Let It Bleed

by J. R. Roberts

  “When we get back to the hotel tonight, let me have a look at it.”

  “I keep it clean.”

  “I’ll have a look anyway,” Clint said, then added, “if you don’t mind.”

  “Well . . . all right,” Temple said. “After all, you are the gun man.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “yes, I am. I’m . . . the gun . . . man.”

  Temple nodded and went inside. When he closed the door, Clint could see by the reflection in the window that the two policemen were still across the street.

  He turned and walked toward the hotel.

  NINETEEN

  “This time,” Dillon said to Benson, “I want Adams.”

  “Be my guest,” Benson said. “He didn’t do nothing before anyway. I’d just as soon sit here and relax.”

  Dillon frowned, as if he had made the wrong decision, then started after Clint.

  * * *

  Clint walked slowly to the hotel, aware that one of the policemen was following him, staying to the other side of the street while he did it. The two men were young, and probably thought Clint couldn’t see them because they were in town, and not out on the trail.

  He considered stopping at the dress shop again, but knew Mathilda would not be so cavalier about having sex this time—not after almost getting caught. But hey, it was her idea not to lock the door.

  He kept walking and stopped only when he got to the Big Horn Saloon. He went inside and right to the bar, using the mirror behind it to see if the policeman followed him in. He didn’t.

  “Beer?” the bartender asked. After three days the man knew what Clint wanted.

  “Yeah.”

  The saloon was quiet. It was still too early for the gambling to have started, or for the girls to have come down. There was only one girl working the place at the moment.

  “Gonna take some more money off the mayor?” the bartender asked, leaning on the bar.

  “Sure, if he’s willing,” Clint said.

  “I hope you do,” the man said.

  “Why?”

  “That blowhard deserves it.”

  “You don’t like the mayor?”

  “Nobody does.”

  “Then why is he the mayor?”

  “Because nobody ever runs against him, that’s why.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, nobody wants the job,” the bartender said. “And for another, nobody wants to go against him.”

  “What about Beaumont?”

  “He’s the mayor’s right hand, not as bad, but still a bastard.”

  “I see. So if somebody did come out against them, the town would support him?”

  “Well now,” the bartender said, “that would depend on who it was. You interested in either job?”

  “Not me,” Clint said. “But there might be somebody in town who would be.”

  “Like who?”

  “You own this place?”

  “Sure do.”

  The man was in his forties, old enough to have been around some.

  “Why don’t you run?”

  He laughed. “Mister, I know how to run a saloon,” he said, shaking his head, “not a town.”

  “So you can’t think of anyone in this town who should run?” Clint asked.

  “Should? Yeah, a few,” the barman said. “But would they? Naw. ’Scuse me.” Another customer came in and he moved down the bar to serve him.

  Clint picked up his beer, looked up at the big horns above the mirror that the saloon was named after. He turned then to look over the interior of the room as he sipped his beer. There were a few faces he knew were regulars, but no one he had ever really exchanged words with before.

  He still had most of the day in front of him. He just didn’t know what to do with it.

  TWENTY

  Clint had ordered a second beer and taken it to a table when the batwings swung inward and Sheriff Evans walked in. He stopped, spotted Clint, then went to the bar for a beer and carried it over.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sure, have a seat.”

  The sheriff pulled out a chair and sat across from Clint, not blocking Clint’s view of the room and the front door.

  “I had an interesting talk with your young partner,” Evans said.

  “I heard.”

  “Looks like he’s decided to take on the town fathers.”

  “From what I’ve heard, somebody should,” Clint said.

  “You gonna back his play?”

  “Which one?” Clint asked. “Against the killer, or against the town fathers?”

  “Well . . . both.”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “You played poker with the mayor and Ned Beaumont,” Evans said.

  “That doesn’t mean we’re friends,” Clint said. “In fact, I learned more about them in a few minutes talking to you than I did the whole time I was playing poker with them. All I learned then was that they were bad poker players.”

  “And now?”

  “It seems as if they’re not what you’d call unselfish civil servants.”

  Evans laughed and said, “You’ve got them pegged!”

  “Seems to me this town needs some new blood in office,” Clint said.

  “Sure does,” Evans said, “but there ain’t nobody who’ll give it a try.”

  “What about you?”

  Evans almost choked on his beer, slammed the mug down on the table hard enough to spill some of it.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you run for mayor?”

  “I ain’t no politician.”

  “Seems to me that makes you perfect for the job,” Clint said. “And why do I have a feeling you’re not afraid of Mayor Stanley?”

  “That jasper?” Evans made a rude sound with his mouth, then picked up his beer and took a healthy swig, as if he was trying to wash a bad taste from his mouth. “There’s lots of things I’m afraid of, but he ain’t one of them.”

  “Then maybe you should run.”

  “You know,” Evans said, “ain’t nobody gonna run against him unless they see a chink in his armor.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “maybe you’ll see one soon.”

  Evans cocked his head. “The kid? Is he gonna write somethin’?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  Evans leaned on the table and looked Clint directly in the eye.

  “If your boy can write something that exposes Mayor Stanley . . .”

  “You’ll run?”

  “I ain’t as old as I look, you know,” Evans said. “It’s the white hair. Maybe it is time for a career change.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Clint said, picking up his beer. He sipped it and set it down. “Don’t look for it in tomorrow’s edition, because there’s going to be something else . . . but it’s coming.”

  “I’ll watch for it,” Evans said. He finished his beer and stood up. “Guess I better go and do my rounds, let people see I’m still here.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Walking back to the newspaper office later in the day, Clint was tempted to confront the policeman who was following him, but he decided against it. Let Chief Landry think he had succeeded in putting an unseen tail on him.

  When he reached the door of the Reporter-News, it was locked. He tried to see inside, but it looked dark. He framed his face against the glass and thought he saw a light farther in. He knocked on the door, then knocked again. Finally he saw someone coming toward it.

  When the door opened, it was Harry Temple.

  “What happened?” Clint asked.

  “Nothing,” Temple said. “Tanner went home, closed up the shop. He told me when I was done, I could go out the back door. Come on in.”

  Clint entered and they locked the front d
oor behind them. Temple led the way back to his closet-sized office. Clint could see sheets of paper next to the typewriter, and one in the machine that Temple was working on.

  “Is that about Mayor Stanley?”

  “Yeah,” Temple said, “mostly some stuff that Evans told me. You want to read it?”

  “Whatever it says,” Clint replied, “could I talk you out of it?”

  “No,” Temple said. “This will be the first time I’ve had my say in two years.”

  “You don’t know much about Abilene politics, though.”

  “I know a blowhard when I see one,” Temple said, “and so far since I’ve been here, I’ve seen two.”

  “But all you have to go on is what Evans gave you.”

  “Sheriff Evans is believable.”

  “Even though he has an ax to grind?”

  “Often,” Temple said, “in my business, those are the people who are the most believable.”

  “If you say so. Are you done here?”

  “Sure, why not?” Temple said. “I can finish this tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow your strangler piece comes out,” Clint said. “Starting in the morning, you’ll have a target on your back.”

  “Then let’s go and get something to eat tonight,” Temple said, “while we can dine in peace.”

  “Well, that sounds like the Cattleman’s Palace,” Clint said.

  “Sounds like the perfect place for a hearty last meal,” Temple said. He started for the back door, but Clint stopped him.

  “If we go out the back, the two policemen will lose us.”

  “Tanner left me a key,” Temple said. “We can go out the front and lock the door behind us.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  Temple shrugged and they walked to the front door.

  * * *

  They walked slowly so there would be no chance the two policemen would lose them.

  Now that Temple knew they were there, he said, “They might as well be in uniform. They’re not very good at this.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “Makes me wonder why they were even given the job.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “They weren’t assigned by the chief,” Clint said.

  “Stokes?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the chief told him to assign two men,” Clint said. “Probably his best men.”

  “And Stokes assigned these two,” Temple said. “He wanted you to see them.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “Like a warning.”

  “Again: Why?”

  “We’ll have to find that out,” Clint said, “won’t we?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  At the Cattleman’s Palace they were seated immediately at a table that suited Clint. He could see the entire room, and there was nobody behind him.

  A waiter came and took their orders for steak dinners with all the trimmings. He returned, bringing them each a cold mug of beer.

  “Maybe we should send some food across the street to those two policemen.”

  “That would send them running back to Stokes,” Clint said. “It would be funny, but first I want to find out what’s on Stokes’s mind.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “It’s simple,” Clint said. “I’m going to ask him.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be interested in his answer.”

  They sat back and allowed the waiter to set down their huge platters of meat and vegetables, which suspended all conversation while they ate.

  * * *

  Across the street the policemen, Dillon and Benson, stood in a doorway and grumbled.

  “They’re havin’ a great meal and we have to stand out here and starve,” Dillon said.

  “We’re doing our jobs,” Benson said. “Stop grumbling.” But he was no happier than the younger man about being stuck out there, across the street from all that food, starving.

  “Why don’t you go and get somethin’ to eat?” Dillon complained.

  “And what if they come out while I’m doin’ that?” Benson asked. “No, sir, I ain’t gettin’ bawled out by Stokes because I was off gettin’ you somethin’ to eat. So just shut up and watch.”

  “You shut up,” Dillon grumbled.

  * * *

  The killer watched the two policemen bicker from his position across the street and down the block from the Palace. He knew that the Eastern newspaperman was inside, along with Clint Adams.

  He knew that killing Harry Temple would be both easy and a pleasure, but the Gunsmith, that would be another matter. That would be . . . exciting. He could have left town and moved on, but the challenges here had become too great.

  And it seemed like a long time since he’d strangled that girl. He needed another kill.

  * * *

  Mayor Theodore Stanley looked up as his office door opened and Chief Landry came in.

  “Chief,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  Landry sat down without a word.

  “Who do you have working on this murder?”

  “Detective Stokes.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  “He’s the best I’ve got, Mayor.”

  “Did you put him together with Adams and that newspaperman?”

  “I did,” Landry said. “They had a conversation.”

  “So where do we stand?”

  “Strokes has two men watching them.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s using what the newspaperman told him to try and find this killer.”

  “You’ve had plenty of time to find this man,” the mayor said. “I’m getting tired of waiting.”

  “Well,” Landry said, “police work is usually a lot of waiting.”

  “I’m not pleased with that answer, Chief.”

  “We’re doing the best we can, Mayor.”

  The mayor leaned forward in his chair and said, “Do better!”

  * * *

  After the chief left, the door opened again and Ned Beaumont came in.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” the mayor said. “Landry assigned a man named Stokes, and he’s spoken to Adams and Temple, but I don’t know.”

  “What else is there to do?” Beaumont asked. “Can you think of anybody else to bring in?”

  “No,” Stanley said, “but I have an election later this year. If we don’t catch that killer, I’m not going to have my job much longer.”

  “Seems to me we’ve got plenty of people working on this now,” Beaumont said. “The kid, Temple, is the key, I think. He’s dealt with the killer before.”

  “I don’t much care who catches him,” Mayor Stanley said, “I just want him caught!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  After dinner, Clint and Temple walked back to their hotel. Clint kept himself very alert. The article may not have come out yet, but they had already been shot at once. Whichever of them was the intended target, it could happen again.

  If it did happen this time, there’d be two policemen right behind them who might see something.

  So Clint had to remain alert without letting the two policemen know that he was aware of their presence.

  “You know that target you said would be on my back?” Temple asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I already feel it.”

  “I know what you mean,” Clint said. “I feel one on my back, too.”

  “Well,” Temple said, “at least I’m not alone.”

  They got to the front door of their hotel without being shot at. Clint stopped just inside the lobby.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m just wondering if those two are going to stay outside all nig
ht.”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad idea if they did,” Temple observed. “Would it?”

  “Maybe one will stay and the other will go and report our movements,” Clint said. He slapped the younger man on the back. “Get some rest. Tomorrow could be a big day. And it could be just the beginning.”

  “I just hope he’s not already gone,” Temple said, “because then it’s all for nothing.”

  They went up the stairs together, each to his own room.

  * * *

  “Okay,” Benson said, “you stay here and I’ll go report in to the boss.”

  “Why do I have to stay?” Dillon demanded. “You stay and I’ll go talk to Stokes.”

  “Stop arguin’ with me—”

  “Then stop tryin’ to be in charge all the time.”

  “Look,” Benson said, “they’re in their rooms. They’re not goin’ anywhere. Let’s go get somethin’ to eat, and then we’ll both report to Stokes.”

  “Okay,” Dillon said, “okay, yeah. That works for me.”

  They started walking down the street.

  “So,” Dillon said, “where do you wanna eat . . .”

  * * *

  The killer watched Clint Adams and Harry Temple enter the hotel, then watched the two policemen argue before they walked away.

  He moved from the hotel side of the street to the other side, so he could clearly see the entire building. He could have sneaked into the hotel and taken care of Temple tonight, but he was interested in seeing what Temple had been doing at the newspaper office. So he was going to put Temple’s death off a day or two. Then once he was taken care of, that would leave the Gunsmith.

  He watched the hotel for about a half an hour, just for want of something else to do, before turning and walking off into the darkness.

  * * *

  When Clint got to his room, he looked out his window at the street below. He thought he saw someone in the darkness across the street, but the longer he stared, the harder it became to make anything out. He finally gave up and moved away from the window.

  He took a straight-backed wooden chair from the corner and jammed it under the doorknob. There was no way for anyone to get in the window, so with that done, he removed his boots and his gun belt, hanging the latter on the bedpost. He then settled down on the bed with a book, which he hoped would occupy his mind until he got sleepy.