Ball and Chain

by J. R. Roberts

  It had been Clint’s intention to put Hinterland behind him as quickly as possible. He had business in Beaver Falls that he was much more eager to conduct than delivering some bunch of pressed flowers. It wasn’t even the money that kept him in town. If he hadn’t gone through so much trouble already, Clint would have left instructions for Bernadette to deliver the frame when she was done and he could wash his hands of the whole thing.

  But Clint had gone through some trouble to get this far. He’d ridden out of his way, had made it all the way to Hinterland, and had even been shot at in the process. In his mind, leaving without tying up such an easy job would have made these last few days one big waste of time. Clint didn’t like wasting time. He knew all too well that no man could afford to waste such a valuable commodity.

  Now that it seemed he needed another few days to finish this job properly, he figured he should send word to Beaver Falls that he was going to be late. Hinterland wasn’t a very big place, but there were some wires leading into one of the buildings at the edge of town. Clint followed the wires past a clean looking stable and to a large shed marked by a sign that read, WIRE SERVICE.

  The man who worked the telegraph was large in every respect. He had large arms connected to large shoulders. A large chest puffed out over a large belly. Even his head was large, which worked out well because the smile he wore needed plenty of room.

  Holding up the form Clint had filled out, the telegraph operator said, “Clint Adams, huh?”

  “That’s right. How long before that arrives in Beaver Falls?”

  The operator consulted a sheet of paper tacked to a board beside his apparatus and replied, “Beaver Falls don’t have a wire of their own, but there’s one in the next town over. I go there quite a bit, so I know it shouldn’t take more than an extra day. Could be less if someone’s already headed in that direction.”

  “All right. Would you send this for me?” Clint waited for a few seconds, but wondered if he’d forgotten something when the operator didn’t say anything back to him. “If I need to pay first, I can do that.”

  “Oh, it ain’t that. Do you know who you are?”

  Clint felt a knot form in his stomach at the prospect of someone calling him out for being the Gunsmith. The telegraph operator didn’t look like a fighting man, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard some wild rumors or known someone who had crossed Clint’s path and not lived to see the next morning. As the muscles in his gun arm tensed for a quick draw, Clint said, “I know who I am. What of it?”

  “You’re the Gunsmith, ain’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  The operator paused for another second, which was just enough time for Clint to see if he was heeled or not. As far as Clint could tell, the only thing the operator brandished was a pencil and paper.

  “You remember a fella by the name of Zeke Brockman?” the operator asked.

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Zeke drives shipments for Wells Fargo. Mostly rides the trail between Omaha and Dodge City. He was damn near killed in a shooting a year or so back when some bunch of wild, gunslinging assholes tried to rob his shipment. You and one sheriff’s deputy rode in to clean those assholes out. Saved Zeke’s life in the process.”

  The knot in Clint’s stomach loosened. Although he didn’t recall Zeke by name, he sure recalled trading shots with those robbers. “There was a whole posse after those men when I signed on. Me and that deputy were all that was left by the time we caught up with those desperadoes.”

  “Well, that’s all that was needed. I gotta take your fee to send this message on account of this ain’t my business. But ol’ Zeke would string me up if I didn’t buy you a drink.”

  “Oh, no need for that,” Clint protested.

  “Hogwash! I’m closing up shop right now and I intend on heading down to the Howlin’ Moon for a drink. I sure as hell don’t intend on drinkin’ alone. Not when the one and only Clint Adams is in town. At least let me treat you to some whiskey as a way to say thanks. Zeke may be a pain in the ass, but he’s family and you kept him alive.”

  “The thing is, I’m not partial to whiskey.” When he saw the good-natured scowl on the operator’s face, Clint added, “But a beer or two might just do the trick.”

  “A beer or two it is!” the operator said as he slapped Clint on the shoulder. “Let me get this message sent and we’ll tip a few mugs!”

  If the operator hadn’t been so good at his job, Clint might have been able to get out of there before he was done. As it turned out, the big man’s fingers flew and the message was quickly tapped out. From there, the operator draped a hand over Clint’s shoulder and practically shoved him outside so he could lock up the office.

  The operator didn’t lose one bit of his enthusiasm on the way to the saloon. When he pushed open the batwing doors, he announced, “This here’s my friend, Clint Adams! He’s a damn hero and I wanna buy him a drink!”

  Clint wasn’t about to refuse an offer like that.

  TWELVE

  The Howling Moon Saloon was a run-down place with a sagging roof. Because of that, there were more posts propping the ceiling up than columns in front of a Greek temple. Between the small round tables, rickety chairs, and thick wooden posts running from floor to ceiling, there was barely enough room to walk. A few of the drunks in the place raised their glasses to the telegraph operator’s announcement, but not everyone in the saloon was in such a festive mood.

  Acklund was already leaning to his left on account of the deep gouge that Clint’s bullet had ripped through his right hip. The wound looked messy, but had mainly passed through meat without doing any serious damage. Wincing as he was forced to lean toward his left to get a look around the post directly in front of him, Acklund scowled and swore under his breath.

  “What’s the matter?” Mose asked from the other side of Acklund’s table.

  When he saw Mose start to turn around to look toward the bar, Acklund growled, “Sit still. That son of a bitch that killed Dave just walked in.”

  That got Mose twisting around even faster. “Where? I wanna—” Even though he easily had fifty pounds on Acklund, Mose was stopped cold by a quick backhand from the other man.

  “Keep still before he sees us.”

  “Who cares if he sees us? Ain’t we here to kill the bastard?”

  “Not when he’s surrounded by half a dozen of his friends,” Acklund said. “We ain’t about to make a stupid mistake like the one that got Dave killed.”

  “Dave may have been stupid, but he was our brother,” Mose pointed out “I want to get a look at this asshole’s face to make sure we came to the right spot.”

  “It’s him, all right. Didn’t you hear that fat man shouting his name?”

  “I never caught the name.”

  “It’s Clint Adams,” Acklund snarled as though the last two words were vulgarities. “That’s the man that the barber hired to carry that package and that’s the one that killed Dave. I’m looking at him right now.”

  Mose gripped the table with both hands. His knuckles whitened as if he intended on breaking the table apart, but he refrained from turning toward the bar again. “When are we gonna go after him? After he sets foot outside this place?”

  “We need to be sure before we do a damn thing,” Acklund said. “He nearly killed the three of us when he was alone.”

  “So we just let him get away with killin’ Dave?”

  As Mose started to raise his voice, Acklund bared his teeth like one wolf putting another member of its pack into its place. Mose quieted down, but didn’t look happy about it.

  “We didn’t come into this saloon looking for a fight,” Acklund explained. “My hip’s still bleeding and you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I can hold my liquor, goddammit,” Mose slurred.

  “We want to kill that murderer, not give him a free shot at one or both of us. We can take him out whenever we like. We got the upper hand.”

  “How do you figure?”
>
  “He doesn’t know we’re here.”

  Mose furrowed his brow and shifted toward the bar. He caught himself before being reprimanded and lowered his head once more. “He’s right there. We can take him.”

  “All he needs is one man to get him to look our way before we get there. Hell, that barkeep’s been watching us since we got here and they know we’re heeled. If we play this right, we can wait for the perfect spot and pick him off whenever we please.”

  “We may not get a better chance than this,” Mose growled.

  “We weren’t even expecting to find him yet. We just came here for a drink before picking up his tracks again, remember?”

  Reluctantly, Mose nodded.

  “Then keep your head down and your mouth shut. If we catch his eye too soon, we’ll have to fight him and God knows how many of his friends. We’ll get our chance and when we do, we’ll see to it that son of a bitch gets what he’s got comin’ for killing our little brother.”

  Mose smiled. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  THIRTEEN

  All things considered, Clint was lucky to have run into the telegraph operator when he did. The big fellow may have been a little loud, but he was friendly and true to his word. He ordered several beers for both of them over the next hour or so and refused to let Clint pay for a single one. Just when Clint was beginning to feel the effect of the beer, the telegraph operator needed to lean on the bar to keep from falling over.

  “I think you’ve had enough, Ben,” the barkeep said.

  The big man slapped the bar and replied, “The hell I have. Did I mention that this man here—”

  “You mentioned it, once or twice by now,” Clint said before Ben could go off into another round of his stories. Even though the tales were overblown in Clint’s favor, there was only so much he could take. Judging by the grateful looks on the faces around him, Clint wasn’t the only one who’d tired of those somewhat exaggerated accounts.

  “Yeah, well I jus’ wanted to thank you on behalf of my uncle.”

  “I thought Zeke was your cousin.”

  “He is,” Ben replied. “What did I say he was?”

  “Why don’t you tell him all about it?” Clint said as he nodded toward the barkeep. “I’ve got an appointment for dinner.”

  The barkeep’s eyes widened and he started to shake his head as Ben leaned in his direction. As soon as the big telegraph operator’s bloodshot eyes were trained on him, the barkeep put on a well-practiced smile and said, “You mentioned Zeke plenty of times, Ben. I’m sure Clint won’t just leave you here.”

  Clint chuckled at the beleaguered expression etched onto the barkeep’s face. “Actually, I was going to do just that. I think the big fellow will be safe enough where he is.”

  “Sure,” the barkeep grumbled.

  “All right, then.” Digging out some money and handing it over to the barkeep, he added, “This is for the next few cups of coffee along with your patience.”

  The barkeep took the money and tucked it into his shirt pocket with a smile. “I’ve seen Ben off before. I can do it again.”

  “Where the hell you going, Adams?” Ben roared. “I wanna hear all about what happened when you gunned down them robbers.”

  “I already told you about it. Twice, in fact. I’ve got to go.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m having supper at . . .” Clint had to stop for a second to fight through the bit of haze in his head. The beer was just potent enough to make him pause before remembering the name he was after. “Hank Mason’s place. I’ve got some business with him, and his daughter is supposed to cook supper.”

  “Ellie Mason, eh?” Ben chuckled. A lewd grin spread across his face as he looked at the other men surrounding him. A few of them merely nodded, but the drunker of the bunch looked just as lecherous as Ben. “I’ll want to hear all about it when you come back.”

  Knowing that Ben was attempting to make a crude joke, Clint slapped him on the shoulder as if the comment had served its purpose. “I will, Ben. Thanks for the drinks.”

  In the short time he’d been in the saloon, Clint had also managed to swap a few stories with some of the other locals inside the place. He said his good-byes to them and promised to stop by real soon. As he turned toward the door, his eye was caught by a pair of men sitting behind several posts at one of the back tables. Before Clint could get a better look at the men, he was spun back around to face the bar.

  “Where you goin’?” Ben grunted. “You need to tell me all about—”

  “I will,” Clint interrupted as he bolted for the door. Even though he made it outside the Howling Moon, Clint could still hear Ben’s voice bellowing from within the saloon. He quickened his steps before the big man charged outside to lasso him back to the bar.

  Clint took a few steps down the street and stopped. The sun was on its way down, but the growing shadows weren’t what threw him off his mark. He’d only been in town for a matter of hours and had barely walked down two streets in that time. He took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure he was headed in the right direction to get to Hank’s house.

  When Clint turned, he spotted a man stepping out of the Howling Moon. He couldn’t make out the man’s face, though, and when the man turned around and went back inside, Clint followed suit by going about his own business.

  Foremost in his thoughts was the hope that Hank’s daughter was a good cook.

  FOURTEEN

  The sun dipped below the horizon and several of the windows in Hinterland started to flicker with the warm glow of candles or lanterns behind them. The wind blew in from the west, carrying a cold chill along with them that cut like a blade as they blew to the east. There wasn’t much of a moon showing that night, which made it easier for Acklund and Mose to creep up to the large blue house on the edge of town.

  Stopping on the edge of the light being thrown onto the ground from one of the side windows, Acklund hunkered down and waved for Mose to do the same. Mose was a lot bigger than his brother, but he crouched down as much as his long legs would allow.

  “Stay here and keep watch,” Acklund whispered. “If anyone comes toward us, just whistle.”

  Mose nodded and moved away from the house so he could stand against a tree. In the darkness, he looked like just another bulky shadow.

  Acklund kept so low that he was almost crawling when he approached the house. The window he crouched beneath was rectangular and stretched lengthwise along a good portion of the side wall. He removed his hat, pressed his other hand against the wall, and then slowly lifted his head until he could peek through the bottom of the window.

  Just then, someone’s voice came from the house.

  “You sure you don’t want anything stronger than that?” it asked.

  Acklund’s hand flinched toward the gun at his side, but he stopped short before drawing it. Once that initial reflex had passed, he noticed that the window in front of him was partially open and the voice he’d heard wasn’t directed at him. Just to be safe, he froze in his spot and listened as intently as he could.

  “Water is just fine,” another voice replied. Acklund recognized this one as Clint’s, since he’d spent a good while listening to Clint back at the Howling Moon.

  “Suit yourself,” the first voice said in a gruffer tone. “I always like some whiskey to go along with my supper.”

  There was some further banter, but Acklund was more concerned with the clomping of boots moving away from the window. Once the steps had faded enough, Acklund eased himself upward again so he could take a look inside.

  As soon as he was able to see over the windowsill, he caught a whiff of burnt corn bread and boiled beef. The food may not have been perfect, but after so many days of eating beans and jerked venison, it smelled good enough to get his stomach rumbling. He might have been thinking a bit too much about food, since Acklund didn’t hear the lighter set of footsteps until the woman making them crossed in front of the window.

  When t
he woman appeared in front of him, Acklund dropped to one knee and pressed himself against the side of the house. Even though he couldn’t see the woman directly above him, he was close enough to feel the heat from her body as she pulled the window all the way open and leaned forward a little.

  Acklund moved his fingers around his pistol so slowly that he could feel every joint creak within his hand. When the gun brushed against the holster and made the subtle sound of iron brushing against leather, he gritted his teeth and prepared for the worst.

  Hank sat in his chair and let out an impatient sigh. “Ellie.” He grunted. When he didn’t get a reply, he rolled his eyes and turned to look halfway over his shoulder. “Ellie, what in the devil are you doin’? The spuds are probably cold by now!”

  “I thought I heard something, Daddy,” she replied from the kitchen.

  Shaking his head, Hank ripped the napkin from where it had been dangling from his collar and slapped it onto the table. He then got up and stormed to the kitchen as if he were trying to stomp out a fire. “What the hell are you talking about now? If you made me get up for another rodent scraping at the wall, I swear . . .”

  “Never mind!” Ellie said. “It’s probably nothing.” Hank remained in his spot, half standing and half crouching over his chair. When he didn’t hear anything else after that, he lowered himself back down again. Looking over to Clint, he explained, “She gets like this sometimes. Her Ma used to be fidgety, too.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Clint said. “Everyone’s ears plays tricks on them sometimes.”

  Ellie emerged from the kitchen holding a large platter in both hands. “Thank you very much, Mr. Adams,” she said. “It’s nice to know I’m not crazy.”

  Clint stood up and smiled when Ellie entered the room. She was average height for a woman and had long hair that was pulled back and tied behind her head. For most of the time, her hair looked to be a dark shade of brown. When she turned her head just the right way and the light hit her at just the right angle, there seemed to be shades of red mixed in among the soft, flowing strands. At those times, Ellie looked more like a portrait that had come to life than just a simple miller’s daughter.