The Hunt for Clint Adams

by J. Roberts

Hartman shrugged.

  “Before he kills you. Why not?”

  “He paid his debt,” Clint said. “I kill him, I could end up in Yuma, myself. And if I go looking for him while he’s looking for me, we could just end up going around in circles and missing each other.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I spend enough time looking over my shoulder as it is. I don’t need to be looking for Jed Tarver.”

  “He any good with a gun?” Hartman asked. “As good as they say?”

  “He’s damned good.”

  “But you took him.”

  “I helped put him in jail.”

  “Didn’t face him?”

  “It didn’t come to that.”

  “What if it had?” Hartman asked. “What would’ve happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hartman frowned.

  “He was that fast that you’re not sure you could’ve taken him?” Hartman asked. “It’s not like you not to have an opinion.”

  “A man can never be sure, Rick,” Clint said. “He’s always got to be ready, though.”

  “So you’re sayin’ whenever Tarver comes along, you’ll be ready?”

  Clint nodded. “I’ll be ready, but now I’m ready to tuck into this steak.”

  “While you’re doin’ that,” Hartman said, “why don’t you tell me how it all happened?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Clint said.

  “You’re not sayin you don’t remember, are you?” Hartman asked. “I’ll help jog your memory: It was Abilene, four and a half, maybe five years ago.”

  Clint stared across the table at his friend. “You’re not going to let me eat in peace unless I tell you, are you?”

  “Nope,” Hartman said. “Come on, what else have we got to do while we’re eatin’?”

  Clint looked down at his bloody steak, his knife and fork hovering over it. Finally, he cut into the meat and popped a hunk into his mouth.

  “Sure,” Clint said, chewing, “why not?”

  FOUR

  WICHITA, KANSAS FOUR AND A HALF YEARS AGO

  Clint was riding with a posse out of Wichita. The Tarver gang, four of them, had robbed a bank, and they’d managed to do it without killing anybody. That was going to work in their favor when they were caught. It would keep them from hanging. But didn’t keep a bunch of townsmen—whose money was in the bank—from volunteering to ride with the posse.

  The posse was made up of store clerks, business owners, a couple politicians, the sheriff, two deputies, and Clint Adams.

  “Glad you decided to come along, Mr. Adams,” Sheriff Jack Murdo said. “My deputies are green, and those townsmen and politicians even greener.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I did make a deposit in that bank just before it was robbed. I’d like to get that money back, along with everybody else’s in town.”

  “Sure, sure,” Murdo said. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch up to them. The trail is pretty clear.”

  “I can see that.”

  “By the end of the day,” Murdo predicted, “we’ll have them.”

  They followed the trail for hours, but by the end of the day it was obvious that the bank robbers had split up and gone in four different directions.

  The sheriff called the posse to a halt and dismounted, along with Clint. They studied the ground, then turned to the posse.

  “We’ll split into four groups,” the sheriff said, “and follow these four different trails.”

  “How do we know who’s got the money, Sheriff?” one of the clerks asked.

  “We don’t know,” the sheriff said. “What’s the difference?” He looked at Clint.

  “Could be they split it up already,” Clint said. “Maybe they each have a quarter of the money. But the sheriff’s right, it doesn’t really matter. We’ll have to split up and keep tracking them.”

  “Okay then,” Sheriff Murdo said, “you and me can go that way—”

  “I think we need to split up, Sheriff,” Clint said. “You, me, and your deputies, I mean. You can each take a posse member. I’ll ride alone. I’ll move faster and better that way.”

  “Okay,” Jack Murdo said with a shrug. “Pick a direction.”

  “Hey, Sheriff,” one of the deputies said, “what if Adams catches up to the one who’s got the money. Who says he’ll bring it back?”

  “I say,” Sheriff Murdo replied. “Ain’t never heard nothin’ about Clint Adams that says he won’t bring the money back.” He looked at Clint. “You go ahead, Mr. Adams. We’ll split up, just like you say. Anybody catches one of the bank robbers takes him back to Abilene. We’ll meet up there.”

  “Hopefully with all the bank’s money,” the deputy said.

  “Shut up, Parker,” Murdo said. “You and Bud Kellogg follow that trail . . .”

  Clint knew that they were trailing the Jed Tarver gang. He knew who Tarver was, knew his reputation as a thief—an extremely smart one—as well as an extremely fast and dangerous gunman.

  What he didn’t know was that he was following the trail being left behind by Tarver, and that Tarver was carrying all the money from the bank robbery. Tarver didn’t trust any of the other men with it, and he didn’t give any of it to the only man he did trust—Dexter—because he feared the others would kill him and take it from him.

  So Clint was following the trail with a certain amount of ignorance—or, at least, ignorance of a few facts. But to play it on the safe side, he decided to assume that the man he was following was Jed Tarver, and that the sheriff, deputies, and the rest of the posse were trailing the rest of the gang.

  That was the only way he could be ready for Tarver when he caught up to him.

  What he didn’t know was that he wouldn’t catch up to the man for days.

  Jed Tarver was miles ahead of Clint Adams. He didn’t think there was a posse on earth that could catch him. He had the entire bank haul in his saddlebags, and intended to split it only with his partner, Bart Dexter.

  Their plan was to split up, dump their two temporary partners, and then meet in a small Kansas town called Manhattan, right on the banks of the Blue River.

  As Tarver rode into Manhattan, he realized he may have made a mistake. This was not the sleepy little town he expected. Unbeknownst to him, since the Kansas-Pacific Railroad had laid its track in town, Manhattan had grown by leaps and bounds. Still, in a town that size perhaps he’d be able to go unnoticed, after all.

  He put his horse up at the livery, asked the fella there to recommend a hotel. He got himself a room in the hotel and spent some time counting the proceeds from the robbery, after dumping it onto the bed. Forty-two thousand dollars wasn’t bad. He collected it together and stuffed it back into the saddlebags again. He was hungry, decided to get something to eat, but was too nervous to leave the money in the room.

  He ended up walking around town with the saddlebags over his shoulder.

  FIVE

  Clint thought that Jed Tarver may have had a reputation as a tough one and a fast gun, but he sure wasn’t very smart. According to the tracks the man was leaving behind, he was making no attempt to get out of the state.

  Clint came to a few towns that Tarver’s tracks bypassed, but midday the next day the trail finally led him to Manhattan, Kansas.

  Clint had camped the night before, built a fire but really didn’t have anything to prepare in the way of a meal. He’d had to make do with some beef jerky and water from his canteen. The sheriff’s prediction—and it was actually a promise he’d made to get Clint to ride with the posse—obviously had not come true. The others may have caught up to the rest of the gang by the end of the first day, but Tarver was still on the run.

  When he spied the tracks leading into Manhattan, Clint shook his head. Was Tarver arrogant enough to think he wouldn’t be tracked this far? So confident that he’d stoop in Manhattan and . . . what? Rest up? Wait for someone else from his gang to catch up?

  Jed Tarver may have been tough
, he may have been fast, but he needed some lessons in smart.

  Tarver knew he was taking a chance stopping in Manhattan, but he had done his research back in Abilene. He’d found out that Murdo had no reputation, and had a couple of green deputies. What were the chances they’d be able to track him once he, Dexter, and the others split up?

  He decided to take the chance, at least for one night, to give his horse some time to rest up, and to give Dexter a chance to catch up.

  Of course, all the research Jed Tarver had done in Abilene had not included Clint Adams.

  Clint was not surprised at the size of Manhattan. He knew that the railroad coming in almost twenty years before had been a boon to the town. He also knew there was now a major university there that was considered one of the finest educational institutions in the West.

  Clint rode to the livery stable, figuring that was step one: Find out if Tarver put up his horse there. Also, the man to ask questions about any town was always the liveryman.

  He dismounted, casually walked his horse in, and found the liveryman shoeing somebody’s horse.

  “Be right with ya.”

  “Take your time,” Clint said.

  The man finished pounding a nail into the horse’s hoof, then lowered it and stood straight. He was a tall man with a stoop, maybe from all the shoeing he’d done over the years. He was seventy if he was a day, but even with the stoop he looked fit and strong.

  “Once you start poundin’ in one of them nails ya gotta finish it, ya know?” the man asked, dropping his hammer to the ground.

  “I do know,” Clint said.

  The man looked at Eclipse and his eyes widened.

  “Say, that’s just about the best-lookin’ horseflesh I ever seen, and I been around a lot of horses. Lookin’ ta sell?”

  “Not a chance,” Clint said.

  “Don’t blame ya,” the man said. “Well, then, what kin I do for ya?”

  “Wondering if anyone rode into town last night or this morning,” Clint said.

  The man squinted. “You law?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Means I was riding with a posse,” Clint said. “Bank job in Abilene. We followed them ’til they split up. I took the trail that led me here.”

  “Well,” the man said, “fella did ride in here early today. Seemed kinda suspicious ta me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Most fellas treat their saddlebags important like, but this fella—well, let’s just say he was holdin’ on to ’em like they was real important,” the livery man said. “You know what I mean? Like, both arms wrapped around ’em. And they was, ya know, kinda . . . full.”

  “Bulging?”

  “Some,” the man said. “So, just how much did they get away with?”

  “Better than forty thousand.”

  The man whistled. “Well,” he said, “we get lots of riders in and outta here, but he was the only one last night, ceptin’ you, now.”

  “He ask you to recommend a hotel?”

  “He did. I told him the Regency.”

  “Did he go there?”

  The man shrugged. “I told him about it. I got no way of knowing if that’s where he went.”

  “Who’s the sheriff in town?”

  “Name’s Gannon.”

  “Any good?”

  “He’s had a job a couple of years,” the liveryman said. “ ’bout forty years old. But Manhattan ain’t exactly the old West, if ya know what I mean.”

  “So you’re saying he wouldn’t have lasted in Dodge, or Wichita?”

  “Not in the days,” the man said. “And you look like a man who remembers the old days.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, handing the man Eclipse’s reins. “Rub him down and feed him. Take good care of him. He’s come a long way.”

  “You stayin’ in town overnight?”

  “Unless the man I’m looking for has managed to leave town without his horse.”

  SIX

  Clint knew he had two ways to play it: Go to the hotel looking for Tarver, or stop in and talk to the sheriff first. Since he was actually a member of a posse, he decided to play it the legal way.

  He found the sheriff’s office and walked in. He thought the office was empty but then he heard a sound from the back, probably the cell block. A familiar sound. He stuck his head back there and saw that he was right. The sound of sweeping. There was a man in one of the cells, sweeping it out. In another cell was a pale of water and a mop. The floor looking freshly cleaned.

  “Excuse me?”

  The man looked up from his sweeping. Clint saw the sheriff’s star on his chest.

  “Sheriff Gannon?”

  “That’s right. Sorry for the smell,” he said. “Cowpoke left his dinner on the floor of one of these cells last night. I tried to mop it out.”

  “Didn’t think a jail cell was supposed to smell good,” Clint said.

  “Not good, maybe,” the sheriff said, “but don’t have to smell like no puke.” He put his mop down. “Can I help ya?”

  “I hope so,” Clint said.

  “Let’s talk out in the office,” the sheriff said. “Still kinda rank back here.”

  He walked past Clint, who noticed the man wasn’t wearing a gun. Clint also noticed the bald spot in back of his head. Didn’t mean anything, he just noticed it.

  The sheriff got around behind his desk and said, “What brings ya to Manhattan?”

  “I’m riding as part of a posse out of Abilene,” Clint said.

  “Posse?”

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “The Tarver gang hit the Bank of Abilene yesterday; got away with about forty thousand or so.”

  The sheriff whistled.

  “That’s a lot of money. You figure they went through here?”

  “We tailed them until they split up,” Clint explained. “The sheriff and his deputies are following other trails. I followed one here.”

  “So one of the gang’s in my town?”

  “According to the old man at the livery—”

  “That’d be Abe Sanders.”

  “—a man came to town early this morning with some bulging saddlebags. That makes me think it’s Jed Tarver himself.”

  “Tarver? In Manhattan?”

  “I’m going to pick him up,” Clint said. “Could use some help.”

  “Help?” Gannon wiped his palms on his thighs nervously. “Well, now, Mr.—”

  “Adams,” Clint said, “Clint Adams.”

  “Adams!” Now Sheriff Gannon got real agitated. “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, look Mr. Adams,” Gannon said, “I don’t see why somebody like you would need my help.”

  “How about because you’re the law hereabouts. I’m trying to keep this legal and on the up-and-up, Sheriff,” Clint explained.

  “I understand that,” the lawman said, “but it ain’t my help ya need.”

  “Then whose?”

  “The police department,” Gannon said. “We got a police chief and everythin’.”

  “Why didn’t Abe tell me that when I asked him who the law was?”

  “Abe’s tryin’ ta hang onto the old days,” Gannon said. “You probably know that just from the short talk you had with him.”

  “I reckon I do.”

  “So you better go and talk to Chief Shelby, over at the police station.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Down the street, about three blocks—police chief and five uniformed lawmen in a big brick building. Can’t miss it.”

  “So if they’re the law, what’s that make you?” Clint asked.

  “Somethin’ left over from the old days, I guess,” Gannon said. “The drunks in town usually end up in my cells. You’re lookin’ for somethin’ a lot more dangerous than a drunk.”

  “You’re right about that,” Clint said. “Well, thanks for your time. I guess I’ll go and dump this in the lap of the chief.” />
  “And I’ll go back to muckin’ out my cells.”

  Clint could hear the broom being put to work before he got out the door.

  SEVEN

  Tarver was starting to think he’d made a mistake.

  A walk around town revealed that not only was there a sheriff in Manhattan, but they had a police station, as well. He was looking to meet up with Dexter in a small town, and had made the wrong call. This was not the place to lie low and wait.

  He couldn’t afford to leave town, though. If he did that, Dexter would think he’d run out on him with all the money.

  On the other hand . . . maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea . . .

  Clint walked to the police station—a large, two-story new-looking brick building—and walked through the front door. Several men in uniform turned as he entered. They all looked pretty young, except for one who had three stripes on his arm.

  The three striper, a fit man in his late forties, approached Clint and said pleasantly, “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I’d like to see the chief of police.”

  “The chief’s pretty busy, sir,” the sergeant said. “What’s it about?”

  “A bank robbery that took place yesterday in Abilene,” Clint said shortly.

  The sergeant stared at him blankly then said, “Yes? And?”

  “I’m part of a posse tracking the bank robbers,” Clint explained, “and I’ve managed to track one of them here.”

  “I see,” the sergeant said. “Please wait here.”

  The sergeant walked away and went up a flight of stairs. Clint waited, wishing now that he’d gone to the saloon first for at least one beer. His throat was very dry.

  The sergeant came back downstairs and said, “This way, sir.”

  Clint followed the sergeant to the second floor to an office with CHIEF OF POLICE written on the door. As he entered, a florid-faced man with a belly that strained the buttons of his blue uniform stood but made no move toward him.

  “Sir, I’m Chief Shelby. And you are?”

  “My name is Clint Adams, Chief.”

  The chief looked at the sergeant with a look that said, Why didn’t you tell me? Then he looked back at Clint.