East of the River (5 page)

“Thanks, Tom.”

Randle looked around again, didn't see any sign of John. Then he heard some noise from the back room, figured the other brother must be there.

The shelves didn't look as well stocked as they might have. That could mean that business was good, or that the boys didn't have the cash to restock.

He wondered which it was.

 

The steak wasn't as good as the one Clint had had in the small town of Ajax, but it got rid of the hunger pangs. Over a pot of coffee, he once again lamented ths fact that he had ridden a long way from Texas for no reason. Now he was just flailing around, trying to find something to make the trip worth it. It didn't feel good, or right. What he probably should have been doing was mounting up and heading west.

But while he was here, he figured he might as well meet Eddie Randle and see what Harry Dial's friend had to offer, if anything.

He paid his bill, left the café, and walked back to the Ox Bow Saloon.

When Eddie Randle came walking into the Ox Bow carrying a box, Newly Hagen hurriedly followed him to his office.

“What's on your mind, Newly?” Randle asked, putting the box down on his desk.

“Fella was here lookin' for you a little while ago,” the bartender said.

“I owe him money, or he owe me money?”

“No, nothing like that,” Hagen said. “He's a friend of Harry Dial's.”

“I heard Harry had to cancel his big game,” Randle said. “Could this be one of the players?”

“You tell me,” Hagen said. “It's Clint Adams.”

“He don't have a reputation for cards,” Randle commented.

“Well, he was lookin' for you.”

“When he comes back, bring him in to see me,” Randle said. “Might as well see what he wants.”

“You ain't done nothin' to make him mad, have ya, Eddie? Or Harry Dial?”

“You think Harry Dial sent the Gunsmith here to kill me?” Randle asked. “That's crazy. No, I ain't done nothin' to either of 'em. Just bring 'im in to see me, Newly.”

“Okay.”

“Now get outta here and go to work.”

“Yup.”

Newly Hagen turned and went out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

 

As Hagen left, Randle walked around and sat behind his desk. He got out a cigar, clipped the end, and lit it up, then leaned back in his chair and puffed until he had it going properly. The presence of the Gunsmith in town had given him an idea. Now all he had to do was wait for the man's arrival.

Maybe it was time to finally put things right in Marion and Orange counties.

When Clint entered the Ox Bow, it was almost filled to capacity. The gaming tables were going, and there were about four girls in gaily colored dresses working the floor. A piano player in the corner was pounding away with more enthusiasm than talent.

Clint approached the bar and Hagen hurried down to him.

“Randle around?”

“Yes, sir,” Hagen said. “He's in his office for sure. You want a beer first?”

“I do if I can take it with me.”

“Sure thing.”

Hagen drew Clint a cold beer, then led him to the back office.

“Eddie's been waitin' for ya,” he said, knocking on the door and opening it. “Eddie, this here's Clint Adams.”

Randle stood up from behind his desk and came around with his hand out.

“Any friend of Harry Dial's is welcome in my place,” he said. “Newly, that beer and any other this man has are on the house.”

“Okay.”

“Now get outta here and get me one.”

Hagen tossed his boss a jaunty salute and left.

“Have a seat, Mr. Adams.”

“If we're both friends of Harry Dial's, I guess you should call me Clint.”

“And I'm Eddie.”

Hagen came back in with a mug of beer, handed it to Randle, and left.

“What's on your mind, Clint?”

“I guess you know about Harry's big game.”

“I heard it was canceled,” Randle said. “Wondered if you was one of the players when I heard you were in town lookin' for me.”

“I was supposed to be,” Clint said. “Rode a long way to play in that game.”

“Wasted ride.”

“Exactly. Harry suggested I come over here to see if you had anything for me that might make the trip less of a waste of time.”

“Like what?”

“Like a game?”

“Ain't no big gamblers in town right now, Clint,” Randle said. “Best I could do for you would be a nickel-and-dime game. That ain't worth your while.”

“Not even close,” Clint said. “I guess I better head back west then, get back on my own side of the Mississippi.”

“Before you do that,” Randle said, “let me bounce an idea off of you.”

“What kind of an idea?”

“Somethin' else that might make the ride worth it for you.”

“Like what?”

“Can I depend on you to keep this between you and me?” Randle asked.

“I don't know what I'm keeping between you and me,” Clint said.

“I'll have to ask you to agree anyway.”

“Well . . . since you're a friend of Harry's, I guess so,” Clint said.

Randle opened a drawer, took something out, and tossed it on the desk. It landed with a tinny ring.

Clint leaned forward and found himself looking at a deputy marshal's badge.

“You offering me a job?” he asked.

“That's mine,” Randle said. “It's federal.”

“Oh.” Clint sat back. “So I guess that means you're more than a saloon owner.”

“Yes, sir,” Randle said. “I was sent here four months ago to catch a gang that's been hitting banks, stages, and trains in Marion and Orange counties. This saloon owner thing is a cover.”

“And in that four months, what have you come up with?” Clint asked.

“A theory.”

“That's all?”

“Yep.”

“You got any backup?”

“Nope.”

“You send your boss your theory?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“No backup,” Eddie Randle said. “I'm told that would take facts.”

“So you're stuck here alone.”

“That's about the size of it.”

“What about your bartender?”

“He doesn't know anything.”

“The local law?”

“Can't trust him.”

The door opened. Clint reacted before Randle could. He took off his hat and tossed it on the desk so it covered the badge.

“Thought you'd need two more beers, gents,” Hagen said, handing them out.

“Thanks, Newly,” Randle said, “but knock next time, huh?”

“Oh, uh, sure, Eddie, sure,” Hagen said, taking his leave.

“Thanks,” Randle said, retrieving the badge from beneath the hat and putting it back in the desk.

Clint left his hat where it was, and pulled on the beer some.

“So what do you want from me, Eddie?”

“I thought you might wanna stick around, maybe help me out.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “Harry knows, doesn't he?”

“Yeah, but Harry's no man with a gun.”

“And that's why he sent me here.”

“That's my guess.”

“He didn't send you a telegram telling you I was coming?”

“No telegraph office in Ajax,” Randle said. “This setup is Harry's. I had nothin' to do with it.”

“But you'll take advantage of it.”

“Hell, yeah,” Randle said. “I'd be a simpleton not to see the possibilities, and an idiot not to take advantage of them.”

“I can't argue with you there.”

“So whataya say?” Randle asked. “I can't offer you any compensation. I doubt I could get the government to go for that.”

“No, I wouldn't expect it,” Clint said.

“So?”

“You any good with an iron?”

“I get by,” Randle said. “I can do my job.”

Clint stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around while he thought.

“Let me give it some thought overnight,” Clint said. “Tomorrow, if I agree, then you can tell me what your theory is.”

“That's fair,” Randle said. “I meant what I said, too. You drink free here.”

Clint grinned and said, “And you said you couldn't offer any compensation.”

Clint left Eddie Randle's office, wishing he had Harry Dial there to strangle at that moment.

He walked to the bar, and Newly Hagen had a beer waiting for him.

“Get your business with the boss done?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Clint said.

“Sorry if I walked in at the wrong time,” the bartender said.

“No problem.”

“You ain't here lookin' for . . . somebody, are ya?” Hagen asked.

“Like who?” Clint asked.

“Jeez, I don't know,” the bartender said.

“Have you done anything I should be looking for you for?”

“Me? No, no,” Hagen said. “I was just wonderin'—I mean, your reputation and all . . .”

Clint stared at him.

“I didn't mean nothin'.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clint said. “I was just looking for a poker game, Newly.”

“Poker game,” Hagen said. “Lots of fellas here play poker.”

“Yeah, but I was looking for a big game.”

“You carryin' a lot of money?”

The bartender's raised voice caught the attention of others at the bar, who sized Clint up.

“No, Newly, I'm not carrying a lot of money,” Clint said loudly. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“Sorry.”

Clint put his beer mug down on the bar, half finished, and said, “Good night, Newly.”

As Clint walked away, Hagen whined, “Aw, I didn't mean nothin'.”

 

Clint was sure the bartender never “meant nothin' ” but he was too free with his mouth, and he didn't think before he spoke. All Clint needed was for somebody in town to think he was carrying a large sum of money.

Walking back to his hotel, he thought about Eddie Randle's request. Did he really want to get involved in something like this just because his poker game had been canceled? It seemed pretty obvious to him that Harry Dial had sent him here figuring his buddy Eddie Randle could use the help. He doubted that Dial's game had been a ruse from the beginning to get him here. That was giving Dial too much credit for being sneaky. He was a gambler, but he wasn't a sneak. He had probably sent Clint to Dexter thinking his two friends could benefit from each other.

Clint wondered if he'd be able to walk away from this now that he knew Randle was federal law and needed help. After all, anyone who knew him knew he couldn't just walk away from a lawman in trouble.

He was a sucker for somebody in trouble, especially a lawman.

 

After Clint left the office, Eddie Randle, whose real name was Deputy U.S. Marshal Eddie Reed, sat back in his chair, clipped a cigar, and puffed on it until he had it going properly.

Being undercover was not for him. These four months were the longest months of his life. This was definitely going to be his last undercover assignment. He couldn't wait to get back on a horse and back on the trail of men he knew were criminals. When he had taken this assignment, he hadn't thought it through properly. He wasn't a detective, he was a lawman. From the start he didn't know who his prey was, and even though he had a good idea now, he still couldn't prove it.

If he could secure the help of Clint Adams, maybe he could wrap this thing up—finally—and get back to wearing a star.

He took the badge out of the drawer again and held it in his hand. He'd been so proud the first time he'd pinned it on ten years earlier that he'd slept with it on the first night. He didn't even care that it pinpricked him awake three times.

He missed wearing it. He held it in his palm, closed his hand around it tightly, then returned it to the desk drawer.

 

With Clint Adams gone and Eddie Randle in his office, the bartender, Newly Hagen, crooked his finger at Sean Sanchez. Sanchez's mother had been an Irish whore and his father a Mexican bandito. The man hung around the saloon and would do anything for a dollar.

“What's up, Newly?”

Hagen handed him a silver dollar and said, “Go and find me Doyle.”

When Clint woke the next morning, he knew what he was going to do. But first he was going to have breakfast and take a look around town. Maybe even drop in on the local law and see if he could figure out why Randle didn't trust him.

He went to the same café where he'd had the steak, and had some eggs and grits and biscuits. Over a second pot of black coffee that wasn't too bad, he realized he'd neglected to ask Randle if that was his real name. That meant that even if he wanted to, he couldn't check up on him. After all, he could've killed a deputy U.S. marshal and stolen the badge from him. But that was being a little too inventive with his thinking. If Randle was a phony, why ask Clint for help?

He paid his check and stepped outside the café, stopped there, and looked around. The town was waking up; doors to stores were opening and people were hitting the streets.

He'd passed the sheriff's office on the way the day before, so he knew where it was. He turned left and started walking.