East of the River Page 5

  “Who’d you hear that from?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “In the saloon, I think,” Clint said. “Might’ve been the bartender.”

  “Well, like I said, we have our share. Might’ve been a robbery or two hereabouts. But me and the sheriff over in Orange County have got it covered.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” Clint said, heading for the door. “I see you in the saloon, Sheriff, maybe I can buy you a drink.”

  “That’d be right nice of you, Mr. Adams,” Perry said. “Thanks.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  Clint stepped outside. He felt sure the sheriff had been lying when he asked him about the trouble. Admitting to “a couple” of robberies meant there had been a lot more than that. The lawman’s lies pretty much confirmed what Eddie Randle had told him.

  There was trouble in these two counties.

  After Clint Adams left the office, Sheriff Lou Perry vigorously dry washed his face with both hands. What was he supposed to do with somebody like the Gunsmith in town? And asking questions, to boot?

  He stood up, strapped on his gun, and grabbed his hat. He figured the only thing to do was go see the mayor and let him make a decision. After all, that’s what he’d wanted when he ran for office, and that’s what the people paid him for.

  SEVENTEEN

  The front door of the Ox Bow was slightly ajar when Clint arrived. From inside he could hear the sound of a broom sweeping across the floor. He stepped in and left the door ajar.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Sean Sanchez looked up from his sweeping and stared at Clint.

  “We ain’t open,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “Eddie’s expecting me.”

  “Hey,” Sanchez said, pointing, “ain’t you the Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wow,” the younger man said. He dropped his broom to the floor. “Can I shake your hand?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sean Sanchez.”

  “That’s an unusual name,” Clint said. “Irish and Mexican?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Interesting,” Clint said. “Sure, we can shake hands.”

  The young man came toward him. Clint noticed that Sean Sanchez did not wear a gun. Before shaking hands, Sanchez wiped his on his pant leg, then clasped Clint’s.

  “Is Eddie around?” Clint asked, releasing Sanchez’s hand.

  “Yeah, he sure is,” Sanchez said. “He’s upstairs in his room, but he’ll be down any minute. He usually comes down around this time.”

  Clint briefly considered going upstairs to Randle’s room, but he remembered how he had found Harry Dial when he knocked on his door a few days ago.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll wait. Is that coffee I smell?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s one of my jobs around here,” Sanchez said. “I make the coffee in the morning, clean up. Someday Eddie’s gonna make me a bartender.”

  “Well, that sounds good,” Clint said.

  “You want a cup?”

  “I do, yeah,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “Comin’ right up,” Sanchez said.

  The chairs were all on top of the tables, so Sanchez took one down and said, “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks, Sean.”

  Clint sat down. Sanchez hurried behind the bar, poured a cup of coffee, and hurried back with it.

  “You want some cream or sugar or somethin’?”

  “Nope,” Clint said, “just like this.”

  He tasted it. It was the best coffee he’d had since leaving Texas.

  “Wow, that’s just the way I like it.”

  “Strong,” Sanchez said. “My pappy used to like it strong.”

  “Your pappy sounds like he was my kind of man.”

  “He was a drunk,” Sanchez said, “and a bandit, but he was my pappy.”

  Clint didn’t quite know what to say to that, but he was saved from having to come up with something. They both heard a door open and close upstairs, and then Eddie Randle came down the stairs.

  “Hey, good mornin’, Clint,” Randle said.

  “Mornin’.”

  Sanchez took another chair down for Randle, then hurried to the bar to get his boss a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks, Sean.”

  “Sure thing, Eddie.”

  “I see your broom on the floor,” Randle said. “You done sweepin’?”

  “No, sir,” Sanchez said. “I was just gettin’ Mr. Adams some coffee.”

  “Well, you can finish up now, kid.”

  “Okay, Eddie. See ya, Mr. Adams.”

  “Clint, Sean,” Clint said. “You can just call me Clint.”

  “Okay, Clint!”

  He walked over, picked up his broom, and continued sweeping.

  “He tells me you’re going to make him a bartender.”

  “He can have the whole place if he wants it,” Randle said. “I want to finish my assignment and get the hell out of here.”

  Clint lowered his voice and asked, “Undercover work not for you?”

  “Not at all,” Randle said. “I’d rather be in the saddle, tracking a killer across a mountain or desert, than this. And I ain’t no damned detective either.”

  “Why’d you take the assignment then?”

  “I thought I was lookin’ for somethin’ different,” Randle said. “Well, I ain’t gonna look for somethin’ different no more.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to stick to what we know best,” Clint said.

  Randle sipped his coffee and asked, “You got any good news for me this mornin’?”

  “Well, I think I might, Eddie,” Clint said.

  Randle, looking excited, leaned forward and kept his voice low.

  “You’re gonna do it?”

  “Maybe you should send Sean on an errand, Eddie,” Clint suggested.

  “Sean’s okay, Clint. He ain’t very smart, but he’s okay.”

  “I think we ought to play this safe, Eddie,” Clint said, “don’t you?”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Hey, Sean!”

  “Yeah, Eddie?”

  Randle took some money out of his pocket and said, “Would you go over to Archer’s General Store and get me some cigars?”

  “Sure, Eddie, sure.” Sean took the money. “Anythin’ for you, Mr.—I mean, Clint?”

  “No thanks, Sean.”

  “I’ll be right back, Eddie.”

  “Take your time, Sean,” Eddie Randle said, “take your time.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “I’ll make myself available to you,” Clint told Eddie Randle, “but you’ve got to tell me everything. Don’t keep anything back.”

  “Like what?” Randle asked. “What do you think I’d hold back?”

  “I need to know what we’re up against,” Clint said. “One man, two, a gang? How big a gang?”

  “It looks to me like a gang,” Randle said, “three, maybe four of ’em.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “What’ve they done?”

  “Everythin’,” Randle said. “Before I got here, they’d hit stages, banks, and trains. They took a federal payroll off a train, and that’s what got me sent here.”

  “And since you’ve been here?”

  “They’ve kept hittin’,” Randle said. “Two stagecoaches and a bank since I been here.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Plenty, but the men have been masked.”

  “No names?”

  “They’ve been careful not to call each other by name,” Randle said.

  “Sounds like a disciplined gang.”

  “I wish they weren’t,” Randle said. “They might be easier to catch.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “so tell me what you know, or what you think you know.”

  “What I think I know,” Randle said, “is that—”

  He was interrupted when the front door slammed open and three men entered. They staggered in, stopped, and looked a
round. They were all armed.

  “Hey, is this place open?” one of them shouted.

  “Wow, a saloon open this early?” another said. “What a great town.”

  “Sorry, fellas,” Randle said, “we ain’t open yet.”

  “But your door’s open.”

  “We’re just airin’ the place out,” Randle said. “Come back in a few hours.”

  The third man screwed up his face and said, “But we want some whiskey now.”

  “You fellas seem like you already found some whiskey this morning,” Clint said.

  “What you care, fella?” one of them asked. “What you doin’ here anyway, if it’s closed?”

  Randle stood up. He was wearing a sidearm on his right hip.

  “Time for you fellas to go,” he said. “Come on. Out the door.”

  “Or what, friend?” one of them asked.

  Clint stood up, stood next to Randle.

  “You don’t want to know the answer to that question, friend,” Clint said.

  The three men eyed Clint and Randle standing side by side, and then one of them said, “Aw hell, this place is a dump anyway. Come on, boys.”

  The three men backed out, and Randle locked the door behind them.

  “What about Sean?”

  “He’ll knock,” Randle said. “Hey, we make a good team.”

  “So far,” Clint said. “You were getting ready to tell me something?”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  Before he did, however, he retrieved the coffeepot from behind the bar and brought it to the table. He poured both their cups full and then sat down.

  “You asked me what I thought I knew,” Randle said. “We’ve got a family in town named Archer. Brothers, actually.”

  “You sent Sean to Archer’s General Store,” Clint said.

  “Right,” Randle said. “They also have a farm outside of town. There are four of them, and everyone in town thinks they’re merchants and farmers.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Randle sipped his coffee and said, “I think they’re the gang.”

  NINETEEN

  “Thomas and John run the general store,” Randle said. “Mort runs the farm. He’s the oldest.”

  “You said there were four.”

  “Sammy,” Randle said. “He’s the youngest. Might be eighteen.”

  “So four of them,” Clint said. “Nobody else. Like parents?”

  “Dead.”

  “Sisters. Other brothers?”

  “Just them.”

  “And they’re from here?”

  “Born and bred, from what I know,” Randle said. “Back from before this town was called Dexter. Maybe back from before there was even a town here.”

  “And what makes you think they’ve been pulling the robberies?”

  “The farm’s a failure,” Randle said, “and I wouldn’t exactly call the general store a success.”

  “Is there another store in town?”

  “Peck’s Mercantile,” Randle said. “Most people shop there.”

  “So then why are they open?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’ve been in there?”

  “Yeah,” Randle said, “I’ve been doin’ my shoppin’ in there.”

  There was a knock on the door at that time. Randle unlocked it and let Sean Sanchez in.

  “Here ya go, Eddie,” Sanchez said, “your cigars.”

  “Thanks, Sean,” Randle said. Sanchez started forward, but Randle stopped him. “I won’t need you for a while, Sean.”

  “But I gotta finish sweepin’, Eddie.”

  “That’s okay, Sean,” Randle said. “I’ll take care of it. You come back later, when we’re open.”

  “Okay, Eddie.”

  Sean Sanchez backed out and Randle locked the door again.

  “You make friends with any of them?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Randle said. “I mean, I’m acquainted with Tom and John because I’ve seen them at the store.”

  “Don’t know Mort?”

  “No.”

  “Or Sam?”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “How do you want to play this?”

  “I figure they’re gonna have to pull another job soon,” Randle said. “Between us maybe we can keep an eye on them.”

  “How about if I go out to the farm and have a look around?” Clint said.

  “What for?”

  “Just to see what I can see. None of the brothers have seen me, and even if they have, they don’t know I’m working with you.”

  “Well, okay,” Randle said, “go ahead. Maybe you’ll find somethin’ to link them to the jobs.”

  “Have you been out there at all?”

  “No,” Randle said. “Couldn’t think of a reason to give ’em, and I didn’t want to get caught snoopin’ around.”

  “I’ll take a look. How do I get there?”

  Randle gave him directions.

  “But what will you tell them if you get caught?” Randle asked.

  “Maybe I’ll tell them I’m looking to hook up with a well-run gang.”

  “It’d be better if you just didn’t get caught.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Clint headed for the door, unlocked it, opened it, then turned.

  “By the way,” he said, “what’s your real name?”

  “Reed,” the man said, “Deputy Marshal Eddie Reed.”

  TWENTY

  Clint decided not to waste any time. When he left the Ox Bow, he went directly to the livery to get his horse.

  “I’ll show you where he is,” the liveryman said, “unless you want me to saddle him for you.”

  “Can you?” Clint asked.

  “I can saddle a horse, mister,” the man said.

  “No, I mean . . . will he let you?”

  “Sure,” the man said. “We’re gettin’ along just fine.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Beau.”

  “Okay, Beau,” Clint said. “Go ahead and saddle him.”

  “Wanna watch?”

  Clint was shocked at how docile Eclipse was while Beau saddled him. The man spoke to him the whole time, stroked his neck and withers—things the big Darley wouldn’t allow anyone else to do, except Clint.

  “Here ya go,” Beau said, walking the horse to him and handing him the reins.

  “Looks like you guys really are getting along,” Clint commented.

  “I know how to handle horses.”

  “Yes, you do,” Clint said. “My apologies.”

  “No need,” the man said. “You gonna bring him back here?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I’m just taking him out so he—and I—can stretch.”

  “Good,” Beau said. “A horse like this deserves to be ridden.”

  Clint walked Eclipse outside before mounting up.

  Clint gave Eclipse his head when they’d cleared the town limits. The big gelding ate up the ground, the breath exploding from his nostrils. After they’d run for a couple of miles, Clint took control and turned the horse in the direction of the Archer farm. Two more miles and he topped a rise and found himself looking down at the farm.

  It was sad. The house was in disrepair, as was the barn. There were some chickens running around, but they were scrawny things. Any inference that this was a going concern was an obvious lie. He wondered about the intelligence of the Archer brothers. If they were robbing and expecting people to think their money came from their farm . . .

  Now he realized he should have gone to see the general store before he came out here. But since he was here, he decided to try and get a closer look.

  He found a likely place to hide Eclipse, a copse of trees that would keep the animal out of sight while he approached the farm on foot.

  He came at it from behind the barn. No one would be able to see him from the house if they were looking out the window.

  The barn had a back door, so he had no trouble getting in.
Once inside, he found supplies, but not the kind of supplies one would need to run a farm. There were two horses, probably saddle horses, because the plow that was in there hadn’t been in a field in a long time. Yep, there were two worn saddles inside the stalls with the horses.

  Underneath a tarp he found an open wooden crate with rifles and handguns inside. An arsenal. In another box he found maps of both Orange and Marion counties. He also found an envelope with train schedules inside. And stagecoach schedules.

  He was delving into another box when he heard someone at the front door. Hurriedly, he covered everything with the tarp, then looked for cover. His first instinct was to hide behind the tarp himself, but whoever was entering the barn night be coming to check on the contents.

  He found cover behind the decrepit plow.

  From there he watched as a young man removed the tarp and reached into the crate of weapons. With a big grin he took out a rifle, sighted down the barrel, and pretended to shoot something. He returned the rifle, then did the same routine with a handgun.

  Another man entered, older but resembling the first. Clint reckoned he was looking at Mort and Sam Archer.

  “What are you doin’, Sammy?” the older man asked.

  “I, uh, I’m just lookin’ at the guns.”

  Mort joined Sam and took the pistol from his hand.

  “Pickin’ one out for yerself?”

  “I’m gonna need a gun, Mort.”

  “You’re gonna have to learn to use one first, kid,” Mort said.

  “Will you teach me, Mort?”

  “Tommy’s the hand with a gun,” Mort said. “That’s why he hates bein’ behind the counter at the store. But he’s also the smartest of us, so he needs to run the store.”

  “He’s smarter than you, Mort?” Sam asked. “You’re the oldest.”

  “Bein’ the oldest don’t make you the smartest, kid,” Mort said, putting the gun back in the crate. “Look, Tommy will pick a gun for you, Sammy. And give you a couple of quick lessons.”

  “Do you know what the next job is yet, Mort?” Sam asked.

  “Not yet, Sammy,” Mort said, “but we’ll figure it out.” He slapped the boy on the back. “Come on, let’s go back into the house.”

  “Mort?” Sam asked as they walked to the door.