Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
Full House
“Those eight men would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you. That’s eight bullets.”
“One from each?” Clint asked. “How many of them do you think I’d take with me? I’m betting at least . . . five?”
“Are you that good?”
Clint smiled.
“There was a time I would have said six, but I was young then.”
“And faster?”
“Dumber,” Clint said, “more arrogant. No, five is an honest opinion.”
“That wouldn’t accomplish anything.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Give me your gun. Walk over to the jail with me.”
“And then what?”
“Tell your story to a jury.”
“Go to trial?” Clint asked. “For something I didn’t do? Kill a man I never met.”
“They say their boss met with the Gunsmith.”
“Or a man claiming to be the Gunsmith.”
“Convince a jury of that,” Yatesman said. “We can walk back to your poker game and talk to the judge.”
“The judge doesn’t want me in your jail.”
“What makes you say that?”
Clint smiled again.
“I have most of his money.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE TOWN COUNCIL MEETING
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / August 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.
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ONE
Clint was in a café when he heard all the commotion outside. He picked up his mug of coffee and carried it outside with him. About eight riders had come storming into town, kicking up dust and scattering people. Folks were coming out from their homes and businesses to see what the ruckus was about.
“What’s going on?” he asked a man with an apron who was standing near him. He had come out of the general store next to the café.
“Don’t rightly know,” the man said. “Those boys are from the Bar K ranch, though.”
“Big outfit?” Clint asked.
“Not the biggest, but big enough,” the man replied. “Looks like they’re goin’ into the sheriff’s office.”
“Well,” Clint said, “none of my business.”
He took his cup back inside and asked the waitress for some more.
Clint had been in Cannon City, Wyoming, for three days. The food at this small café wasn’t the best, but the coffee was. He’d go a long way for a good cup of coffee, and they served a nice little breakfast to go with it.
The waitress was also the prettiest girl he’d seen since arriving in town. Well, actually, she was more woman than girl, probably about thirty. She flirted with him, but he’d seen her flirt with other customers. He also found out early—and better early than never—that she was married to the cook.
So he went there for the coffee and to watch her walk around and serve customers.
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At the moment, though, he was the only customer in the place. She poured him some more coffee, then put the pot down on the table and went to stare out the window.
“Somethin’ awful must’ve happened out at the Bar K,” she said. “Usually, those boys are avoidin’ the sheriff, not visitin’ him.”
Is that unusual?” Clint asked. “Trouble out at the Bar K?”
“No, she answered, “but like I said, those boys are usually causin’ the trouble.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I’m sure the sheriff can handle it. Him and his deputies.”
“What deputies?” she asked. “This is a small town. It’s just Sheriff Yatesman.”
“In a small town news travels fast,” Clint said. “I’m sure it’ll make its way to you, soon.”
Clint finished his coffee and paid the check, then put his hat on and stepped outside. As he did a bunch of men came pouring out of the sheriff’s office, followed by the sheriff himself. They all mounted up and went riding out of town as hell-bent for leather as they had ridden in.
Somebody’s dead, Clint thought.
Later, Clint was in Cannon City’s smallest saloon. He liked it better than the other two because it was quiet. It was possible to play poker without having to listen to bad piano playing, bad singing, and drunken cowboys shouting back and forth. The other two saloons never had any poker games going.
He was in a five-handed game, not high stakes, but not penny ante, either. He was far enough ahead to make the game worth it. The other players were regulars, four men from town who always had room for a fifth, stranger or not.
Clint was staring down at a full house when the batwings swung inward and the doorway belched men into the room. He was facing the door so he saw them—the sheriff and the men from the Bar K.
“There he is!” someone shouted, pointing.
“Easy,” the sheriff said. “Just stay here.”
The ranch hands were obviously agitated, but they remained behind and went to the bar. They shoved several men out of the way and ordered drinks.
The sheriff walked over to the poker table.
“Clint Adams?”
Clint didn’t look up.
“That’s me.”
“Can I talk to you?”
Now Clint looked at the man.
“Talk.”
“Privately.”
“I’m in the middle of a game, Sheriff,” Clint said. “In fact, in the middle of a hand.”
“Finish the hand, then,” the sheriff said.
“You taking me in, Sheriff?”
“Not even takin’ you to my office, Mr. Adams. We can talk here, at an empty table.”
Clint thought it over, then said, “Okay. Get yourself a drink and wait for me at an empty table. I’ll finish up this hand.”
The sheriff stood there for a moment, then turned and went to the bar.
At the bar Arnold Coleman watched the sheriff walk to the bar.
“You gonna let him get away with that?” he asked.
“You see who he’s playin’ poker with?” the sheriff asked. “The judge, and the mayor, and two members of the town council.”
“We don’t care,” Coleman said. He was the spokesman for the group. “If you’re not gonna do your job, we will.”
“All eight of you?” the sheriff asked. “Which one of you is gonna take the lead? Put a gun on the Gunsmith? Huh?”
The seven men behind Coleman looked away.
“That’s what I thought,” the lawman said. “Just stay here and let me do my job.” He looked at the bartender. “Gimme a beer, Sammy.”
The bartender set a full mug on the bar. The sheriff grabbed it and walked to an empty table.
TWO
Clint took the hand with a full house, then excused himself from the game. He walked over and sat opposite the sheriff. He still had full view of the room, especially the eight nervous men at the bar.
“Don’t want a drink?” the sheriff asked.
“I think I’d make your nervous friends even more nervous if I went to the bar,” Clint said. “What’s this all about?”
“Do you know Big Ed Kennedy?”
“Big Ed?” Clint asked. “Is he a big guy?”
“He’s a big man in this part of Wyoming,” the sheriff said. “At least, he was until this mornin’.”
“And what happened this morning?”
“Somebody killed him.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Clint said. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“Big Ed told his foreman, Arnie Coleman, that he was hiring the Gunsmith.”
“For what?”
“What else? For his gun.”
“Why did Big Ed need a gun for hire?” Clint asked.
“He’s havin’ some trouble with some other ranchers in the area.”
“A range war?” Clint asked. “There hasn’t been a range war in years.”
“These men have never stopped. You met Ed Kennedy. You know how old he is.”
“Nice try, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I never met Mr. Kennedy.”
“Well, him and the other big ranchers around here—Matt Holmes and Andy Rivers—are all in their seventies.”
“Really? Are they healthy old fellows?”
“All but Big Ed,” the sheriff said. “He’s dead.”
“And let me guess,” Clint said. “I’m supposed to have killed him? A man I never met?”
“Who says you never met him?”
“Who says I did?”
“His men.”
Clint looked over at them.
“All of them? Or one of them, and the other seven are simply agreeing?”
“Those eight men would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you. That’s eight bullets.”
“One from each?” Clint asked. “How many of them do you think I’d take with me? I’m betting at least . . . five?”
“Are you that good?”
Clint smiled.
“There was a time I would have said six, but I was young then.”
“And faster?”
“Dumber,” Clint said, “more arrogant. No, five is an honest opinion.”
“That wouldn’t accomplish anything.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Give me your gun. Walk over to the jail with me.”
“And then what?”
“Tell your story to a jury.”
“Go to trial?” Clint asked. “For something I didn’t do? Kill a man I never met.”
“They say their boss met with the Gunsmith.”
“Or a man claiming to be the Gunsmith.”
“Convince a jury of that,” Yatesman said. “We can walk back to your poker game and talk to the judge.”
“The judge doesn’t want me in your jail.”
“What makes you say that?”
Clint smiled again.
“I have most of his money.”
THREE
“Okay,” Yatesman said, “how about this? You keep your gun but take a walk over to my office with me.”
“I still don’t know why I’d do that, Sheriff.”
“Well, what do you want to do?”
“If I had my druthers? I’d go back to my poker game, finish it, have something to eat. Go back to my hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and ride out of this town come morning. End of story.”
“But it wouldn’t be the end of the story,” the lawman said. “Those men would hunt you down.”
“You think so?”
“Oh yes,” Yatesman said. “You see, Big Ed’s men loved him. So I think they’d come after you, and there would be more than eight of them. They got at least twenty men working out there. You want to take on twenty mad ranch hands?”
“I don’t want to take on anybody, Sheriff,” Clint said. “But I didn’t kill Ed Kennedy, and I never met him.”
The sheriff shook his head. He looked to be about forty-five or so, was probably a career lawman who thought he’d found himself a
soft spot here to finish out his career.
Clint wasn’t deliberately trying to be difficult. Well, maybe he was, but the fact remained he didn’t give himself much of a chance if he gave up his gun and allowed himself to be locked in a cell. If Big Ed’s men loved him the way the sheriff said they did, he’d be a dead man for sure. It was only the gun on his hip—and the sheriff—that was keeping them from coming after him.
“I need somebody smarter than me to figure this out,” the sheriff said. “How about I invite the judge over here to help?”
“The judge is smarter than you?”
Yatesman shrugged. “He’s a judge.”
“I hope he’s a better judge than he is a poker player,” Clint said. “Go ahead. Invite him.”
Clint sat back and watched the lawman walk to the poker game and speak to the judge, whose name—Clint had heard during the game—was Curtis. He didn’t know if it was a first or last name, and he’d heard it only once. The other men at the table simply called him “Judge,” just like they called the mayor “Mayor.”
The judge frowned, snapped at the sheriff, then pushed his chair back and walked over with the lawman in tow.
He was in his sixties, wearing a dark suit that made his snow-white shirt and hair stand out. He sat down opposite Clint in the seat the sheriff had vacated. The lawman sat in a third chair.
“I kinda wish you’d told me I was playing poker with the Gunsmith, Adams,” he said.
“Nobody exactly told me I was playing with a judge and a mayor,” Clint said. “I had to hear it for myself during the game. Besides, the only thing that matters during a poker game is the cards.”
The judge looked at Yatesman and said, “He’s got that right.”
“Judge, we got a problem,” the sheriff said.
“Ain’t that what we hired you for, Pete?”
“Well, Judge, I figure I’m doin’ my job right now keepin’ those eight ranch hands from shootin’ up this saloon tryin’ to get to Adams.”
The Town Council Meeting Page 1