He had already composed both telegrams the night before, so he quickly wrote them out and gave them to the clerk. One went to Rick Hartman in Labyrinth, Texas, and the other went to Talbot Roper in Denver. Hartman and Roper were two of the smartest men he knew with the most connections, and they were two of his best friends. If anyone would have information about Joe Bags, or Ben Randolph, it would be one of them.
He told the clerk to just hold the replies for him, that he’d be checking in every hour.
He went back to walking through the town, just to get a feel of it. He turned off the main street to explore some of the side streets, and in doing so stumbled upon a shingle that said GORDON WESTIN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. He decided to go inside.
He opened the door and stepped in, found himself in an empty outer office that was meant for either a secretary or a receptionist. There was another closed door that said PRIVATE. He figured that was Westin’s office. He was trying to decide whether to leave or knock when he heard some sounds from inside. It sounded like furniture was breaking, and then he heard a man grunt.
He rushed to the door and opened it. Inside Westin was lying on top of his desk, the legs of which had collapsed on one side. Standing around him were three men, who stopped pounding on him long enough to turn and look at Clint. They were all big, wearing trail clothes and guns, but none of them went for their iron.
“You better get out of here, cowboy,” one said to him, pointing at him. “If you know what’s good for you.”
“You fellas need a lawyer that bad that you’ve got to beat one up to get him to take your case?”
“Mr. Adams,” Westin gasped, “help—oof!” He was cut off when one of the men punched him in the stomach.
“Now, take it easy there,” Clint said, taking a few steps forward.
The spokesman turned and asked him, “Are you still here?”
Clint hit him in the jaw with a right, sending him staggering back. He tripped over the damaged desk and fell over. The other two men jumped back to avoid him, then looked at Clint.
“What the hell—” one of them said.
The other one charged him. Clint sidestepped, tripped him, and as the man went by, hit him behind the ear with a right. The attacker went down onto his face.
He turned to face the third man, who this time did go for his gun.
Clint drew. It was all he could do not to fire, though, as he rarely drew without pulling the trigger. It just didn’t seem necessary this time.
“I wouldn’t.”
The third man stopped and stared, not believing what he’d just seen. The gun seemed to appear in Clint’s hand, as if by magic.
“Damn!”
“Pick up your two friends and get out.”
“Y-Yessir.”
He turned to the first man, who was getting to his feet on his own. He shoved away his partner’s helping hand.
“Get away from me!” he growled. “You don’t know what you’re doin’, mister.” Once again he pointed at Clint.
“Right now,” Clint said, “I’m not killing any of the three of you. But that could change. Your call.”
The spokesman looked at Clint’s gun, then his body lost some of its tension.
“Now pick up your other friend and get out,” Clint said.
The two men walked over to the third man and helped him to his feet.
“Hold it!” Clint said.
The two turned and looked at him. The third man was still dizzy, held suspended between them.
“You fellas work for Ben Randolph?”
“Who?” one of them said, looking puzzled.
Clint believed him.
“Never mind,” he said. “Get out!”
They left, dragging their friend with them.
EIGHT
Clint closed the door behind them, holstered his gun, and turned to Westin, who was still lying on the broken desk.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Ooooh . . .”
Clint walked to him and helped him to his feet. He had a bloody lip and a welt above one eye.
“What happened?” Clint asked. “Who were those guys?”
“You saved me,” Westin said. “They were gonna kill me!”
“I don’t think so,” Clint said. “I think they were just going to give you a beating.”
Westin tried to straighten his tie.
“They did beat me up!” he said.
“No, I think they were going to give you a worse beating,” Clint said. “If they wanted to kill you, they would have had their guns out.”
“Well,” Westin said, “maybe . . .”
“What was that about?” Clint asked. “They don’t work for Randolph.”
“No, I don’t think so . . .”
“I know so,” Clint said. “Who do they work for?”
“I don’t know,” Westin said. He looked around his office, which was a shambles. It looked as if they had slammed him from one end to the other before depositing him on his desk.
“What happened?”
“They came bursting in, and before I could even stand up, they dragged me out of my chair and threw me across the room. Then they grabbed me and threw me the other way. Finally, they picked me up and slammed me down on the desk and started punching me. That’s when you came in.”
He leaned over and studied his desk, which was not made of expensive wood.
“Damn, I’m gonna need a new desk,” he said.
“A good carpenter will be able to fix that for you,” Clint said. “So you don’t know who they were?”
“No.”
“Didn’t recognize any of them?”
“No.”
“And they didn’t say what they wanted?”
“I told you,” Westin said. “They just came in and started to beat on me.”
“Without a word.”
“Without a word,” the lawyer said, nodding. “Anyway, thanks to you, it wasn’t worse. What are you doing here?”
“I was just walking around and I saw your shingle. I thought I’d take a look and see what your office was like.”
“It isn’t much,” Westin said.
“You must get paid enough from Powell to have a better place.”
“Mr. Powell says it’s not the office, but the man, that counts.”
Westin suddenly swayed and Clint caught him and helped him to a chair.
“You want to go and see a doctor?” he asked.
“No, no, I’m fine,” Westin said. “I just have a headache . . . and a stomachache.”
“Do you keep a gun here?”
“I have one,” Westin said. “It’s in the bottom drawer, but I didn’t have a chance to grab it. And I’m not much good with one anyway.”
“Well, I’d advise you to start keeping it in your top drawer,” Clint said, “that is, whenever you get your desk fixed.”
Westin grinned wryly—a good sign—and said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
NINE
Clint left the lawyer’s office and walked back to the telegraph office.
“Got one answer for you, Mr. Adams,” the clerk said as he entered. “Came in almost as soon as I sent it.”
Clint assumed that it would be from Rick Hartman, and he was right. The key operator on the other side had probably run it right over to Rick’s Saloon.
“Thanks,” Clint said, accepting the telegram.
“Nothin’ on that other one yet.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll check back.”
Clint stepped outside, then unfolded the telegram, and read. Aside from all the STOPs, it said that nothing had been heard about Joe Bags in a few years, either wearing a badge or selling his gun. Rick was sorry he couldn’t be more help.
Clint folded it up and stuck it in his pocket, thinking that he, too, was sorry his friend couldn’t be more help.
While waiting for the second telegram, Clint decided to go and see the local lawman. He went back into the office and asked the key operat
or where to find him.
“That’d be Sheriff Doby,” the man said, and gave him directions.
Clint had to walk only three blocks to arrive at the sheriff’s office. Doby turned out to be a big-bellied man who still wore his badge proudly after many years of upholding the law in towns across the West. He had two young deputies, who were in awe when Clint introduced himself. The sheriff sent them out to do their rounds while he talked to the Gunsmith.
“Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I talked with Andrew Powell last night,” Clint replied, “as well as his lawyer.”
“You gonna be working for Mr. Powell?” Sheriff Doby asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Clint said. “They told me they had some trouble at the house, and five men were killed, including a friend of mine.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
“Do you know for sure the names of the dead men?” Clint asked.
“I know what Mr. Westin and Mr. Powell told me,” Doby said. He opened his top drawer and took out a sheet of paper, read off the five names Clint had already been given, including Joe Bags.
“That them?” he asked.
“Those are the names I was given also,” Clint said.
“Which one was your friend?” Doby asked, putting the paper back in his drawer.
“Joe Bags.”
Doby nodded, said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Well, I’d like to make sure there was a loss,” Clint said.
“How do you mean?”
“I need to confirm that Bags was actually killed,” Clint said. “I need to identify him.”
“Well . . . he’s already been buried, along with the others,” Doby explained.
“I know that,” Clint said. “Can you tell me what hotel he stayed in? Or where his possessions are?”
“Well, he and his friends stayed in the Beaufort Hotel, and I think his things are still with the undertaker.”
Clint knew it was very likely the undertaker had already sold off some of Bags’s possessions—his gun, his saddle. He hoped he’d be able to control his temper when he talked to the man.
“Well, I need to see something that confirms his death for me before I act,” Clint said.
“Uh, and by act, what exactly do you mean?” the sheriff asked.
“What do you know about Ben Randolph?”
“I don’t know anythin’ about him,” Doby said. “Who is he?”
“Apparently he’s the man who killed Bags and his men,” Clint said.
“Nobody told me that.”
“What did Powell tell you?”
“Just that a group of men broke into his home and left the bodies there.”
“And he said he didn’t know why?”
“That’s what he said.”
“And you believed him?”
“Well, no . . . but what can I do about it if he doesn’t want to tell me?”
“Did you talk to Mrs. Powell?” Clint asked. “I heard she was there.”
“I didn’t hear that either,” the sheriff said. “No, I never spoke to her.”
Clint frowned. What the hell was going on? Why hadn’t Powell told the law the things he’d told Clint?
“So then you haven’t acted on these murders?”
Doby shrugged. “I’ve done what I can with the information I was given,” he said. “Look, Adams, I do my job—”
“Yes, yes,” Clint said, “I’m sure you do, Sheriff. “It’s not your fault if you don’t have all the facts.”
“Exactly.”
Clint stood up.
“Well then, let me see if I can do something about getting you all the facts.”
“What are you gonna do?” Doby asked as Clint headed for the door.
Clint stopped with his hand on the doorknob and faced the lawman.
“I guess I’m just going to have to launch a little investigation of my own.”
TEN
Clint left the sheriff’s office, not happy with what he had found out. For some reason Powell was keeping information from the law—information he was willing to give to Clint.
The sheriff had given him directions to both the hotel and the undertaker’s office. The undertaker was closer, so he stopped there first.
The man’s name was Sessions, and he had a sign in his window that proclaimed he had been in business forty years. He looked so old, though, that Clint wondered what he had done for his first thirty years.
“The sheriff told me you have the dead men’s possessions, Mr. Sessions.”
“Well . . . I did . . . I mean, I do, but . . .” the undertaker stammered.
Clint had introduced himself, and the undertaker had recognized his name. That was obviously why the man was so nervous.
“Look, Sessions, relax,” Clint said. “I know you probably sold a lot of the things, but I’m only interested in one man. His name was Joe Bags. Do you have anything of his left?”
“Well . . . I sold his horse and saddle, but I still have his saddlebags and what was in them.”
“Good. Do you still have his gun?”
“I do,” the man said. “The gun belt and gun are both pretty worn, but—”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Let me see what you have.”
“Yessir.”
He led Clint to a back room that was filled with the possessions of many dead men and women who had passed through the undertaker’s hands. Clint wondered if the cluttered room was filled with items from every one of the last forty years.
“Jesus,” Clint said.
“Some stuff just ain’t worth sellin’,” Sessions said. “I just ain’t got around to throwin’ it out yet.”
“Where’s the stuff that belonged to Bags?”
“Wait.”
Sessions moved in among the mess, touched a few saddlebags, then lifted one set and turned to Clint.
“This is them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Clint pointed a finger at him.
“Don’t think you can put one over on me, old man,” Clint said. “This better be his.”
“It is. And so are these.”
The old man turned, picked up a gun belt, and handed it to Clint. He could see what the man meant. The leather of the belt was cracked and old. The gun butt was shiny from years of wear.
“Um . . .” Sessions said.
Clint looked at him. The old man raised an eyebrow.
“You want me to pay you for this stuff?”
“Well . . . I do have to make back my investment,” the man said. “I mean, five coffins—”
“I’ll give you two dollars.”
“Sold!”
Clint took the belt and gun and the saddlebags back to his room, where he could look everything over at his leisure.
He thought he recognized the gun as belonging to Joe Bags, but he couldn’t be sure. He had an amazing memory for guns, but he had seen a lot of them over the years. He couldn’t depend on that memory alone. He set the gun and belt aside.
He dug into the saddlebags. An extra shirt, another gun even more worn than the first and badly in need of cleaning, a coffeepot, a small sack of coffee, some beef jerky—he was surprised the undertaker hadn’t taken the coffee and jerky—and some letters, tied together by some twine.
The letters cinched it. They were addressed to Joe Bags at a variety of different general delivery addresses in various cities or towns. The last letter had been sent to and picked up from the Phoenix Post Office. He’d read them all later, see if they had been sent by a family member. Then he’d have to notify them.
The presence of these letters in the saddlebags was not a hundred percent confirmation that the dead man was Joe Bags, but Clint figured it was about as close as he was going to get.
He packed the saddlebags back up and stuck them in a corner with the gun and gun belt. Then he left the room to return to the telegraph office to see if there was a reply from
Talbot Roper.
There was.
Roper said he heard that Joe Bags hadn’t been a lawman for a long time, and had taken to selling his gun. Also, he’d hooked up with some unsavory types. Unsavory. That was a word Roper used quite often. He usually directed it toward people he didn’t like.
“Is that all ya need, Mr. Adams?” the key operator asked.
Clint had read the telegram right there in the office when the clerk gave it to him.
“Yes, that’s all,” Clint said. “Thanks.” He turned to leave.
“That feller Bags? Mentioned in both telegrams?” the clerk said.
Clint turned back to face the man.
“You know him?”
“Not really,” the clerk said, “but he was in here once to send a telegram.”
“When?”
“A few days before he died.”
“Who did he send it to?” Clint asked. “And where was it sent?”
The clerk hesitated. “I ain’t supposed to say.”
“If you weren’t going to say, you wouldn’t have brought it up, would you?”
The clerk looked sheepish. “No, sir.”
“Then who?”
“A feller named Smith,” the clerk said. “Harcourt Smith.”
“You still got a copy?”
The clerk nodded. He opened a draw, brought out a copy, and handed it to Clint. It was a request for Harcourt Smith to come join Bags for a job.
“Did he ever get a reply?”
“No.”
Clint handed the copy back.
“You know this feller Smith?” the clerk asked.
“I do,” Clint said.
“What kinda feller is he?”
Clint thought for only a second, then said, “Unsavory.”
ELEVEN
Clint left the telegraph office and stopped just outside. If Joe Bags had had Harcourt Smith with him, he might still be alive. The man may have been unsavory, but he was damned good with a gun.
Clint still had the hotel to check, where Bags had supposedly registered, but the clerk had given him the telegram to Smith signed by Bags. There was no longer any doubt that Joe Bags had been one of the five men killed.
Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270) Page 3