East of the River Page 8

“If we kill him in town, it’s gonna bring heat down on us,” Thomas said. “And if we’re plannin’ on hittin’ this bank, we don’t need any heat.”

  “Ah, I still don’t know about hittin’ this bank,” John said. “In our own town?”

  “I told you, Johnny,” Thomas said. “Nobody’s gonna suspect us in our own town—as long as we don’t kill Doyle here.”

  “So are you sayin’ we don’t kill Doyle,” John asked, “or we don’t kill him here, in town?”

  “It’d be better if we could just get him to leave town on his own, so we don’t have to kill him,” Thomas said. “But yeah, if we can’t get him to leave, we’ll have to take him out somewhere and kill him.”

  “There’s just one thing, Tom.”

  “What?”

  “I’m no killer.”

  “John,” Thomas said, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder, “we killed a man on our last job.”

  “That wasn’t me,” John said. “You and Mort did that.”

  “Yeah, and if we hadn’t done it, you’d be dead,” Thomas said. “That guy had a bead on you, brother.”

  “I know that!” John said. “I-I just don’t know if I can kill Doyle in cold blood, you know?”

  “Don’t worry.” Thomas patted his brother now. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to. Mort or me, we’ll take care of it. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Suddenly, the back door opened. Mort and Sam came rushing in.

  “We found the horse!” Sam said excitedly.

  “Where?” Thomas asked.

  “In a livery at the south end of town,” Mort said.

  “That’s the one run by Beau Morgan,” John said.

  “Yeah,” Mort said, “we met him.”

  “He pulled a gun on us,” Sam said.

  “Jesus,” John said, “you didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “No,” Mort said. “Little brother here wanted to use his gun, but I stopped him.”

  “Sammy,” Thomas said, “you don’t even know how to use that.”

  “You’re supposed to teach me, Tom!”

  “I know that,” Thomas said, “and I will. Just don’t touch that damn thing until I do. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “Aw, Tommy—”

  “Shut up, Sam,” Thomas said. “Mort, whose horse is it?”

  “That we don’t know,” Mort said, “but we can find out tomorrow, or even tonight, from your friend Beau.”

  “I tell you what,” Thomas said. “Why don’t you leave that to me. Or rather, John, here.” He squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “He’s been known to have a drink or two with ol’ Beau.”

  “Yeah, at the Ox Bow,” John said.

  “Why don’t you see if you can find ol’ Beau and buy him a drink, John?” Thomas said. “I’ll talk to Mort and Sam about what we were just talkin’ about.”

  “What’s that?” Mort asked.

  “Doyle,” Thomas said, “we were talkin’ about Doyle.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  When Clint got to the livery, he found the front door locked tight. He went around to the back, and found that that door had been forced. He entered without drawing his gun. He had a feeling whoever had forced the door had been and gone.

  He found Eclipse standing quietly in his stall.

  “How you doin’, big boy?” he asked. He ran his hands over the horse, checking for any damage. He was relieved to find none.

  He looked at the other horses while he was there, and found nothing unusual. He left by the back door, figuring he’d return later with Beau.

  He headed back toward the center of town.

  When John Archer entered the Ox Bow, he didn’t see Beau anywhere. It was about the time of day that Beau had a meal, so he decided to have a beer and wait for him.

  “How you doin’, John?” Newly Hagen asked.

  “Okay, Newly,” John said. “I’ll have a beer.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  When Newly returned with the beer, John asked, “Has Beau been in yet?”

  “Beau? From the livery? No, not tonight. Should be in soon, though. He likes to have a few before he puts the stock to bed.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Hagen wiped a spot on the bar and then moved away. John hung his head over his beer, deep in thought. There was a lot of activity going on around him, but he didn’t notice.

  He was thinking about killing Doyle.

  Eddie Randle—Deputy U.S. Marshal Eddie Reed—came out of his office to take a look at the house. The bar seemed full, and it looked like a good night as he walked around. He was about to go back to his office when he saw John Archer hunched over a beer at the bar. It had been a while since any of the Archers had been in his place. He decided to check it out.

  He moved up alongside John, who didn’t notice him. For someone who made his money robbing others, the man was a little too easy to sneak up on.

  “Hey, John.”

  Archer started, turned his head.

  “Oh, hi, Eddie,” John said. “How’re ya doin’?”

  “Why so glum?” Eddie asked.

  “Huh? Oh, I ain’t glum,” John said. “I’m just . . . thinkin’.”

  “About what? A woman? Girl trouble?”

  “Naw, nothin’ like that,” John said. “Just . . . brother problems, ya know? Sometimes they get on my nerves.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Randle said. “I got no brothers. No sisters either.”

  “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have any brothers either,” John said.

  “Well,” Randle said, “I’ll leave you to finish your beer. Hey, Newly?”

  “Yeah, Boss?”

  “Give John one on the house when he’s finished.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” John said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Randle left John at the bar and went back to his office.

  Clint thought it was odd that he couldn’t locate Sheriff Perry. He’d gone to the office and found it locked. He couldn’t even find the deputy. The law was keeping a very low profile.

  After about an hour he decided to go to the Ox Bow to get Beau.

  As Beau entered the saloon, John turned and spotted him. When Beau saw John, it came to him who the two men at the livery had to have been. He knew John from the saloon, and he knew his brother Tom from the general store. He knew they had two other brothers, but he rarely—if ever—saw them.

  The men at the livery had to have been Mort and Sam Archer.

  John waved him over and said, “Buy you a beer?”

  “Sure,” Beau said, “why not?”

  When Clint came into the Ox Bow, he saw Beau standing at the bar with John Archer. Neither of the men saw him, so he kept going, all the way to the back, to Eddie Randle’s office door. He knocked and entered.

  “You see John Archer out there?” Randle asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I see he’s having a beer with Beau, from the livery.”

  “Oh, Beau wasn’t there when I saw him.”

  Clint sat down. “You have a conversation with John?”

  “Just a short one, about brothers. He says sometimes they get on his nerves.”

  “Well, Mort and Sam tracked my horse to Beau’s livery,” Clint said. “He wouldn’t let them see him, but I think they broke in and took a look.”

  “Even if they found your horse, they don’t know who it belongs to.”

  “Not yet.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “I think it’s a question of what we’re gonna do,” Clint said, “and then what they’re gonna do.”

  “And do you have an answer to any of those questions?” Randle asked.

  “Actually,” Clint said, “I think I’m getting an idea.”

  “About what?”

  “About a way to get them to hit when and where we want them to.”

  Randle sat back, laced his fingers behind his head, and said, “T
his I wanna hear.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Randle listened to Clint’s idea, nodding as he did, and never interrupting.

  “So let me get this straight,” he said, when Clint was done. “You want the Archers to think that a lot of money is comin’ in to the Dexter bank—”

  “A lot of money,” Clint said.

  “Right, a lot of money, enough so they’ll think that this could be their big score.”

  “Their last score,” Clint said. “Every gang I ever dealt with was looking for that one big, last score.”

  “And then when they do hit the bank, we’re waitin’ for them.”

  “Right.”

  “And how would we get them to think that?”

  “You have to get somebody to send a telegram to the bank, telling them about it,” Clint said. “Or we have to get somebody at the bank to plant the lie.”

  “Like the bank manager?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  “That’d be Walter Morris,” Randle said. “I’d have to tell him who I really am.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’d be breaking my cover.”

  “Yep.”

  “And what about the local law?” Randle asked. “Perry? I don’t trust him.”

  “I don’t trust him either.”

  “Why not?”

  Clint told Randle about Hannie Walsh and the man named Doyle, and the sheriff’s reaction to the name.

  “Why you gettin’ involved in that?”

  “Look, the girl needs help,” Clint said. “She fainted in the street and I helped her, bought her something to eat. Then she told me about her meeting with the sheriff. It’s enough to make me not trust him, so no, we’d keep him in the dark. In fact, let him think the same thing as the Archers.”

  “And the deputy?”

  “Same thing,” Clint said. “The fewer people who know what we’re doing, the better.”

  “So you, me, and the bank manager.”

  “That’s it.”

  Randle finally unlaced his fingers and sat forward.

  “That could work.”

  “Okay then,” Clint said. “First thing, you’ll have to have a talk with the bank manager.”

  “Come with me,” Randle said. “If we’re all in on it, we should know each other.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, standing up.

  “What are you gonna do now?”

  “I’m going to walk Beau back to the livery. I want to make sure he doesn’t get killed.”

  “Okay,” Randle said. “I’ll meet you here in the morning.”

  “Right.”

  Clint left the office and headed for the bar to break up the conversation between Beau and John Archer.

  “So how’s business?” John asked Beau.

  “Good,” Beau said.

  “Many strangers comin’ into town?”

  “Some.”

  “Lately?”

  “A few.”

  Beau was being crafty. He thought John Archer was trying to get him to talk about Clint Adams’s horse, for his brothers.

  “Hey,” he said. “how come I never see your other two brothers in town?”

  “Oh, uh, Mort and Sam, they work pretty hard at the farm.”

  “Uh-huh. Never come into town to blow off steam?”

  “No,” John said, “they, uh, do that out there.”

  “Huh.”

  Beau saw Clint coming his way.

  “Hey, Beau,” Clint said.

  “Mr. Adams.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  John looked at Clint.

  “Adams.”

  “Mr. Archer. Nice to see you again.”

  “Uh, yeah, likewise.”

  “I gotta bed down the stock,” Beau said to John. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Sure, Beau.”

  Outside, Clint asked, “What was that all about?”

  “We have a beer together once in a while,” Beau said, “but tonight he was trying to get information out of me, only he don’t think I’m smart enough to know it.”

  “Information?”

  “He was asking how business was, if there was a lot of strangers in town.”

  “I get it. And you were supposed to tell him about this man who rode in on a big black horse.”

  “Only I didn’t,” Beau said. “I asked him how come his other two brothers never come to town.”

  “You figured that out, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Beau said, “them two was his brothers. You don’t have to hold my hand, ya know. I got a rifle at the livery. I can bed down the stock.”

  “I don’t think they’d kill you, Beau,” Clint said. “Not for this, but they might try to make you talk.”

  “Let ’em try.”

  “Wait a minute,” Clint said, grabbing his arm. “Okay, I’ll let you go back to work alone, but if they come back and want you to talk? Go ahead.”

  “What?”

  “Tell them I own the horse. It’s okay.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I want them to know.”

  Beau shrugged and said, “Okay, if that’s what ya want.”

  “That’s what I want. Thanks, Beau.”

  “Sure thing.”

  As he started away, Clint said, “Hey, wait.”

  “What?”

  “Those questions John asked you?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are there a lot of strangers in town?”

  “Not a lot,” Beau said. “You and one other man.”

  “A man named Doyle?”

  “I don’t know his name, but he was looking for a boardinghouse.”

  “Not a hotel?”

  “Nope,” Beau said. “He asked me about a boardinghouse.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “We got a few in town.”

  “And did you send him to one in particular?” Clint asked.

  “I, uh . . .”

  “I don’t care if you’re getting a kickback, Beau,” Clint assured him.

  “Well . . . yeah,” he said, “I sent him over to Mrs. Buchanan’s.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Clint considered going over to Mrs. Buchanan’s and confronting Doyle, but that wasn’t his decision to make. He didn’t, however, want to tell Hannie where Doyle was tonight. She was probably still weak, still in need of rest. Beau told him that Doyle’s horse was still at the livery, so there was little or no danger that the man had left town.

  He decided to go to Hannie’s hotel to check on her, but not tell her what he had found out.

  He knocked on her door and waited. When it opened, she stared out at him a bit blearily.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Damn it, I woke you,” he said. “And here I’m the one telling you to get some rest.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, rubbing her beautiful face. “Come on in.”

  Clint entered and closed the door. Hannie stood in the center of the room. She was wearing her trousers—men’s trousers—and a loose-fitting shirt. No boots, her feet were bare.

  “Did you find out anything?”

  He didn’t want to lie to her, and he had already hesitated too long, so he decided to go ahead and tell her the truth.

  “I think your man, Doyle, is staying at a Mrs. Buchanan’s boardinghouse in town.”

  She seemed to come awake right away.

  “Okay, then, let’s go.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders as she tried to dart by him to the door.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing your gun belt’s on the bedpost, and your feet are bare.”

  She looked down at her feet, then looked chagrined.

  “Oh.”

  “You see?” Clint said. “You need to rest tonight and go after him in the morning, refreshed.”

  She touched her forehead, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “You’
re probably right.”

  “I know I’m right,” he said. “You want to be at your best when you face him.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll sleep tonight and face him first thing in the morning.”

  “I can go with you, if you like,” Clint said, then remembered he had an appointment in the morning. “No, wait . . .”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ve taken care of the others alone, I can do this.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Clint said. “I’d like to help, though. I just have an appointment in the morning at the bank . . .”

  “I don’t want to interfere with your plans, or your life,” she said.

  “Believe me,” Clint said, “my life is not here. I’m just here helping a friend.”

  “Someone else like me?”

  “Not like you,” he said. “He’s a lot uglier than you are.”

  She covered her face and said, “I’m a mess.”

  “You look great.”

  “You think so?” she asked. “I’ve been in the saddle so long. I need a bath, my hair’s a mess—”

  She got up and walked to the mirror, stared at herself.

  Clint walked over and stood behind her, slightly to the right. She was too tall for him to see over her head. He put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Hannie, you know you’re a beautiful woman.”

  “I might have been—once,” she said. “Before all this ugliness. Before my sister was killed, before I killed three men . . .”

  “You think killing three men changes who you are?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t it?” she asked. “How many men have you killed over the years? Dozens? How has it changed you?”

  “You can’t let it change you,” he said. “You have to hold on to who you are.”

  She hugged herself and asked, “What if you don’t know who that is?”

  “Then you figure it out.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “You will, after tomorrow,” he said. “Is Doyle the last one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s it,” Clint said. “After tomorrow you can go back to who you were before this all happened. I mean, deep down, who you really are.”

  “I was a woman,” she said, “but I don’t feel like a woman anymore.” Then he saw something come over her face. She turned to face him, his hands still on her shoulders.