Unbound by Law Read online

  “I suppose he’s in Carrizozo. That’s where his main office is.”

  “Did he speak to Mr. Eckert?”

  “I think I handled the whole negotiation.”

  “It doesn’t sound like there was much of a negotiation.”

  “No, you’re right, there wasn’t.”

  “You don’t seem to have a very clear memory of something that happened only days ago, Mr. Sutcliffe. I’ve been told that you’re a good businessman.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Word gets around,” Clint said. “Sometimes you don’t even have to ask.”

  Sutcliffe frowned.

  “I don’t think I like the idea of people in town talking about me.”

  “That’s what comes from being a success, isn’t it?” Clint asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Can you tell me when Mr. Cantrell will be back here, Mr. Sutcliffe?”

  “Next month.”

  “Not before then?”

  “Unless there’s some sort of emergency, he only comes into once a month so we can go over the books.”

  “I see,” Clint said. “So he’s the senior partner?”

  “We’re equal partners.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Mr. Adams,” Sutcliffe said, “is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I need your opinion on something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do you suppose,” Clint asked, “Mr. Eckert and his entire family were killed?”

  “Killed?” Sutcliffe repeated. “What do you mean, killed?”

  “Just what I said,” Clint said. “I came across their camp, and they were all dead.”

  “That’s terrible. How were they killed?”

  “Hard to tell,” Clint said. “Right now the general opinion is that they were poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?”

  “The whole family, including the children.”

  “Who would—”

  “That’s what I’m asking,” Clint said, walking to the door, “and that’s what I intend to find out.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint was sitting in the Red Sand Saloon when Sheriff Turner walked in. There wasn’t much business, and he’d taken a table near the back. The lawman spotted him and walked directly to his table.

  “I thought you were gonna stay out of trouble?” he said.

  “I think I have,” Clint said. “If you think different, have a seat and a drink and tell me about it.”

  “You want another beer?” Turner asked.

  “No, I’ll finish this one. Sit down, though. I owe you a drink.”

  The lawman sat. Clint went to the bar and came back with a beer.

  “There you go,” Clint said, seating himself again. “Now tell me, what have I done?”

  “You bothered one of this town’s leading citizens,” Turner said.

  “Sutcliffe?”

  Turner nodded.

  “He made a complaint?”

  “No,” Turner said, “but I know just the same that you went to talk to him.”

  “How’s that starting trouble?”

  “We like for our leading citizens to be happy,” Turner said.

  “Did I make him unhappy?”

  “I don’t know,” Turner said. “I don’t even know what the two of you talked about. I just want you to stay away from him.”

  “No problem.”

  “You mean you will?”

  “Sure,” Clint said. “I’m probably leaving town tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” Turner said.

  “Disappointed that you won’t have time to run me out?” Clint asked.

  “I’d hate to try it,” Turner said. “But I would if I had to.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You could tell me something, though, before I leave.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you know who killed those families?”

  “Adams—”

  “Are you covering for somebody?”

  “Like who?”

  “Like one of your leading citizens?”

  “You think Mr. Sutcliffe killed them?”

  “No, not him,” Clint said. “I don’t think he’s got it in him.”

  “Then you think he had it done?”

  “Or somebody else did,” Clint said.

  “Like?”

  “What’s Harry Cantrell like?”

  “He’s a ruthless businessman,” the sheriff said, “but what reason would he have to kill three families?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe I’ll have to go to Carrizozo and ask him.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that,” Turner said.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s not like Sutcliffe.”

  “So I understand,” Clint said, “you’re saying he’d send somebody after me?”

  “I’m not sayin’ that,” Turner replied, “but if he did, it wouldn’t be somebody you could just shrug off. It’d be the best money can buy.”

  “Well, if he did that, that would be like admitting he had those people killed, wouldn’t it?”

  “Uh, no—”

  “Don’t worry, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I’ll give him a chance to explain. And I’ll tell him you tried to do your job and warn me off.”

  “Adams,” Turner said, “this doesn’t make sense. What makes you think he’s even in—”

  “They came to town and spoke to him and Sutcliffe,” Clint said. “Right?”

  “I suppose—”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Not that I know of,” the sheriff said. “A desk clerk—”

  “But nobody like those two, right? No other important citizens of Roswell??

  “No.”

  “Well then, I’ve already talked to Sutcliffe,” Clint said, “that only leaves me Cantrell. Why would he mind talking to me if he hasn’t done anything?”

  “I don’t know, Adams,” Sheriff Turner said, resignedly, “but I guess you’re gonna find out, ain’tcha?”

  “I guess I am.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Johnny Devlin rode into Carrizozo and went directly to the office of Harry Cantrell. Once they’d dragged him out of the whorehouse and got him to clean himself up, he’d mounted right up and rode out.

  It was dark by the time he got to town. The front door of Cantrell’s office was locked, but he knew where his boss lived. He mounted up and rode over to Cantrell’s big house.

  Cantrell rolled the woman over on her belly, grabbed her hips, and hiked her butt up.

  “I’m going to stick you in your butt, Ava,” he said, rubbing her ass lovingly.

  “That’s gonna cost extra, Mr. Cantrell,” the woman told him.

  “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ve got extra, you know that.”

  She wiggled her pale, naked butt at him and said, “You pay, you can do what you want.”

  Cantrell got off the bed, retrieved his wallet from the nearby dresser, took out some money, and let the bills rain down on the naked girl’s body.

  “That enough?”

  “For you to pork me in the ass?” Ava asked, laughing. “That’s plenty, lover.”

  Cantrell got back on the bed, spread her cheeks, pressed the head of his engorged prick to her anus and was prepared to push when there was an insistent knocking at his door.

  “Fuck!”

  “Who the hell is that at this time, Harry?” Ava demanded.

  “I don’t know!”

  “Well find out, and make them go away,” she said, turning over so he could see her melon-sized, brownnippled breasts. Actually, these days they were more pear-shaped than melon, the way they were when he first married her fifteen years ago.

  The knock came again and Ava complained, “They’re ruinin’ the game, Harry! You wanna fuck my ass, you better get rid of them.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said.

  He left the bedroom, grabb
ing a robe as he went. He was belting it as he approached the front door. He was surprised to see Devlin standing there when he swung it open.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Johnny?” he demanded.

  “Sheriff Turner sent me, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “What for?”

  “To warn you.”

  “About what?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  Cantrell frowned. “What’s the Gunsmith got to do with me?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Devlin said. “He just wanted me to come here and tell you that Adams was in Roswell, askin’ questions.”

  “About what?”

  “You know,” Devlin said, “about those folks.”

  “Why didn’t he just send a telegram?”

  “I dunno—”

  Cantrell knew. Turner was being careful. Telegrams could be read by somebody other than the key operator and the recipient.

  “Why the hell is the Gunsmith interested in those people?” he said aloud.

  “I dunno, Mr.—”

  “I’m not asking you!” Cantrell snapped. “Okay, you delivered your message. Now go away.”

  “Where?” Devlin asked. “Should I go on back to Roswell?”

  Cantrell was about to say yes, but stopped himself.

  “No,” he said, “get a hotel room in town. A cheap one. Tomorrow, find me Eddie Pratt, and some of his men.”

  “Pratt?”

  “That’s right. You know him, right?”

  Devlin swallowed. “Yeah, I know him.” And he was afraid of him.

  “Just tell him I need him. Tell him to come to my office and see me.”

  “You gonna use him and his guns—”

  “Don’t ask any questions, Johnny,” Cantrell said. “Don’t try to think. You’ll just strain yourself.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “Come and see me after you find Pratt.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Now go on!”

  Devlin nodded, and backed away from the door.

  Cantrell closed the door and locked it, stood there for a moment, thinking. What possible connection could those people have had to the Gunsmith? His involvement was not good news, but Cantrell always thought he had enough money to overcome anything.

  The Gunsmith should be no different.

  He turned and went back to the bedroom.

  “Who the hell was that?” Ava asked. She was sitting up on the bed, still naked, picking at her toes. Cantrell wondered when she had become such a disgusting slag? He liked having her on all fours. Her backside was still firm, and her skin still smooth. It was only when she turned over that he saw what the years had done to her.

  “Johnny Devlin.”

  “Devlin.” She took her hands away from her feet and wrapped them around her knees. “A whore once told me he has a huge dick, a gorgeous one, but that he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Ava—”

  “Luckily,” she said, reaching into his robe and grabbed his prick, “you don’t have the same problem.”

  “Ava, I can’t now,” he said. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”

  “Oh no,” she said, yanking on him, “you don’t get to take care of those things until you take care of what’s on my mind.”

  Slag or no slag, when she took hold of him and talked to him like that he started to get hard again.

  “Maybe you need some help first?” she asked.

  She got off the bed, stripped the robe off of him, then got down on her knees in front of him and took him into her mouth.

  “Oh yeah . . .” he said, forgetting all about Johnny Devlin, Clint Adams, and dead families for the time being . . .

  NINETEEN

  While he ate breakfast, Clint thought over his decision, and the logic it had been based on.

  If you could call it logic.

  All he had to go on was what the old-timer from the livery told him, and his own instincts about Grant Sutcliffe—not to mention Sheriff Turner.

  It seemed like Harry Cantrell was the man they all looked to. If a decision had been made to kill eleven people, it would have come from him.

  Clint paid for his breakfast and left the café. He walked to the livery to retrieve Eclipse.

  “Takin’ him out this time?” Jim Hacker asked.

  “Afraid so,” Clint said. “I’m done here.”

  “Find out what you needed to?”

  “I think I found out where to go to find out what I need to know,” Clint said. “Who do you know in Carrizozo?”

  “Feller name Jenkins runs a livery stable there. He’ll take good care of your horse.”

  “And give me some information?”

  “He’s like me,” Hacker said. “Keeps his ears open.”

  “That’s good enough,” Clint said. “Saddle him up, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint waited outside. When Hacker walked Eclipse out, he asked Clint, “You want me to send Jenkins a telegram?”

  “No,” Clint said, “somebody else might read it.”

  “I get ya. Here ya go.” He handed over Eclipse’s reins. “Bring him back anytime.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, doubting he’d ever be back.

  He mounted up, gave old Jim a wave, and rode off.

  He was riding down Main Street when the sheriff came out of his office. He veered toward the lawman.

  “On your way?”

  “Yep.”

  “Comin’ back?”

  “Not if I don’t have to.”

  “Watch yourself.”

  “Did you send a telegram to Cantrell?” Clint asked.

  “Why would I do that?” the lawman asked.

  “To keep one of your solid citizens happy.”

  Turner looked away. “No, I didn’t send a telegram.”

  No, Clint thought, you probably sent a rider. Which meant Cantrell would be waiting for him.

  He needed to send a telegram from somewhere between Roswell and Carrizozo. There must be a town with a telegraph line in that eighty or so miles.

  “Thanks for the help, Sheriff,” he said. “Don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again.”

  Unless, of course, he found out that the lawman had something to do with killing those people. Then he’d be back with a federal marshal.

  Once Clint Adams had ridden out of town, Sheriff Turner crossed the street and walked down to the telegraph office. He hated to do it, but he knew who buttered his bread.

  “Sheriff,” the clerk said.

  He hastily scribbled and note and said, “Send this right away to Carrizozo, Len.”

  TWENTY

  Clint could have ridden into Carrizozo late that evening, but he decided to camp within spitting distance of the town.

  He’d found the telegraph line he’d been looking for in a town called Lester and sent a telegram to Sheriff Scott in Hondo. He got an answer back within the hour. It was what he needed to know.

  He built a fire and made some coffee, used it to wash down some beef jerky.

  The sheriff in Carrizozo was named Glenister and, according to Sheriff Scott, he was his own man. Clint was going to take that information with a grain of salt. Too many lawmen who started out as their own men had succumbed to men with money. And judging by everything he’d learned, Cantrell had a lot of it.

  He’d stop in and see Sheriff Glenister in the morning, make his own judgment about the man before going any further.

  Clint broke camp in the morning and saddled up. He’d be getting into Carrizozo early enough to get some breakfast there. He tried always to take care of his stomach, because he needed to be alert at all times.

  Carrizozo had all the earmarks of a growing town, not the last of which was the scent of newly cut wood in the air. There were new buildings on both sides of the street, some of them two stories high. He picked out a hotel for himself, then went in search of the livery and Old Jim’s pal Jenkins.

  W
hen he found the livery a tall, skinny fellow stopped what he was doing to watch Clint ride Eclipse in.

  “Good God, fella,” the man said, “now that’s a horse!”

  “You Jenkins?” Clint asked.

  “I’m Lou Jenkins, yeah,” the man said, staring at Clint owlishly. He had one eye that seemed to open only halfway. Clint guessed him to be somewhere in his sixties.

  “Jim Hacker said I could count on you,” Clint said, dismounting.

  “For what?” Jenkins asked, suspiciously.

  “Well, to take care of my horse, for one.”

  “That I can and will do, gladly. What else?”

  “Information.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything.”

  “You want a bartender for that, Mister.”

  “Bartenders listen real well,” Clint said, “but they also talk a lot. I don’t want anybody knowing my business.”

  Jenkins rubbed a big hand over his long jaw, making a scratching sound as he did it.

  “I can pay,” Clint said.

  “That ain’t the issue,” Jenkins said.

  “What is, then?” Clint asked.

  “Stayin’ alive.”

  “You don’t even know who or what I’m interested in, yet.”

  “Mister,” Jenkins said. “I can tell by lookin’ at you that you ain’t about to ask questions about the local preacher. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  Jenkins pointed at him and said, “See? You’re lookin’ for trouble, ain’tcha?”

  “I’m afraid I am, Lou,” Clint said. “Trouble named Harry Cantrell.”

  Jenkins stared at him, then put his hand out.

  “Hand over your horse,” Jenkins said, “and tell me what you want to know.”

  “Cantrell is a ruthless sonofabitch,” Jenkins said as he rubbed Eclipse down. “You goin’ up against him, you better have one of two things on your side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The law, or a fast gun.”

  “I just might have both.”

  “Then you just might be able to take him on,” Jenkins said. “What is it you think he’s done?”

  “I think he might have killed eleven people,” Clint said. “Six adults, five children.”