man.

  “Sam, I know about the problem and I’m lookin’ into it,” the sheriff was saying.

  “Lookin’ into it ain’t good enough, Sheriff,” the other man said, who appeared to be a merchant. He was a short man in his fifties and was wearing a white apron. He could have been a butcher, but since the apron was clean, Clint assumed he ran the general store.

  “Go back to your store, Sam,” the sheriff said, “and I’ll see you there later.”

  “Yeah, after you have a few more beers.”

  “Sam—” the bartender said warningly.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sam said. “I’m goin’.”

  Clint watched the man storm out. Apparently everyone in town wasn’t interminably cheerful, and full of love for the local lawman.

  Clint walked the rest of the way to the bar and stood next to the tall lawman.

  “Help you?” the bartender asked.

  “Actually,” Clint said, “I was looking for Sheriff Bodie here.”

  “For me?” the man with the badge asked. “What’s on your mind, friend?”

  “Well, first I’d like to get a beer.”

  “First one in town’s on the house,” the bartender said.

  “I know. I already had one on the house in another saloon.”

  The bartender set the beer in front of Clint, looking surprised.

  “Well, well,” Bodie said, “we got us an honest man in town, Teddy. You give him this beer on the house anyway.”

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  “And give me another one,” Bodie said. He looked at Clint. “You wanna sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  The lawman accepted his fresh beer, led Clint to a back table.

  “Mind if I ask your name?” Bodie said as they sat.

  “I don’t mind at all, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I’m Clint Adams.”

  “That a fact?”

  “It’s a fact.”

  “The Gunsmith? For real and true?”

  “You want me to shoot something to prove it?” Clint asked.

  “No, no,” Bodie said. “Only a fool would claim to be you. That’d be painting a target on any man’s back.”

  The man had a point there.

  “What can I do for you?” the sheriff asked. “What brings you to Black Rock?”

  “Actually,” Clint said, “Ed Callahan and Tom Angel.”

  The sheriff’s face froze.

  “What do you know about them?”

  “I know they’re both dead.”

  The big man leaned forward.

  “When?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Tucson.”

  “I didn’t hear anythin’,” Bodie said, “or read anythin’ in the newspapers.”

  “Why would you?” Clint asked. “Neither man is particularly famous.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “In the street,” Clint said. “Callahan and five other men tried to shoot Angel down.”

  “And he took them?”

  “He did,” Clint said, “with my help. But he got killed doing it.”

  “You killed Mr. Callahan?”

  “I killed two of his boys,” Clint said. “Angel killed Callahan.”

  “Who killed Angel?”

  “Don’t know,” Clint said. “Didn’t see whose bullet hit him.”

  Bodie sat back, looking unhappy.

  “This ain’t good,” he said. “Mr. Callahan was well respected around here.”

  “And Tom Angel?”

  Bodie didn’t answer right away. He eyed Clint for a few moments.

  “What do you know about Angel?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why’d you help him, then?”

  “The first time I saw him, he was pinned down behind a fallen tree. Callahan and his men were trying to kill him. I saw one man against six, and I took a hand.”

  “Got him out of that mess?”

  “Right, without firing a shot. But then we went to Tucson, and Callahan and his bunch showed up. They didn’t give us any choice.”

  “I can check this story with the sheriff in Tucson, you know,” Bodie said.

  “Be my guest,” Clint said. “His name is Hastings.”

  “Hastings.”

  “Look,” Clint said, “what was this all about? I’d like to know why I ended up killing men I didn’t know.”

  Bodie shoved his chair back.

  “We can talk about that later,” he said. “I’ve got somethin’ I’ve got to do.”

  He stood up and started away.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Clint said, chasing after him. They got outside before Bodie stopped and turned to face him.

  “I need to know what’s going on,” Clint said.

  “What’s going on is you poked your nose in somebody else’s business,” Bodie said.

  “It’s always my business when somebody’s outnumbered,” Clint said.

  “Look,” Bodie said, “I told you we’ll talk more later.”

  “Well, tell me this,” Clint said. “The Claire who runs that dress shop down the street. She belong to Tom Angel?”

  “Belong is a strong word.”

  “Well, he got a letter from a Claire,” Clint said. “That’s how I traced him here. Would that be her?”

  “Yeah,” Bodie said, “yeah, that’s her.”

  “There any reason I shouldn’t talk to her?” Clint asked.

  “I suppose not,” Bodie said. “I guess if I told you not to, you’d go ahead anyway.”

  “You guess right,” Clint said. “What about Mrs. Callahan?”

  “What about her?” Sheriff Bodie seemed to get even tenser.

  “Well, I’d like to
talk to her,” Clint said. “Where does she—”

  “Look here,” Bodie said, poking Clint in the chest with a thick finger, “don’t go bothering Mrs. Callahan, you hear?”

  “I don’t want to bother her,” Clint said. “I just want to tell her that her husband is dead. And find out why he was trying to kill Tom Angel.”

  “I got things to do, Adams,” Bodie said. “I’ll see you later about all this.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “We’ll talk later. But know this…I’m not leaving town until I know what the hell this is all about.”

  Bodie stared at him, then turned and stalked away.

  * * *

  When Sheriff Bodie got to his office, he slammed the door and sat behind his desk. He was going to have to ride out to the Callahan ranch, but not in broad daylight. He’d have to wait until after dark to go out and see Angela Callahan and tell her about her husband. He didn’t relish the job.

  SIXTEEN

  Ray Winston watched Angela Callahan take off her dress and set it down on a chair, then remove her undergarments until she was totally naked.

  She was a tall woman with large, pear-shaped breasts. Her dark nipples stood out in sharp contrast to her pale skin. And between her lovely thighs was a tangle of dark hair that was even blacker than the hair on her head. She was a beautiful woman married to a man twenty years older than her, which was why she had the foreman—five years younger than she was—in her bed.

  Winston was already naked, reclining on the bed she shared with her husband—when he was around.

  “Oh my,” she said, gliding into the bed until her nose was pressed into his crotch, “you are glad to see me, aren’t you?”

  “You bet I am,” Winston said. “It’s been days.”

  She closed her hand around his giant, hard cock and said, “I’ve been busy, Ray. You know I’ve got to run things when Big Ed isn’t around.”

  “And I told you I’m here to help you with that.”

  “Ray,” she said, licking the head of his cock, “you help me with this. I don’t need you to help me with business. You don’t have a head for it.” She licked him again. “This is the only head I’m interested in.”