Copper Canyon Killers Read online

  “You got a bet,” Tony said.

  “You guys,” Scott yelled from the bar. “Time to go home and get some sleep.”

  “Yeah,” Tony said, “time to go and get some sleep. We got a new day tomorrow.”

  “And get our share of the money from Steph,” Andy said.

  “Yeah,” Tony said, “that, too.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Letty was obviously not experienced when it came to sex, so Clint went slow with her, showed her a few things—all of which she took to immediately.

  Eventually, Letty wanted to go faster, and he obliged. She especially liked sitting on top of his cock, riding him until he exploded deep inside her.

  She literally fell off him at one point when they were both done, and they lay side by side in bed, catching their breath.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I’m gonna have to have sex every day after this.”

  “Not every day,” Clint said. “You do that and the word will get around. You don’t want your uncle to know.”

  “God, no!” she said. “If Uncle Randy found out, he’d kill any man I was with.”

  “Including me,” Clint said.

  “Oh, I’m not gonna tell him about you,” she assured him. “I’m not done with you yet, so I don’t want you dead.”

  “I don’t want me dead either.”

  “So how long are you gonna be in town?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I was only passing through, but it might change.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I’ve been offered a job,” he said.

  “Are you gonna take it?”

  “I don’t really know,” he said, “but I have to decide by morning.”

  “Well,” she said, snuggling up to him, “if it keeps you here longer, I hope you take the job.”

  “I need some time to think about it,” he said, “so why don’t you go to sleep and I’ll do that.”

  “I am pretty tired,” she said, closing her eyes. “Can I stay all night?”

  “Sure you can,” he said, “as long as Uncle Randy doesn’t find out.”

  Sleepily, she said, “He won’t ever find out . . . not from me anyway.”

  In moments, she was asleep.

  Clint’s intention was to give Big Al Henry’s job offer some pretty serious thought, but a few moments after Letty fell asleep, so did he.

  * * *

  Clint awoke in the morning to find Letty down between his legs, nuzzling his cock to life. When it was fully hard, she took it into her mouth, sucked it avidly for a while before mounting him and riding him again.

  “Oh, Lord!” she said, hopping off him. “I have to get home and take a bath! I bet I stink.”

  “Well,” he said as she started to dress, “at least you’re not dirty.”

  “If you’re gonna stay around town for a while, I’ll make sure I’m always clean,” she said, “no matter what job I take.”

  “That’s a deal,” he said.

  She paused as she was pulling on her trousers and looked over at him.

  “So you’re gonna take that job?”

  “I think so,” he said. “I have to talk with the man again this morning.”

  Letty finished dressing, went to the bed, and kissed him.

  “I’ll see you at Milty’s.”

  “Hey, about that,” Clint said. “Who’s Milty?”

  “He used to own the saloon. He died last year, and left the place to my uncle, who was his bartender.”

  “Why doesn’t he change the name?”

  “It’s the best-known saloon in town,” she said. “I guess he just didn’t think it was smart to do.”

  “Probably right.”

  “I gotta go,” she said. “See you later.”

  She ran out the door.

  Clint got off the bed immediately, washed with the pitcher and basin in the room, got dressed, and left his room to go and meet Al Henry for breakfast.

  * * *

  Big Al Henry came down to the lobby of his hotel and stopped at the front desk.

  “Any messages?” he asked the clerk.

  “No, sir, Mr. Henry.”

  “All right,” he said. “If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be having breakfast.”

  “Yessir.”

  He walked to the dining room, which was about half full that early. A waiter showed him to his regular table. He always sat in the same place when he was in town.

  Across the room from him he saw Daniel Thayer having breakfast alone. There was some debate in town over who was a wealthier man, he or Thayer. Big Al had no opinion on the subject. Thayer looked over at him and nodded. He returned the nod.

  “The usual, Mr. Henry?” a waiter asked.

  “I’m waiting for a guest, Gary,” he said. “Just bring me a pot of coffee.”

  “Yessir.”

  Big Al hoped that this day was going to start the way he wanted it to, with the Gunsmith in his employ. Once word of that employment reached Judge Miller, maybe he would gain some semblance of balance again. He hated to think that Miller had any sort of advantage over him, but as long as his son was in jail, that would probably be the case.

  The waiter came with the coffee, poured him a cup, and Big Al settled back to wait for the Gunsmith.

  EIGHTEEN

  When Clint walked into the hotel dining room, Al Henry spotted him and waved him over.

  “Good morning,” Henry said.

  “Morning,” Clint said as they shook hands.

  “Have some coffee. I waited for you before ordering.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint poured the coffee, found it strong enough for him.

  The waiter came over and Clint said, “Steak and eggs.”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Henry?”

  “Eggs Benedict, Gary.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I discovered eggs Benedict when I first went to New York,” Henry explained.

  “I’ve had them before,” Clint said. “Didn’t care for them much.”

  “Where did you have them?” the rancher asked.

  “Also in New York,” Clint said.

  “Do you go to New York often?”

  “I’ve been there a few times,” Clint said.

  Al Henry sipped his coffee, then put his cup down and said, “Small talk is painful, isn’t it?”

  “It can be,” Clint said.

  “Have you made up your mind about the job?” Big Al asked.

  “I’ll take it—”

  “Good!”

  “With a couple of conditions.”

  “What are they?”

  “I do things my way.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And the sheriff has to agree.”

  “The sheriff? Why?”

  “I don’t want to be at odds with the law.”

  “But you’ll be at odds with Judge Miller.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Clint said, “the judge doesn’t come into this until and unless it goes to court. Sheriff Brown is the law.”

  “Well,” Big Al said, “I don’t see why he’d object.”

  “I’ll talk to him today,” Clint said. “If he warns me off, I’ll have to turn the job down.”

  “If that’s the way you want it,” Henry said.

  “That’s the way it has to be.”

  “All right,” Henry said. “When will you talk to Sheriff Brown?”

  “Right after breakfast.”

  “And then you’ll let me know?”

  “Right away.”

  “All right,” Henry said. “If you need my help with the investigation—just my help, mind you—let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “After you’ve ta
lked with the sheriff, if you accept the job, we’ll take a walk over to my bank.”

  “Fine.”

  The waiter came with their plates and set them down.

  “How about some champagne with breakfast?” Big Al asked.

  “Sure,” Clint said, “why not?”

  * * *

  After breakfast, Clint left Big Al still drinking champagne at the table while he walked over to the sheriff’s office. As he entered, he saw Sheriff Brown sitting behind his desk. Deputy Ott was nowhere in sight.

  “Morning, Sheriff.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Adams. What can I do for you?”

  “I just had breakfast with Big Al Henry.”

  “I hope he paid.”

  “He did.”

  “And?”

  “He’s hired me to prove his son’s innocence.”

  “And if he isn’t innocent?”

  “I’ll tell Big Al that, too.”

  “Are you a detective?”

  “Not exactly,” Clint said, “but I’ve worked with some good detectives. What I need to know is, do you object?”

  “Hell, no, I don’t object,” Brown said. “Go ahead and prove he’s innocent. But at the same time, try to prove who’s guilty, will you? That’s the only way I’ll be able to keep Judge Miller off my back.”

  “Maybe we can work together on this.”

  “That’s not very likely,” Brown said. “Judge Miller wouldn’t like it.”

  “Is he your boss?”

  “He’s the judge.”

  “But you work for the town, right?” Clint asked. “As in, the town council? The mayor?”

  “They’re all afraid of Judge Miller,” Brown said. “Everybody is.”

  “Are you?”

  Sheriff Brown hesitated, then said, “Let’s just say I like my job.”

  “I get it.”

  “So I can’t help you,” Brown said, “but I won’t stand in your way.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “I’d like to go into the cell block and talk to the boy.”

  “Jason Henry.”

  “Right.”

  “Sure,” Brown said, “just leave your gun on my desk and go ahead.”

  Clint took his gun from his holster reluctantly, set it down on the desk, and said, “Thanks.”

  He went into the cell block to start his new job.

  NINETEEN

  Clint walked into the cell block, saw Jason Henry sitting on his cot, staring at the floor.

  “Jason?”

  The boy looked up quickly.

  “I’m Clint Adams,” Clint said. “Would you mind if we talked?”

  “I don’t mind,” Jason said. “It’s pretty lonely in here. Whataya wanna talk about?”

  “Your father has asked me to try and prove that you didn’t kill Mr. Collins.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Jason said.

  “And I’m going to believe you,” Clint said. “Your dad says you couldn’t have done it. But I need you to give me something I can use to prove it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something you saw, or heard.”

  “Or smelled?”

  “You smelled something?”

  “Yes.”

  Clint waited, and when it was clear the boy wasn’t going to volunteer the information he asked, “What?”

  “Well, something sweet . . . or someone.”

  “Like . . . a person?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said, “like . . . maybe soap?”

  And who would smell like sweet soap? Certainly not a man.

  “You think there was a woman there?”

  “Maybe,” Jason said.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I know you’ve gone through this before, but very slowly tell me everything that happened.”

  “Well, my dad sent me to town to buy supplies . . .”

  * * *

  Clint listened intently while the boy told him the whole story. When he finished, there was a silent moment between them.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “the arm that went around your neck . . . that couldn’t have been a woman’s arm, could it?”

  “I don’t think so,” the boy said. “It was so strong!”

  “So,” Clint said, “maybe there were two people there, a man and a woman.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “You didn’t hear any voices?”

  “No,” Jason said. “I was the only one talking, yelling for Mr. Collins.”

  It would have helped if the boy had remembered at least one voice.

  “And the store was empty?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said, “totally empty. I ain’t never seen it like that before.”

  “That couldn’t be a coincidence,” Clint said, speaking to himself, but aloud so that Jason could hear it. “Maybe when the real killers walked in, somebody saw them. I just have to ask some of the store’s regular customers.”

  “How will you know who they are?”

  “Mr. Collins must have kept record of who his regulars were,” Clint said, “especially if he extended them credit. And I understand he has a daughter?”

  “Miss Beth,” Jason said, “but she doesn’t work in the store.”

  “If it’s locked, though, she’s the one who would have to let me in,” Clint said. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Right upstairs from the store.”

  “Good,” Clint said, “maybe I’ll find her there. Did you tell anyone else about what you smelled?”

  “Sure,” Jason said, “I told Sheriff Brown.”

  “You did?” Clint asked. “When was that?”

  “Just last night.”

  The sheriff wouldn’t have had any time to act on that information yet.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I guess I’ll get started, then.”

  “How soon do you think you can get me out?” Jason asked.

  “I don’t know, Jason,” Clint said, “but you can depend on the fact that I’m working on it—thanks to your dad.”

  “I can’t wait to go back home,” he said.

  “I’m sure your mother misses you,” Clint said.

  “My mother’s dead,” Jason said. “She died when I was little. Nancy is my stepmother.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “then I’m sure she’s worried. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Okay, Mr. Adams. Thanks.”

  Clint went back out and picked up his gun from the sheriff’s desk. He decided not to mention what the boy had told him about the sweet-smelling soap. Maybe the sheriff had his own ideas about it, but he didn’t really want to hear them. He had his own investigation to conduct.

  “Can you tell me if the mercantile is locked?”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Then I’ll have to go to Beth Collins so she can let me in.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “No objection?”

  Brown shook his head and said, “None.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Good,” the lawman said. “Let me know how things go. And watch out for the judge.”

  “I will,” Clint said. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “You might also,” Brown said as Clint headed for the door, “be careful around Big Al Henry.”

  “Big Al?”

  “Yeah,” Brown said. “I know you’re working for him, but he and the judge will do anything to get at each other. Big Al will sacrifice anyone, even you.”

  “And his son?”

  “Sadly,” Brown said, “I think so.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  TWENTY

  Clint tried the front door of the mercantile first, just in case it was unlocke
d. It wasn’t. He walked around to the side and found a stairway that led to the second floor. He went up and knocked on the door. There was no answer. When he came down, he found himself facing a middle-aged woman with a stern expression on her face.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “My name is Clint Adams,” he said. “I was looking for Beth Collins.”

  “She just lost her father, you know,” the woman said.

  “I do know that,” Clint said. “I wanted to talk to her about it.”

  “Well, I have the store on this side,” she said. “I’m just keepin’ an eye on the place.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “Beth has her own shop a few streets down,” the woman said. “She didn’t want to work in her father’s store, so she opened her own.”

  “So you think she’ll be there?”

  “I do,” she said. “That girl won’t stop working, even though her father’s dead.”

  “Well, I thank you for the information, ma’am,” Clint said. “I’ll just go down there and talk to her.”

  “You be kind to her,” the woman said. “That girl’s been through enough.”

  “I will be kind, ma’am,” he said. “I promise.”

  As he started to walk away, she called out, “And you should know she’s available.”

  “Uh, thank you.”

  “And pretty,” the woman called.

  He waved and kept going.

  * * *

  Beth Collins’s store turned out to be a haberdashery shop. The window had some articles of clothing in it, but he knew that a haberdasher was someone who dealt in buttons and bows and things of that nature.

  He entered and a small bell tinkled to announce his arrival. There were four women in the store, and they all turned to look at him.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m looking for Beth Collins.”

  The women—of varying ages from sixteen to sixty—looked at each other, apparently trying to decide who the spokesperson should be, and doing so without uttering a word.

  “She’s in the storeroom,” an older woman finally said. “She’ll be back shortly.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  The women exchanged glances again, and then the older woman approached him. She was a handsome, gray-haired woman who had obviously been a beauty in her youth.