They had already talked with Terry Wilson, who had nothing to add to what they already knew. He was busy with three whores while Jason Henry was getting into trouble, and had apparently been fired because of it.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Mr. Henry sure wants his boy outta jail,” Ott said.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Brown asked.
“He’s an important man in town.”
“So that means I should open the cell and let his boy just walk out?” the sheriff demanded.
“Um . . . I would if I was sheriff.”
“Okay, Sheriff,” Brown said, whirling on the young deputy, “then what do you tell the judge?”
“Um . . .”
“And what would you have to say to Beth Collins?”
“Uh . . .”
“And what would you tell the citizens of this town about one of their own being murdered?”
“Um . . .”
“I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t the sheriff, isn’t it?” Brown asked.
“Aw, I was just sayin’—”
“Well, don’t just say,” Brown said. “Think before you talk.”
“Yessir.”
“Go and see if the boy is eating his supper,” Brown said. “Then go out and get us something.”
“Where should I go?”
“I don’t care,” Brown said. “Go where you always ago.”
“Yessir.”
Ott went into the cell block, saw that Jason was busy eating his chicken, and then left the office to pick up supper for himself and the sheriff.
* * *
Clint found a small restaurant two blocks from the hotel. It was fairly busy, so he figured it must be pretty good. He went inside, got a table entirely too close to the front window, but it was all he could get. He sat facing the window, and the door, and placed his order for a steak. While he was waiting, he saw the deputy enter and talk to one of the waiters. He was probably ordering supper for the prisoner, or for himself and the sheriff.
Before he knew it, Clint was up and walking toward the young man. He decided he wasn’t being nosy, he was just striking up a conversation.
“Is the food here any good?” he asked.
“Huh?” the deputy looked at him in surprise. “Oh, uh, Mr. Adams. Uh, sure. It’s pretty good.”
“I ordered a steak.”
“It should be good,” the deputy told him.
“Seems like a lot of activity going on in your office,” Clint said.
“Huh?”
“I was sitting out in front of my hotel,” Clint said. “Saw folks coming and going out of the sheriff’s office.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ott said, “that was Big Al Henry—we got his son in a cell—and Judge Miller. Him and Big Al, they don’t get along so good.”
“I see. Who was the young woman?”
“Oh, that was Miss Beth,” Ott said. “It was her pa who got killed.”
“You think the fella you got in a cell did it?”
“That’d be Jason Henry,” Ott said. “He’s addled. Who knows what them folks do.”
“Addled, huh?”
“Addled, slow,” Ott said. “Folks call him different things.”
“I see.”
“He’s a decent enough kid, ’bout seventeen or so.”
“Think he’s a killer?”
The deputy shrugged.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “But I found him with the body, and there was a gun in the room. He coulda done it, I guess.”
“It sounds like your sheriff’s got a problem on his hands,” Clint said.
“He sure does,” Ott said. “Big Al’s an important man around here, and he wants his boy outta jail.”
“And I guess the judge is an important man, too, huh?” Clint asked.
“I guess so,” Ott said, “and he wants the boy to go to trial.”
“Sounds to me like the boy is going to trial.”
“I guess . . .”
“Well,” Clint said, “thanks for the advice.”
“Advice?’
“About the food.”
“Oh, yeah, uh, sure.”
Clint went back to his table as the waiter was coming with his steak. Before long the deputy left with a covered tray.
* * *
“What did you get?” Sheriff Brown asked as the deputy entered the office.
“Uh, you didn’t say what to get, so I brought fried chicken.”
“That’s fine.”
Ott put the tray down on the desk and they each claimed a plate.
“Saw the Gunsmith in Gertie’s,” Ott said.
“What?”
“That’s where I got the food, Gertie’s Café,” Ott said. “The Gunsmith was eatin’ there.”
“What did he want?”
“He just wanted to know if the food was any good there,” Ott said.
“That’s all?”
“Well . . . he did ask about what was happening in here,” the deputy said. “Seems he was sittin’ out in front of his hotel, across the street.”
“And?”
Chewing on a chicken leg, Ott said, “He just saw folks comin’ and goin’, is all.”
“And he was interested?”
“Naw,” Ott said, “he was just makin’ conversation.”
“Just making conversation.”
“Yeah.”
Gesturing with a chicken leg of his own, Brown said, “You know, we better just hope he doesn’t take an interest.”
Ott stopped chewing.
“You think he might try to break the boy out?”
“Why would he?” Brown said. “You just said he wasn’t interested.”
“Yeah, but if he was,” Ott said, “I don’t wanna have to go against the Gunsmith for Jason Henry.”
“Eat your chicken, Kenny,” Brown said. “You’re not going to have to go against the Gunsmith.”
“Yeah, well, I hope not,” Ott said.
“He’s just passing through,” Sheriff Brown said. “He doesn’t have a dog in this fight.”
Ott nodded, shrugged, bit into a chicken thigh.
Brown picked up a breast and bit into it. The Gunsmith said he was just passing through, but what if he wasn’t? After all, Big Al Henry had enough money to hire anybody he wanted. The bartender said that Adams was drinking a beer when Collins was killed, so he couldn’t have done it, but that didn’t mean that Big Al couldn’t hire him now to get his boy out of jail.
Brown dropped the chicken onto his plate, suddenly with no appetite.
ELEVEN
Clint’s steak was okay, the coffee a bit weak. He decided to wash it all down with a beer or two, and crossed to the saloon.
It was fully busy now, with all the gaming tables going and the bar crowded with men drinking and laughing. As he approached the bar, though, somebody must have said something, because a space opened up for him before he even had to use an elbow. Then he saw that Randy was waiting for him, and knew what had happened.
“Beer?” Randy asked.
“Yes.”
“Comin’ up.”
The men on either side of him gave him a wide berth. Randy had surely told them all who he was.
The bartender set a beer in front of Clint and said, “There ya go.”
“Thanks.”
He drank his beer, turned to survey the room. There were three girls working the floor, and it looked like every other successful, busy saloon he’d ever been in.
“Lookin’ to play?” Randy asked.
“Not right now.”
“You just let me know when and I’ll make sure a seat opens up for ya.”
“I’ll let you know.”
&nbs
p; He looked around, found that he was actually trying to see if Letty was there. The dirty-faced young woman was on his mind. He wondered what she’d look like after a bath.
“Lookin’ for somebody?”
He turned his head, saw one of the saloon girls looking up at him. She was blond, a little chubby, with breasts that were overflowing from the top of her dress.
“Hello.”
“You lookin’ for somebody?” she asked again.
“No,” he said, “I was just looking.”
“Well,” she said, “if you change your mind and decide to look for me, the name’s Sally.”
“Okay, Sally,” he promised. “I’ll remember.”
She flounced away to serve beers to some of the saloon’s patrons.
* * *
Dan Robards searched the town for Clint Adams, checking cafés and saloons, until he found him in Milty’s. Nervously, he approached him at the bar.
“Mr. Adams?”
Clint turned at the sound of his name. He thought he recognized the man, but didn’t know from where.
“Yes?”
“My name is Dan Robards.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, sir,” Robards said. “I’m the foreman at the Henry ranch, just outside of town.”
“Oh yeah,” Clint said, “now I remember. I saw you going into the sheriff’s office today.”
“That’s right,” Robards said, “with my boss, Mr. Al Henry.”
“Big Al Henry, that’s what I hear he’s called.”
“Right again.”
“Can I buy you a beer?”
Robards was tempted, but he said, “No, thanks. Uh, fact is, been lookin’ for you for a while.” It was actually right in that same saloon earlier that his boss told him to look for Clint Adams.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“My boss—uh, Big Al—he’d like to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Actually, I don’t know,” Robards said. “He just told me to find you and ask you to talk with him.”
“Wait a minute,” Clint said, and signaled to Randy. When the bartender came over, he asked, “Randy, you know this fella?” He pointed to Robards.
“Sure, that’s Dan Robards,” Randy said. “He’s Big Al Henry’s foreman. Why?”
“He says Henry wants to see me.”
“Well, fact is, I beard Big Al tell Dan here to find you for him.”
“When was that?”
“Earlier in the day,” the bartender said, “right here at this bar.”
“Then he’s on the up-and-up?”
“I’d say he is, yeah.”
“Okay, thanks.” Clint turned back to Robards. “Where is your boss now?”
“He took a room at the Ballard Hotel. It’s, uh, the best one in town.”
“I thought you said the ranch was right outside of town.”
“It is,” Robards said, “but he wants to be in town as long as his son’s in jail.”
“I see.”
“Will you come and see him, sir?” Robards asked.
“Sure,” Clint said. “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do than drink some more beer.”
“Big Al will have some good brandy and sippin’ whiskey in his room.”
“Well, that sounds good to me,” Clint said. “Take me on over there.”
“Thank you.”
The two men left the saloon and Clint walked alongside the foreman as they made their way to the hotel. He didn’t know what Big Al wanted with him, but he was kind of bored and decided to let the man talk.
He could do that and still manage to mind his own business, couldn’t he?
TWELVE
The Ballard was twice the size of the hotel Clint was staying in. Big Al had apparently taken a suite that covered half of the third floor.
When they reached the door, Robards opened it without a key and led the way in. Clint found himself in an expensively furnished room, with heavy curtains and comfortable-looking furniture.
“I’ll get the boss,” Robards said.
“Sure.”
The foreman left the room and came back moments later with the tall, white-haired man.
“Mr. Adams? I’m Al Henry.”
“Big Al Henry, right?” Clint asked as they shook hands.
“That’s not something I call myself,” Henry said. “What about you and ‘the Gunsmith’?”
“It’s the same with me.”
“Then you can just call me Al.”
“Fine,” Clint said, “I’m Clint.”
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Your foreman said something about sippin’ whiskey.”
“From Kentucky,” Henry said. “Have a seat and I’ll get you a glass.”
Clint noticed that the man poured a glass for Clint and for himself, but not for the foreman.
“What about Mr. Robards?” Clint asked as Henry handed him the glass.
“Oh, sure,” Henry said. “Pour yourself a glass, Dan.”
“Thanks,” Robards said, more to Clint than to his boss.
Clint had chosen an armchair. So Al Henry sat on the overstuffed sofa. Robards, glass in hand, remained standing.
“I suppose you’ve been in town long enough to hear what’s been going on?” Henry asked.
“About your son? Yes.”
“I understand you haven’t been real interested.”
“No offense,” Clint said, “but I’ve just been minding my own business.”
“What if I asked you to make this your business?” Al Henry asked. “What if I offered to pay you to make it your business?”
“Then I’d have to ask you, how?” Clint asked. “What do you have in mind?”
“Actually,” Big Al said, “I gotta tell you, I don’t know yet. I just heard you were in town, and thought I should try to get you on my side.”
“Instead of whose side?” Clint asked. “The law?”
“Judge Miller!” Henry said with distaste. “He thinks he’s the law in this town, but he’s not.”
“Who is?” Clint asked. “You?”
“Of course not,” Henry said. “The law is the law. Miller can’t just interpret it the way he wants to.”
“Well, maybe he can,” Clint said. “After all, he is the judge.”
“Well, he’s not gonna railroad my son into prison,” Henry said. “Jason could not have killed Ed Collins.”
“Sounds like you need a detective,” Clint said.
“We don’t have a detective in town,” Henry said, “and Miller’s gonna push this through too quickly for me to bring somebody in. If I’m right about your background, you used to be a lawman.”
“Many, many years ago,” Clint said.
“Will you do it?” Henry asked. “Will you try to prove my son innocent?”
“I’m not a detective,” Clint said, even though he had often worked with his friend Talbot Roper, who was possibly the best private detective in the country.
“I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars to try,” Al Henry said, “and another ten thousand if you succeed.”
Twenty thousand dollars was powerful incentive, and if he accepted, it would be a job, not just him poking his nose into somebody else’s business. And at least Big Al Henry wasn’t offering him the money to try to break his son out of jail.
Clint sipped his whiskey.
“I tell you what,” Henry said. “Take ’til morning to make up your mind. Come back here and have breakfast with me. They have an excellent dining room here. You can give me your answer then.”
Clint set his empty glass down on a nearby table and stood up.
“I can do that, Al.”
Henry stood up and the two men shook hands. As Clint head
ed for the door, Robards started to go with him. Clint held out his hand.
“I can find my way out of the hotel,” he said. “Good night.”
“Good night, sir,” Henry said.
* * *
After Clint left, Robards turned to his boss.
“I thought you were going to offer him money to break Jason out,” he said.
“I was,” Henry said, “but I think this is better.”
“How? He’s not a detective.”
“I’m still working on that,” Henry said. “If he takes the job, he could be a distraction for both the sheriff and Miller.”
“While we break him out?”
“Maybe,” Henry said, “in the end I can get him to break Jason out if we have to. But I’ll decide that later.”
“We don’t have much time,” Robards reminded him.
“I know that,” Big Al said, “but we can at least take tonight. You go back to the ranch tonight, make sure everything is all right there.”
“And what do I tell Mrs. Henry?”
“Nothing,” Henry said. “Just tell her I got busy and had to stay in town.”
“Yes sir.”
“Nothing more than that, Dan.”
“Yessir.”
“And I’ll see you in the morning, after I have breakfast with Adams.”
“I’ll be here.”
Henry slapped his foreman on the back and saw him to the door.
THIRTEEN
Clint went to his own room after seeing Big Al Henry. He removed his gun belt, hung it on the bedpost, then unbuttoned his shirt. It had been a long day of minding his own business, and in the end he was offered a job. He wondered what Rick Hartman would have to say about that.
He sat on the bed, removed his boots, then reclined on the bed with his hands behind his head. If he took the job, he was going to go and see the store where Ed Collins was killed, and he’d have to talk to Beth Collins about her father. Was the girl convinced that the killer was in jail? Or would she at least talk to him?
He was still trying to decide whether or not he should take the job—twenty thousand dollars was powerful incentive—when there was a knock on his door.
Clint didn’t like knocks on the door. Too often it turned out to be a man with a gun. He took his gun from his holster and carried it to the door with him.
“Who is it?” he asked.
Copper Canyon Killers Page 4