The Devil's Collector Read online

  An Unwanted Guest . . .

  Clint and Sonnet had checked two large saloons before they came to the Golden Garter. They entered and went to the bar, ordered two beers.

  “Don’t look around,” Clint said as the bartender set the beers down. “Just tell me if Dix Williams is in the place.”

  “He sure is.”

  “Where?” Sonnet asked.

  “Behind you,” the bartender said. “The girl with the green dress is in his lap, only she don’t wanna be.”

  “He a friend of yours?” Clint asked.

  “Hell, no,” the man said. “He’s been ridin’ roughshod over this town since he got here. You’d be doin’ us all a favor if you killed him.”

  Sonnet looked at Clint, who avoided his gaze.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “Are you gonna?” the man asked.

  “What?” Clint asked.

  “Kill ’im?”

  “No . . .” Clint said.

  “But I am,” Jack Sonnet said, and turned.

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans

  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

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  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  THE DEVIL’S COLLECTOR

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-61041-1

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / July 2013

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  More All-Action Western Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  ONE

  DANEHILL, ARIZONA

  Clint Adams was not usually on this side of the gunfight.

  That is to say, on the sidelines, watching.

  When he rode into Danehill, Arizona, he had no idea what he was getting into. He reined in his horse in front of the first saloon he came to. There were already a few horses there. He’d been thinking the last few miles of only one thing—a cold beer.

  He entered the saloon, which at first looked like a small, sleepy place. There was only one table that had more than one man at it. Four cowboys were sitting together, and three were obviously subservient to one, a man with a flat-brimmed black hat and feral eyes.

  “Help ya?” the bartender asked.

  “I’d like to start with a cold beer,” Clint said, “and then find someplace that cooks up a good steak.”

  “You can get both right here,” the man told him.

  “That right? Why don’t we start with the beer, and if it’s cold enough, I’ll stay here for the steak.”

  “Comin’ up,” the bartender said.

  He brought Clint a sweaty mug of cold beer with an impressive head. Clint took one sip and said, “Toss that steak on the stove.”

  “Take a seat,” the man told him. “I’ll bring it out.”

  • • •

  At the table Del Colbert watched the man walk in and approach the bar.

  “Anybody know that feller who just walked in?” he asked.

  “Where?” Saul Tackett asked.

  “At the bar, stupid,” Colbert said.

  The other three men all looked, then turned back to Colbert.

  “Don’t know ’im,” Adam Kennedy said.

  “Me neither,” Cal Griffin said.

  Tackett looked at Colbert and shook his head.

  “Ah, what the hell,” Colbert said. “Just some stranger gettin’ a beer.”

  He went back to his own drink.

  • • •

  Jack Sonnet rode into town slowly, carefully. He scanned both sides of the street, as well as the rooftops. Satisfied nobody with a rifle had a bead on him, he directed his attention straight ahead.

 
His eyes were attracted to the horses tethered in front of the saloon. He reined in and studied the animals for a few moments, then dismounted and tied his own horse off next to the big black gelding, who turned his head to stare at him balefully.

  Sonnet stepped up on to the boardwalk, took a look in the front window. He spotted the man he thought he was looking for, but he had to be sure.

  He walked up to the batwing doors and went in.

  • • •

  As the batwings opened, Clint saw the young man enter. He looked too young to shave, but Clint noticed something about his eyes. They were alert, didn’t miss a thing. The Colt tied down on his thigh also told him something. It was very well cared for.

  Clint had a feeling things were going to get interesting. This boy was looking for somebody.

  • • •

  This time, when Colbert said, “Anybody know this kid?” he got a positive answer.

  “Oh yeah,” Kennedy said.

  “Who is he?”

  “Just some kid fancies himself a gunhand,” Kennedy said.

  “Why would he be here?” Colbert asked.

  Kennedy shrugged.

  “Would he be lookin’ for you, Kennedy?” Colbert asked.

  “Maybe,” the man said.

  “What did you do?”

  “I mighta killed somebody,” Kennedy said.

  “Somebody?”

  Kennedy shrugged again. “His older brother maybe.”

  “Shit,” Colbert said. “When was that?”

  “About three months ago, when I was in—”

  “I don’t care where you were,” Colbert hissed. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “You wouldn’ta let me come along if you knew,” Kennedy said.

  “You got that right!” Colbert said. “If this kid is here lookin’ for you, Kennedy, you’re on your own.”

  “Ah,” Kennedy said, “I can take him . . .”

  TWO

  Clint expected the kid to walk to the bar. Instead, he walked directly to the table with the four men. They looked up at him curiously.

  “You know any of these people?” Clint asked the bartender.

  “Not a one,” the man said, “including you.”

  Clint turned with his beer in his hand to watch . . .

  • • •

  “Can we help you?” Colbert asked.

  “I’m lookin’ for a man named Kennedy,” the kid said. “Adam Kennedy.”

  “That’s me,” Kennedy said. He was across the table from the kid. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Sonnet,” the kid said, “Jack Sonnet.”

  “And what do you want with me?”

  “You remember my brother?” Sonnet asked. “Carl Sonnet?”

  “I remember.”

  “You killed him.”

  “I remember that, too,” Kennedy said. “In a fair fight. He deserved it. Thought he was a fast gun. Well, he wasn’t fast enough, was he?”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Sonnet said, “but I am.”

  “Oh, you think so?” Kennedy asked with a loud belly laugh.

  “I know so,” Sonnet said. “No brag, just fact.”

  “So I suppose you want me to step outside?”

  “Nope,” Sonnet said, “right here’ll do.”

  • • •

  Clint knew what was coming. He could see it in Sonnet’s face and demeanor that he meant to draw. The other man—Kennedy—started to get up, but then the other three did the same.

  He couldn’t just stand by.

  “Hold it!” he snapped.

  The four men turned and looked at him. Sonnet did not.

  “What?” Colbert asked.

  “What’s your name?” Clint asked.

  “Colbert.”

  “You’re the leader here,” Clint said. “At least, that’s the way it looks to me.”

  “That’s right. So?”

  “So I think you and your other two boys should sit back down and keep your hands on the table.”

  “And why should we do that?”

  “Because it sounds to me like this boy has a legitimate beef with your friend there. I think he should be allowed to settle it, man-to-man. Don’t you?”

  Sonnet still had not looked over at Clint. He was staring intently at the man called Kennedy.

  “What’s it to you?” Colbert said.

  “Simple,” Clint said. “I’ll kill the first man who tries to interfere.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he shouldn’t have to face four men to get his satisfaction,” Clint said. “One will do.”

  While Sonnet and Kennedy eyed each other, the other three men looked at Clint.

  “You think you can take the three of us?” Colbert asked.

  “I know I can,” Clint said, then added, “No brag, just fact.”

  At that the kid sneaked a look at Clint, then gave him a nod.

  “It’s okay, Del,” Kennedy said. “I can take him without help.”

  “You think so?” Colbert asked.

  “Sure.”

  “All right, then,” Colbert said, sitting back down. He looked at Clint. “But only ’cause you said so, Adam, not because he said so.”

  Kennedy stood up all the way and faced the kid.

  “You called it, kid,” he said. “The first move’s yours.”

  Sonnet didn’t say another word. He drew and fired. Kennedy never got a chance to put his hand on his gun. His body flew backward as if jerked by a chain. The kid was using a .44.

  Colbert and the other two looked startled, looked at the kid, then looked at Clint.

  Sonnet holstered his gun.

  “Nobody move,” Clint said to the men at the table.

  “He killed our friend.”

  “In a fair fight.”

  “The kid’s a gunny,” Colbert said. “You saw him.”

  “Yeah, I saw him.”

  Clint could see how badly Colbert wanted to pull his gun.

  “Okay, then go ahead,” Clint said. “All of you. Throw down, but it’ll be on the two of us, not just the kid.”

  “I ain’t a kid,” Sonnet said.

  “All right,” Clint said, “sorry. My mistake. The young man.”

  “He’s a killer!” Colbert said.

  “He was the killer,” Sonnet said, pointing to the dead man. “I did the world a favor by killin’ him.”

  The other three men stood up, but didn’t make a move for their guns.

  The batwings opened and a man with a badge on his chest and a gun in his hand entered.

  “Everybody hold it!” he said.

  “He did it!” Colbert yelled, pointing at Sonnet. “He killed Kennedy.”

  The sheriff looked at Sonnet.

  “It was a fair fight,” the young man said. “That man and the bartender were witnesses.”

  “Eddie?” the sheriff said to the bartender.

  “That fella,” Eddie said, indicating Sonnet, “came in and called that guy”—pointing to the dead man—“out. Those three”—pointing—“tried to back that one’s play, but this one”—pointing at Clint—“stopped them. Then those two threw down. The kid outdrew him clean. The other fella never got a chance to touch his gun.”

  “So,” the sheriff said, “six involved and one dead?”

  “That’s the way it looked to me,” Eddie said.

  “I wasn’t involved,” Clint said. “I just made sure it stayed a fair fight.”

  “And what’s your name?” the sheriff asked.

  Clint thought about lying. He wasn’t going to walk away from this once he gave the lawman his name. In the end, though, he told the truth.

  “Clint Adams.”

  All the men in the room tur
ned and looked at him. Colbert and his two companions suddenly drew their hands as far away from their guns as they could.

  “Okay,” the sheriff said, “Eddie, go around and collect all their guns.”

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  The bartender went to the three men at the table and got their guns. Next he bent over and picked up the dead man’s gun, and then confronted Sonnet, who handed his weapon over. Finally he walked over to Clint and stood in front of him, waiting.

  “Here you go,” Clint said, handing the man his gun. He could see the man release the breath he’d been holding.

  “All right,” the sheriff said, “everybody over to my office so we can sort this out. Eddie, get some men to carry the body over to the undertaker’s.”

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  The lawman waved his gun and said, “Let’s go.”

  THREE

  Sheriff Tom Booker did not put any of them in a cell.

  There were only two chairs. The sheriff asked Sonnet to take one, and Clint the other.

  “What’s the Gunsmith doing in my town?” Booker asked.

  “Looking for a cold beer and a steak,” Clint said, “which is probably burnt by now.”

  “You can get another one,” Booker said. He looked at the young man. “Your name is Sonnet?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s a pretty famous name.”

  Sonnet shrugged.

  “Are you part of that family?”

  “Yes.”

  “See?” Colbert said. “See, I tol’ you he was a gunman.”

  “You shut up,” Booker said. “The bartender and Mr. Adams heard your friend confess that he killed this man’s brother.”

  “In a fair fight!” Colbert protested.

  “You mean the way you wanted it to happen here?” Clint asked. “You three were gonna draw down on this kid.”

  “I’m not a kid,” Sonnet said.

  Booker ignored him.

  “We were gonna back our friend.”

  “Four against one?” the sheriff said. “If Mr. Adams hadn’t stopped you, you’d all be in my jail right now.”

  Colbert frowned. The other two men just kept quiet. They were just happy they hadn’t tried to draw on a Sonnet, and the Gunsmith, or they’d all be dead.

  “All right,” Booker said, sitting back in his chair, “you three can go.”

  “What about our guns?”