by JR Roberts
“Too bad,” Miller said. “He’s got himself some of the choice ones.”
“I’m headin’ back,” Erskine said. “Remember what I said. Stay in town.”
The bartender opened the door for him and as he went out he heard Miller ask, “Who got the cards?”
~*~
Erskine made his way back to the compound, and to Stoll’s residence. He knocked on the door and a girl let him in. Once inside he recognized her as one of the young ones, Amy or Annie or something like that.
“Where’s Father?” He felt foolish any time he had to call Stoll that.
“He’s in the bedroom.”
“Anybody with him?”
“Yes,” she said. “Emma and Louise.”
“Are you supposed to go in, too?’
She looked down and said, “Yes.”
“All right,” Erskine said. “Go and tell him I’m here.”
“All right.”
She went into the bedroom. Moments later the door and Stoll stepped out. Before he closed the door behind him, Erskine caught a glimpse of two naked young girls, and Amy/Annie taking off her clothes to join them. Stoll himself was wearing a robe.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I have nine,” Erskine said, “and I’ve sent for a tenth.”
“That should be enough,” Stoll said, “even to take care of the Gunsmith.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“What about the sheriff?” Stoll asked.
“What about him?”
“Are we going to have to kill him, as well?”
“Jesus, I hope not,” Erskine said. “He’s my friend.”
“So what does that mean?”
Erskine looked at him. “I’m gonna charge a lot more to kill my friend.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
In the morning, Clint had a quick breakfast and then went looking for Gator Jenkins. Sheriff Gaines told him the man lived in a small house on the outskirts of town, to the East. Clint walked, and kept walking and just when he thought he might have gone the wrong way, he heard the sound of somebody chopping wood. He kept going until he finally saw the house. The sound was coming from behind it, so he circled around and saw the man.
Gator—if it was Gator—was bare to the waist and sweating while he chopped wood. He was tall, rangy, and hairy—long hair that hung past his shoulders, and a thick pelt that covered his torso.
The man spotted Clint in mid-swing of his axe, which arrested the motion.
“Are you Gator Jenkins?” Clint asked. “The owner of the Whiskey River Saloon?”
“What if I am?”
“Sheriff Gaines told me where I could find you.”
“You a lawman?”
“No,”
“Who are ya, then?”
“My name’s Clint Adams.”
Gator dropped his axe. “The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
“Somebody hire you to kill me?” the tall man asked. “I’m outta business, anyway.”
“I’m not here to kill you,” Clint said. “Just to talk.”
“About what?”
“About you being out of business, and who put you there. Can we talk inside?”
“It’s too small in there,” Gator said, “but we can talk on the porch.”
They walked around the house together, Gator grabbing his shirt and putting it on along the way.
“I ain’t got any whiskey or anythin’ like that to offer you,” he said.
“It’s too early, anyway.”
“I got coffee.”
“Coffee’d be fine.”
They reached the front door and Clint waited outside on the rickety porch while Gator went in. The big man came out with two mugs of coffee. Clint sipped it, and was surprised.
“Wow, that’s good.”
“You like it strong, then.”
“Very strong.”
“Me, too. I got a chair someplace, if you wanna sit.”
“I can stand.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
“Albert Stoll.”
“That sonofabitch! You workin’ for him?”
“I’m not working for anybody,” Clint said, “and if anything, I’m working against Stoll.”
“Why? What’s your beef?”
“I don’t like what he did to Aggie Kimball, or to this town.”
“You don’t live here, whattayou care?”
“I found Aggie hanging from a tree, naked,” Clint said. “That’s why I care.”
“Yeah, that was rough,” Gator admitted. “Well, whataya wanna know from me?”
“Why’d you close down?” Clint asked. “Because Stoll told you to?”
“No,” Gator said. “He tried to get me to close plenty of times, but I told him to get lost.”
“So what happened?”
“People stopped comin’ to my place,” he said. “It’s kinda hard to stay open when you have no customers.”
“Is that why the other places closed, too?”
“As far as I know. You talk to any of them?”
“I was going to talk to somebody named Daisy after I’m done here,” Clint said.
“Daisy Fulton,” Gator said. “She’s a good girl. Closed just before I did. Stoll got rougher with her than he did with me.”
“Rough how?”
“Called her names,” Gator said. “Whore, harlot, like that. Daisy ain’t none of those things, but then people stopped going to her places, so she closed.”
“So how do you feel about all this?” Clint asked.
“How do you think I feel? I’m mad as hell, but what is there for me to do?”
“I’m going to do something,” Clint said. “I’m going to prove to this town that Stoll’s a phony, that his Kingdom is a phony. That he’s out for something more than saving their souls.”
“Like what?”
“Like profit.”
“How will he profit from what he’s doin’ here?” Gator asked. “So far as I know, he hasn’t taken any money from anybody. He built that compound on his own.”
“I don’t know, but it’s all I can figure,” Clint said.
“What if you’re wrong.”
“How?”
“What if he’s not a phony,” Gator said. “What if he really is buildin’ some kind of religion?”
“What kind of religion calls for women to have sex with the leader?” Clint asked.
“Well,” Gator said, “my kind, for one.”
“Look,” Clint said, “Stoll’s got a lot of people under his thumb, but he’s also got guns working for him. I’m going to have to go up against those guns.”
“Ain’t that what you do?” Gator asked. “Go up against guns?”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “but not more than two or three at a time, if I can help it.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Daisy Fulton was living in a hotel.
Not the same hotel Clint was in, but a larger, more expensive one.
Clint entered the lobby and presented himself to the young desk clerk.
“I’m here to see Daisy,” he said. “What room is she in?”
“Daisy Fulton?”
“Is there another one?”
“No, sir.”
“What room is she in?”
“I, uh, don’t know if I should tell you, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well ... you don’t know her.”
“And I won’t meet her unless you tell me her room number,” Clint said. “Or should I bring the sheriff here?”
“Uh, no, sir,” the clerk said. “I guess it’s all right. She’s in room seven.”
“Thanks.”
Clint started for the stairs, but when he reached them the clerk said, “But she’s not in her room, right now.”
Clint turned and walked back to the desk.
“Where is Miss Fulton, if she’s not in her room?”
“She’s in the dining room,” t
he clerk said, “having a late breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Clint said. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yes,” the clerk said, “she has blonde hair.”
“Thanks.”
Clint walked to the entrance of the dining room and looked in. Daisy wasn’t the only one having a late breakfast. Almost every table seemed to be occupied. But he saw a blonde woman, sitting alone, eating. The table was toward the rear of the room.
“Table, sir?” a waiter asked. “You might have to wait—”
“No, that’s all right,” he said. “I’m joining the lady.”
“Miss Fulton?”
“That’s right.”
“This way.”
He followed the man to Daisy Fulton’s table. When they got there the waiter said, “Miss Fulton, your guest has arrived.”
She looked up, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“My guest?”
“I’m Clint Adams,” Clint said.
She looked at him, then said to the waiter, “Of course, my guest. Please bring a pot of coffee so Mr. Adams can have some.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
As the waiter left, Clint said, “I hope you’ll forgive me for interrupting your meal.”
“It’s all right,” she said, “I’m almost done. Please, sit.”
Daisy Fulton had to be at least forty, but she was an extraordinarily lovely woman, which made her age meaningless.
The waiter returned with a pot of coffee and another cup. He filled the cup for Clint and put the pot down.
“Thank you,” Daisy said.
“You’re welcome, Ma’am.”
“Oh,” Daisy said, as the waiter left, “I should have asked if you wanted something to eat.”
“I had breakfast, thanks,” he said.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?”
“I’m glad I was able to find you here, and not out at Mr. Stoll’s compound.”
“Him!” she said, spitting the word out. “You wouldn’t catch me out there. He put me out of business.”
“Yes, you’re whorehouse.”
“My House of Pleasure,” she corrected him. “Daisy’s House of Pleasure and Spirits.”
“You served liquor?”
“Of course.”
“How did Stoll put you out of business.”
“He fixed it so I had no customers,” she said. “I couldn’t pay my girls, so one by one they left.”
“And what do you plan to do now?”
“I don’t know,” she said. ”I’ve been staying in this hotel, hoping that Stoll would leave, or be exposed. You’re the one who brought Aggie’s body back to town, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“What are your plans.”
“To do what you said,” he answered. “Expose Stoll.”
“He has gunmen, you know.”
“I know.”
“Do you have help?”
“Maybe the sheriff,” Clint said. ”I just came from talking to Gator Jenkins, but I don’t know if he’ll help.”
“I have some money,” she said, excitedly. “We can hire some guns to back you up.”
“No,” he said, “I couldn’t trust anyone who was helping me just because they were paid. But thanks for the offer.”
“There must be something I can do,” she said.
“Well,” he said, with a smile, “you could pay for this coffee.”
She smiled back and said, “I was planning on doing that, anyway. After all, how many times do I get to have coffee with a legend?”
“You seem to have come to terms with being out of business, Miss Fulton.”
“Oh, please, call me Daisy,” she said. “It’s been my experience that men get bored very easily. I expect that to happen with Mr. Stoll, and when it does he’ll move on. However, if you can get him to move on even sooner, that would be fine with me. I’d open up my business again.”
“You said your girls were gone.”
“Some of them left town, some of them are around,” Daisy said. “There are always girls who are willing to work.”
“Well,” he said, standing, “I’m going to do my best to open people’s eyes.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked. “I’m very curious. If having Aggie lynched doesn’t open anybody’s eyes, what will?”
“I haven’t quite figured that part out, yet,” he admitted.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Clint spent the rest of the day trying to find the owners of the other saloons that had closed up, but it soon became apparent that they had not only gone out of business, but left town.
Talking with Gator and Daisy hadn’t given him any ideas about how to smoke Stoll out, either. How did you convince people that their so-called religious leader was more of a snake oil salesman than anything else?
Well, with snake oil you’d just have to prove that it doesn’t work. So what was the best way to prove to the townspeople that Stoll’s way of life didn’t work? And why weren’t the females in town figuring it out for themselves?
Clint decided to go to the undertaker’s and see how Tully was doing. He hadn’t heard from the young man in some time. And bouncing some ideas off of him might help.
When he got to the undertaker’s the front door was locked, so he knocked. He turned to look up and down the street. Some people went by and gave him a glance, others kept their eyes straight ahead, as if they’d been warned not to look directly at him. He wondered if “Father” Stoll was telling them that they’d turn to salt if they did?
He knocked on the door again, got worried when nobody answered. Tully could have been out getting a meal, but it was between breakfast and lunchtime.
He tried to see through the glass, but it was too grimy to afford him a good view. Force the doors? What would Tully think if he was simply at his grandfather’s house and Clint damaged his business?
Clint had not been to the house, didn’t know exactly where it was, but since he was already at the shop he decided to do what he could do to get in. To that end, he went to check the back door.
He used the alley alongside the place to get to the back of the building. When he got there he saw that the door was ajar. That was not good. He pushed it open and entered, his hand ready to snatch his gun if the need arose.
The back room was dark, but he was able to make out the mess. It looked as if a couple of flimsy coffins had been smashed, the pieces strewn all about.
“Tully!” he decided to call out.
No answer.
He moved further in, walked through the back room to the curtained doorway that led to the front. In there he found Tully lying on the floor, situated so that Clint had not been able to see him through the grimy front windows.
“Oh, come on, Tully,” he said, rushing to the young man’s side. Immediately he could see that Tully’s chest was moving. He was alive.
“Tully!” he said, crouching down next to him. “Hey, come on, Lewis.”
He slapped the boy’s cheeks lightly, just enough to get him to stir.
His eyes fluttered, threatened to close again, then opened wide and stared at Clint.
“Clint?” he said. “What the hell—what happened?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” Clint said.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Can you sit up?”
“I—I think so.”
With Clint’s assistance he managed to struggle up to a seated position.
“Oh, my head.” He touched the back of his head, came away with some blood on his fingertips.
“Let me have a look,” Clint said. “There was blood, all right, but not a lot. It was clear, though, that he’d been hit on the head from behind.
“They must have broken in the back and slugged you before you knew what was happening,” Clint offered.
“That’s gotta be it,” Tully said. “Ow! I didn’t even feel it. The lights just went out.”
&
nbsp; “Any idea when this happened?” Clint asked. “How long ago?”
“No,” Tully said, “but it had to be early. I came over here first thing from the house, walked in and ... bam. That was it.”
“So maybe they were waiting for you.”
“Probably.”
“You want to try to get up?”
“Yeah.”
The first time they tried, his body went limp and Clint caught him before he could fall. They waited a few moments, and then tried again. Clint got him to his feet.
“Let’s go over to the doctor’s office,” Clint said.
“N-no, I don’t need—”
“Yeah, you do,” Clint said. “I’ve seen men drop dead hours later from a bump on the head like that. Let’s get you looked at by a sawbones.”
“Okay.”
“And we can talk to the sheriff while we’re at it.”
Clint helped Tully to the door, and out ...
~*~
He left Tully at the doctor’s office while he went to see Sheriff Gaines. He found the man at his desk and told him what had happened to Tully that morning.
“Did he see anybody?”
“No.”
“Anything stolen?”
“No, just some coffins smashed to pieces.”
“And what are you thinkin’?” Gaines asked.
“I’m thinking Stoll ordered some of his disciples to send a message.”
“But Tully can’t identify anyone.”
“No.”
“Well then, I can’t go accusing Stoll, can I?”
“Maybe you can’t,” Clint said, heading for the door, “but I can.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“You did what?” Erskine asked.
“We roughed the kid up a bit,” Miller said.
“But why?”
Miller shrugged. “We got bored, and we knew Stoll was mad at him.”
Erskine looked at both men, Miller and Cahill.
“You’re a couple of idiots,” he said. “Now I’ll have to tell Stoll what you did.”
“So what’s the problem?” Cahill asked.
“He doesn’t want us doin’ anythin’ he doesn’t okay,” Erskine said. “What if Tully goes to the sheriff?”
“I thought you had the sheriff under control,” Miller said.
“So did I,” Erskine said, “but maybe I don’t. We don’t need him to suddenly take his badge serious.”