Copper Canyon Killers Read online

  “Nothin’, thanks.”

  The rancher turned to face the sheriff as they got into the living room, furnished with expensive, overstuffed furniture.

  “It must be serious if you don’t want a drink.”

  “It is,” Brown said. “It’s about Jason.”

  Big Al froze.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s in my jail.”

  It wasn’t unusual for Big Al to hear that one of his men was in jail, but not his son.

  “He’s seventeen.”

  “I know.”

  “And he’s not all there.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Why is he in your jail, Gordon?”

  “Well . . . murder.”

  Big Al looked stunned, then said, “That’s ridiculous. Who is he supposed to have killed?”

  “Ed Collins.”

  “Collins. Oh damn, I sent him to the store. What did the kid walk into?”

  “There were shots, and he was found crouching over Ed’s body.”

  “Preposterous!” Big Al said.

  “Well, he was the only one there. Collins was on the floor and there was a gun under him.”

  “Not in Jason’s hand?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’ve overstepped yourself, Sheriff.”

  “I’m doin’ my job, Mr. Henry. Ed’s daughter, Beth, is out for Jason’s head. She’s talking to the judge.”

  “Miller!” Henry said. He and Judge Miller were not friends. “He’ll use this to crucify me.”

  “Al, Jason is asking for you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Henry said, “I’ll come at once. You ride ahead and tell the boy I’m coming.”

  “Sure, Al. Sure.”

  The foreman, Robards, was standing just outside the living room, his hands clasped in front of him.

  “Dan, take him back to his horse, and then come back. And have my horse saddled.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Brown started to leave the room, Al Henry said, “Gordon.”

  “Yes?”

  “What happened to the man we sent with Jason?” Henry looked at Robards. “Who went with him?”

  “Terry Wilson.”

  “Oh, yeah, Wilson,” Henry said. “What happened to him?”

  “We’re looking for him now.”

  “He’s probably in the whorehouse,” Robards said.

  “All right,” Big Al said to Brown, “I’ll see you in town.”

  Brown nodded, and left.

  * * *

  By the time Dan Robards returned, Big Al Henry had a cigar going. He was still standing in the center of the room, deep in thought.

  “Your horse is bein’ saddled,” the foreman said.

  “Good,” Henry said. “saddle yours, too. You’re coming with me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Not a word to the boy’s mother, understand?” Henry said. “She’s not to know about this.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “And keep it from the hands, too, for now,” Big Al said. “Otherwise she might get wind of it.”

  “Okay.”

  “That goddamned kid. I never should have sent him to town.”

  “It’s not your fault, boss.”

  “No? Whose, then? Yours?”

  “Mine?”

  “For sending that idiot Wilson with him.”

  “He was supposed to keep an eye on him.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Henry said. “Oh, never mind whose fault it is. Get your horse saddled and meet me outside.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “And Dan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wear a gun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  SEVEN

  Clint was standing outside the saloon when the sheriff came riding back to town. He watched as the man reined in his horse in front of his office and went inside. He hadn’t checked in with the lawman yet, so he crossed the street and entered without knocking.

  The sheriff turned quickly and stared at him.

  “Sheriff?”

  “That’s right,” the man said. “Sheriff Brown. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, really,” Clint said. “I rode into town today and thought I’d check in with you.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  The sheriff looked surprised.

  “The Gunsmith!”

  “That’s right.”

  “I hope you’re not in town looking for trouble, Mr. Adams,” Brown said. “I’ve got all I can handle right now.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Clint said. “No, I’m just passing through, thought I’d try your beer and steaks . . . maybe some gambling.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to it all,” Brown said. “Like I said, I’ve got other problems.”

  “I won’t keep you, then,” Clint said.

  At that point the deputy walked in.

  “You find Wilson?”

  “I did,” Ott said. “He was at the whorehouse.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s getting cleaned up,” the deputy said. “Who’s this?”

  “Meet Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “We’ve gone over that already,” Brown said. “He’s simply passing through—and he was just leaving.”

  “Yes, I was,” Clint said.

  He turned and walked out. He was tempted to stop and listen at the door, but reminded himself that this was none of his business.

  He walked away, quite proud of himself.

  * * *

  “What the hell—” Brown said to Ott. “Where’s Wilson?”

  “I told you, he’s gettin’ cleaned up,” Ott said. “I found him in a room with three girls.”

  “Three?”

  “Three,” Ott said. “They was all naked and kinda . . . messy.”

  “Okay,” Brown said, “okay, I don’t want to hear about it. Just go and get the kid something to eat.” Brown gave the deputy a hard look. “He’s still back there, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, he’s there.”

  “Okay. Go to the café down the street.”

  “That place ain’t very good, Sheriff.”

  “I didn’t say get us something to eat, I said get him something to eat.”

  “Oh, okay. What should I get him?”

  Brown thought a moment, then said, “Chicken. They can’t ruin that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ott left and Brown sat down behind his desk. He expected the boy’s father any minute. He had a quick drink from a bottle in his drawer, then went into the cell block.

  Jason got to his feet immediately and rushed to the bars.

  “Am I going home now?” he asked hopefully.

  “Not right now, Jason.”

  “Is my pa here?”

  “Not yet, but he’s on the way,” Brown said. “I spoke with him myself.”

  “Did you find Terry?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Brown said. “We found him. He’ll be here soon, too. Also, Deputy Ott is bringing you some chicken.”

  The boy brightened.

  “I like chicken.”

  “Good. It’ll be here shortly. Sit back down and wait. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Jason went and sat back down on his cot.

  * * *

  Clint was sitting in a chair in front of his hotel when two men rode into town. One of them sat very tall in the saddle. They both reined in their horses in front of the jail.

  The tall man dismounted, removed his hat, ran his hand over his white hair, and returned the hat to his head. Clint assumed this was the incarcerated boy’s
father.

  But it didn’t concern him.

  Not at all.

  * * *

  “Where’s my boy?” Big Al demanded.

  “In a cell,” the sheriff replied.

  “Anybody else back there?”

  “No,” Brown said. “We’re about to feed him.”

  “Never mind,” Henry said. “I’ll feed him myself, in a restaurant.”

  “Al—”

  “I wanna see him.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Al Henry started for the cell blocks.

  “I’ll need you to leave your gun here, Mr. Henry,” Brown said.

  Big Al glared at the lawman, then took his gun from his holster and set it on the desk.

  “Wait here,” Al told his foreman.

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Big Al went into the cell block, Brown asked Robards, “He’s not gonna do anything stupid, is he?”

  “Not that I know of,” the foreman said. “But then, I don’t know what goes on in his head. You’ve got his only son in jail for murder.”

  “Well,” Brown said, “he hasn’t been charged . . . yet.”

  EIGHT

  As Clint watched, a young woman and an older man in a suit hurried down the street and went directly to the sheriff’s office. They entered without knocking.

  Still none of his business.

  * * *

  As the two people entered, both Sheriff Brown and Dan Robards turned to look.

  “Beth!” Brown said.

  “And Judge Miller,” Robards said.

  “Sheriff,” Beth Collins said, “I brought the judge.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Brown, what the hell is going on?” Judge Miller asked.

  “Didn’t she tell you, Judge?”

  “I’m asking you!”

  “Well,” Brown said, “it’s like this . . .”

  * * *

  In the cell block Big Al saw his boy sitting in his jail cell and shook his head. If his mother could see him now.

  “Jason.”

  “The boy looked up, saw his father, and leaped to his feet.

  “Pa! You gettin’ me outta here?”

  “I am,” Henry said, “but first I want to know what happened.”

  “I don’t know, Pa,” Jason said. “I saw Mr. Collins lyin’ there and then . . . I don’t know. Somebody choked me.” He touched his neck. “They hurt my throat, and then I woke up. I thought Mr. Collins was asleep, but the sheriff says he’s . . . dead . . . like Ma.”

  The boy’s natural mother had died years ago, but Big Al’s present wife, Nancy, has raised him from a pup, considered him to be hers.

  “Son—” Big Al said, but then he heard the commotion out front. “I’ll be right back.”

  He went back into the office and saw Judge Miller.

  “What the hell do you want?” Big Al asked.

  “I want to do my job, Al,” Miller said. “From what the sheriff tells me, it sounds like your boy killed Ed Collins.”

  “That’s nonsense!”

  “My pa is dead, Mr. Henry!” Beth said. “Is that nonsense?”

  “No, of course not, Miss Collins,” Al Henry said, “but my boy . . . you know he couldn’t have done that.”

  “I don’t know any such thing,” she said.

  “Sheriff,” Henry said, “I want my boy out of that cell now.”

  “Not a chance,” Judge Miller said. “The boy’s to be held over for trial.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Henry said. “There’s no evidence.”

  “He was found in the room with the body, and a gun,” Miller said.

  “None of that means anything,” Big Al Henry said.

  “That’ll be up to a jury.”

  The two men faced off. They were the same age, but Henry towered over the portly judge—still they both had a strong presence, like two immovable forces.

  Big Al Henry looked over at the desk, where his gun was lying.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Al,” Sheriff Brown said.

  “Don’t worry,” Henry said. He picked up his gun and holstered it. “When I do something, it won’t be stupid.”

  The door opened then and the deputy walked in carrying a tray of food, covered by a red and white checkered napkin.

  “Wow,” he said, stopping short. To the judge, he explained, “Food for the prisoner.”

  “Give it to him,” the judge said. “We don’t want it to be said the prisoner was mistreated.”

  Ott looked at the sheriff, who nodded. The deputy carried the tray into the cell block.

  “I’ll check my docket and let you know when the trial is,” Miller said to Brown. “You can then inform the others.”

  “Yessir.”

  “My dear,” he said, taking Beth’s elbow. They left together.

  “You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” Big Al asked the sheriff.

  “What happened, Al?” Brown asked. “You guys used to be friends.”

  “That was a long, long time ago,” Henry said. “Tell my boy I’ll be back for him.”

  Big Al Henry stormed out of the office, with his foreman behind him.

  * * *

  Just outside the office, Big Al ran into Terry Wilson. The rancher didn’t recognize him until Robards said something.

  “Terry!” the foreman said. “What the hell—”

  “Wilson?” Al Henry said.

  “Yessir,” Wilson said nervously.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Robards asked.

  “Never mind that,” Al Henry said. “Where the hell were you when my boy was gettin’ into trouble?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Wilson said, “I thought he’d be all right while I, uh—”

  “While you went and rutted with your whores?” Big Al demanded.

  “Well, sir—”

  “It was your job to keep him out of trouble.”

  “I know, sir,” Wilson said. “I’m sor—”

  “Never mind,” Henry said. “You better go in and talk to the sheriff, then when you get back to the ranch, draw your pay.”

  “What?”

  “You’re fired!”

  “But—”

  Big Al ignored the man and walked away.

  “But—” Wilson tried with the foreman, but Robards also ignored him and walked to his horse.

  Glumly, Terry Wilson turned and walked into the sheriff’s office.

  NINE

  Clint watched—not with great interest, but some—as people stormed out of the sheriff’s office. The pretty young woman—from across the street she looked about twenty or so—was almost dragged up the street by the man in the suit, who had a definite air of self-importance.

  A few minutes after that, the tall, white-haired man burst out the door, with the other man trailing behind him. They ran into a third man, who they both seemed to light into. Then they got on their horses. But didn’t go far. They stopped in front of the saloon Clint had been in when the shooting happened. They dismounted and went inside, in an obvious drinking mood.

  The third man went into the sheriff’s office.

  Clint could have walked over to the saloon out of curiosity, just to see if the two men were talking about what went on in the sheriff’s office, but he decided against it. After all, it was none of his business.

  Instead, he stood up and decided to go in search of a place to have supper.

  * * *

  “What’s that?” Big Al Henry said, looking at the bartender. He hadn’t been listening to the man, but something he’d said had penetrated. “What did you say?”

  “Oh, I was just sayin’ that Clint Adams, the Gunsmith, was in town,” Rand
y replied.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Just passin’ through.”

  “What was he doing in this saloon?”

  “He was just havin’ a few beers.”

  “He’s a killer,” Henry said. “Maybe he killed Ed Collins.”

  “Couldn’t’ve, Mr. Henry,” Randy said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he was right here, standin’ where you are, when we heard the shots.”

  “Did he go over to see what happened?”

  “No, sir,” Randy said. “He stayed right here.”

  “While everybody else was runnin’ out to see what happened?” Henry asked. “Why?”

  Randy shrugged and said, “He told me it waren’t none of his business.”

  “Fella gets killed, it’s everybody’s business,” Big Al Henry said.

  “Yessir,” Randy said.

  Henry turned to his foreman.

  “Dan, I want you to find Adams.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, damnit!” Henry said. “Don’t question me.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Robards put his barely touched beer down on the bar.

  “Oh Christ, man,” Henry said, “finish your beer first!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Robards picked up the mug again.

  “I don’t mean to yell at you,” Henry said. “I’m just upset about the boy. He’s a dimwit, but he wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “I know that, boss,” Robards said. “Maybe a jury will see that, too.”

  “I don’t want this goin’ to a jury,” Henry said. “Who knows how the boy will act in court?”

  “It sounded to me like Judge Miller was gonna make sure this went to a jury.”

  “Well then,” Henry said, “we’re just gonna have to make sure it doesn’t go to a jury.”

  “And you think the Gunsmith can help you with that?” Robards asked.

  “I don’t know,” Henry said, “but the man is in town, and I want to talk to him. So do that for me, will you, Dan?”

  “Sure, boss,” Robards said. “Sure I will.”

  “We’ve got to get that boy out of jail,” Al Henry said, more to himself than to anyone else. “Gotta get him out.”

  TEN

  “What are we gonna do?” the deputy asked.