Death in the Family

by J. R. Roberts

  “I feel it.”

  “So you’re not sure.”

  “No, I’m sure,” Clint said, “I just can’t prove it. For that we need Willie.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “That if he tries to harm that child, he’ll have to go through me.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He advised me to leave town.”

  Murphy rubbed his face with his hands.

  “This ain’t gonna end well,” he said.

  “For who?”

  “Any of us,” Murphy said. “Perryman’s gonna talk to the mayor about my job.”

  “You’re not going to lose your job.”

  “Oh no? Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to talk to the mayor.”

  “What are you gonna say to him?”

  “I have no idea,” Clint said. “Give me a break. I just came up with the idea.”

  * * *

  Mayor Jimmy Lennon had a mouthful of lemon pie when he saw Milton Perryman walking toward him.

  “Excellent,” he said to the woman in front of him. “That is excellent pie. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome, Mayor,” the woman said. “You have my vote.”

  “And you have mine,” Lennon said. “I’ll be sending people over here to your little café.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Jimmy—” Perryman stared, but Lennon cut him off.

  “Not here! Outside!”

  The mayor pushed Perryman out to the boardwalk and glared up at the older man.

  “I’m working here, Milton,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to get rid of that useless sheriff,” Perryman said, “and I want Clint Adams run out of town.”

  “Those are not the kinds of things I want to be concerned with during an election, Milton.”

  “Well, you better consider it, if you want to keep my support,” Perryman said. “Adams killed my foreman, and your sheriff is doing nothing about it. And now the man has threatened me.”

  “Threatened how?”

  “He threatened to kill me!”

  “All right, okay,” Lennon said, “relax, take it easy. I’ll have a talk with Murphy about it.”

  “You better do more than talk, Jimmy,” Perryman said. “If you don’t get Adams out of town, I’m not going to be a target for him. I’ll have him taken care of myself.”

  “Milton,” Lennon said, “just leave it with me, all right? Get out of town today, go back home, and wait for hear from me.”

  “I’ll go home,” Perryman said, “but I’m not going to just wait. I’m going to get ready.”

  He turned and stormed away, with Kendall trotting along after him.

  Lennon turned, briefly considered going back into the café, but he was afraid they’d make him have another bite of that horrible lemon pie, so he walked away and headed for his next appointment.

  * * *

  “Let me tell you about Mayor Jimmy Lennon,” Murphy said to Clint. “He’s young, in his thirties, and he’s ambitious.”

  “That’s the only kind of politician I’ve ever met,” Clint told him.

  “Yeah, well,” Murphy said, “he’s got his own ways of gettin’ things done.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s got his own private security,” Murphy said. “He don’t take them around with him when he’s campaigning, but they’re usually within earshot. You better watch out for them.”

  “Is it an official security force?” Clint asked. “Do they have legal powers?”

  “No,” Murphy said, “he pays them out of his own pocket—supposedly.”

  “Meaning he steals money from the town to pay them.”

  “It’d be hard to try and prove that, but yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  “Okay then,” Clint said, “I’ll keep that in mind when I talk to him. What about him and Perryman?”

  “Perryman is the mayor’s biggest supporter,” Murphy said, “and I’m talkin’ about money.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope you do.”

  Clint headed for the door, then stopped.

  “How far can I depend on you, Sheriff?”

  “I’ll uphold the law,” Murphy said. “I’ll do the job I’m paid to do.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Clint said. “Where do you think I can find the mayor now?”

  “He’s probably out campaigning,” Murphy said, “kissing babies and shaking hands.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “wherever he is, I’ll find him.”

  * * *

  Instead of going home, as he had told the mayor he would, Milton Perryman headed for the Crystal Chandelier. It was the biggest, most expensive saloon in town, where the rich ranchers and wealthy businessmen in town drank.

  He went through the batwing doors, then turned abruptly and put his hand against Kendall’s chest.

  “Not you,” he said.

  Kendall was disappointed. He’d never been in the Crystal Chandelier before.

  “B-But—”

  “You ride back to the ranch and get some men.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever can handle a gun,” Perryman said, “and won’t mind making some bonus money.”

  “How many?”

  “Half a dozen.”

  “O-Okay.”

  “And find me Jess Bowen,” Perryman called after his man, “and have him meet me here.”

  Sure, Kendall thought, Bowen gets to see the inside of the Crystal.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Perryman turned, headed for his usual table, and waved to one of the saloon girls.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Clint walked around town, still noticing the VOTE FOR LENNON signs, and listening to some of the incumbent’s supporters preaching his virtues. He wondered if these men—all armed with what appeared to be well-maintained pistols—were part of the mayor’s private security force.

  He saw a crowd gathered in front of a building, crossed the street to see if it was a campaign stop for the mayor. It was a dress shop, and he saw a man in a dark suit standing in the midst of a group of women of all ages, smiling and doffing his hat.

  “Yes, ladies,” he said, “if elected, I promise to continue to make the streets of Chester safe for all of you to walk safely and unmolested, no matter what time of day it is.”

  The women all liked that and applauded the man. He looked over their heads and saw Clint watching him. Clint thought he was the youngest and fittest town mayor he’d ever seen. That obviously didn’t hurt when it came to getting the female vote.

  “All right, ladies,” the mayor said, “I must move on now. Have a good day.”

  He waded through the crowd of women until he was standing in front of Clint.

  “Are you Clint Adams?”

  “I am,” Clint said. “You were expecting me?”

  “I heard talk you were in town,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink, sir?”

  “Why not? But you know I can’t vote.”

  “I just think we should have a talk.”

  “Suits me.”

  “That saloon across the street okay?”

  “It’s your town.”

  “It’s never very full and I won’t have to do much glad-handing. Come on.”

  The two men walked across the street and entered the small saloon. The mayor was right—there were only a few men in the place, and none of them seemed to want to shake his hand. They got a beer each and sat at a table.

  “I guess these aren’t your supporters,” Clint said.

  “I think I’ll manage to get along without their votes,” Mayor Lennon said.

  Clint sipped his beer and waited. This conversation was the mayor’s ide
a. Clint figured to let him take the lead.

  “I understand you’ve killed a man since your arrival.”

  “You talked with Milton Perryman.”

  “He came to me, yes,” Lennon said. “He said you killed his foreman, and threatened him.”

  “I killed his foreman, yes,” Clint said. “He didn’t give me any choice, and there were witnesses to that.”

  “Perryman’s men.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not very reliable witnesses in your eyes.”

  “Probably not.”

  “What about the threat?”

  “I didn’t threaten the man,” Clint said. “I stated a fact.”

  “That you’re going to kill him?”

  “Do you know the reason I’m in town in the first place?” Clint asked.

  “I do not.”

  “Then let me fill you in . . .”

  * * *

  The mayor listened to Clint’s story without comment, didn’t speak until he had finished.

  “So you think Perryman had something to do with those people’s deaths? And that he’s a danger to the surviving child?”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but the promise I made was that I’d kill him if he tried to harm that child.”

  “And where is the child now?”

  Clint hesitated.

  “Do you believe I am a threat to the child?” Lennon asked.

  Clint hesitated again, then said, “No, but I don’t think there’s any reason for you to know where he is at the moment.”

  Lennon raised one hand and said, “Granted. But I hope you’re not thinking of taking your suspicions to the street to prove them.”

  “If my suspicions turn out to be true, I’ll take them to the law,” Clint said. “The only way they’ll end up on the street is if Perryman drags them there.”

  “Well,” Lennon said, “I have an election to be concerned with, and one of my campaign promises is to keep the streets safe.”

  “You better have a heart-to-heart with your friend Perryman, then.”

  “He’s not my friend,” Lennon said, “but he is an important man in this town, and I will be talking with him. I’ll assure him that you have no plans to kill him in the near future.”

  “Unless he pushes me into it.”

  “I understand.” Lennon finished his beer. “I’m afraid I have to get back to the streets right now.”

  “Why campaign so hard when you don’t have an opponent?” Clint asked.

  Lennon stood up.

  “I don’t like to take anything for granted, Mr. Adams.”

  Clint leaned back in his chair and watched the mayor leave the saloon. He had a mouthful of beer left in his mug. So he tossed that back and briefly considered having another. He thought a moment about the conversation with the mayor, and didn’t see that it had accomplished anything for either of them. But if Perryman was as big a supporter as he’d been told, it made sense to assume that the mayor would do whatever was best for Milton Perryman—and for himself.

  That meant that Clint Adams had to do what was best for him, and for the boy.

  * * *

  Milton Perryman looked up as the big man came through the batwing doors. Others looked at him as well, for Jess Bowen was not a regular customer there. In fact, Bowen had never been inside the place before. He looked around, saw Perryman, and walked to his table.

  “You lookin’ for me?” Bowen asked.

  “Do you want to make some money?”

  “I always wanna make some money.”

  “Then sit down,” Perryman said. “Beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  Perryman waved and a saloon girl came rushing over.

  “Bring my friend a beer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bowen sat back and looked the place over. His eyes lingered on the collection of crystal chandeliers that dotted the ceiling.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  The girl appeared with the beer, and Bowen promptly drank half of it down.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s get down to business.”

  “You know Willie Delvin?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you have any problem with killing him?”

  “Killin’ Willie?” Bowen asked. “I think I’d kinda like that.”

  “Well,” Perryman said, “here’s what I want . . .”

  TWENTY-SIX

  By the time Clint got out to the street, the mayor was out sight. Clint wasn’t sure about his next move, and was about to head for his hotel when he saw Sheriff Murphy coming his way.

  “Did you have your meetin’ with the mayor?” the lawman asked.

  “I did,” Clint said, “although it wasn’t very fruitful, I’m afraid.”

  “Well,” Murphy said, “between you and Perryman, I think I know which way the mayor would lean.”

  “So he’s Perryman’s man?” Clint said.

  “It’s probably the other way around,” Murphy said, “but listen, I was looking for you because I may have an idea where Willie is.”

  “An idea?”

  “Well, more than an idea,” Murphy said. “Somebody told me he’s holed up in a house outside of town.”

  “You want to go and see if it’s a fact?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Lead the way, then.”

  * * *

  Murphy told Clint that while the house was outside of town, it was within walking distance. When they reached it, they stopped a few yards away to take a look.

  There was a corral next to a falling-down one-room house, with one horse in it.

  “Let’s check the horse,” Clint said.

  “Right.”

  They moved quickly to the corral, where Clint went inside and checked the horse’s hoof.

  “This is the horse,” Clint said. “If it’s not Willie inside, it’s somebody I’m interested in.”

  “I guess we should just go and find out.”

  The house was too small to have a back door, so they both approached the front, and then Clint kicked it in. They went in quickly, the sheriff holding his gun in his hand.

  Willie was there.

  Murphy walked to the body, knelt down, and checked it.

  “He’s dead,” he said.

  “Is it Willie?”

  “Yup.”

  “How?”

  “Shot.”

  “Damn,” Clint said. “He was my last good chance to find out who hired him and his partner to kill that family.”

  Murphy stood up and holstered his gun.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “with my best chances gone, I’ll have to make the best of my worst ones.”

  * * *

  They went back to town and split up. Murphy went to get himself some men and a buckboard to retrieve Willie’s body.

  They had searched the body and the house, but found nothing that would help determine who hired Willie, or who killed him.

  Clint went to No. 8 and had a beer. At the bar he wondered if Willie had been killed by the people who hired him—which, to his mind, meant Perryman’s men—or maybe the mayor’s security force—but again, at the behest of Milton Perryman.

  He finished his beer and walked over to City Hall. He didn’t go inside, but took up position across the street. He wanted to see if he could spot any of the mayor’s security men. He hadn’t seen any with the mayor when he was campaigning with the group of women, but they may just have been keeping back out of sight.

  As he watched, the mayor returned, and this time he had two men with him. They were wearing trail clothes rather
than any sort of security uniform, but they were his men. They let the mayor go in ahead of them, looked around quickly, then followed. They were so focused on the mayor that they missed seeing Clint, watching from across the street.

  He heard a buckboard coming down the street, looked over, and saw two men on it, with Sheriff Murphy riding alongside. He stepped out into the street.

  “You mind if I come along?” he asked. “I want to take another look at the ground around the house and the corral.”

  “Be my guest,” Murphy said. “Hop aboard.”

  Clint hopped into the bed of the buckboard and they started off again.

  * * *

  When they reached the house, Murphy told the men to stop the buckboard a few yards away.

  “Go ahead and take your look around,” Murphy said. “We’ll go in and get the body ready to move.”

  Clint walked around the corral first. It hadn’t been used in a long time, so the horse that was inside had left the only recent tracks. He walked around the outside of the corral, still found no other tracks.

  He moved to the house.

  Sheriff Murphy stepped out, said, “They’re wrapping the body in a blanket. Anything?”

  “Not at the corral,” Clint said, “but I’ve got tracks here made by two horses.”

  “Anything unusual about them?”

  “Not that I can see.” Clint went down to one knee for a better look. “I think one of these horses was carrying a heavy man. A big man.” He pointed. “In fact, it’s a pony, a small horse with a big man on it.” He looked at Murphy. “That ring a bell?”

  “Oh yeah,” Sheriff Murphy said, nodding his head, “that rings a bell.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They went back to town, dropped the body off at the undertaker’s, and then went to the sheriff’s office. There was a pot of coffee waiting, and they each had a cup.

  “Tell me about the big man,” Clint said.

  “It’s a joke in town,” Murphy said. “His name’s Jess Bowen, and he rides a mustang. His feet almost touch the ground on either side when he rides.”

  “That means he’s . . .”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff said. “He’s nearly seven feet tall.”

  “There were some big footprints in front of the house, too.”