Copper Canyon Killers

by J. R. Roberts

  “Ah,” Andy said, “you two.” He stood up and stormed out.

  “Hey, come on, Andy,” Stephanie said, “don’t get mad!”

  She and Tony laughed and drank their beer.

  * * *

  Clint had Mary on her knees and elbows, was fucking her ass from behind, which was the way she wanted it.

  “Come on, come on,” she was imploring him, “make me your whore, fuck me . . .”

  He was slamming into her so hard it made ripples run through her butt cheeks. And each time he rammed his cock into her, she slammed her butt back against him, so that he was taking her as deeply as he could.

  At one point Clint thought he heard someone knocking on his door, but he ignored it. His cock was much too deep inside Mary for him to withdraw and answer the door.

  Finally, she flipped over—performing the maneuver without letting him go—and wrapped her legs around him while he continued fucking her. She drummed her heels on his ass, so that he was sure he was going to have a collection of bruises there.

  Finally, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He rammed himself deep, held it there, and grunted loudly as he emptied himself into her . . .

  * * *

  “That was great,” she told him as she pulled her dress back on. “I ain’t been fucked that good in a month of Sundays.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Clint said, lying on his back in bed and catching his breath.

  She came over and gave him a long, lingering kiss, also gripping his cock tightly for just a second.

  “Don’t get yourself killed, dumpling,” she told him.

  “What—”

  But she was out the door and gone.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  In the morning Clint decided to confront both Thayer and Judge Miller with what he had learned. He went to the sheriff’s office to let the man know what he intended to do.

  “I can’t go with you,” Brown said. “Not while I still want to keep my badge.”

  “I understand,” Clint said. “You can’t very well spit in the faces of your bosses.”

  “If and when we prove that one of them hired the killing done,” Brown said, “I’ll lock that man’s ass in my jail. But before that—”

  “Got it,” Clint said.

  “Let me know how it goes.”

  Clint left the sheriff’s office, decided to talk to the judge before going to Daniel Thayer’s house.

  * * *

  The judge’s clerk told Clint that Miller was not in his office; he was in his courtroom.

  “Is court in session?” Clint asked.

  “No,” the clerk said, “he just likes to spend time in there.”

  The clerk told Clint where the courtroom was. Clint found it, entered, and found Judge Miller sitting on his bench.

  “I’ll bet you like it up there,” Clint said.

  The judge stared down from behind the big desk, squinted, then said, “Is that you, Adams?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Come closer,” Miller said.

  Clint did, stopped when he got to where a prosecutor would be standing.

  “I earned this position,” Miller said, “so yes, I do enjoy sitting up here. What brings you here?”

  “I was wondering how your jury selection was coming,” Clint asked.

  “If you’re volunteering, I can’t use you,” Miller said. “I’m afraid you’d be somewhat biased.”

  “Not volunteering,” Clint said, “just curious.”

  “I need a couple more jurors, and then we’ll be set to try the Henry boy.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “you might want to hold off on that.”

  “And why would I want to do that?” Judge Miller asked.

  “I believe I know who the real killers are,” Clint said, “and I’m just hours away from finding them.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. And when I do, I can find out who hired them.”

  “And who might they be, these hired killers?”

  Clint pretended to think about the question, then said, “Not going to tell you that right now.”

  “And why not?”

  “Well, just in case they’re working for you,” Clint said, “I don’t want you warning them.”

  Miller shook his head and said, “Gall.”

  “Just wanted you to know.”

  “Do you really think someone of my standing would stoop to hiring killers?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “would you?”

  Miller hesitated, then leaned both elbows on the bench in front of him. “If I did,” he said, “I’d hire good ones. See how that sits with you.”

  “Your honor,” Clint said with a small bow, “permission to leave the court?”

  Judge Miller simply gave Clint a dismissive wave.

  * * *

  Clint did not find Daniel Thayer in his little house. He knocked, walked around the house, and looked inside, but no one was there.

  He went back to town to Milty’s, where Randy was taking chairs down from the tables, getting ready for the day.

  “Coffee or beer?” he asked.

  “Coffee,” Clint said. “Reminds me that I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “Have a seat,” Randy said. “I was just about to have mine. I’ll bring some extra out.”

  “Thanks.”

  Randy went to the back of the saloon, apparently to the kitchen. He came out with a tray with a coffeepot and two mugs, then went back and returned with two plates of eggs, bacon, and spuds, along with some biscuits.

  “My God,” Clint said, “these eggs are like clouds. Who’s your cook?”

  Randy sat across from him and said, “I cook it myself.”

  “Jeez,” Clint said, biting into a fluffy biscuit, “why don’t you serve food?”

  “Naw,” Randy said, “I just cook for myself. I’m really just a bartender.”

  “This is the best food I’ve had since I got to town,” Clint said.

  “Thanks,” Randy said, “but I like cookin’ for myself and Letty.”

  “Speaking of Letty, I haven’t see her in a while.”

  “Me neither,” Randy said, “and the last time I saw her, I didn’t recognize her. She was . . . clean.”

  “Is that unusual?’

  “It sure is,” Randy said. “It might be a man.”

  “Would that be bad?”

  “For him,” Randy said. “If I find out who it is, I’ll make him a gelding.”

  Clint kept quiet.

  “So what brings you by so early?”

  “You got any idea where I can find Daniel Thayer?”

  “His house, I imagine.”

  “I checked there,” Clint said.

  “The big house?”

  “What big house?”

  “Ah,” Randy said, “you went to that little house he has. He likes people to think he lives modestly.”

  “And he doesn’t?”

  “Hell, no. He’s got a huge house about a mile outside of town. Had it built special. But when he’s in town, he stays in that little house. Fools people—some people—into thinking he’s not, well, full of himself . . . which he is.”

  “So how do I get to that house?”

  “Easy,” Randy said, “just ride out the main road . . .” He gave Clint some simple directions.

  “Okay, I’ll get out there and talk to him, let him know I’m in on his little secret.”

  “When will you do that?”

  Clint stuffed some eggs into his mouth and said, “As soon as I finish eating.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  This time when Clint knocked on Thayer’s door, it was opened by a white-haired man in a suit.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Clint Ad
ams to see Mr. Thayer.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “A standing invitation.”

  “Come in, then.”

  The man let him in and closed the door. Randy was right—this house was enormous, with four large columns on the outside, a huge entry foyer on the inside.

  “Wait here.”

  Clint waited while the man went down a hallway.

  * * *

  Hollis was a combination butler and man Friday to Daniel Thayer.

  He walked down the hall to his master’s study. Thayer was seated there in a silk dressing down, drinking tea.

  “Yes?”

  “A Mr. Clint Adams is here to see you, sir.”

  “Here? At the house?”

  “Yes, sir. He says he has a standing invitation.”

  Thayer thought a moment. Had Adams caught Stephanie and her idiots? Was the Gunsmith here for him now? He couldn’t hope to match Adams with a gun. He was going to have to try to bluff.

  “Take him to the big living room, Hollis,” Thayer said. “I will join him there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thayer left the study to go to his bedroom and get dressed.

  * * *

  Hollis found Clint loitering in the foyer and said, “Come with me, sir.”

  “Lead on.”

  Hollis led Clint to a large living room. The furniture was more expensive than anything he’d ever seen in any hotel. This house, the furniture—he was starting to think that maybe Thayer was richer than Big Al Henry.

  “Mr. Thayer will join you shortly.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hollis withdrew. Clint wondered if Thayer would appear with a gun, or with help. Maybe Stephanie and her friends? He had to stay ready.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Daniel Thayer appeared, dressed in a gray suit, both hands empty. Clint looked behind him, but he was alone.

  “You won’t need your gun, Mr. Adams,” Thayer said, reading Clint’s body language. “I’m not armed.”

  “Anyone else in the house?”

  “Just Hollis,” Thayer said. “Can I offer you a brandy?”

  “I know who the killers are, Thayer,” Clint said. “When I catch them, they’ll tell me who hired them.”

  Thayer walked to a sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He turned to face Clint with the glass in his hand.

  “That’s good, isn’t?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “it is, if you didn’t hire them.”

  Thayer sipped his brandy and said, “I didn’t.”

  “Then the judge did.”

  “Maybe.”

  “One of you did,” Clint said. “I’ll find out which one.”

  “Well,” Thayer said, “when you do, let me know.”

  “Count on it.”

  Clint turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Clint turned.

  “If you know who the killers are, tell me.”

  “Oh, I will,” Clint promised. “After I find them.”

  He left the living room and the house.

  * * *

  Hollis came back in, found Thayer still standing there, sipping his brandy.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  “No,” Thayer said. “No, Hollis, everything is most assuredly not all right.”

  “Well,” Hollis said, “you will fix it, sir. You always do.”

  “I’ll need you to deliver a message.”

  Hollis nodded.

  Thayer wondered if he could throw money at the problem and fix it this time.

  FORTY

  Clint rode Eclipse back to town from Daniel Thayer’s house. This was the first time since he’d arrived in Copper Canyon that he needed the big Darley. After checking Eclipse over, Clint was satisfied that the horse had been well taken care of.

  He rode back to the livery, gave the horse back to the hostler.

  “You’re taking good care of him,” he told the man.

  “Thanks. I—”

  “Keep it up,” Clint said.

  The hostler, an older man who had spent a lifetime handling horses, blinked and said, “Course I will. This is the greatest horse I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yes, he is,” Clint said.

  He left the livery, walked to the sheriff’s office.

  “Back already?” Brown asked.

  “I spoke to both the judge and Thayer—went out to Thayer’s big house, which I didn’t know he had.”

  “Don’t tell me he fooled you with that small one.”

  “He did.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “How rich is he anyway?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Richer than Big Al?”

  “Not according to Big Al.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, sitting in the chair across from Brown, “how do we find Stephanie and her friends?”

  Brown shrugged. “Watch Mary Choate’s café.”

  “Could take too long.”

  “Okay then,” Brown said, “one of us can watch her place, while the other one looks for them.”

  “You have no idea where they live?”

  “No,” the lawman said. “I mean, I thought Andy lived with his mother.”

  “Maybe he lives with Stephanie, or Tony.”

  “And maybe they all live together,” Brown said. “Stephanie and Tony grew up together. They’re almost sister and brother.”

  “And nobody has any idea where they’re living now?” Clint asked.

  “Well,” Brown said, “I don’t. Maybe the man who hired them does, though.”

  “And he—the judge or Thayer—is not about to tell us.”

  “I know!”

  They both turned their heads toward the cell block door, where the voice had come from. They got up and walked over to it.

  “What did you say?” Clint asked Jason.

  The boy was standing at the door of his cell. He’d obviously been listening to their conversation.

  “I said, I know where Stephanie Kitten lives.”

  “And how do you know that?” the sheriff asked.

  “Well . . . she’s very pretty,” he said. “One day I was out walking and I saw her. I . . . followed her.”

  “Right to where she lives?” Clint asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you can tell me how to get there?”

  Jason frowned.

  “I don’t know if I can tell you . . .” Then he brightened. “But I can show you.”

  Clint looked at Brown.

  “Oh, no,” Brown said. “You want me to let him out of his cell?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “Why do you believe him?”

  “Sheriff,” Clint said, “aren’t we pretty sure he didn’t kill Ed Collins?”

  “Yes, but it’s not up to me to make those decisions.”

  “I’m not asking you to let him go,” Clint said, “just let him come with me, and show me where they live. Then I’ll bring him right back.”

  “And what if he decides to escape?”

  “Jason,” Clint said, “if I let you out, and you try to run, that would be bad, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you don’t want to be bad, right?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Your father would be very disappointed in you.”

  “Yes, sir, he would.”

  “So after you help me find where Stephanie lives, you’ll come right back here with me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Clint looked at the lawman.

  “There you go.”

  “And I’m just supposed to take his word for it?”

 
“No,” Clint said, “take mine. I’ll bring him back.”

  Brown thought about it.

  “Sheriff, you go and watch the café,” Clint said. “If they show up there, you can follow them. Don’t brace them. Wait for me.”

  “And?”

  “And if I find out where they live, I’ll come and get you,” Clint said. “And bring Jason back here at the same time.”

  “If the judge finds out—”

  “If he hired them, it won’t matter,” Clint said. “And even if he didn’t, and we prove Jason’s innocent, then we’ll have saved him from prosecuting an innocent boy. He may want Jason to be guilty, but he won’t frame him.”

  “He won’t?”

  “No,” Clint said, “he likes being a judge too much.”

  Brown ran his hand over his head, rubbed his hair a few times vigorously.

  “I don’t know about this.”

  “I do,” Clint said. “Come on, Sheriff. Take a chance.”

  Brown gave it some more thought, then reluctantly took the cell key from the wall peg and handed it to Clint.

  “Go ahead.”

  FORTY-ONE

  “Can I go see my father?” Jason asked when they were outside the jailhouse.

  “Not just yet,” Clint said.

  “But—”

  “We have a job to do, Jason,” Clint said. “We have to find Stephanie and her friends.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I think—I’m sure they killed Mr. Collins.”

  “But why?”

  “I can’t explain it to you now,” Clint said. “Do we need horses to find them?”

  “No,” the boy said, “no, we can walk.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said. “Lead the way, Jason.”

  Jason started to walk, then stopped and asked, “Am I a deputy now?”

  “No, Jason.”

  “Are you?”

  “No,” Clint said, “neither of us are deputies. We’re just helping the sheriff with his job.”

  “Ain’t that what a deputy does?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you think the sheriff will make me a deputy after this?”

  “Jason,” Clint said, “before you can even ask him, we have to prove that you’re innocent. And we can’t do that until we find Stephanie. Understand?”

  “I understand.”