The Devil's Collector Page 6

  “Um, the same, I guess.”

  “Look, Eddie,” Clint said, “we’re going to be in town for a while. We’re staying at the Merchant Hotel. If you think of anything—or remember anything—let us know, will you?”

  “I sure will, Mr. Adams,” Eddie said. “I mean, I’d like to help, I really would.”

  “That’s good, Eddie,” Clint said. “That’s really good, because we’d be willing to pay for the right kind of help.”

  “Pay?” the boy asked.

  Clint nodded and said, “Pay.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  They went back to their hotel, figuring they were done for the night.

  “Tomorrow we’ll start with the sheriff,” Clint said. “See what he’s got to say for himself.”

  “You think he’ll remember?”

  “A lawman doesn’t forget that kind of shooting in his town,” Clint said. “He’ll remember it, and he’ll remember you. What I’m interested in is whether or not his story is the same.”

  “Well,” Sonnet said, “I remember every word he told me.”

  “I knew you would,” Clint said. “You don’t forget when somebody tells you someone you loved died.”

  “You’ve lost love ones?” Sonnet asked.

  “Not family members,” Clint said, “but lots and lots of friends.”

  • • •

  They stopped in the saloon for a beer before going to their own rooms.

  “What about somebody watchin’ us?” Sonnet asked.

  “I still haven’t seen anybody,” Clint said. “On the other hand, you haven’t gotten a telegram since Deline, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Then whoever was sending them must know that you’ve changed your plans.”

  “How?”

  Clint shook his head, then thought of something.

  “Jack, you haven’t been keeping in touch with anyone, have you? Sending telegrams yourself?”

  Sonnet didn’t answer right away.

  “Jack . . .”

  “Just Betty.”

  “Who’s Betty?”

  “She’s the daughter of the farmer who took me in,” he said. “She’s the one nursed me back to health.”

  “Oh yeah?” Clint smiled.

  “We got . . . you know, friendly.”

  “And you’ve been sending her telegrams?”

  “Just to tell her where I am,” he said, “and that I’m all right.”

  Clint stood there and studied what was left of his beer.

  “You don’t think she’d tell anybody, do you?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know the girl, Jack,” Clint said. “But she wouldn’t have to tell anybody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody could just be watching her, reading her telegrams.”

  “You mean . . . like her father?”

  “Father, brother—”

  “She doesn’t have any brothers.”

  “Uncles?”

  “There’s an uncle.”

  “Okay, so maybe the father, maybe an uncle, maybe somebody in town. We’ll find out when we get there. Meanwhile, don’t send any more telegrams.”

  “What? You mean . . . to Betty?”

  “That’s what I mean,” Clint said. “Have you sent one yet from here?”

  “Uh, no,” Sonnet said. “I haven’t had the time.”

  “Okay, don’t,” Clint said.

  “But . . . she’ll worry.”

  “After we talk to the sheriff,” Clint said, “we’ll take a ride out to that farm and see Betty and her family.”

  “The Rayfields.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “we’ll go and see the Rayfields.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Sonnet said. “I’m gonna turn in.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have breakfast right here in the hotel.”

  “Sure.”

  Sonnet left the saloon and went to his room, and Clint ordered a second beer . . .

  He was halfway through the second beer when a man wearing a badge entered, not from the hotel lobby but from the street. He was young, obviously a deputy.

  “Hey, Will,” the bartender greeted him. “Does the sheriff know you’re here?”

  “I’ve gotta do my rounds, don’t I?” the deputy said. “Let me have a beer.”

  “I’ll give you a short one, just to keep you out of trouble.”

  Clint noticed that the deputy was having a hard time keeping his eyes off him, so he assumed the young man knew who he was. That probably meant the sheriff knew he was in town, and probably Jack Sonnet, too.

  But the deputy was trying his best to ignore him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint nursed his beer while the deputy talked with the bartender, waiting to see if the badge toter would finally give in and talk to him. But as much as the young man was straining to, he was apparently able to resist the urge.

  “I gotta get back to my rounds,” the deputy told the bartender.

  “Yeah, you better get out there.”

  The deputy gave one last sidelong look at Clint and then left.

  “He’s pretty young to be a deputy, isn’t he?” Clint asked.

  “Will? Yeah, he’s a local kid the sheriff gave a job to.”

  “He seemed real interested in me, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, you noticed that?” the bartender asked. “I guess you know when you get recognized, huh?”

  “It’s kind of hard not to notice,” Clint said. “What was his problem? He have orders not to bother me?”

  “My guess is the sheriff wants to talk to you first,” the bartender said. “Will has a habit of sayin’ the wrong thing.”

  “I see.”

  “You want another one, Mr. Adams?”

  “No,” Clint said, pushing the empty mug away. “I think I’m going to turn in.”

  “You have a good night.”

  “Before I go,” Clint said.

  “Yeah?”

  “There was a shooting in town a few months ago.”

  “Was that a friend of yours?”

  “Didn’t know him,” Clint said. “But I heard about it. What can you tell me?”

  “Not much,” the man said, leaning on the bar. “Five men gunned down one. Nobody saw it.”

  “Nobody?” Clint asked. “That kind of a shooting and not one witness?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “Or is it just that nobody is coming forward?”

  “Don’t know why that would be,” the bartender said. “The man who was killed was a stranger. Nobody knew him.”

  “That does sound odd,” Clint said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Dan.”

  “Thanks for talking to me, Dan.”

  “Sure, Mr. Adams,” Dan the bartender said. “You have yourself a good night.”

  “You, too.”

  Clint left the saloon.

  • • •

  Outside, Will Romer crossed the street to where Sheriff Koster stood.

  “Well?”

  “He was in there.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No, sir,” Romer said. “I did what you told me.”

  “Okay,” Koster said. “Now go home.”

  “But, Sheriff—”

  “Go on home, Will,” Koster said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Koster watched his deputy walk away, then turned his attention to the hotel. He watched for about half an hour before he turned and also went home.

  TWENTY-THREE

  In the morning Clint waited for Sonnet in the lobby and then they went into the hotel
dining room for breakfast. Over steak and eggs, Clint told Sonnet what his plan was.

  “I want you to keep quiet,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Let me do all the talking,” Clint said, “unless I ask you a question.”

  “Well . . . okay.”

  “The sheriff is going to be curious about my part in this,” Clint said. “He’ll also be curious about why you’re back here. We’re not necessarily going to satisfy his curiosity in either case. But we’ll see if we can get some of our own questions answered.”

  “Okay,” Sonnet said. “I’ll let you call the play, Clint.”

  They finished their breakfast, left the hotel, and walked over to the sheriff’s office.

  • • •

  As Clint and Sonnet entered the sheriff’s office, the man with the badge turned to face them.

  “I was wonderin’ when you two would show up,” the man said. He had a coffeepot in his hand, finished pouring himself a cup, then walked to his desk without offering them any.

  “Good morning, Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “Mr. Adams,” Koster said. “What’s the Gunsmith doin’ in Monroe City?”

  “You remember my friend, don’t you?”

  “Mr. Sonnet?” Koster said. “Sure I do. Jack, isn’t it?”

  Sonnet didn’t answer.

  “I guess I’m gonna be doin’ my talkin’ to you, Mr. Adams,” Koster said. “My name’s Jubal Koster.”

  “Obviously you know who I am,” Clint said.

  “Well, a man with your reputation can’t ride into a town without being recognized.”

  “Probably not.”

  “What can I do for you?” Koster asked. “If you’re here with young Mr. Sonnet, I guess this is about the murder of his brother.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “What’s to tell?” Koster asked. “Somebody gunned down his brother. Nobody knows who.”

  “Somebody knows.”

  “If they do, they didn’t tell me.”

  “How many shooters were there?”

  “Five.”

  “Now see,” Clint said, “if there were no witnesses, how do you know there were five shooters?”

  “Well . . . yeah, somebody saw that there were five men, but nobody actually saw who they were.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said. “There you go. There’s a witness. We’d like to talk to the witness.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Sonnet here is interested in who killed his brother.”

  “I thought he knew,” Koster said. “I thought he had the names and was trackin’ them down.”

  “Well, somebody gave him some names,” Clint said, “but we decided to try and find out for ourselves before killing anybody.”

  “I can’t help you,” Koster said.

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  “I’d like to,” Koster said. “Really I would. But I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The fella who saw the five shooters was a stranger,” Koster said. “He’s gone.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Smith,” Koster said, “John Smith.”

  “That’s the name he gave you?” Clint asked. “Or the name you’re giving me?”

  “That’s the name he gave me.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “It didn’t matter,” Koster said. “He couldn’t identify any of the men.”

  “Somebody was able to identify them,” Clint said. “Somebody started sending Jack here one name at a time in telegrams.”

  “Then it sounds to me like he had all the help he needed.”

  “Not quite,” Clint said, “because now there’s some question about whether or not he was being given the right names.”

  “Oh, I see,” Koster said. “Somebody gave him the names and he started killin’. Now he’s wonderin’ if he killed the right men.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Well, I can’t help you,” Koster said.

  “That may be true,” Clint said.

  “What do you mean, may?” Koster asked. “Are you callin’ me a liar?”

  “No,” Clint said, “not yet anyway. When I do, you’ll know. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Clint turned and headed for the door.

  “So, you don’t talk anymore?” Koster asked Sonnet.

  “I’ll talk,” Sonnet said, “when I have something to say.”

  Sonnet followed Clint out the door.

  Outside, the young man asked Clint, “What did we accomplish there?”

  “Koster now knows you’re not just going to accept any answer,” Clint said. “You want the right answer. And if I’m right, the sheriff is going to have to check with somebody on his next move.”

  “So what’s our next move?”

  “Like I said at breakfast,” Clint said, “you’re going to take me and introduce me to the Rayfields.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Rayfield farm was fifty-four miles east of Monroe City. Clint decided that he and Sonnet should camp along the way, so as not to startle the family by knocking on their door too late at night.

  “After all,” Clint said, “they’re farmers. They’ll be up early, and so will we.”

  They built a campfire a few miles from the farmhouse, prepared some beans and coffee.

  “What’s the next town?” Clint asked.

  “Just a few miles beyond the farm is a small town called Garfield.”

  “Do they have a telegraph key there?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Sonnet said. “I never got to go to that town, but that’s where I been sending telegrams for Betty.”

  “So she hasn’t been riding into Monroe City to pick them up.”

  “I don’t think her father would let her do that.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “After we talk with Betty and her father, we’ll take a ride to Garfield.”

  “Also her mother.”

  “What?”

  “Her mother and her uncle, they’ll be there, too.”

  “We’ll talk to the whole family,” Clint said.

  “What makes you think they know somethin’ they didn’t tell me?” Sonnet asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe they saw something when they found you that they don’t know was important.”

  “Well,” Sonnet said, “I don’t remember anything until I woke up in their house.”

  “What happened before that?”

  “I was just riding,” Sonnet said.

  “To Monroe City?”

  “That’s right.”

  “From where?”

  Sonnet hesitated. Clint stared at his confused face across the fire.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  Frowning, Sonnet said, “I guess maybe I don’t.”

  “But you know you weren’t coming from Garfield.”

  “I don’t think I was ever in Garfield.”

  “And you didn’t stop at the farm.”

  “No, I had never seen them before.”

  “You had to be coming from somewhere.”

  “There are a lot of little towns hereabouts,” Sonnet said. “It could have been any one of them.”

  “All right,” Clint said, “we’ll let that go for now. But that may be something the Rayfields can help us with. Maybe you said something while you were unconscious.”

  “I guess.”

  “More beans?”

  • • •

  They decided to stand a watch, just in case somebody was following them—somebody so good at it that Clint couldn’t tell.

  Clint took the first watch, putting on another pot of coffee for himself.

  Sonnet rolled
himself up in his bedroll and fell asleep. He did not, however, sleep well. He rolled about fitfully, obviously having dreams that were not restful.

  Clint didn’t blame him. First his brother was killed. Then he started hunting down and killing men who might turn out to be innocent.

  With that on his mind, Clint doubted he’d be able to sleep soundly either.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In the morning they finished the beans and coffee for breakfast, and mounted up. Sonnet took the lead and headed for the farm.

  “You didn’t sleep very well last night, Jack,” Clint said.

  “I didn’t?”

  “You were tossing and turning,” Clint said. “What were you dreaming about?”

  “I don’t know,” Sonnet said. “I never remember my dreams.”

  “I suppose that could be a good thing,” Clint said. “I always remember my dreams. Especially the bad ones.”

  “If you say I didn’t sleep well,” Sonnet said, “I guess that explains why I’m so tired.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “When this is over, you can sleep for a week.”

  “Maybe more,” Sonnet said.

  “Sure,” Clint said, “maybe more.”

  • • •

  As they approached the house, the sun was just starting to come up. They could see a man walking toward the house, shoulders already slumped, and smoke tendrils coming from the chimney.

  As they approached, the man stopped walking and turned to face them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Rayfield,” Jack Sonnet said. “Remember me?”

  “I remember,” the farmer said, but he didn’t look happy about it. “Yer just in time for breakfast. Put your horses in the barn.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Sonnet said.

  The farmer grunted and went inside the house.

  Clint and Sonnet rode to the barn, dismounted, and walked their horses inside.

  “He doesn’t look too happy to see you,” Clint said.

  “I don’t think Mr. Rayfield is happy about the way Betty and I feel about each other.”

  “You’re talking like a man in love, Jack.”

  Sonnet ducked his head, but not before Clint saw his face color.

  They took their horses to the barn, left them saddled, and gave them a little hay before walking to the house.

  As they approached the house, the door opened and a woman stepped out, carrying a bucket of water.