Death in the Family

by J. R. Roberts

  “The little boy I brought here a few days ago.”

  “Oh, him,” she said. “What a doll.”

  “Yes, he is,” Clint said. “I’m trying to find out who killed his family.”

  “You think Milton had somethin’ to do with it?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Well, I suppose it had to happen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That someone would ask.”

  “You mean, you know something about this?”

  She hesitated again, then said, “Yes, I do.”

  “Then why haven’t you told anyone?”

  “I told you,” she said, “he’s my best customer.”

  “Neve—” Lily said.

  Neve whirled on her boss and said, “Well, nobody asked me!”

  “I’m asking you now, Neve,” Clint said. “Do I need to ride out to Perryman’s house and talk to his wife?”

  “She wouldn’t be able to tell you a thing,” Neve said.

  “But you can.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it, Neve,” Lily said. “Start talkin’.”

  Clint stood up and motioned for Neve to take his chair. He perched a hip on the desk and said, “Go.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Neve told Clint what she knew, what she had heard Milton Perryman say while in the throes of—well, not passion, but lust. She then told her story again to Sheriff Murphy, in his office.

  “He was pretty stupid to say those things while he was with you,” Murphy observed.

  “Why?” she asked. “To him I’m just a whore. He didn’t even think I was listening. I’m like a table or a chair to him.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Murphy said. “He heard from a brother in the East who said he was coming west to claim what was his? That some uncle of theirs had willed the ranch to this brother, but the papers had been lost until now?”

  “That’s what he was muttering,” Neve said. “He said how dare Henry want to come take what was his, meaning Milton’s.”

  “And did he say what he was going to do about it?”

  “He said he was going to take care of it,” she said. “The way he takes care of everything—permanently.”

  “And you thought he meant by killing his own brother?”

  “And his family.”

  “And he would do that?” Murphy asked.

  “He would have it done by someone else,” she said. “He’s done it before.”

  “Maybe,” the sheriff said, “we should talk about that, too.”

  “Some other time, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I want to act on this information now.”

  “And do what?” Murphy asked.

  “Arrest Perryman.”

  “On what evidence?”

  “What Neve just told us.”

  “Clint,” Murphy said, “that’s just her opinion about what Perryman meant.”

  “What else could he have meant?”

  “I don’t know,” Murphy said, “maybe he meant to buy his brother off.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “No,” Murphy said, “I don’t, but I can’t act unless I have evidence.”

  “All right, then,” Clint said. “I’ll just have to get you some evidence.”

  “Am I done?” Neve asked. “Since it looks like I’m going to lose my best customer, I should get back to work.”

  “I’ll walk you back,” Clint said.

  “That’s all right,” she said to him. “Unless you’re going to be my first customer today, I can find my own way back. You have your own work to do.”

  Both men watched her walk to the door and leave.

  “That’s quite a woman,” Murphy said.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “If Perryman is her best customer,” the lawman said, “why would she be tellin’ us these things about him?”

  “I was wondering that myself,” Clint said.

  “Maybe she just wants to do the right thing.”

  “Maybe she does,” Clint said, but he had his doubts.

  * * *

  Neve left the sheriff’s office and hurried over to the Crystal. All the men in the place watched as she walked to Milton Perryman’s table.

  “Is it done?” he asked her.

  “It’s done.”

  He handed her a sheaf of bills and said, “Good job, honey.”

  “You get what you pay for,” she told him, then left.

  Perryman looked at the men around him. There were ten of them, lounging about, looking like customers.

  “Get ready, men,” he said. “The Gunsmith will be here soon.”

  They were all ready for the Gunsmith, because they were being paid enough to be ready.

  * * *

  “You ain’t gonna march over to the Crystal, are ya?” Murphy asked. “That’s Perryman’s home away from home.”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’m no fool. I’m thinking that’s just what he wants me to do. Walk in the front door of the Crystal.”

  “I figured.”

  “So I’m not going to do that.”

  “Good, I thought maybe—”

  “You are.”

  Murphy stopped short, then said, “Me?”

  “But first I’m going to send a couple of telegrams.”

  FORTY-TWO

  At the Crystal, Milton Perryman was wondering what the holdup was—and he wasn’t the only one.

  “What’s takin’ so long, boss?” Ed Lane asked. Lane was another gunman Perryman used for special jobs, and it was Lane who had collected all the other men on such short notice.

  “It doesn’t matter how long it takes, Ed,” Perryman said. “He’ll be here.”

  “Okay,” Lane said, “you’re the boss.” And he went back to the bar.

  But Perryman didn’t like the fact that it was taking this long. He was glad he’d decided to wear a gun on this day. It added one more weapon to his arsenal.

  * * *

  Clint went to the telegraph office and sent two telegrams, then waited at the sheriff’s office with Murphy until the replies came in.

  “You really think you’re gonna get answers today?” the lawman asked.

  “I do,” Clint said. “The men I sent the telegrams to are good friends of mine. They’ll reply as quickly as they can.”

  He’d sent telegrams to Talbot Roper, who was a detective in Denver, and also to Rick Hartman in Labyrinth, Texas, on the off chance that Roper was away on a job. He figured one of them would get him the information he needed.

  It took two hours, but in the end, both men sent him the answer he was waiting for.

  The clerk brought him both replies and Clint read them while Murphy looked on.

  “Well?” Murphy asked.

  “Confirmation that a man named Henry Perryman left Philadelphia with his wife and two children—Adele and Henry Junior—to come to Chester, Wyoming.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “Apparently all the man said was he was going to visit family.”

  “So we have someone back there who can verify that the boy is part of that family?”

  “Somebody,” Clint said. “Not a family member, because there are no more, but a lawyer who knew the family.”

  “But that still don’t give us any evidence,” Murphy said.

  “We’re going to go and get us what we need right now, Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “Evidence?”

  “Maybe,” Clint said, “maybe not. But it’ll be what we need. Are you ready?”

  “To walk into the Crystal and go against Milton Perryman and his guns right there in his own club? I must be crazy, Adams. If it was anybody else but you, I wouldn’t be ready, but God help me .
. .”

  He walked to the gun rack on the wall, took down a shotgun, then said, “Now I am.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Sheriff Murphy wasn’t at all sure that what he was doing was right. He knew it wasn’t smart, but when would he ever get another chance to stand with a legend?

  It was getting dark as he walked down the street and stopped just outside the Crystal. He doubted that there would be any other ranchers in the place with Milton Perryman. None of them would risk their lives for someone who was basically a rival.

  At least, he hoped not.

  He waited across the street, giving Clint time to go around the back.

  * * *

  Clint stopped at the back door of the Crystal, tried it, and found it locked. Like most back doors, it gave when he put his shoulder to it. Once inside, he heard voices from the saloon, but not the kind you’d usually hear from a place like that at this time of night.

  He had borrowed a second pistol from Murphy, and had it tucked into his belt. He worked his way down the hallway he was in. At the end of the hall was a doorway to the saloon. He peered in and saw Milton Perryman seated at a table, and ten—he counted—men standing around, or leaning on the bar.

  They were waiting for him. He started to wonder if this was the wrong play, but it was too late. Any minute the sheriff would be coming through the batwings, and he couldn’t leave him on his own.

  He drew both guns.

  * * *

  It was time.

  Murphy crossed the street and mounted the boardwalk. He peered over the batwings, counted the men inside before going in, didn’t see Clint anywhere.

  * * *

  Perryman spotted Sheriff Murphy looking over the batwings. He wondered if the man was there for a reason, or if he was just making rounds.

  “Lane,” Perryman said.

  The hired gun turned from the bar, away from his conversation, and looked at his boss.

  Perryman inclined his head toward the batwings, and Lane looked that way, then nodded. He turned back to his partners.

  * * *

  Clint watched the byplay between Perryman and the man at the bar. He felt he had now correctly identified the gun in charge. At that moment Murphy stepped through the doors.

  * * *

  Murphy stepped in and stopped.

  “Sheriff,” Perryman said. “What brings you here tonight?”

  Instead of answering the question, Murphy said, “Not very busy tonight for this place.”

  “No, it’s not,” Perryman said. “In fact, this is kind of a . . . private party.”

  Clint took that as his cue.

  * * *

  “Is this party meant for me?” he asked, stepping through the back doorway.

  Perryman turned in his seat and looked at Clint. Lane and the other men all straightened up.

  Sheriff Murphy lifted the barrel of the shotgun he had been carrying down by his leg.

  “Easy, boys,” he said.

  Perryman looked back at the lawman.

  “If you’re taking sides, Sheriff,” he said, “you better be sure you make the right choice.”

  Murphy pointed the shotgun right at the rancher.

  “If we’re talkin’ about decisions, Mr. Perryman,” he said, “I think you better make the right one yourself.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Perryman held a staying hand out to Ed Lane and his boys.

  “Let’s talk, Mr. Perryman,” Clint said.

  Perryman looked at the guns in Clint’s hands.

  “At gunpoint?”

  “Seems the safest way at the moment.” Clint noticed that even Perryman himself was wearing a gun.

  “What do you want to talk about, then?” Perryman asked.

  “Let’s start with your brother, Henry.”

  Perryman stiffened noticeably.

  “What?”

  “Your brother—”

  “Who have you been talkin’ to?” the rancher demanded.

  “Why? Is there something I shouldn’t know?”

  Perryman didn’t reply.

  “Your brother was coming here with his wife, daughter, and little boy,” Clint said. “Somebody headed them off and killed him, the wife, and the daughter, but the boy was left alive. I found him and brought him here, to Chester.”

  “You have the—” Perryman started, then stopped.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I have the boy.”

  Perryman turned, looked at the sheriff, then at his men.

  “You don’t want these men to know you had your own brother and his family killed?” Clint asked. “To protect your fortune?”

  “That’s not—” Perryman started.

  “Or do some of them know that already?” Clint asked. “Yes, that’s it, you’ve still got men out looking for the boy.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s safe,” Clint said. “And he’s going to want his money when he gets a little older, don’t you think?”

  “You can’t prove—”

  “I’ve got the word of a lawyer,” Clint said, “who knows the family. That is, the family history.”

  Perryman’s eyes flicked over to Ed Lane, who was watching Clint intently.

  “Go ahead, Milton,” Clint said. “Give him the word.”

  “These men will gun you and the lawman down,” Perryman said.

  “But not before we get some of them,” Clint said, “oh, and you. You first, Milton. The sheriff still has his shotgun pointed right at you.”

  Perryman had been swiveling his head back and forth between Clint and the lawman.

  “Why don’t you stand up?” Clint asked.

  “What?”

  “Stand up so you can see better,” Clint said. “And so you can get to that gun you’re wearing.”

  Perryman stared at him.

  “If you want some of these men to die for you, maybe you should be willing to put your own life on the line, as well.” Clint looked at Lane, then some of the other men. “What do you boys think? Who wants to die for a man who killed his own family? And who wants to kill a two-year-old boy?”

  Nobody answered. Ed Lane, though, had the eyes of a man who didn’t care about any of that. He was getting paid to do a job.

  “Sheriff, when they go for their guns, you blow a hole in Milton, and I’ll take care of Ed Lane there.” Clint looked at Lane. “You’re the gunman, right? The rest of these men will follow your move?”

  Lane stared at him.

  “Well, make it!” Clint said. “One of you, make a move. Come on, Milton. Stand up!”

  Milton Perryman stood up, but slowly put his hands in the air.

  “You can’t prove a thing,” he said. “Not with my brother dead.”

  “That’s okay, Milton,” Clint said. “We’ve already got more than we had when we came in here. You just admitted to having a dead brother. What do you think, Sheriff?”

  “I think Mr. Perryman’s under arrest,” Murphy said. “Unbuckle your gun belt and let it drop to the floor.”

  Perryman brought his hands down halfway, flexed his right hand, as if he wanted badly to go for his gun. Instead, he spoke to Lane.

  “Are you and your men going to do something?” he demanded. “Kill them!”

  One of the other men spoke.

  “I didn’t sign on to kill no lawman,” he said. He started for the door, and some of the others followed. Then more.

  “Lane!” Perryman said. “Kill Adams! Do it!”

  “Yeah, come on, Lane,” Clint said. “Do it.” He holstered his Colt, stuck the other gun back in his belt. “I’ll give you a fair shot at it.”

  “Drop your gun belt, Perryman,” Murphy said. “I won’t tell you again.”

  Reluctantly, the rancher undid his belt and let it drop.


  “Now come with me,” Murphy said. “You’re under arrest.”

  “For what?”

  “Conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “I’ll let a judge and a jury decide,” Murphy said. “Meanwhile, I’m afraid your reputation will be a bit tarnished when all this comes out.”

  Perryman suddenly looked sorry he’d dropped his gun. Clint thought he might have preferred to go for the gun, rather than have the whole story be told.

  “Come on.”

  Perryman walked to the doors, and out, followed by the sheriff. The other men had walked out, and were gone.

  That left Lane and Clint in the saloon, and the bartender behind the bar.

  “What’s it going to be, Lane?” Clint asked.

  The man stared at Clint for a few moments, then relaxed and said, “Maybe another time, Adams.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “maybe.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  “I’ll take him.”

  “What?”

  Lily was holding little Henry Perryman Jr., and his chubby arms were around her neck.

  “I said I’ll take him,” she said. “I’ll keep him.”

  “He may not see any of that Perryman money for a long time, you know,” Clint warned her.

  “I don’t care about that,” she said. “I just want to raise him.”

  “Why not?” Clint said. “I can’t think of anyone better.”

  “You can’t?” Lily asked. “You think this is a fit place to raise a kid?”

  “I think you’re a fit person to raise him,” Clint said. “The place doesn’t matter.”

  Clint looked at the newspaper on Lily’s desk. The headline said, MILTON PERRYMAN ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF BROTHER. Whether it was true or not—though Clint was certain it was—Perryman’s reputation was ruined.

  “Do you really think that?” Lily asked.

  “I do.”

  “Do you think I’ll have any trouble?”

  “You’ll need to go before a judge,” he warned her.

  “Well,” she said, “if it’s the judge in this town, I shouldn’t have too much of a problem.”