“I’d be much obliged,” Deadly replied.
“Obliged enough to take a dollar off the burial?”
“Not that obliged,” Deadly said.
“I was just kidd—Oh, never mind.”
Clint was at a loss about what to do. If Sheriff Deadly—willingly or not, he was the law—wasn’t going to ride out to talk to Lori Gregory, then how would she know that everything was all right?
There was no choice really. He was going to have to ride back to her house to let her know. He’d have to head out in the morning, as it was getting too cold now and would be dark before he got there.
“Where can I get a good meal?” he asked the undertaker, after they had moved the body inside.
“There’s a café down the street called Maisy’s,” Deadly said. “Makes a good steak.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey,” Deadly said as Clint was walking out. “He got any kin?”
“A lot,” Clint said. “I don’t think you want them coming here, though.”
Clint went to Maisy’s for that steak and found it pretty good. The coffee was also hot and black, the way he liked it. And the woman serving him—who may or may not haven been Maisy—did her job quietly. Clint figured she wasn’t in the habit of talking to her customers, since she probably didn’t get much practice.
When he’d finished eating and paid his bill, he asked her, “This town got a saloon?”
“We got one,” she said. “Across the street. Got a sign out front used to say ‘Blackjack Saloon.’ Pretty faded now.”
“Thanks.”
She was right about the sign. All he could make out was “Bl-j--k Sal--n.”
He went inside and found the place empty except for the bartender and two men sitting at a table.
“Help ya?” the bartender asked.
“A beer.”
“Comin’ up.”
When it came, Clint was surprised to find it so cold, then realized that any time he’d ever had a beer in Minnesota—no matter how big or small the saloon—it was always cold. Given the weather, why was that so hard to believe?
“Thanks,” Clint said. “Anything to do in this town?”
The man shrugged. “We got a whore.”
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “No poker games?”
“Not around here,” the man said. “Folks here like to hold onto their money.”
“What about these two fellows?” Clint asked.
“For poker?” Again, he shrugged. “They’re strangers, like you. Been here a few days, but still strangers. You’ll have to ask them.”
“Maybe I will.”
Clint eyed the two men, using the mirror behind the bar to do it. They didn’t seem to be paying any mind to him at all. He found that odd, not because of who he was, but because it’s just human nature to be curious.
Unless the two men just didn’t want to be paid any attention themselves.
SEVENTEEN
Clint decided to leave the two men to themselves. He called the bartender and waved for another beer.
“Is there a hotel in town?” he asked, as the man put down the beer.
“No,” the bartender said, “but we got some rooms upstairs.”
“Anything available?”
“We got a couple.”
“How much?”
“Two dollars a day.”
“Two dollars?”
“Did I say there’s no hotel in town?” the man asked grimly.
“Good point,” Clint said. “Okay.” He dug out two dollars and gave them to the man.
The bartender accepted the money and handed over a key.
“Room five.”
“The two gents behind me,” Clint asked, “do they have rooms?”
“One room for the two of them,” the barkeep said, leaning in and keeping his voice as low as Clint’s. “They’re in room three.”
“Thanks. Where can I bed down my horse?”
“Got us a small stable out back, if you want. Used to be a livery in town, but it’s empty now. You could put him there for free, if you want, but you won’t find no feed there.”
“Uh-huh,” Clint said. “How much for out back?”
“Four bits.”
Clint dropped the coins on the bar.
“Obliged,” the bartender said.
Clint pocketed his key. He’d bed down Eclipse and then take his gear to his room.
“Any other strangers in town besides these two?” he asked.
“Might be,” the bartender said, “but if there are, they ain’t come in here.”
Clint nodded and the bartender left him to his second beer.
“You know that fella?” one of the men sitting at the table asked the other.
“Never seen him before,” the second man said.
“Well, I have,” the first man said. “That’s Clint Adams.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, man . . .” The second man leaned forward in his chair.
“You wanna try him?”
“We ain’t gettin’ nothin’ else done in this one-horse town.”
“We take Adams here,” the first man said, “and we’ll put this one-horse town on the map, like Hickok did Dead-wood.”
The second man licked his lips. “You wanna do it now?”
The first man nodded. “As soon as he heads for the door.”
“In the back?” the second man asked.
“You know a better way?”
“Uh, n-no,” the second man said. He was suddenly nervous, but didn’t want his partner to know.
“Okay then,” the first man said. “Wait for my move.”
Clint finished his beer.
“I’m going to see to my horse, and then check out my room,” he called out to the bartender.
“Suit yourself.”
Clint turned and headed for the batwing doors. “Now!” the first man hissed at his partner.
The second man was so nervous, so anxious, that he started to ride to his feet to draw his gun, and slid his chair back.
Clint heard the chair slide on the floor, turned, and drew. He dropped into a crouch and fired quickly four times. The two men danced in place a bit as the lead hit them, and then fell over, one draped over the table, the other on the floor.
“J-Jesus!” the bartender yelled.
“You better go and get your undertaker-sheriff, Bartender,” Clint said, ejecting the spent shells from his gun.
“Y-yessir.”
“I’ll wait here.”
EIGHTEEN
Walter Deadly came into the saloon, looking every inch the undertaker—except now he was wearing a gun on his hip.
“Bartender said there’s been some excitement,” Deadly said to Clint, who was lounging on the bar with another beer.
“Those two tried to back-shoot me,” Clint said. “I hate back-shooters.”
Deadly walked to the two men and checked them to be sure they were dead.
“Any idea why?” he asked.
“Well, either they were trying to make a name for themselves,” Clint said, “or they were looking to rob me . . .”
“Or?”
Clint shrugged. “Revenge? Maybe they were waiting for the man I brought in.”
Deadly looked at the bartender.
“Jeff, they say anythin’ about waitin’ here for somebody?”
“Not a word, Sheriff.”
Deadly leaned over and went through the pockets of both men. He found a letter in one of their pockets.
“Ever hear of a Leonard David?” he asked Clint.
“No,” Clint said. “So his name’s not Pettigrew?”
“I guess not,” Deadly said, “or maybe he’s just carryin’ this David’s mail.”
“Nothing in the other one’s pocket?”
“No,” Deadly said, “but I did find twenty dollars.”
“That ought to pay for their burials,” Clint said.
�
��Jeff, you back his story?” Deadly asked.
“You bet, Walter,” the bartender said. “As soon as he headed out the door, they stood up and drew their guns. They was gonna shoot him in the back, all right.”
“Okay then,” Deadly said. “I’ll get somebody to move these bodies. You stayin’ the night?”
“I’ve got a room upstairs.”
“One night?”
“Just one night.”
“Good.”
Clint put the empty mug down on the bar.
“Now, like I said before, I’m going to see to my horse and then go to my room.”
In the nearby town of Cold Creek, Lyle Pettigrew was telling his cousins, Nutty and Deacon, that they were through waiting.
“But Jerry—” Deacon said.
“Jerry can come and find us,” Lyle snapped. “We’re not waitin’ here until he decides he wants to join us.”
“Where we goin’?” Nutty asked. “You got a bank picked out, Cousin?”
“Yeah, I got one picked out,” he said. “We’re gonna hit it and then get outta this godforsaken place.”
“Cold Creek?”
“Cold Creek nothin’!” Lyle said. “Minnesota. Why didn’t you tell me it was this cold?”
The other men didn’t know who he was directing the question to, so they all remained silent.
“Never mind,” he snapped. “Where’s Joe?”
“He’s still with that whore—”
“Fuck!” Lyle shouted, standing up. “He’d fuck till his dick fell off if I let him.”
He charged up the stairs and down the hall to his brother’s door, then kicked the door in. There was his brother, holding one of the whore’s ankles in each hand, spreading her as far as she’d go, fucking her like a mad-man.
“Goddamnit, Joe!” he shouted.
He charged his brother, grabbed him by the shoulders, and not only pulled him off the girl, but off the bed as well.
Joe shouted, “Hey, what the—” as he hit the floor butt first. His baseball bat-sized prick quickly shriveled as he looked up at his brother.
“What the fuck—”
“You’re gonna split the damn whore in two, damn it!” Lyle shouted.
“Well, ain’t that the point?” Joe yelled back.
Lyle slapped his brother in the back of the head as hard as he could. Ever since Joe was a kid, that was the only way to get his attention.
“Pay the whore and get downstairs. We’re gettin’ ready to leave.”
“I ain’t finished.”
Lyle looked at the girl on the bed. She’d curled up into a ball and was covering herself up. Lyle saw some blood on the sheets, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It wasn’t a lot, though, so he figured he’d gotten to his brother before he could do much damage to the whore.
“Yeah, Joe,” Lyle said, “you’re finished. Deke, Nutty, and me are waitin’ downstairs. If you make me come up here again, I’m gonna hurt you. Understand?”
Joe Pettigrew was twice the size of his brother, but he ducked his head and said, “Yeah, Lyle, I understand.”
Lyle turned and left the room.
NINETEEN
Nutty and Deacon looked up as the batwings opened and two men stepped in. They were both wearing badges.
“We’re lookin’ for Joe Pettigrew,” one of them said.
His badge said “Sheriff” on it. The other, younger man’s tin said “Deputy.”
Nutty and Deacon looked at each other.
“Why you lookin’ for him?” Lyle asked from the base of the steps.
The two men looked over at him.
“He’s got a girl upstairs,” the sheriff said. “Her friends are worried about her.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s had her for two days.”
“Then he must like her.”
“Look,” the sheriff said, “we don’t want no trouble. We just want the girl.”
Lyle knew he could tell the two men they could have her, but he didn’t like being told what to do.
“Are her friends whores, too?” he asked.
“That don’t matter,” the sheriff said.
“Look, Sheriff,” Lyle said, “my brother will be done with her soon, and he’ll send her home.”
“In one piece?” the deputy asked.
Lyle looked at the younger man, whose hand was hovering over his gun.
“Son, you better relax that gun hand,” he said. “I wasn’t talkin’ to you, I was talkin’ to the sheriff.”
“Well, I’m talkin’to—”
“Quiet, Mike.”
“Yeah, shut up, Mike,” Nutty said, and he and Deacon laughed.
The deputy flexed his gun hand.
“Sheriff,” Lyle said, “this kid’s liable to get you killed in the next five minutes.”
“Nobody’s gettin’ killed, friend.”
“Pettigrew,” Lyle said, “my name’s Lyle Pettigrew. These are my cousins, Nutty and Deacon.”
“And Joe?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Is he upstairs?” the sheriff asked. “We’ll just go up and get—”
Lyle held up his left hand.
“Nobody goes upstairs. My brother will be down directly.”
“Get out of the way, Pettigrew!” the deputy said.
“Mike,” the sheriff said warningly.
“You gonna let him tell us what to do, Sheriff?”
“That’s just what I’m doin’, Deputy,” Lyle said. “I’m tellin’ you what to do.”
“Son of a—” the deputy said, going for his gun.
“Mike, no!” the sheriff shouted, but it was too late.
Nutty drew and shot the deputy in the chest. The young man coughed and dropped to the floor.
“Wait, wait—” the sheriff started shouting, but he was going for his gun at the same time.
Lyle drew and shot him in the chest. He fell over on top of the deputy.
“Damn, big brother!” Joe said. He was halfway down the stairs. “You’re stackin’ them like firewood.”
“Shut up, Joe,” Lyle said. “This is your fault.”
The only other person in the room was the bartender, who was standing still behind the bar.
“Nutty, check on them,” Lyle said.
Nutty walked to the two fallen lawmen, leaned over, and poked them.
“They’re dead, Lyle.”
“Fuck!” Lyle said. He turned around and looked up at his brother. “Joe—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Joe said. “It’s my fault, right?”
“Damn right,” Lyle said. “You and your whores are gonna get you killed one of these days. But I ain’t about to let you get me killed, too.”
“Well, none of us got killed,” Joe said. “Just two lawmen.”
He came down the stairs the rest of the way.
“Let’s get somethin’ to eat,” he said.
“We’ll eat on the trail,” Lyle said. “We got to leave town.”
“Why?” Joe asked.
“Because we killed two lawmen.”
“But Jerry ain’t here yet.”
“Fuck Jerry!” Lyle said. “Nutty, you and Deke get the horses.”
“Right.”
“What about their pockets?” Joe asked, indicating the lawmen. “They might have some money.”
“They’re small-town lawmen, you idiot,” Lyle said. “How much money would you get from them?”
“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Probably more than I have on me right now.”
“Forget it!”
“Then what about a drink—”
“Just get out, Joe,” Lyle said. “But—”
“But—”
“Out.”
“Crap,” Joe said, and stormed out of the saloon.
Lyle looked down at the two lawmen, then shrugged and decided to check their pockets. He got a total of three dollars. As an afterthought he took both their badges.
When he straight
ened up, his eyes fell on the bartender, who looked scared out of his mind.
“How much money you got?” he asked.
“Not a lot.”
“Lemme see.”
The bartender put the day’s proceeds on the bar top. There was a dollar there, which Lyle had paid the man that morning. Since the Pettigrews had taken over the saloon, they hadn’t been doing a lot of business.
Lyle took the dollar back.
“Sorry,” he said to the bartender.
“That’s okay,” the man said. “Take it.”
“No,” Lyle said, “I’m sorry about this.”
“Wha—”
Lyle drew his gun and shot the bartender in the chest. The man fell behind the bar.
“Can’t leave any witnesses,” Lyle said, and left.
TWENTY
“What’s the next town?” Clint asked.
“Which way are you going?”
“Well, I’ve got to go south first. Hell, I might as well keep going south. It’s too cold up here for me.”
“You goin’ back to the Gregory house?”
“Yes, I’ve got to tell her what happened. And I’d like to check on her, make sure she’s okay. What happened to her husband?”
“His horse stepped into a chuck hole and fell on him,” Walter Deadly said. “It was a freaky thing. Killed him instantly.”
“She’s been living out there alone for what? A year?” Clint asked.
“Little more. Wouldn’t do her any good to move here. We got nothin’ to offer her.”
“Is there someplace else she could go?”
“Cold Creek, maybe.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s about as far from her house as we are, but farther south. In fact, you could ride there from here in the same amount of time. If you drew lines on a map from the house to here to Cold Creek and back, you’d have a triangle.”
“Don’t tell me,” Clint said, “you used to be a teacher.”
“Once upon a time.”
They were sitting in the undertaker’s office the morning after Clint had killed the two men. Clint had saddled Eclipse, and ridden over to tell the sheriff-undertaker that he was leaving. Walter Deadly was not sorry to see him go, even though he’d provided business for the man in both of his jobs.
The Dead Town Page 5