Out of the Past

by J. R. Roberts

  “Can you tell us what you’ve been up to this morning? ” Katy asked.

  “How about over coffee?” Clint asked.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After Clint finished the story about his visit with the police, Sandy said, “I have to admit, you’ve gotten more done in one morning than me and Katy have since Annie was killed.”

  “Sandy—” Katy said, with a warning look at Little Sandy.

  “It’s all right, Aunt Katy,” the young Sandy said, “I know my mother was killed.”

  “I know you do, sweetie,” Katy said, putting her hand over Sandy’s. “I just . . . it’s hard for me to realize that you’re grown up.”

  “Grown up or not,” Clint said, “somebody has to watch out for her.” He stood up and regarded the two aunts. “You two make up your minds about who’s staying and who’s going. I’ll come back this afternoon and we’ll decide on a location.”

  “Location for what?” Little Sandy asked. “What’s he talking about? Who’s going where?”

  “Your aunts will explain it to you, Sandy,” Clint said. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Where are you off to?” Katy asked.

  “I told you I sent three telegrams,” he said. “The men I sent them to will send me replies as soon as they get them. I’m going to check on that. I need to know if I can trust one of these policemen, or both, or neither.”

  “And if it’s neither?” Sandy Spillane asked.

  “Then we’re on our own,” Clint said.

  Clint went to the telegraph office to check on his replies. He’d instructed the clerk not to send the replies to his hotel. He didn’t want the clerk reading them and sending them to Louis G. Cameron. Then again, how did he know the telegraph clerk hadn’t done that already? Well, it was a chance he’d already taken.

  “Ah, your third reply just came in, sir,” the clerk said happily. “Here they all are.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint left the telegraph office and decided to read the replies over an early beer at the Red Garter.

  When he entered, he saw that several other men had had the same idea for an early drink. They were scattered among the tables, with two at the bar.

  He went to the bar and found Roscoe there, wiping glasses with a rag.

  “Early start today, eh?” the bartender asked.

  “Just a beer, Roscoe,” Clint said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  Clint paid for the frosty mug and took it to a back table with him. He sat, sipped his beer and opened the first telegram.

  It was from Rick Hartman. It said: “Know Fortune by reputation. Supposedly a straight shooter. Do not know Abnernathy.”

  If Rick didn’t know Abernathy, who would?

  The second telegram was from Talbot Roper: “Abernathy? From New Orleans? Beware. Good detective, but a loose cannon. Might be good fit for you. Fortune? Straight when he wants to be.”

  The third was from Duke Farrell. It was brief: “Fortune can’t be bought.”

  He sat back with his beer and wondered if he had learned anything he could use. None of the telegrams had been glowing in praise, nor particularly damning. It was useful to know that Fortune could not be bought, because that would be Cameron’s stock-in-trade, buying people.

  Clint knew there were six men in the saloon when he entered, and he had categorized them all before he even sat down. He wrote five of them off as no danger, but the sixth was a young man standing at the bar, nursing a beer and constantly wiping his palms dry on his pants. He was nervous and not without reason. He considered getting up and leaving, but thought that might push the boy into action. Maybe if he left the kid alone, he’d end up talking himself out of it.

  He folded the three telegrams and put them in his pocket. Both men—Fortune and Abernathy—had earned themselves recommendations and warnings. That meant Clint was going to have to make his own decision about each of them.

  The young man finally made his decision. He pushed away from the bar, wiped his gun hand off one more time on his thigh and then marched over to Clint’s table.

  “You Clint Adams?”

  Clint looked up at him. Not shaving yet, but probably twenty-three. Another Billy the Kid wannabe.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name’s Bravo, Joe Bravo.”

  Clint shrugged and shook his head.

  “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “It will.”

  “That so?”

  “When I kill you.”

  Clint chuckled.

  “Kid, if you manage to kill me your name’s not going to mean a thing to me.”

  Roscoe and the other men became aware of what was going on. They all stopped to watch.

  “You got yourself an audience, kid,” Clint said. “You sure you want them to see this?”

  “All they’re gonna see is me kill the Gunsmith,” Bravo said.

  “That so?”

  “It is.”

  “You confident?”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t think you are,” Clint said. “You keep wiping your hand on your thigh. I think if you drew your gun now it would slip right out of your sweaty hand. Why don’t you go back to the bar, have another beer on me and think about it?”

  Bravo wavered for a moment, then licked his lips and said, “I can’t. I been waitin’ for this for a long time.”

  “A long time? Kid, you haven’t been alive for a long time.”

  “You gonna keep talkin’?” Bravo demanded. “I’ll kill you where ya sit if you don’t get up.”

  “You’re going to have to do that, then,” Clint said, “because I’m not standing up. Not for you.”

  Bravo frowned, unsure of what to do next.

  “Whataya mean?”

  “I mean I would stand up for a man who’s earned my respect,” Clint said. “You haven’t done that.”

  “You know,” Bravo snapped, “I was told I could bushwhack you but I wanted to give you the respect of facin’ ya.”

  Clint frowned.

  “Bushwhack me? Son, somebody put you up to this?” Clint asked.

  Bravo backed off, seemed to realize he’d said too much.

  “I don’t need nobody to put me up to this,” he said. “I told you I been waitin’ for this. Now stand up or I’ll plug ya where ya sit!”

  “Roscoe, you know this kid?”

  “He’s been around here a while,” Roscoe said, leaning on the bar.

  “Is he serious?”

  “He is.”

  “Then I’m going to have to kill him.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Stop talkin’ about me like I’m not here!”

  “Last time, kid,” Clint said. “Take a walk.”

  “I’m not leavin’.”

  “Then do something.”

  Clint sat there, slouched, seemingly relaxed, staring up at the younger man.

  “Damn you!” Bravo shouted, and went for his gun. As he did so, Clint kicked the chair opposite him into Bravo, knocking him of balance. Clint came out of his chair, closed the distance between the two of them and snatched the gun from Bravo’s hand. Then he pushed the young man, sending him spinning and sprawling into the center of the room.

  Clint closed on him again, got down on one knee and asked, “Tell me who put you up to this?”

  “Whataya doin’?”

  “Keeping you alive,” Clint said, then pointed the young man’s own gun at him, cocked the hammer and added, “Maybe.”

  Bravo stared down the barrel of his own gun and asked, “W-whataya wanna know?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When Clint got back to his hotel, Lieutenant Abernathy was waiting in the lobby.

  “Waiting long?” Clint asked.

  “Long enough,” the man said. “We need to talk, away from the police station.”

  “And away from here,” Clint said, sliding a glance toward the clerk, hoping that Abernathy understood.

  “I know a place,”
the policeman said. “Come with me.”

  They left the hotel.

  “You know a kid named Joe Bravo?” Clint asked as they walked.

  “Would-be gunman,” Abernathy said. “Hasn’t killed anybody yet, as far as I know, but he’s supposed to be pretty good with his gun.”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  “When?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “I took his gun away from him and kicked him out of town.”

  “Was he just trying to make a name for himself?”

  “He says he was hired by Louis Cameron.”

  Abernathy stopped.

  “What?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And you let him leave town?”

  “I don’t want Cameron for hiring some kid to kill me. I want him for Anne Archer’s murder.”

  They started walking again.

  “Well, you must be worrying him.”

  “Not if he sent a kid like Joe Bravo,” Clint said. “I think maybe he just wanted to see what I would do.”

  “You’re thinking he sent the kid because who’d believe him when he said he was hired?”

  “Right. Why would someone with Cameron’s money and influence hire a child? If and when he wants me dead, he’ll hire somebody who can do the job.”

  “Is there somebody?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That can do the job?” Lieutenant Abernathy asked. “Kill you?”

  “Anybody can shoot a bullet in my back,” Clint said. “Are you asking me if there’s someone out there who can outdraw me? Kill me in a fair fight?”

  “Yes,” the man said, “that’s what I’m asking.”

  “I’m sure there is,” Clint said. “Thankfully, I’ve never met him, and I hope I don’t anytime soon.”

  Walters entered his boss’s office quietly. It wasn’t so he wouldn’t disturb him at work. It was so he wouldn’t wake him. The old man had dozed off in his chair.

  He approached the desk slowly, realizing that he could put a bullet in the old man’s head right then and there.

  Olivia would get half of his money—with the other half going to Billy—and he, Walters, would get Olivia.

  Even if he’d had a gun, though, he couldn’t have done it. He wasn’t a killer. He’d told that to Olivia more than once.

  Abruptly, the old man opened his eyes, and Walters wondered if he was playing possum.

  “What is it, Walters? Is Bravo dead?”

  “No, sir, but neither is Adams,” Walters said. “I got word that Adams disarmed the boy and sent him scampering out of town.”

  “Did he tell Adams I hired him?”

  “Right in the middle of the Red Garter.”

  “How many people heard?”

  “Not many,” Walters said. “It was mostly empty at the time.”

  “No one would believe him, anyway,” Cameron said. “So, Adams is not the trigger-happy killer his reputation makes him out to be.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Good,” the old man said. “Then maybe he’s not as good as everybody says he is.”

  “Maybe Denver Cole will find that out for you, sir,” Walters said.

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “Yes, sir, he’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. Have you seen Billy today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What the hell is that boy up to?” the old man wondered aloud.

  “He’s still pretty upset.”

  “About the Archer woman?” Cameron waved that off. “He’ll get over it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Walters, that’s all.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just locate my son and tell him I want to see him— today!”

  “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

  “And Walters.”

  “Sir?”

  “Have you seen Mrs. Cameron today?”

  “I haven’t,” Walters lied. “No, sir.” ’

  Cameron smiled and said, “That’s all.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Abernathy took Clint to a small saloon about two blocks off the main street where he didn’t think anyone would see them together.

  “And if they do,” he explained, “I’ll just say I was questioning you.”

  They got a beer each from the silent bartender and took them to a back table.

  “I understand you usually sit with your back to the wall,” the policeman said.

  “It’s preferable,” Clint said, “except when I’m with someone I trust to watch my back.”

  Clint took the chair against the wall.

  “If Louis Cameron sent Joe Bravo to kill you,” Abernathy said, “or to test you, then it seems fairly certain that he had your friend killed.”

  “Or maybe his son killed her and he’s covering for him.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Abernathy said, “but by all accounts I’ve heard, Billy was in love with Miss Archer.”

  “And did his wife know that?”

  “If I heard it, I’m sure she heard it, too.”

  “Then she could’ve had Anne killed.”

  Abernathy spread his hands.

  “You see? All my suspects come from that family, but they are untouchable.”

  “By whose order?”

  “By the mere fact that they are the Cameron family,” the lieutenant said. “Louis Cameron is the most powerful man in the state, Mr. Adams. As much as I, or my chief, would like to solve this case, there are people who won’t allow it.”

  “Legally.”

  “Yes,” Abernathy agreed, “legally.”

  “And that’s why you’re here with me,” Clint said. “Because I can do things you can’t.”

  “Mr. Adams,” Abernathy said, “Cameron is a rich and powerful man, but in your own way you are Old West royalty. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  Abernathy told him anyway.

  “The stories of the Gunsmith, of Billy the Kid, of Jesse James—”

  “You’re lumping me in with a bunch of dead men,” Clint pointed out.

  “Very well then—Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Bill Tilghman—you have all been immortalized in dime novels written by Ned Buntline and his kind.”

  “That makes us legends back East,” Clint said, “where people know nothing of what it takes to live out here. Where they all believe what they read.”

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss your standing here in the West, Mr. Adams,” the man said. “Even out here you are held in high regard.”

  “Yeah, so high that every punk with a gun wants to take a shot at immortality.”

  “But we are discussing what you may be able to do here in Kansas City,” Abernathy said, “perhaps making use of your reputation.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Clint said, “is that Louis Cameron and Clint Adams are above the law.”

  “That is not something I would ever say too loud,” Abernathy said, “but in this instance I’m afraid it might apply.”

  “So are you saying that if I find out that Cameron had Anne killed, and I kill him . . . I’ll get away with it?”

  Abernathy regarded Clint above the rim of his beer mug and said, “I would never say that . . . very loud.”

  Billy Cameron lifted his head from the table and stared up at Franklin Walters.

  “Hello, Wally.”

  He was the only person who called Walters “Wally.” “Billy, your father wants to see you,” Walters said. “We have to get you clean and sober.”

  “Wally, Wally, Wally,” Cameron said, “my buddy.”

  He tried to put his head back down in the puddle of beer he’d been sleeping in, but Walters stopped him. With his hand wrapped in a white handkerchief he grabbed Billy by the elbow and pulled.

  “Up, Billy,” he said. “Come on, I’m going to take you home and you’re going to sober u
p.”

  “Why?” Billy asked, staring at Walters myopically. “I’m just gon’ get drunk again.”

  “You’re free to do that,” Walters said, “after you talk to your father.”

  “Aw, what’s he want?” Billy demanded as Walters steered him to the door of the little saloon.

  “I don’t know,” Walters said. “I suppose when you get there you’ll have to ask him.”

  Outside, Cameron asked, “Why you doin’ this, Wally? ’Cuz you like me?”

  “Because it’s my job, Billy,” Walters said. “Because it’s my job.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Clint and Abernathy left the small side street saloon and stopped right outside.

  “Chief Fortune send you to me, Lieutenant?” Clint asked.

  “The chief does not know I am talking to you,” Abernathy said.

  “When you said today that they put you in that closet office to try to get you to quit, were you talking about him?”

  “I was just talking,” Abernathy said. “Complaining. Don’t all civil servants complain about their jobs, their salaries?”

  “All the ones I’ve known have.”

  “Well, there you go . . .”

  “Do you still want me to come to you with what I find out?” Clint asked. “Or shall I just . . . act on it?”

  “I am conducting an active investigation, Mr. Adams,” Abernathy said officially. “I expect you to come to me with anything that you find out.”

  “Fair enough,” Clint said.

  When Franklin Walters walked Billy Cameron into his father’s office, he was far from sober. Walters guided Billy to a chair and into it, then looked at his boss.

  “That’s fine, Walters,” Cameron said, waving. “You can go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Walters closed the door, the old man stared at his son in disgust.

  “What are you doing to yourself, Billy?”

  He was wearing fresh clothing and had washed up, but there was still whiskey leaking from his pores.

  “Whataya think, Pop?”

  “You’re trying to kill yourself?” Cameron asked.

  “Over that woman? Is that it?”

  “You made me marry Lorna, pop,” Billy Cameron said. “I never loved her.”

  “I know that, and so does she,” Cameron said. “It made good sense, is all. But that . . . woman?”