The Devil's Collector Read online

  “You can both wash up in here,” she said.

  “Hello, Mrs. Rayfield,” Sonnet said.

  “Hello, Jack,” she said, and went back inside.

  “Wow,” Clint said, “also not very happy to see you.”

  “She’s all right.”

  They rolled up their sleeves, washed up, and then went into the house.

  “Jack!” a young girl said happily.

  “Keep to your chores, girl!” Rayfield ordered from his seat at the table. “Get these men some coffee.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “Have a seat,” Rayfield told them.

  They sat at the table, across from Rayfield and another man who looked enough like the farmer to be his brother.

  Betty came over and poured them some coffee.

  “Thanks, Betty,” Sonnet said.

  She smiled and went back to the stove.

  “Introduce your friend, Jack,” Rayfield said.

  “Mr. Rayfield, this is my friend, Clint Adams,” Sonnet said.

  “Clint Adams,” the farmer said. “You bringin’ trouble to my door, boy?”

  “Papa!” his wife scolded. “These are our guests.”

  “It’s all right, ma’am,” Clint said. “He’s got a right to ask. It seems to me, Mr. Rayfield, that you brought trouble to your door when you took Jack in a few months ago when he was injured.”

  Rayfield picked up a butter knife and pointed it at Clint.

  “That wasn’t my idea,” the farmer said. “That was these foolish women.”

  The foolish women brought plates to the table that were piled high with eggs, ham, and biscuits.

  “We couldn’t very well leave him lying out there bleeding the way he was,” the farmer’s wife said.

  “Still . . .” was all the farmer offered. He used his knife to spear a piece of ham.

  “Papa, we have guests!” his wife scolded again. “Please, gentlemen, help yourselves.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Sonnet said. “It all sure looks good.”

  The ladies took their seats and breakfast commenced. Everyone was either too hungry, or too nervous, to talk during the meal.

  TWENTY-SIX

  After breakfast Rayfield said, “Ben and me gotta get back to work.”

  Ben was the uncle that Sonnet had told Clint about. The man seemed very quiet, apparently did whatever his brother told him to do.

  “Get your hat, Ben!” Rayfield snapped.

  Ben Rayfield stood up, grabbed his hat, and followed his brother out the door, still chewing on a piece of ham.

  “Mr. Rayfield doesn’t seem very happy to see us,” Clint said.

  “Papa is just a sourpuss,” Betty said.

  “Betty!” Mrs. Rayfield said. “Clear the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What brings you back here with your friend, Jack?” the older woman asked. She and her husband were probably in their fifties, but hard work had aged them beyond those years.

  Betty, on the other hand, was very young and pretty, and Clint could see why Sonnet was smitten.

  “Ma’am, we’re concerned about the men who tried to kill Jack those months ago. Jack doesn’t remember much about what happened.”

  “We didn’t see anything, Mr. Adams,” she said. “We only found Jack after the fact.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “About what?”

  “Who might have shot him,” Clint said. “Where he was coming from?”

  “He didn’t say anything that I heard,” she said, “but it was Betty who was nursing him most of the time. Betty?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Come here, girl.”

  The farmer’s daughter came over to the table. She appeared to Clint to be eighteen or so, very blond and very healthy looking. She stood at least five-eight and was very solidly built.

  “While poor Jack was unconscious, did he say anything?” Mrs. Rayfield asked.

  “Well,” she said, “he was mutterin’ some, but I couldn’t rightly understand everythin’ he was sayin’.”

  “Did you understand any of it?” Clint asked. “Maybe the name of a man, or a town?”

  “Well . . . he mentioned Busby once.”

  “Busby,” Clint said. “What is that? A man?”

  “Busby is a town about ten miles west of here,” Mrs. Rayfield said.

  Clint looked at Sonnet.

  “You remember being in Busby?”

  “No,” he said, “not at all.”

  “I guess we’ll have to take a ride over there and find out.”

  “When will you be leaving?” Mrs. Rayfield asked.

  “Probably in a few minutes,” Clint said. “There’s no reason for us to stay around here and get in the way.”

  “Jack . . .” Betty said a bit reproachfully.

  “Do you mind if we go for a walk?” Sonnet asked Mrs. Rayfield.

  “Not if you don’t keep her from her work,” she said. “And stay away from her father. He’ll just snap at you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sonnet stood up, and he and Betty went out the door quickly.

  Clint had an idea what they were in a rush to do, and he sincerely hoped they wouldn’t run into her father while they were doing it . . .

  • • •

  “What has that poor boy been up to since he left us?” the woman asked.

  “Ma’am, I think somebody might have been using him, taking advantage of his thirst for revenge and sending him after the wrong men.”

  “Innocent men?” she asked.

  “Well . . . not exactly innocent, but possibly innocent of killing his brother.”

  “And has he already killed?”

  “He has.”

  “That is a shame,” she said. “He has all the makings of a fine young man.”

  “I agree, he does.”

  “But now he is a killer.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t—”

  She stood up and said, “Once you leave here, you will please make sure he never comes back.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that, ma’am.”

  “If you do not,” she said, “he and my husband will come to blows, and the result with be tragic.”

  Clint hesitated, then said, “I can see that.”

  “Then please,” she said, “I ask for your help.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  • • •

  Jack and Betty walked hand in hand until they were far enough away from the house, and nowhere near her father. They sank to the ground together, kissing, their hands groping. He unbuttoned her dress and peeled it down her arms so that her bountiful breasts sprang free. He held them in his hands, kissed them until the nipples grew hard, then nibbled on them until she moaned and cried. She massaged him through his trousers, then undid his buttons and stuck her hand inside.

  They had done this a few times before he left, but had never gone so far as to consummate their love. This time there was no stopping them. He lifted her dress, touched her with his fingers until she was very wet. Then she slid his trousers down, lay on her back, spread her legs, and took him into her. There was a moment’s resistance, and then she was a virgin no more. She cried out in pain first . . .

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

  “No, no,” she said into his ear, “never, never stop.”

  And he didn’t. He moved into her slowly at first, then increased the tempo until he was ramming his cock into her.

  Over and over. Her breathing came in gasps as she tightened her legs around him, raked his back with her nails, and exhorted him on . . .

  • • •

  Later, as they dressed hastily, she said, “You have to take me with you, Jack.”

/>   “I can’t, Betty,” he said. “Clint and I . . . we have killin’ to do. You can’t be around that.”

  “But I love you. You can’t leave me here.”

  He took her by the elbows and said, “I’ll be back for you, Betty. I swear I will.”

  He pulled her to him and she held on to him tightly.

  “My father would kill you if he knew . . .”

  “When I come back for you, Betty, we’re gonna get married,” he said. “I’ll do it right. I’ll ask your father for your hand.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  He held her at arm’s length and said, “Then we’ll get married anyway. Nothing is gonna stop us. I love you, Betty.”

  “I love you, too, Jack.”

  • • •

  By the time they walked back to the house, Clint had the horses ready.

  “Oh!” Betty said, grabbing Jack’s arm.

  “I told you,” he said, “I’ll be back. I promise.”

  Betty walked to the house and went inside.

  Sonnet joined Clint by the horses, accepted the reins of his mount.

  “Did you say good-bye?”

  “I did.”

  “Good.”

  “I also told her I’d be back.”

  “Maybe that wasn’t so good.”

  “You can’t stop me, Clint.”

  “Who said I was going to try, kid?”

  They mounted their horses, started riding away from the house.

  “Busby?” Sonnet asked.

  Clint nodded and said, “First. Then we’ll try Garfield.”

  They rode away in silence. No sense in trying to talk Sonnet out of returning—not now anyway, Clint thought. Not when the kid had that puppy dog look in his eyes.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Busby was a collection of falling-down shacks that could only be called a town through great generosity.

  “Look familiar?” Clint asked.

  “As a matter of fact,” Sonnet said, “it does.”

  They reined in their horses in front of the trading post. When they entered, they saw that it was a combination general store and saloon. There was one man behind the bar, and three more in front, drinking. They all turned to look at the two strangers as they entered.

  “You got a lot of nerve,” the bartender said.

  “Are you talking to me?” Clint asked.

  “I’m talkin’ to your friend,” the man said.

  “You didn’t learn your lesson last time?” one of the other men asked Sonnet.

  “My lesson?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t understand,” the bartender said. “When we kicked you outta town, we tol’ you never to come back.”

  “I—I don’t remember,” Sonnet said.

  “Can I ask a question?” Clint said.

  “What?” the bartender asked.

  “What gives you the right to kick anyone out of town?”

  The bartender laughed, moved his vest aside to reveal a badge underneath.

  “I’m the sheriff,” he said. “I got the right to do anything I want.”

  “The sheriff.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Of this . . . town.”

  “It ain’t much,” the man said, “but it’s ours.”

  “And what did my friend do to get kicked out?” Clint asked.

  “He knows.”

  “That’s just it,” Clint said. “He doesn’t. Apparently, after he left, he got bushwhacked. Took him a while to recover, and he seems to have lost some of his memory.”

  “That’s too bad,” one of the other men said.

  The sheriff and the three customers were all cut from the same cloth—dirty, unwashed rags. He didn’t know what smelled worse, them or their clothes. They all looked to be in their thirties.

  “Who are you?” Clint asked.

  “Just a citizen.”

  “And you helped kick my friend out?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The other two men laughed.

  “And you?” Clint asked one of them.

  “Just a citizen.”

  “And you?” Clint asked the third. “You just a citizen, too?”

  “That’s right,” the man said around a chaw, “and we citizens like to help out whenever we can.”

  “Okay,” the sheriff said, “you fellas have to leave now.”

  “We just got here,” Clint said.

  The sheriff pointed at Sonnet.

  “He has to leave now,” he said, “and since you’re with him, so do you.”

  “I have some questions first.”

  “No questions,” the sheriff said. He reached under the bar.

  “Friend,” Clint said, “if you come up from there with a shotgun, there’s going to be a big mess to clean up here.”

  The sheriff hesitated just for a moment. Clint could tell from the look on his face he was going to make a terrible mistake. Then the man yelled, “Boys!” and went for the shotgun.

  Clint drew and shot the “sheriff” right through the flimsy bar. He turned his attention to the “citizens,” shot one of them as he was grabbing for his gun.

  Sonnet was right there with him. He drew and fired twice, taking care of the other two citizens.

  And then it was quiet.

  “Look outside,” Clint said.

  Sonnet went to the door, peered out, and said, “Nobody.”

  “Could these be the only citizens in this town?” Clint asked. “And what the hell was that all about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Clint reloaded as he checked the bodies. They were all dead. The “sheriff” had an old Greener shotgun behind the bar.

  “Do you think he really was the sheriff?” Sonnet asked.

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “That star on his chest is kind of tarnished.”

  They stepped outside.

  “Look around,” Clint said. “Do you remember anything at all?”

  “Like I said when we rode in,” Sonnet answered, “it looks familiar.”

  “And those four inside?” Clint asked. “They look familiar?”

  “No.”

  “They could be the ones who bushwhacked you,” Clint said. “Apparently, they kicked you out of town, but that wasn’t good enough. They rode after you and tried to kill you.”

  “But why?”

  “I guess we won’t find that out,” Clint said. “Unless there’s something—or someone—around here that can help.”

  “Let’s take a look in these other buildings, then,” Sonnet said.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll take this one and the one next to it. You take the other two. Sing out if you find another citizen.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint turned around and went back inside while Sonnet walked across the street.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint went through the trading post front and back and found nothing. He stepped over the bodies as he was leaving. He didn’t feel any responsibility to bury them. They’d made their own decisions.

  The next building was smaller, and managed to look lived in and abandoned at the same time. He went through it and found nothing.

  As he stepped outside, he saw Sonnet crossing back to him.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “No,” Sonnet said.

  “I didn’t find any records, any town charter,” Clint said. “I doubt we killed an actual lawman here today.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Sonnet said. “So, what do we do now?”

  “Head for Garfield,” Clint said. “If that’s a legitimate town, there’s probably a sheriff we can talk to about what happened here.”

  “Turn ourselves in?”

  “Report what
happened,” Clint said. “That’s a little different. You want to get a drink before we go?”

  “No,” Sonnet said. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

  “No,” Clint said, “neither do I. Let’s just go.”

  They mounted up and rode out of Busby.

  • • •

  It only took a few hours to reach Garfield, which may have been smaller than Monroe City but certainly qualified as a town. There were people on the streets, several saloons, a couple of hotels, and—to Clint’s satisfaction—a telegraph office. He realized at that moment that they had never asked Betty where she’d been receiving her telegrams. Sonnet would have known if he had only asked while he was sending one, but apparently it never mattered to him.

  “There,” Clint said, pointing at the sheriff’s office.

  “Right now?” Sonnet asked.

  “No time like the present,” Clint said. “I’d like to get it over with.”

  “Okay,” Sonnet said. “I’ll follow your lead.”

  • • •

  They were about to enter the sheriff’s office when the door opened and a man stepped out. He stopped short and stared at them. Clint saw the shiny badge on his chest.

  “Sheriff,” he said. “We were just coming to see you.”

  “Well,” the man said, “you don’t wanna go in there. It’s a mess.” He was a short, rotund man in his forties, who used a pudgy hand to wipe his mouth. “Can we talk in, say, the saloon?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “why not?”

  “Then come across here with me, boys,” the lawman said. “Saloon’s right over here.”

  They followed the man across the street to a small saloon. As they entered, several men called out to the sheriff, and he returned their greeting.

  At the bar he said, “Jasper, I’ll have a beer. Let these gents have what they want.”

  “And who’s payin’, Sheriff?” the barman asked.

  “Well . . .”

  “I am,” Clint said.

  “See?” the sheriff said. “Set ’em up. Three beers.”

  The bartender obeyed, and accepted the money from Clint.

  The sheriff drank down half of his beer and then turned to Clint.

  “What can I do for you boys?”

  “Well, we just came from a town called Busby.”

  “Busby?” the lawman said. “That ain’t no town. Nothin’ but a collection of wood.”