The Town Council Meeting Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Full House

  “Those eight men would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you. That’s eight bullets.”

  “One from each?” Clint asked. “How many of them do you think I’d take with me? I’m betting at least . . . five?”

  “Are you that good?”

  Clint smiled.

  “There was a time I would have said six, but I was young then.”

  “And faster?”

  “Dumber,” Clint said, “more arrogant. No, five is an honest opinion.”

  “That wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Give me your gun. Walk over to the jail with me.”

  “And then what?”

  “Tell your story to a jury.”

  “Go to trial?” Clint asked. “For something I didn’t do? Kill a man I never met.”

  “They say their boss met with the Gunsmith.”

  “Or a man claiming to be the Gunsmith.”

  “Convince a jury of that,” Yatesman said. “We can walk back to your poker game and talk to the judge.”

  “The judge doesn’t want me in your jail.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Clint smiled again.

  “I have most of his money.”

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  Penguin Books Ltd. , Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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 TOWN COUNCIL MEETING

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / August 2009

  Copyright © 2009 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

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  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-10513-9

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  ONE

  Clint was in a café when he heard all the commotion outside. He picked up his mug of coffee and carried it outside with him. About eight riders had come storming into town, kicking up dust and scattering people. Folks were coming out from their homes and businesses to see what the ruckus was about.

  “What’s going on?” he asked a man with an apron who was standing near him. He had come out of the general store next to the café.

  “Don’t rightly know,” the man said. “Those boys are from the Bar K ranch, though.”

  “Big outfit?” Clint asked.

  “Not the biggest, but big enough,” the man replied. “Looks like they’re goin’ into the sheriff’s office.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “none of my business.”

  He took his cup back inside and asked the waitress for some more.

  Clint had been in Cannon City, Wyoming, for three days. The food at this small café wasn’t the best, but the coffee was. He’d go a long way for a good cup of coffee, and they served a nice little breakfast to go with it.

  The waitress was also the prettiest girl he’d seen since arriving in town. Well, actually, she was more woman than girl, probably about thirty. She flirted with him, but he’d seen her flirt with other customers. He also found out early—and better early than never—that she was married to the cook.

  So he went there for the coffee and to watch her walk around and serve customers.
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  At the moment, though, he was the only customer in the place. She poured him some more coffee, then put the pot down on the table and went to stare out the window.

  “Somethin’ awful must’ve happened out at the Bar K,” she said. “Usually, those boys are avoidin’ the sheriff, not visitin’ him.”

  Is that unusual?” Clint asked. “Trouble out at the Bar K?”

  “No, she answered, “but like I said, those boys are usually causin’ the trouble.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I’m sure the sheriff can handle it. Him and his deputies.”

  “What deputies?” she asked. “This is a small town. It’s just Sheriff Yatesman.”

  “In a small town news travels fast,” Clint said. “I’m sure it’ll make its way to you, soon.”

  Clint finished his coffee and paid the check, then put his hat on and stepped outside. As he did a bunch of men came pouring out of the sheriff’s office, followed by the sheriff himself. They all mounted up and went riding out of town as hell-bent for leather as they had ridden in.

  Somebody’s dead, Clint thought.

  Later, Clint was in Cannon City’s smallest saloon. He liked it better than the other two because it was quiet. It was possible to play poker without having to listen to bad piano playing, bad singing, and drunken cowboys shouting back and forth. The other two saloons never had any poker games going.

  He was in a five-handed game, not high stakes, but not penny ante, either. He was far enough ahead to make the game worth it. The other players were regulars, four men from town who always had room for a fifth, stranger or not.

  Clint was staring down at a full house when the batwings swung inward and the doorway belched men into the room. He was facing the door so he saw them—the sheriff and the men from the Bar K.

  “There he is!” someone shouted, pointing.

  “Easy,” the sheriff said. “Just stay here.”

  The ranch hands were obviously agitated, but they remained behind and went to the bar. They shoved several men out of the way and ordered drinks.

  The sheriff walked over to the poker table.

  “Clint Adams?”

  Clint didn’t look up.

  “That’s me.”

  “Can I talk to you?”

  Now Clint looked at the man.

  “Talk.”

  “Privately.”

  “I’m in the middle of a game, Sheriff,” Clint said. “In fact, in the middle of a hand.”

  “Finish the hand, then,” the sheriff said.

  “You taking me in, Sheriff?”

  “Not even takin’ you to my office, Mr. Adams. We can talk here, at an empty table.”

  Clint thought it over, then said, “Okay. Get yourself a drink and wait for me at an empty table. I’ll finish up this hand.”

  The sheriff stood there for a moment, then turned and went to the bar.

  At the bar Arnold Coleman watched the sheriff walk to the bar.

  “You gonna let him get away with that?” he asked.

  “You see who he’s playin’ poker with?” the sheriff asked. “The judge, and the mayor, and two members of the town council.”

  “We don’t care,” Coleman said. He was the spokesman for the group. “If you’re not gonna do your job, we will.”

  “All eight of you?” the sheriff asked. “Which one of you is gonna take the lead? Put a gun on the Gunsmith? Huh?”

  The seven men behind Coleman looked away.

  “That’s what I thought,” the lawman said. “Just stay here and let me do my job.” He looked at the bartender. “Gimme a beer, Sammy.”

  The bartender set a full mug on the bar. The sheriff grabbed it and walked to an empty table.

  TWO

  Clint took the hand with a full house, then excused himself from the game. He walked over and sat opposite the sheriff. He still had full view of the room, especially the eight nervous men at the bar.

  “Don’t want a drink?” the sheriff asked.

  “I think I’d make your nervous friends even more nervous if I went to the bar,” Clint said. “What’s this all about?”

  “Do you know Big Ed Kennedy?”

  “Big Ed?” Clint asked. “Is he a big guy?”

  “He’s a big man in this part of Wyoming,” the sheriff said. “At least, he was until this mornin’.”

  “And what happened this morning?”

  “Somebody killed him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Clint said. “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Big Ed told his foreman, Arnie Coleman, that he was hiring the Gunsmith.”

  “For what?”

  “What else? For his gun.”

  “Why did Big Ed need a gun for hire?” Clint asked.

  “He’s havin’ some trouble with some other ranchers in the area.”

  “A range war?” Clint asked. “There hasn’t been a range war in years.”

  “These men have never stopped. You met Ed Kennedy. You know how old he is.”

  “Nice try, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I never met Mr. Kennedy.”

  “Well, him and the other big ranchers around here—Matt Holmes and Andy Rivers—are all in their seventies.”

  “Really? Are they healthy old fellows?”

  “All but Big Ed,” the sheriff said. “He’s dead.”

  “And let me guess,” Clint said. “I’m supposed to have killed him? A man I never met?”

  “Who says you never met him?”

  “Who says I did?”

  “His men.”

  Clint looked over at them.

  “All of them? Or one of them, and the other seven are simply agreeing?”

  “Those eight men would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you. That’s eight bullets.”

  “One from each?” Clint asked. “How many of them do you think I’d take with me? I’m betting at least . . . five?”

  “Are you that good?”

  Clint smiled.

  “There was a time I would have said six, but I was young then.”

  “And faster?”

  “Dumber,” Clint said, “more arrogant. No, five is an honest opinion.”

  “That wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Give me your gun. Walk over to the jail with me.”

  “And then what?”

  “Tell your story to a jury.”

  “Go to trial?” Clint asked. “For something I didn’t do? Kill a man I never met.”

  “They say their boss met with the Gunsmith.”

  “Or a man claiming to be the Gunsmith.”

  “Convince a jury of that,” Yatesman said. “We can walk back to your poker game and talk to the judge.”

  “The judge doesn’t want me in your jail.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Clint smiled again.

  “I have most of his money.”

  THREE

  “Okay,” Yatesman said, “how about this? You keep your gun but take a walk over to my office with me.”

  “I still don’t know why I’d do that, Sheriff.”

  “Well, what do you want to do?”

  “If I had my druthers? I’d go back to my poker game, finish it, have something to eat. Go back to my hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and ride out of this town come morning. End of story.”

  “But it wouldn’t be the end of the story,” the lawman said. “Those men would hunt you down.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh yes,” Yatesman said. “You see, Big Ed’s men loved him. So I think they’d come after you, and there would be more than eight of them. They got at least twenty men working out there. You want to take on twenty mad ranch hands?”

  “I don’t want to take on anybody, Sheriff,” Clint said. “But I didn’t kill Ed Kennedy, and I never met him.”

  The sheriff shook his head. He looked to be about forty-five or so, was probably a career lawman who thought he’d found himself a
soft spot here to finish out his career.

  Clint wasn’t deliberately trying to be difficult. Well, maybe he was, but the fact remained he didn’t give himself much of a chance if he gave up his gun and allowed himself to be locked in a cell. If Big Ed’s men loved him the way the sheriff said they did, he’d be a dead man for sure. It was only the gun on his hip—and the sheriff—that was keeping them from coming after him.

  “I need somebody smarter than me to figure this out,” the sheriff said. “How about I invite the judge over here to help?”

  “The judge is smarter than you?”

  Yatesman shrugged. “He’s a judge.”

  “I hope he’s a better judge than he is a poker player,” Clint said. “Go ahead. Invite him.”

  Clint sat back and watched the lawman walk to the poker game and speak to the judge, whose name—Clint had heard during the game—was Curtis. He didn’t know if it was a first or last name, and he’d heard it only once. The other men at the table simply called him “Judge,” just like they called the mayor “Mayor.”

  The judge frowned, snapped at the sheriff, then pushed his chair back and walked over with the lawman in tow.

  He was in his sixties, wearing a dark suit that made his snow-white shirt and hair stand out. He sat down opposite Clint in the seat the sheriff had vacated. The lawman sat in a third chair.

  “I kinda wish you’d told me I was playing poker with the Gunsmith, Adams,” he said.

  “Nobody exactly told me I was playing with a judge and a mayor,” Clint said. “I had to hear it for myself during the game. Besides, the only thing that matters during a poker game is the cards.”

  The judge looked at Yatesman and said, “He’s got that right.”

  “Judge, we got a problem,” the sheriff said.

  “Ain’t that what we hired you for, Pete?”

  “Well, Judge, I figure I’m doin’ my job right now keepin’ those eight ranch hands from shootin’ up this saloon tryin’ to get to Adams.”