Death in the Family

by J. R. Roberts

  “He wants a little more than that.”

  “I ain’t got much money,” Murphy said. “Thirty a month and found don’t do much for me.”

  “I’ll pay him,” Clint said.

  “Well, if that’s the case, what are we arguin’ about?” Murphy said. “Let’s just do it.”

  “Okay.”

  They went back into the office.

  “Okay, Caleb, you got a deal,” Clint said.

  “Thanks,” Caleb said, standing. He wiped his hands on his thighs. “Pay up.”

  “After I find Jess Bowen,” Clint said.

  “You plan on takin’ him alive?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “We need to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “About who hired him to kill Willie.”

  “What do you care about Willie?” Caleb asked.

  “It’s too complicated to explain, Caleb,” Clint said. “Just tell us where to find him.”

  “Well, I can’t tell ya,” Caleb said. “I’ll have to show ya.”

  “So show us.”

  He licked his lips nervously.

  “H-He can’t know I talked to ya,” Caleb said, “that I helped ya. Or he’ll kill me.”

  “Once we find him,” Murphy said, “he ain’t gonna kill nobody ever again.”

  “Are ya sure?”

  “Do you know who this man is?” Murphy asked, pointing at Clint.

  “Well, yeah . . .”

  “You think your friend Bowen can take him with a gun?”

  “He ain’t my friend,” Caleb said, “but no, I don’t. But with his hands—”

  “He ain’t gonna get close enough to do anythin’ with his hands,” Murphy assured him.

  “Okay, Caleb,” Clint said, “that’s it. Let’s go.”

  “I need—I need a drink before we get started.”

  “No.”

  “Just a small one,” Caleb said. “I gotta have a small one. Just ta hold me.”

  Clint looked at Murphy.

  “You got any whiskey?”

  Murphy nodded, opened a drawer, and took out a half-full bottle. Clint went to the stove and got a coffee mug. He took the bottle and poured about one finger of whiskey into it.

  “This is all you get,” he told Caleb, holding the mug.

  “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Caleb said, holding his hands out.

  Clint handed him the mug. He took it in both hands and greedily drank down the whiskey. Then he wiped out the bottom of the cup with his finger and licked it. It was a pathetic sight.

  Clint took the mug back and handed the bottle to Murphy, who put it away. Caleb’s eyes followed it all the way back into the drawer.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “where’s Bowen?”

  “I got—I got a coupla ideas.”

  “Fine,” Clint said. “Lead the way.”

  “You both comin’?”

  “We’re both comin’,” Murphy said.

  “You plannin’ on arrestin’ Jess?”

  “If I have to.”

  “He won’t be easy to take.”

  “You let us worry about that, Caleb,” Clint said. “You just concentrate on finding him.”

  * * *

  Jess Bowen listened to what Milton Perryman wanted, drinking his beer and waiting for the man to finish.

  “You got any problems with that?” the rancher asked.

  “No problem at all.”

  “How long do you think it will take you to get set up?” Perryman asked.

  “Not long,” Bowen said. “In fact, I already got an idea.”

  “That’s good,” Perryman said.

  “I’ll need to bring in some other men.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” Perryman said. “We’ll work out a price, and you pay them out of your take. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Bowen said. “Where will you be?”

  “I’m heading back to my ranch tonight,” Perryman said. “When the job is done, you’ll find me there.”

  “How much can I get up front?” Bowen asked. “I might have to pay some people first.”

  Perryman took out a fat wallet.

  “I can give you an advance now.” He started taking money from his wallet and laying it on the table, bill by bill. Bowen then scooped it up and put it in his pocket, without fear that anyone in the place would try to rob him. Nobody would dare try.

  “Okay,” he said, standing up. “You’ll be hearin’ from me soon.”

  Perryman picked up the last of his beer, raised the mug, and said, “I look forward to it.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “If Jess is in any of the places I think he might be,” Caleb said, “you won’t be able to miss him.”

  They were walking down the main street, which was empty at night—at least, when compared to what it looked like during the day. There were some people strolling, a few others walking with purpose, either returning home or heading for a saloon. And from most of the saloons came light, and music, and voices.

  “You gonna look in some of these saloons?” Murphy asked.

  “Naw,” Caleb said, “Jess Bowen wouldn’t be in any of them. You know Warden’s Saloon?”

  “Jay Warden’s place? Is that still open?”

  “It’s open,” Caleb said, “to a few people.”

  “Like Bowen?”

  “Exactly like Bowen.”

  “Where is this place?” Clint asked.

  “Far end of town,” Murphy said. “In fact, it’s barely in town.”

  “Then let’s get over there.”

  “Wait,” Caleb said, “the sheriff can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because his badge would be a target in there,” Caleb said.

  “He’s right,” Murphy said. “They’d just as soon shoot me as look at me in there. You’ll have to go.”

  “Okay,” Clint said.

  “I’ll go in with you,” Caleb said.

  “Just take me there, Caleb,” Clint said. “I’ll go in and see if Bowen is there.”

  “Alone?”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “How many friends has Bowen got?”

  “None,” Caleb said, “but the men in that place will back him against you.”

  “Will they?”

  “Well . . . they’d back him against any lawman.”

  “I’m not a lawman,” Clint said, “am I?”

  * * *

  Caleb and Murphy took Clint to the edge of town and beyond—again—where a building sat alone, lit up, but quiet.

  “That’s a saloon?” Clint asked.

  “A place to drink,” Caleb said, “or play cards. No music.”

  “Any girls?”

  “No,” Caleb said. “Girls would cause trouble.”

  “And whiskey? Beer? They don’t cause trouble?”

  “If they do,” Caleb said, “Warden takes care of it. In his place he’s judge and jury.”

  Clint looked at Murphy.

  “Who is Warden?”

  “He used to be a bounty hunter. He gave it up to run his saloon,” Murphy said.

  “This place?”

  “Not this one,” Caleb said. “He’s had others, but they always go out of business.”

  “Then every time he reopens, the place gets worse and worse. This is pretty much the bottom of the barrel.”

  “Why doesn’t he go back to bounty hunting?” Clint wondered.

  “He’s in his fifties now,” Murphy said, “been out of the saddle for some time. I don’t think that idea appeals to him.”

  “And this does?”

  “Whatever it is,” Murphy said, “it’s his.”

  “All right, then,” Clint said. “You two stay here. I
’ll go inside and see if Bowen is there.”

  “All right,” Murphy said, “but at the first sign of trouble, I’m comin’ in.”

  “I hope I won’t need you.”

  He started toward the building, then stopped and looked at Caleb Stone.

  “How will I know Warden?” he asked.

  “You’ll know him,” Caleb said. “He’s always behind the bar.”

  Clint nodded.

  * * *

  Close up, the building looked as if it would fall over with a good push. As he approached the front door, he could hear some voices from inside. The door was just a door, no batwings, just a wooden door with a doorknob. He turned it, and entered.

  The interior was small, stuffy, filled with smoke. About a dozen tables were spread out before him, but only several were occupied. The men turned to look at him.

  Clint looked at the bar. Behind it was a man in his fifties, bald on top with a fringe of hair, and a thoroughly unpleasant face that had seen the wrong end of a few rifle butts in its time.

  No one in the place resembled Jess Bowen.

  Clint walked to the bar, which was empty at the moment.

  “What’ve you got on your mind, friend?”

  “A beer.”

  The bartender laughed.

  “And for that you came here? You got plenty of places to get beer in town.”

  “None of them have your . . . character.”

  “Hee-hee,” one of the men at a table laughed. “Hey, Warden, this here feller thinks you got character.” Then he stopped laughing and frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I want a beer,” Clint said. “Why don’t you shut up and mind your own business?”

  “Take it easy, friend,” Warden said. “Jerry’s an idiot. Don’t mind him. I’ll get you a beer.”

  He drew one and set it in front of Clint. When he sipped it, he was pleasantly surprised to find that it was cold.

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “Not what you expected, eh?” Before Clint could answer, he went on. “That’s okay. I know how this place looks to people.”

  “Are you the owner?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said, then extended his hand. “Jay Warden. This is Warden’s Saloon.”

  Clint shook his hand, surprised that the man was so friendly and forthcoming.

  “What made you come wanderin’ in here?” Warden asked.

  “Well,” Clint said, “I didn’t actually wander in. I was sort of . . . sent here.”

  “By who?” Warden asked suspiciously. “And why?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A man named Jess Bowen.”

  “The only reason I can think of for anyone to be lookin’ for Jess Bowen is if he did somethin’ to make you mad.”

  “Well . . . he might have killed somebody.”

  “Somebody you knew?”

  “No,” Clint said, “somebody else I needed to talk to.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Willie Delvin.”

  Warden leaned his elbows on the bar.

  “Jess killed Willie?”

  “We think so.”

  “We?”

  “The sheriff and me.”

  “Murphy?” Warden straightened up. “Is he outside?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “So is Caleb Stone.”

  “Well,” Warden said, “this just keeps gettin’ better and better.”

  “What do you—”

  “You better go out and bring them in,” Warden said. “I’ll get rid of these guys.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  A few minutes later Clint, Murphy, Caleb Stone, and Jay Warden were seated at a table with a beer in front of each of them.

  “Maybe you know more about Willie and Jess than the sheriff does,” Clint said. “Were they friends?”

  “Friends? No, not that I know of.”

  “Were you friends with either of them?” Clint asked.

  “Can’t say that either.”

  “Then what?”

  Warden shrugged.

  “I knew them, they knew each other. They had one thing in common.”

  “They’d do anythin’ for money,” Murphy said.

  Warden nodded.

  “That was it,” Warden said, “but Jess, he’d go a lot further than Willie.”

  “Murder?” Clint asked.

  “Jess likes to kill,” Warden said. “He prefers to do it for money, though.”

  “Whose money?” Clint asked.

  “Anybody’s.”

  Caleb was the first to finish his beer.

  “Can I have another one?” he asked.

  “No,” Murphy said.

  “Look, Mr. Warden,” Clint said, “Caleb, here, is supposed to help us find Jess Bowen.”

  “Bowen’ll kill him,” Warden said. “I mean, if you’re right and he killed Willie, he ain’t gonna wanna be found.”

  “So tell me,” Clint said. “Where does Bowen go when he doesn’t want to be found?”

  “What makes you think I know that?” Warden asked.

  “Because you asked us to come inside and you closed up,” Clint said. “That means you didn’t want anybody knowing you talked to us.”

  Warden studied Clint for a few seconds, then drank some beer before talking.

  “Okay,” he said, “this is what I heard. There’s a town about twenty miles from here called Ferguson.”

  “Ferguson?” Clint looked at Murphy, who scowled.

  “Ferguson is a ghost town,” the lawman said.

  “That’s right,” Warden said. “There’s nobody there. That’s just how a man like Jess Bowen likes it.”

  “That’s where he hangs his hat?” Murphy asked.

  “I told you,” Warden said. “It’s somethin’ I heard.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “it’s more than we had before.” He looked at Murphy. “I’ll take a ride out there tomorrow. It’s not that far.”

  “Especially not on that horse of yours,” Murphy said.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Caleb asked.

  “You?” Murphy said. “You’re gonna spend the night in one of my cells.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because we don’t want anybody tellin’ Bowen that Clint is lookin’ for him.”

  “I ain’t gonna tell nobody.”

  Murphy stood up, slid his hand beneath Caleb’s arm, and lifted the man to his feet.

  “We’re just gonna make sure of that,” the lawman said. He looked at Clint. “You comin’?”

  “I’m going to finish my beer, and then turn in.”

  “Well, stop by the office in the mornin’, before you head for Ferguson.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  As Murphy left with Caleb, Warden asked, “You want a fresh one?”

  “Sure.”

  Warden went to the bar and came back with two fresh beers.

  “Why you hangin’ around here now?” he asked.

  “I’m just wondering if there’s something you might want to tell me that you didn’t want to say in front of the sheriff.”

  “Like what?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you somethin’ I been thinkin’ about lately, Adams.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Comin’ outta retirement.”

  “As a bounty hunter, you mean?”

  “That’s right,” Warden said. “And I could use a partner.”

  “Me?”

  “I can’t think of a better partner than the Gunsmith,” Warden said. “Who better to watch my back?”

  “I’m flat
tered,” Clint said, “but I’m no bounty hunter.”

  “So what are you?” Warden asked. “The killer everybody says you are?”

  “I’m not anything other people think I am,” Clint said.

  “And don’t you want to prove that?”

  “To who?” Clint asked. “I know who I am, and I don’t need to prove it to anyone else.”

  “I tell you what,” Warden said. “Let me ride with you to Ferguson. If, by the time we get back, you don’t wanna team with me, I’ll forget about it and stop askin’.”

  “Why would I need you to come to Ferguson with me?” Clint asked. “Isn’t it a ghost town?”

  “Just because it’s a ghost town doesn’t mean there’s nobody there,” Warden said.

  “I hope to find Jess Bowen there.”

  “Yeah, but he might not be alone.”

  “What are you saying?” Clint asked. “That Ferguson is a haven for other men like Bowen?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me that in front of the sheriff?” Clint asked.

  “Because,” Warden said, “then he woulda wanted to go with you.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Early the next morning Clint rode Eclipse to the sheriff’s office, dismounted, and went inside.

  “Ready to go?” Murphy asked.

  “Just about. Where’s Caleb?”

  “In a cell,” Murphy said, “still asleep.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “Keep him there a little bit longer. Better yet, until we get back.”

  “We?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “Warden’s coming with me.”

  “Warden? Why?”

  “According to him,” Clint explained, “Bowen may not be alone in Ferguson.”

  “I thought he didn’t have friends.”

  “Not friends,” Clint said, “just colleagues, sort of.”

  “You mean, there might be other men there who don’t want to be found?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Other wanted men?” Murphy asked. “Maybe I should come with you, after all.”

  “No, no,” Clint said. “You can go to Ferguson another time. Let me do what I have to do first.”

  “Okay,” Murphy said, “agreed.”

  Clint heard a horse outside and said, “I better get going.”

  * * *

  Outside the office, Clint found Jay Warden waiting for him astride a painted pony that had seen better days.