The University Showdown

by J. R. Roberts

  “Well, we’re going to take some stuff with us in case we have to stay out overnight.”

  “You mean camp and sleep on the trail?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  The young man stood up excitedly.

  “I’ve never done that,” he said. “Can I build the fire?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Can you? I guess we’re going to find out.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Clint and Fellows spent the rest of the morning and the afternoon looking for a trail left by a killer. By late afternoon Clint was becoming frustrated.

  “This isn’t right,” he said to Fellows. “There has to be a trail. There can’t have been a horse or a wagon out here without leaving a trail.”

  “What if there wasn’t one?”

  “What?”

  “No, horse,” Fellows said, “and no wagon.”

  “You mean…the killer walked all the way? Maybe from the Bodeen ranch? You know how many miles that is?”

  “No,” Fellows said, “but it doesn’t matter, because that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about someone from within,” Fellows said.

  “Somebody who was already in the camp.”

  “You mean, the vandalism, the fires, and now the murder were committed by someone already in the camp? Working in the camp?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Clint stared at the detective.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I think that’s brilliant,” Clint said, looking around them. “That’s why there are no tracks.”

  “Well, it’s a theory.”

  “No, no,” Clint said, “that’s it. That’s the answer.”

  “Then we have to go back and question everyone in the camp,” Fellows said. “Tracking is what you do, but investigating is what I do.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “When we get back to camp, you take the lead, and I’ll follow.”

  They headed back to camp.

  “Can we eliminate Steve Taylor?” Clint asked.

  “Why?”

  “Well, he’s the foreman,” Clint said. “Why would he want to sabotage the project?”

  “I don’t know,” Fellows said, “but I think it’s way too soon to eliminate anyone.”

  “Well, except you and me.”

  “Especially since we weren’t even in camp when it happened,” the detective pointed out.

  “Good point.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “Let’s go back to camp and find out who the murdering spy is.”

  While Clint and Fellows were out looking for tracks, Art Sideman packed his things and left the site, riding into town. He rode directly to the Silver Spur Hotel and went up to George Eiland’s suite. He banged on the door until the man answered.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Eiland demanded.

  “I got kicked out.”

  “What?”

  “Off the site.”

  “By who?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “Clint—what the hell does he have to do with anything?”

  “You haven’t been keeping up, Eiland,” Sideman said. “Now that Fitzgerald is dead, Adams is taking over.”

  “The Gunsmith?” Eiland said. “Now we have to deal with him?”

  “Well,” Art Sideman said, “you should have thought of that before you had me kill Fitzgerald.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  When Clint and Fellows returned to the site, Art Sideman was gone.

  “He left as soon as I told him you were in charge,” Taylor told Clint as he dismounted. “Did you find the trail you were lookin’ for?”

  “Yeah, we did,” Clint said. “It led us right back here.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me,” Clint said. He took Taylor into the shack and closed the door. He explained Fellow’s theory to the foreman.

  “I’m taking you into my confidence, Steve,” Clint said, “because I don’t believe you’re the guy.”

  “Well, I apprec—”

  “But if I find out you are the guy, I’ll make you the sorriest sonofabitch who ever lived. You got that?”

  “I’ve got it, Clint,” Taylor said. “Believe me, it wasn’t me.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said, “you, me, and the detective are going to find out who it was.”

  “How?”

  “By questioning the men one by one,” Clint said.

  “Are we gonna hold up work for that?” Taylor asked.

  “No, keep the men working,” Clint said. “Fellows and I will set up in here, then you send them in one by one. Fellows will question them. That’s what he does. He’ll figure out who it is.”

  “The men are gonna talk among themselves when they come out.”

  “We’ll tell them not to,” Clint said. “A few of them still might, and if the word gets to the guilty man, maybe he’ll run for it. Then we’ll know who it is.”

  “Okay,” Taylor said, “I get it.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “then let’s get started. Give Fellows some time to get set up in here.”

  “How will I know how much time?”

  “Ask him, then send him in here,” Clint said. “With any luck, we can get this resolved today, and then go back to building this university without any worries.”

  Taylor walked to the door, then stopped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like the idea that a killer’s been working among my men, and I didn’t know about it.”

  “If I’m right,” Clint said, “then he’s a professional. It’s his job to fool you. Don’t feel bad, Steve. Just help us catch the sonofabitch.”

  “You got it, Clint.”

  Fellows came in and Clint watched while he set up the table and some chairs the way he wanted them.

  “Where do you want me?” Clint asked.

  “I want you to stand behind them while they’re seated. I want them to be wondering what you’re doing back there at all times.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if it’s all right with you, I want to introduce you to them again. I want to make sure they know you’re the Gunsmith. We can use that against them.”

  “Suits me,” Clint said. “Whatever you want to do. I’m going to watch you work.”

  “Okay,” Fellows said. “Let Taylor know he can start sending them in.”

  “Will do.”

  “I just hope I’m as good at this as I think I am,” the detective said.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Well,” Clint said, “you were right.”

  “About what?” Fellows asked.

  “You are good at this.”

  It was late, they had seen all the men, given them about ten minutes each, and now it was time to have something to eat.

  “But…it’s none of them,” Fellows said.

  “What?”

  “From what I can see,” Fellows said, “the killer is not among them.”

  “That doesn’t mean you weren’t good at it,” Clint said. “You had them all…mesmerized.”

  “Well, it helped that the Gunsmith was standing behind them. They were scared stiff.”

  “And now that they know we suspected them all,” Clint remarked, “we have to go out there and eat with them.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Fellows said. “They all liked Fitz. They want to help find his killer.”

  “What about Taylor?” Clint asked. “Am I wrong about him?”

  “No,” Fellows said. “It’s not him.”

  “Who then?” Clint asked. “Who’s left? We talked to everybody.”

  They looked at each other.

  “I’m hungry,” Fellows said. “Let’s get something to eat. In the morning, I’ll have to go back to town and talk to the chief.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “I’ll ride back with you.”

  They left t
he shack, walked to one of the fires, where they each got a plate of beans and a cup of coffee.

  “Take some biscuits,” Reacher, the man cooking, said. “They’re hard, but dip ’em in the beans.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Clint said.

  “That architect, he liked my biscuits,” Reacher said. “Now that he’s gone, somebody has to eat them.”

  They each took two biscuits, then carried their meager meals to the shack.

  “Wait a minute,” Clint said in the middle of their meal.

  “What?”

  “We haven’t talked to everybody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sideman.”

  “The architect!” Fellows said. “We haven’t talked to him.”

  “We let him go!” Clint said.

  “Chased him back to town,” Fellows said. “But…the architect?”

  “What better way to avoid suspicion?” Clint said.

  “You don’t think he was a real architect?” Fellows asked.

  Clint shrugged. “I don’t know. What if that’s the reason he was always trying to change the plans?”

  “Let’s talk to Steve,” Fellows said. “He may have some insight.”

  “And tomorrow we can ride into town and question Sideman,” Clint said.

  “If that’s his real name.”

  “Isn’t there someone else?” Clint asked. “Someone who represents the university?”

  “George Eiland,” Fellows said. “He sits in on town council meetings. He’s friends with the mayor.”

  “That sounds like somebody we should talk to also,” Clint said.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  By morning Clint was convinced they’d made a terrible error letting Art Sideman go. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made that Sideman—or whoever he was—was the saboteur, and the killer. They just needed to find him to make sure.

  He came out of the shack and started to saddle Eclipse. Fellows came along and saddled his horse.

  Taylor told them that he’d never met “Art Sideman” before he came to the site, and that was the same time Fitz had met him. The architect and Fitz had corresponded with each other, and Fitz had received the original plans in the mail. It was only when Sideman came to the site that all the other versions of the plans started to appear.

  “The funny thing,” Taylor said, “is that they didn’t look like they’d been drawn up by the same man.”

  That was enough to convince Clint that “Art Sideman” was a fake.

  “You ready to go?” he asked Fellows.

  “I’m ready.”

  They mounted up.

  When they reached town, they turned their horses in at the livery.

  “I’ve got to go and see the chief, tell him what’s going on,” Fellows said.

  “Why don’t I come along?” Clint said.

  “Sure, why not? Maybe it won’t sound so crazy coming from both of us.”

  “It’s not crazy at all,” Clint said. “Someone hired the man to impersonate the architect, sabotage the project, maybe even damage it enough to halt the construction. Finally, he decided to commit murder.”

  “And then we kicked him out of camp.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “that may sound crazy. Look, I’ll take the blame for that.”

  “No, you won’t,” Fellows said. “I told you, I make my own decisions.”

  “Okay, but I’ll back you up.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  They walked from the livery stable to the police station, and as they entered, the young sergeant at the desk gave Clint a dirty look and said to Fellows, “Chief’s looking for you.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Are you sure about this?” the chief asked.

  Fellows and Clint exchanged a look.

  “We’re fairly sure, sir,” Fellows said.

  “And you let him go?”

  “We weren’t sure at that time, Chief,” Clint said.

  “And where did he go?”

  “We’re assuming he came here,” Fellows said.

  “And if he’s left town?”

  “We’ll have to find him,” Clint said.

  “Okay, look,” Chief Coleman said, “find out where Fitzgerald found this architect, and send a telegram. Maybe the real one is still there.”

  “We can check with that other man…what did you say his name was?” Clint asked.

  “Who’s he talking about?” Coleman said.

  “George Eiland,” Fellows said, answering both of them. “He represents the university people. He’ll know where the architect came from.”

  “Fine,” Coleman said, “talk to him, but take care. He’s friends with the mayor.”

  “Yessir.”

  They got up to leave and the chief said, “Hang back a minute, Fellows.”

  “Yessir. See you out front, Clint.”

  Clint nodded and left. Fellows turned to face the chief.

  “Sir?”

  “I just want you to be careful.”

  “About what, sir?”

  “Adams.”

  “What about him?”

  “Just watch how much trouble he gets you into.”

  “Sir, I can think for myself.”

  “I know you can, son. Like I said, I’m just warning you.”

  “Yessir. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “That’s all.”

  Fellows nodded, left the office, and went outside, where he found Clint waiting for him on the street.

  “What was that about?”

  “He just wanted to warn me.”

  “About Eiland?”

  “About you.”

  “Me?”

  “He seems to think you’re going to get me into trouble.”

  “Now what are the chances?” Clint asked.

  They walked over to the Silver Spur Hotel, got George Eiland’s room number from the clerk, and then went up to the third floor to knock on the door of the man’s suite.

  “Fancy place,” Clint said, “although you’ve probably seen the like or better in the East.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen better in your travels.”

  “Okay,” Clint nodded, “let’s agree it’s nice, but we’ve both seen better.”

  The door opened and Eiland appeared. Clint was not surprised to see a man in his fifties, wearing a three-piece suit and looking like he’d be at home in a university.

  “Mr. Eiland?” Fellows asked.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Detective Fellows, from the Tucson Police,” Fellows said. “This is my colleague, Clint Adams.”

  “Colleague?” Eiland said. “I was unaware that the Gunsmith had joined the Tucson Police Department.”

  “Unofficially,” Clint said. “I’m sort of…an advisor.”

  “I see.”

  “May we come in, Mr. Eiland?” Fellows asked. “We have some questions.”

  “Of course. Come in.” Eiland backed away to allow them to enter. They found themselves in one room of a large two-room suite. “Is this about the trouble out at the site?”

  “It is,” Fellows asked. “We’d like to know where your architect came from.”

  “I’m sorry…where he came from?”

  “Where he lived when you found him,” Clint said.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Eiland asked. For Clint’s money the look on his face was way too innocent to be genuine.

  “I’m afraid he’s gone missing,” Clint said. “You haven’t seen him in the past couple of days, have you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “We’re wondering if he returned home,” Fellows said. “We figure we’ll send a telegram to his home and see if he responds.”

  “Hmm, well, I have to tell you, I’m not sure,” Eiland said. “Ted Fitzgerald handled all of that.”

  “No idea?” Clint asked. “I mean, you were paying the man. You must have some idea where he was from.”

  “Well, back East, of course, but ex
actly where…I’m afraid I’m at a loss. Wouldn’t Ted have had that written down somewhere?”

  “I’m sure he did,” Clint said. He looked at Fellows. “We’ll have to go back to the site and check.”

  “Well then, we better get started,” Fellows said. “Thank you, Mr. Eiland.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for all the work you’re doing to help get this university finished.”

  Both men nodded, and left.

  “I don’t have to be a detective to know he was lying,” Clint said down in the lobby.

  “Oh yes,” Fellows said. “He knows more than he’s saying.”

  “If he knows the phony Sideman, he’s going to have to tell him that we’re going to the site to check on the real architect’s home. They’re not going to want us to be able to contact him. Not yet anyway.”

  “So you think Sideman will go back to the site to try and get that information before we do?”

  “I don’t see how he could figure that,” Clint said. “For all Eiland knows, we’re already on our way out there. No way he can beat us there.”

  “Well then,” Fellows said, “maybe he’ll try to stop us on the way back.”

  “Good point,” Clint said.

  Once again they went to saddle up for a ride out to the site.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  George Eiland waited long enough for Clint Adams and Detective Fellows to go down to the lobby, then left his room and hurried down the hall to another door. He pounded on it frantically until it was open. The man standing in the door had little resemblance to “Art Sideman” but it was the same man.

  “What the hell—”

  “You’ve got to get back to the site.”

  “What for?”

  “Adams and that detective are on their way back there.”

  “Come inside before somebody sees you,” the man said calmly.

  As Eiland entered, the other man closed the door.

  “Now calm down and tell me what’s going on,” the man instructed.

  Eiland told the man about his visit from Clint and Fellows.

  “So they’re going back there to search Fitzgerald’s records,” the man said. “Well, yeah, they’ll find out, all right.”

  “You’ve got to stop them!” Eiland said. “We don’t want them sending a telegram to the real Sideman.”