The Devil's Collector Read online

  “Is he a lawman?” Damon called out.

  “No, sir.”

  “Who is it?” Carlotta asked.

  “He says his name is Clint Adams.”

  Damon rushed to the door, still naked, and swung it open. His penis was still semihard and immediately drew Lila’s eyes.

  “Who?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  The girl shrugged, still staring at Damon’s dick.

  Damon turned and looked at Carlotta.

  “Now what the hell’s he want?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Damon said, turning to face her, “why don’t you go out there and find out?”

  Now that he turned around, Lila was staring at his naked ass.

  Carlotta leaned over so she could see past Damon to Lila.

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She didn’t leave, though. She was still staring at Damon’s body. She was used to seeing fat, old men come through the whorehouse. Not men who looked good, like Cole Damon.

  “Lila!”

  Startled, the girl turned and ran down the hall.

  • • •

  “She’ll be right out,” Lila told Clint. “Do you wanna wait in the parlor?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll wait right here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lila left him there and went into the parlor herself. Moments later a buxom blonde in her forties, carrying about thirty pounds too much weight, all of it in her breasts, came from a downstairs hall. She was out of breath, and her hair was tousled.

  “You’re Adams?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Miss Carlotta?”

  “Lila says your name is Clint Adams,” Carlotta said. “You’re the Gunsmith, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re lookin’ for Cole Damon?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “To try to keep him alive.”

  THIRTEEN

  Carlotta walked Clint down the hall to her room.

  “Just let me talk to him first,” she said.

  “Sure,” Clint said, “but tell him not to go out the window. There’s no need.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  She opened the door and went inside. In a second, he heard raised voices. That went on for a few minutes, and then the door opened and Carlotta looked out.

  “You can come in, Mr. Adams.”

  He entered, found himself immediately covered by Cole Damon’s gun. The man was wearing a pair of jeans, and nothing else.

  “There’s no need for that,” he tried to assure him.

  “Just put yer hands up,” Damon said.

  Clint obeyed.

  “Now why’re you lookin’ for me? I never did nothin’ to you.”

  “That’s true,” Clint said. “I’m just trying to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to see you get killed.”

  “And who wants to kill me?”

  “First,” Clint said, “let me ask you if you knew a man named Carl Sonnet.”

  “Carl Sonnet?” Damon thought for a moment then replied, “I don’t think so.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “somebody thinks you did. In fact, he thinks you’re one of the men who killed Carl Sonnet.”

  “Where’d this happen? When?”

  “A few months ago,” Clint said. “In Texas.”

  “I ain’t been to Texas in years.”

  “Is that true?”

  “It is.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Did you ever know men named Dell Colbert or Dix Williams?”

  “Never.”

  Clint frowned.

  “Why you askin’ me all these questions? What’s this you told Carlotta about me gettin’ killed?”

  “Carl Sonnet’s kid brother, Jack, is searching the country for the men who killed his brother. When he finds them, he kills them.”

  “Murder?”

  “Fair and square,” Clint said. He outdraws them, clean.”

  “Ain’t no kid gonna outdraw me,” Damon said. “Unless you back his play.”

  “I’m actually riding with him, just to keep him from getting backshot.”

  “So you’re helpin’ him?”

  “I have been,” Clint said, “but I don’t want to find that he’s been killing innocent men. So I ask you again, did you kill Carl Sonnet?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I think you’re going to have to prove it, Mr. Damon,” Clint said.

  “Oh yeah? Why don’t I just kill this kid when he comes for me?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be able to let you do that.”

  “And what if I kill you now?”

  “You didn’t take my gun,” Clint said, “and you know who I am. If you were going to kill me, you should have done it by now. I can still draw and kill you, even if you shoot me. Want to try?”

  “No!” Carlotta said. “No shootin’ in my place!”

  “Then put it down, Damon,” Clint said. “And let’s talk. Convince me that you’re innocent.”

  Damon lowered his gun, but he said, “Why should I be worried about this kid?”

  “His name’s Sonnet,” Clint said. “That mean anything to you?”

  “No,” he said, then thought a moment. “Wait. Yes. You mean . . . those Sonnets?”

  Clint nodded. “Those Sonnets. Carl wasn’t good with a gun, but I’ve seen Jack kill two men now. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Cole,” Carlotta said. “Talk to him. Let him help you.”

  Damon licked his lips.

  “Okay,” he said, “okay. Lemme get dressed.”

  “Come with me,” Carlotta said to Clint. “I got another room where you two can talk and have a drink.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. Then to Damon, he warned, “But don’t take too long.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Carlotta opened the door again and said, “This way, Mr. Gunsmith.”

  FOURTEEN

  Carlotta took Clint to a room that looked like it was used to eat in, or play cards. There were several tables with chairs stacked on them.

  A black man took down two of the chairs and set them on the floor.

  “Isaac,” Carlotta said, “please get a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Three glasses?” Clint asked.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m not the kind of hostess who lets her guests drink alone.”

  “I see.”

  “Um, have you talked to the sheriff about this?” she asked.

  “Sheriff Atticus?” he said. “Yes, I stopped to see him first. Why?”

  “I was just wonderin’.”

  At that moment Cole Damon came walking in, fully dressed, his gun belt strapped on. Behind him came the black man with the whiskey bottle and three glasses. He set the glasses down, filled them, put the bottle on the table, and left the room.

  Carlotta sat at the table and picked up one of the glasses. Both Clint and Damon looked at her.

  “What?” she asked. “It’s my house. Go ahead and have your talk.”

  Damon sat and grabbed a glass.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked Clint.

  “Like I said,” Clint answered, “I rode in with Jack Sonnet, who is convinced you’re one of the men who killed his brother. You say you’re not.”

  “I ain’t killed no fella named Sonnet,” Damon said.

  “Okay, so we’ve got to convince Jack Sonnet of that.”


  “You convince him,” Damon said. “He’s your friend. If he comes after me, I’ll kill ’im.”

  “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “You ain’t seen me handle a gun.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “I have seen him use one, and I’m telling you, I wouldn’t want to have to go up against him.”

  That seemed to surprise Damon, but he puffed out his chest and said, “Yeah, well, maybe you’re just gettin’ old.”

  “And maybe I want you to get older,” Clint said. He looked at Carlotta. “Okay, now you talk to him.”

  “Cole—” she said, but he cut her off.

  “Just be quiet, Carlotta!” he said. “I ain’t afraid of no kid with a gun. You tell ’im that, Adams. You tell him not to come for me.”

  Clint stepped sway from the table. He hadn’t touched the drink that had been poured for him.

  “I’ll tell him, Damon,” Clint said, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to stop him. Look, all you’ve got to do is talk to the kid. Convince him you didn’t kill his brother.”

  “I ain’t gotta prove I didn’t do it,” Damon said. “He’s gotta prove I did.”

  “That’s just it,” Clint said. “He doesn’t have to prove it.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m not telling you he wants to take you to court,” Clint said. “I’m saying he wants to kill you. He’s satisfied you’re one of the men who did it.”

  Damon thought that over, had himself another drink for courage, then told Clint, “You get outta here. You tell him what I said. He comes near me, I’ll kill ’im.”

  “Isaac will show you out, Mr. Adams,” Carlotta said. The black man appeared at the door. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” Clint said.

  • • •

  After Clint left, Carlotta turned her attention to Damon.

  “What are you tryin’ to do?”

  “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” he insisted.

  “That man came here to try and help you.”

  “Like hell he did,” Damon said. “He’s just scoutin’ me out fer his friend.”

  “Cole,” she said, “you have a chance to talk about this without it turnin’ into a shootin’.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Cole—”

  “If that kid comes for me, I’m gonna kill ’im,” Cole Damon said, pouring himself another drink. “That’s all there is to it.”

  “There’s nothin’ I can say to change your mind?” she asked.

  “Nothin’.”

  She poured herself a drink.

  “Then you’re a damn fool!”

  FIFTEEN

  Clint didn’t know where to find Jack Sonnet. All he knew was that Sonnet had not yet found Cole Damon.

  He decided to get himself a room at the hotel closest to the last place he’d seen Sonnet, the café. Turned out there were only two hotels in town anyway, so it didn’t matter.

  He went to both hotels to see if Sonnet had checked in yet. He had not. So he picked one and got himself a room. He went upstairs, sat on the thin mattress for a moment, then walked to the window and stared out at the street. There didn’t seem to be any way he could keep Cole Damon from waiting for Sonnet. What he was going to have to do was find the kid and try to convince him that Damon was innocent. He knew Jack Sonnet would never be able to forgive himself if he killed an innocent man.

  At least, he hoped that was something he knew about the young man.

  He walked to the door of his room and went out.

  • • •

  Clint found Sonnet in the second saloon he checked. While the town only had two hotels, it had five saloons.

  Sonnet was standing at the bar with a beer in front of him. Clint stood next to him.

  “You get a room?” Clint asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I did. I’ll take you over there so you can get one.”

  “Sure.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Lookin’.”

  “You find him?”

  “Not yet.”

  The bartender came over. “Somethin’?”

  “A beer.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  Clint realized Sonnet was looking at him.

  “Oh, yeah, well,” Clint said, “I did. I found him.”

  Sonnet turned to face him.

  “Where is he?”

  “First we have to talk.”

  “Why?”

  The bartender brought over a cold beer. Clint picked it up and said, “Let’s go sit down.”

  The place was practically empty, so they had their pick of tables.

  “Come on,” Clint said. “This won’t take long.”

  Clint walked to a table, and Sonnet followed.

  “What are you tryin’ to pull?”

  “I talked to the man,” Clint said. “He says he’s innocent.”

  “That’s why I don’t talk to them first,” Sonnet said. “Not for long anyway.”

  “You did talk to the other two, and neither of them claimed they were innocent,” Clint said. “But this one does.”

  “Clint—”

  “Just listen for a second,” Clint said. “What if he’s telling the truth?”

  “He’s not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “No, Jack,” Clint said, “you don’t know, you’ve been told.”

  “Clint,” Sonnet said, “where is he? You know I’ll find him.”

  “Talk to him first, Jack.”

  Sonnet just stared at him.

  “All right,” Clint said wearily, “I’ll take you to him.”

  • • •

  Clint felt he had to take Sonnet to Cole Damon; otherwise the young man would find him on his own. And he might find him in the midst of a bunch of innocent bystanders.

  “The whorehouse?” Sonnet said as they stopped in front of the building. “That’s where he is?”

  “That’s where he is.”

  “Stay out of the way, Clint,” Sonnet said.

  “You can’t go in there, Jack.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are a lot of innocent people in there.”

  “I’m not going to accidentally hit a bystander,” Sonnet said.

  “Maybe you’re not,” Clint said, “but he might.”

  Sonnet studied Clint for a few moments, then said, “Yeah, okay.”

  He turned to face the building.

  “Cole Damon!” he yelled. “Cole Damon, I’m calling you out!”

  SIXTEEN

  Inside, Carlotta looked at Damon.

  “See?” Damon said. “Adams brought him.” He stood up.

  “Cole, go out the back,” she said. “I’ll keep them busy.”

  “I ain’t runnin’ from no kid,” Damon said. “Especially for somethin’ I didn’t even do.”

  He headed for the front door.

  “Isaac!” Carlotta yelled.

  • • •

  When the front door opened, Cole Damon stepped out. Clint had hoped the man would go out the back door, try to get away.

  “You Damon?” Sonnet asked.

  “That’s right. Who are you?”

  “Jack Sonnet,” Sonnet said. “You and your friends killed my brother.”

  “I never knew your brother, friend,” Damon said.

  “That ain’t the word I got.”

  “Well, the word you got is wrong.”

  “Step down off that porch.”

  “I step down off this porch, I’m gonna have to kill you.”

  “You’re welcome to try.”

  Cole Damon shook his head and came d
own the steps, stopped just at the bottom.

  • • •

  Clint was watching Damon and Sonnet when he saw a rifle barrel poke out one of the upper windows in the front of the house. He watched carefully, eventually saw the black face of the man holding the gun. Carlotta had put her man, Isaac, in the window to back Damon’s play.

  Clint shook his head.

  Innocent bystanders.

  • • •

  Sonnet’s move surprised Damon.

  The man flinched as Sonnet drew, but that was the only move he had time to make. The bullet struck him in the chest and left him sprawled on his back on the steps, staring up at the sky.

  • • •

  On the second floor, Isaac watched as Sonnet gunned down Cole Damon.

  “Oh Lord,” he said to himself. “That Gunsmith fella was s’pposed to keep her young man alive. Miz Carlyle’s gon’ give him hell now.”

  He rose up, leaned out the window with his rifle.

  • • •

  Clint had no choice. As the black man sighted down the barrel at Sonnet, Clint drew and fired. Sonnet turned quickly, saw Clint, then looked up at the window as the black man fell to the ground.

  Sonnet walked over to Damon’s body to make sure he was dead.

  Clint walked over to where the black man lay, found that he was very dead, too.

  The front door opened and Carlotta stepped out, looked down at Damon, then glared at Clint and Sonnet.

  “Damn you both to hell,” she spat, then ducked back and closed the door.

  • • •

  Sheriff Atticus came to the scene, looked at the bodies, then stood off to one side with Clint.

  “I tried to talk them both out of it,” Clint explained. “They wouldn’t have it.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to go inside and talk to Carlotta. Of course, she’ll claim you both murdered him and Isaac.”

  “Isaac gave me no choice,” Clint said. “He tried to bushwhack Sonnet.”

  “And Sonnet?” Atticus asked. “He as fast as his grandpa?”

  “Maybe faster.”

  “That’d be pretty damn fast. Why don’t you take him to your hotel? I’ll talk to both of you later.”

  “Sure. You figuring on an arrest?”

  “I’m figurin’ on you and your friend leavin’ town in the mornin’,” Atticus said. “That sound like a problem to you?”

  “That doesn’t sound like a problem to me at all, Sheriff,” Clint said.