A door opened and a man stepped in from another room.
“Murphy, what the hell are you bellowin’ about?” the man asked.
He was tall, but slightly stooped, looked to be in his seventies.
“Doc, there here’s Clint Adams.”
Simon gave Clint an appraising look.
“You don’t look shot.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what does the Gunsmith need with a sawbones?”
“He found a baby,” Murphy said.
“What?”
“A baby,” Clint said. “A little boy. I found him wandering around out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, where is he?”
Clint hesitated.
“He took him to Maddy’s,” Murphy said.
The doctor’s bushy white eyebrows went up.
“You find a toddler wandering around in the middle of nowhere,” he said, “and you bring him to town and give him to a bunch of whores instead of bringin’ him to the doctor?”
“I thought—”
“It was my idea, Doc,” Murphy said. “I thought them gals might know something.”
“Like how to take care of a baby?” Simon asked. “They’re a bunch of whores, Tom.”
“They’re women,” Clint said, “and they’re taking good care of him.”
“Okay,” Doc Simon said, “then what do you want with me?”
“I was wondering if you know of anybody who was missing a baby,” Clint said.
“A toddler, right?” Simon asked.
“I . . . I guess,” Clint said.
“Well, he was walking, right?”
“Stumbling, was more like it.”
“Then he’s a toddler,” Simon said. “I don’t know of anybody who’s missing a toddler.”
“Do you know anybody who lives west of town who has a little boy?” Clint asked.
“West of town . . . no,” Simons said. “The Wellmans, over at the Bar-W, they got some kids, but they’re east of town and they don’t have any kids under five.”
“Well,” Murphy said to Clint, “it was worth a try.”
“I’ll just have to ride out tomorrow and see what I can find,” Clint said. “Thanks, Doc.”
“If I was you,” Simon said, “I’d bring that kid to see me so I can examine him.”
“I’ll do that, Doc,” Clint said. “I should have thought of that myself.”
“Yeah,” Doc Simon said, “you should’ve. And come during office hours.”
“I’ll make sure I do,” Clint said.
He and Sheriff Murphy left the office.
“Pleasant man,” Clint said, outside.
“Lousy bedside manner,” Murphy said, “but he’s a helluva doctor.”
“I guess that’s what counts,” Clint said.
SEVEN
Clint woke the next morning, armed with Tom Murphy’s suggestions about where to eat. When Clint told him his breakfast of choice was steak and eggs, Murphy directed him to a café about three blocks from the hotel. If Clint had come out of the hotel the night before and turned left instead of right, he might have found it on his own.
He settled into a table among many of the townspeople, still managing to stay away from the windows. There were men sitting alone, and in pairs, couples with and without children. He saw no women sitting alone, or together with other women.
He attracted attention as he entered, but when he was seated, people went back to their own conversations. While he listened, he heard many of them talking about the upcoming election.
From what he could hear, not many of the diners were in favor of the current mayor repeating his term, but it also seemed that no one was willing to vote against him—if, indeed, anyone even ran against him.
When Clint’s breakfast came, he decided to stop listening to conversations at the other tables and pay attention to his steak, which appeared to be cooked perfectly.
It was not only the steak, but the eggs and biscuits were also cooked to perfection. Clint thought that if the place Murphy suggested for dinner was as good as this, he was in for a treat.
After breakfast he walked to the livery stable where he had left Eclipse the night before.
“You takin’ him out already?” the hostler said, disappointed.
“Just for a while,” Clint said. “I’ll be bringing him back later today.”
“Oh, okay,” the old man said. “I ain’t never had an animal like this in my place before. I don’t wanna give him up so soon.”
“I understand.”
“Want me to saddle ’im for you?”
“I’ll saddle him myself,” Clint said. “If you try, you might lose a finger.”
The man showed Clint his left hand, which was missing a finger and a half, and said, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’ll do it anyway,” Clint said.
“Okay, mister,” the hostler said, “as long as ya bring him back.”
“I promise.”
Clint mounted up and rode out of town, back the way he had ridden in.
* * *
He spent the better part of the afternoon riding in circles, stopping at houses and ranches, asking if anyone was missing a child. He couldn’t imagine anyone would deny it, so he believed all the no’s he was getting. Apparently, no one in the area was missing a little boy.
He was just about ready to return to town—his stomach was growling loud enough to spook Eclipse—when he saw something in the distance. It wasn’t a house, but something that looked like it was sticking up from the ground. It was over a rise, and when he topped it, he saw that it wasn’t in the ground, just strewn about. It looked like a wagon—a buckboard, not a Conestoga—but it was in pieces, lying on its side. There were no horses anywhere. They had either been run off, or had simply gone off on their own.
He rode up to the wreckage, rode around it for a few moments before dismounting. There were personal belongings spread out around it, clothing, a couple of pieces of furniture, open and emptied suitcases.
Walking around, he didn’t see any bodies, but he knew they’d be there. He could see the drag marks. He followed them to a pile of dirt, a hastily put together grave. He dug into it just enough to find a man’s hand and a woman’s foot. Two bodies, maybe more.
He went back to the wagon, looked around at the remnants of the dead people’s lives with a new eye. He saw what he was looking for.
Baby clothes.
This was where the baby had come from.
No doubt the parents were in the grave. Whoever had killed them had simply left the baby alone, and he had wandered away, to be found by Clint.
Now he had to get back to town and come back with the sheriff, and transportation for the dead parents.
The child was now an orphan.
EIGHT
Clint entered the sheriff’s office. The man looked up from his desk.
“You look like you’ve been riding awhile.”
“All day.”
“Find anything?”
Clint nodded. “I’m afraid I did,” he said. “Two bodies—maybe more—in a hastily dug grave.”
“Damn it!” Murphy said. “The kid’s parents?”
“Looks like it,” Clint said. “Their wagon was ransacked, and there’s kid’s clothes around.”
“All right.” The sheriff stood up. “I’ll get some men and a buckboard, and then you can show us where they are.”
“All right.”
“If we hurry,” the lawman said, grabbing his gun belt, “we can get back before dark.”
“It’s not far,” Clint said. “Maybe a couple of miles. I’m figuring the kid walked about a mile.”
“That’s a pretty long way for a kid to walk barefoot,” Murphy said as they left the of
fice.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Clint said. “Pretty special kid.”
* * *
While the sheriff was gathering his men and picking up a buckboard, Clint went to Maddy’s to tell Lily what was happening.
A red-haired girl showed Clint into Lily’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, holding the baby, who seemed clean, well diapered, and very happy.
“Well,” she said, “I was starting to think you left town.”
“I did,” he said, “this morning.”
“But you came back.”
“I did.”
He walked to the desk, reached out, and allowed the baby to grasp the index finger of his left hand. The boy had a good grip.
“What did you find?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“You found the parents?”
“Yes.”
“Dead.”
He nodded.
“Are you sure it’s them?”
“No,” he said. “But I found a man and a woman dead, and their belongings were scattered about, including baby clothes.”
She leaned forward and kissed the child on the head.
“Poor boy,” she said.
“Can he stay here a little longer?” Clint asked. “I have to ride out with the sheriff to recover the bodies.”
“He can stay as long as he has to,” she said. “There’s always one of the girls available to look after him.”
“I’ll probably come back tomorrow to take him to see the doctor,” he told her.
“He seems fine,” she said, “but that’s probably a good idea.”
He stroked the boy’s hair, then said, “I guess I’d better go, Lily.”
He started for the door, then turned back.
“I thought he had darker hair,” he said.
“It was the dirt,” she told him. “Now that it’s washed, you can see that he’s blond.”
“Yes.”
“Let me know what happens,” she said.
“I will.”
* * *
He met the sheriff, and two men with a buckboard, in front of the lawman’s office.
“How’s the kid?” Murphy asked.
“Seems okay,” Clint said.
“I’d be okay, too, if I had a buncha whores lookin’ after me,” the first man said, laughing.
“The boy’s parents may be dead,” Clint said. “Slaughtered. You find that funny, too?”
“No, sir,” the man said.
“Then shut up,” Murphy said. “Don’t even talk during the ride out there.”
The man sulked.
“Okay,” Murphy said to Clint, “you might as well take the lead.”
“Right.”
* * *
Clint led them directly to the sight of the burial. The two men jumped down from the buckboard, retrieved shovels from the back, and began to dig.
“When you get them dug up, lay them out on the bed of the buckboard,” Murphy told them.
“What are you gonna do, Sheriff?” the second man asked.
“Mr. Adams and me are gonna have a look around, see what we can recover of their belongings. Something’s got to tell us who they are.”
Clint and Murphy walked back to the overturned buckboard and started there. They picked up pieces of the dead people’s lives, set them on the back of the other buckboard. Eventually, there were three bodies in that buckboard with all the belongings.
“Another child,” Murphy said, shaking his head. “Looks like a teenage girl, maybe younger. Twelve?”
“Probably,” Clint said.
Clint leaned over to examine the bodies.
“All shot.”
“Why leave the boy?” Murphy wondered. “Why kill the parents and the sister, and leave the boy?”
“Because he can’t say what he saw,” Clint said. “He can’t talk. Besides, they probably thought he’d die out here. Either an animal would get him because he was helpless, or he’d just . . . die.”
“That’s it,” the men said, returning to the buckboard with the shovels. “No more bodies.”
“All right,” Murphy said. “Wait for us on the buckboard.”
They nodded, put the shovels on the bed with the bodies and property, and climbed up onto the seat.
“I’m going to take another walk around, look at the ground.”
“Tracks?”
“Yes. Might give us some idea of how many killers there were,” Clint said.
“I’ll wait here,” Murphy said. “I’m no tracker, and I’ve already trampled all over the tracks.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Murphy nodded.
Clint walked around, picked out the tracks of the horses he thought had been ridden, and hadn’t been made by the team. Then he returned to the buckboard.
“How many?”
“Half a dozen, maybe more,” Clint said.
“Bastards! Any identifying marks?”
“One set of tracks looks like it has a chip on the left forefoot,” Clint said. “Should help us identify tracks, if they don’t change the shoe.”
“Well,” Murphy said, “I guess we got what we came for. It’s gettin’ dark. Let’s head back.”
Clint nodded, and they mounted up.
NINE
It was dark when they reached town. Murphy had to bother Doc Simon again after business hours, as well as the undertaker.
“Take them to Albert’s,” the doctor said, using the undertaker’s first name. “I’ll examine them there.”
“Right,” Murphy said.
All four men piled back into the buckboard and went to the undertaker’s. The two hired hands carried the bodies inside.
“What about the property?” the first man, Evans, asked.
“Take it over to my office,” Murphy said, jumping off the wagon. “All of it. We’ll look it over there.”
He and the other man, Vincent, got back on the buckboard and drove it over to the sheriff’s office.
Inside, the undertaker, Albert Frost, was looking at the bodies, laid out on three tables in his back room.
“What do you want me to do, Sheriff?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for Doc Simon, Albert,” Murphy said. “We’ll let him have a look first, then we’ll decide what you’re gonna do. Okay?”
“Okay with me, Sheriff,” Frost said.
At that moment the doctor entered, carrying his black bag.
“All right,” he said, “everybody out.”
“How long, Doc?” Murphy asked.
“I don’t know, Sheriff,” Simon said. “Don’t you have something else to do?”
“Yeah,” Murphy said, “actually we do.” He looked at Clint. “Want to go look at their belongings?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“And we can get something to eat,” the sheriff said as they left. “I’ll take you to that place I told you about . . .”
* * *
They decided to eat first, so Murphy led the way to the restaurant he promised Clint had the best steak in town. There was no name over the door, but Murphy said everybody called it Kate’s.
“Is the Kate the owner?”
“No.”
“The cook?”
“No.”
“Then why’s it called Kate’s?”
“Nobody knows.”
They got a table in the back. Clint assumed it was Murphy’s regular table, as the other diners greeted him as they walked across the floor.
After they were seated, Clint said, “That reminds me of something else.”
“What’s that?”
“If the whorehouse is run by Lily, why did you call it Maddy’s?”
“Force of habit,”
Murphy said. “Used to be run by a woman named Madelyn. Lily was one of her girls. When Maddy died, she left it to Lily.”
“Well,” Clint said, “at least that makes sense.”
They each ordered a steak dinner, and Clint realized the sheriff was right. The steak was excellent, probably the best in town. Not the best he’d ever had, but very good.
They indulged in small talk while they ate, nothing important until Clint asked about the election.
“What about it?”
“Why bother if nobody’s running against the incumbent?”
“The mayor insists on it,” the sheriff said. “He says it’s got to be a fair and honest election.”
“And is it?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Clint said. “I’m just making conversation.”
“Well, don’t,” the sheriff said, looking around. “It ain’t healthy.”
“Okay, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Whatever you say.”
They finished their dinner in silence, didn’t have dessert, and left to go to Murphy’s office.
“Sorry about that,” Murphy said on the way. “It just ain’t healthy to talk about the mayor in public.”
“So it’s not a fair and honest election?”
“Mr. Adams,” Sheriff Murphy said, “there ain’t nothing fair and honest about our esteemed mayor.”
They walked in silence a little longer, and then Clint said, “Call me Clint.”
TEN
When they reached the office, the two men and the buckboard were gone, but the belongings of the dead people were strewn about the sheriff’s office.
“Idiots,” Murphy said. “They should have piled up everything in one of the cells.”
“I guess you should’ve told them.”
“We can move it in there ourselves,” Clint said, “as we look it over.”
“Yeah, sure. Let’s get started.”
They went through the dead parents’ clothes and some of their smaller belongings such as a shaving kit, a sewing basket, and several small suitcases into which they had stuffed discarded clothes. There was some larger furniture still out at the site—a dresser, a chest of drawers, a cedar chest, all of which had been emptied by the killers.
Death in the Family Page 3