East of the River (6 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: East of the River
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“Why didn't you tell me about this yesterday?” Thomas asked John as they opened the front door.
“It slipped my mind.”
“It slipped your mind that somebody who knows what we do came to town?”
“We got really busy, Tom,” John said. “Ain't that a good thing.”
“Being busy is a good thing,” Thomas replied. “Having Doyle here in town ain't.”
“Relax. He ain't gonna say nothin' to nobody,” John said. “He's just waitin to hear from us.”
“Oh, he's gonna hear from us, all right,” Thomas said. “We gotta get rid of him.”
“You mean kill him?”
“You know a better way to get rid of him?”
“We could use him,” John said.
“How? For what?”
“If we really are gonna hit two banks, it might be handy to have an extra gun.”
“We're a family business, John,” Thomas said. “What are you thinkin'?”
“You're the one who wasn't convinced about the kid,” John said.
“I'm not.”
“I tell you what,” John said, “I'll ride with the kid and you ride with Mort. Whatever we do, you don't have to go with Sammy, okay?”
“Okay,” Thomas said, “okay, I'm sorry. So what do we do about Doyle?”
“If we kill 'im, we're gonna bring attention to ourselves.”
“Well,” Thomas said, “I guess that depends on how he dies, don't it?”
 
Mort came out of the house and found Sam standing on the porch.
“What's wrong, kid?” he asked. “I thought you was seein' to the chickens.”
“Why do we do this, Mort?”
“Do what?”
“Keep this farm goin',” Sam said. “And the store. Why bother with either one when most of our money comes from jobs?”
“Who says most of our money comes from jobs?” Mort asked. “That money is what we use to keep the store and the farm goin'.”
“Yeah,” Sam asked, “but why?”
“Because Pa started this farm, Sam,” Mort said, “and Ma started the store. If we let either one die, then we let them die, too.”
“But they
are
dead.”
“You don't remember them so well because you was small when they died,” Mort said. “It's easier for them to be dead for you than it is for me, or Tommy or Johnny.”
Sam screwed up his face.
“Yeah, I know, kid,” Mort said, “you don't understand. See? That's why it's real important that you just do what you're told.”
“But Mort, I don't think—”
“Don't think, kid,” Mort said. “Just do what I told you to do.”
He took the boy by the shoulders, turned him around, and gave him a push, wondering if he was also going to have to give him a kick in the pants like his old man used to have to give him all the time.
SIXTEEN
Clint entered the sheriff's office, found the sights and smells of it very familiar. With police departments popping up in Western towns, he'd expected to find that here in Indiana. Instead, he found an Old West office, and a lawman seated behind the desk.
The sheriff looked to be in his forties, and looked up at Clint with unconcerned eyes.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” Clint said.
“Morning,” the man said. “What can I do for you, mister?”
“I'm just passing through your town, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Thought I'd stop in and announce myself.”
“Any particular reason you should be doin' that?” the lawman asked.
“My name is Clint Adams.”
The sheriff stiffened for a moment, then said slowly, “Well, yeah, I guess that would be a pretty good reason. When did you get here?”
“Yesterday.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Like I said,” Clint replied, “I'm just passing through.”
“Gonna stay awhile?”
“Seems like a nice little town,” Clint said. “Might stay a few days.”
“You ain't here lookin' for somebody, are you?” the sheriff asked.
“You're the second person to ask me that,” Clint said.
There had been a shingle on the wall by the front door that said “Sheriff Lou Perry.” “Sheriff Perry,” Clint said, “I'm not here looking for anybody. In fact, I can honestly tell you that a couple of days ago I had no idea I'd even be here.”
“Well,” Perry said, “I guess you got every right to pass through a town.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you for stoppin' in and lettin' me know.”
“You can pass it on to your deputies, too,” Clint said.
“Only got one deputy,” the sheriff said, “but yeah, I'll let him know. Where are you stayin'?”
“The Hotel Dexter.”
“You sure?” Perry asked. “We got two—”
“I know,” Clint said. “Hotel Dexter and Dexter Hotel. I can see how somebody might get confused, but I'm sure.”
He stood up, and the sheriff followed.
“Well,” the lawman said, “thanks again.”
“Been sheriff here long?” Clint asked.
“About a year,” Perry said.
“Seems like a pretty quiet town to me.”
“It has its moments,” Perry said, “but we're pretty happy with it.”
“I was over in Ajax a couple of days ago,” Clint said, “heard there might've been some trouble in these two counties.”
“Who'd you hear that from?”
Clint shrugged.
“In the saloon, I think,” Clint said. “Might've been the bartender.”
“Well, like I said, we have our share. Might've been a robbery or two hereabouts. But me and the sheriff over in Orange County have got it covered.”
“Well, that's good to hear,” Clint said, heading for the door. “I see you in the saloon, Sheriff, maybe I can buy you a drink.”
“That'd be right nice of you, Mr. Adams,” Perry said. “Thanks.”
“Have a nice day.”
Clint stepped outside. He felt sure the sheriff had been lying when he asked him about the trouble. Admitting to “a couple” of robberies meant there had been a lot more than that. The lawman's lies pretty much confirmed what Eddie Randle had told him.
There was trouble in these two counties.
 
After Clint Adams left the office, Sheriff Lou Perry vigorously dry washed his face with both hands. What was he supposed to do with somebody like the Gunsmith in town? And asking questions, to boot?
He stood up, strapped on his gun, and grabbed his hat. He figured the only thing to do was go see the mayor and let him make a decision. After all, that's what he'd wanted when he ran for office, and that's what the people paid him for.
SEVENTEEN
The front door of the Ox Bow was slightly ajar when Clint arrived. From inside he could hear the sound of a broom sweeping across the floor. He stepped in and left the door ajar.
“Good morning,” he said.
Sean Sanchez looked up from his sweeping and stared at Clint.
“We ain't open,” he said.
“That's okay,” Clint said. “Eddie's expecting me.”
“Hey,” Sanchez said, pointing, “ain't you the Gunsmith?”
“That's right.”
“Wow,” the younger man said. He dropped his broom to the floor. “Can I shake your hand?”
“What's your name?”
“Sean Sanchez.”
“That's an unusual name,” Clint said. “Irish and Mexican?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Interesting,” Clint said. “Sure, we can shake hands.”
The young man came toward him. Clint noticed that Sean Sanchez did not wear a gun. Before shaking hands, Sanchez wiped his on his pant leg, then clasped Clint's.
“Is Eddie around?” Clint asked, releasing Sanchez's hand.
“Yeah, he sure is,” Sanchez said. “He's upstairs in his room, but he'll be down any minute. He usually comes down around this time.”
Clint briefly considered going upstairs to Randle's room, but he remembered how he had found Harry Dial when he knocked on his door a few days ago.
“Okay,” Clint said. “I'll wait. Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yeah, yeah, that's one of my jobs around here,” Sanchez said. “I make the coffee in the morning, clean up. Someday Eddie's gonna make me a bartender.”
“Well, that sounds good,” Clint said.
“You want a cup?”
“I do, yeah,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
“Comin' right up,” Sanchez said.
The chairs were all on top of the tables, so Sanchez took one down and said, “Have a seat.”
“Thanks, Sean.”
Clint sat down. Sanchez hurried behind the bar, poured a cup of coffee, and hurried back with it.
“You want some cream or sugar or somethin'?”
“Nope,” Clint said, “just like this.”
He tasted it. It was the best coffee he'd had since leaving Texas.
“Wow, that's just the way I like it.”
“Strong,” Sanchez said. “My pappy used to like it strong.”
“Your pappy sounds like he was my kind of man.”
“He was a drunk,” Sanchez said, “and a bandit, but he was my pappy.”
Clint didn't quite know what to say to that, but he was saved from having to come up with something. They both heard a door open and close upstairs, and then Eddie Randle came down the stairs.
“Hey, good mornin', Clint,” Randle said.
“Mornin'.”
Sanchez took another chair down for Randle, then hurried to the bar to get his boss a cup of coffee.
“Thanks, Sean.”
“Sure thing, Eddie.”
“I see your broom on the floor,” Randle said. “You done sweepin'?”
“No, sir,” Sanchez said. “I was just gettin' Mr. Adams some coffee.”
“Well, you can finish up now, kid.”
“Okay, Eddie. See ya, Mr. Adams.”
“Clint, Sean,” Clint said. “You can just call me Clint.”
“Okay, Clint!”
He walked over, picked up his broom, and continued sweeping.
“He tells me you're going to make him a bartender.”
“He can have the whole place if he wants it,” Randle said. “I want to finish my assignment and get the hell out of here.”
Clint lowered his voice and asked, “Undercover work not for you?”
“Not at all,” Randle said. “I'd rather be in the saddle, tracking a killer across a mountain or desert, than this. And I ain't no damned detective either.”
“Why'd you take the assignment then?”
“I thought I was lookin' for somethin' different,” Randle said. “Well, I ain't gonna look for somethin' different no more.”
“Sometimes it's best to stick to what we know best,” Clint said.
Randle sipped his coffee and asked, “You got any good news for me this mornin'?”
“Well, I think I might, Eddie,” Clint said.
Randle, looking excited, leaned forward and kept his voice low.
“You're gonna do it?”
“Maybe you should send Sean on an errand, Eddie,” Clint suggested.
“Sean's okay, Clint. He ain't very smart, but he's okay.”
“I think we ought to play this safe, Eddie,” Clint said, “don't you?”
“Yeah, you're probably right. Hey, Sean!”
“Yeah, Eddie?”
Randle took some money out of his pocket and said, “Would you go over to Archer's General Store and get me some cigars?”
“Sure, Eddie, sure.” Sean took the money. “Anythin' for you, Mr.—I mean, Clint?”
“No thanks, Sean.”
“I'll be right back, Eddie.”
“Take your time, Sean,” Eddie Randle said, “take your time.”
EIGHTEEN
“I'll make myself available to you,” Clint told Eddie Randle, “but you've got to tell me everything. Don't keep anything back.”
“Like what?” Randle asked. “What do you think I'd hold back?”
“I need to know what we're up against,” Clint said. “One man, two, a gang? How big a gang?”
“It looks to me like a gang,” Randle said, “three, maybe four of 'em.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “What've they done?”
“Everythin',” Randle said. “Before I got here, they'd hit stages, banks, and trains. They took a federal payroll off a train, and that's what got me sent here.”
“And since you've been here?”
“They've kept hittin',” Randle said. “Two stagecoaches and a bank since I been here.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Plenty, but the men have been masked.”
“No names?”
“They've been careful not to call each other by name,” Randle said.
“Sounds like a disciplined gang.”
“I wish they weren't,” Randle said. “They might be easier to catch.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “so tell me what you know, or what you think you know.”
“What I think I know,” Randle said, “is that—”
He was interrupted when the front door slammed open and three men entered. They staggered in, stopped, and looked around. They were all armed.
“Hey, is this place open?” one of them shouted.
“Wow, a saloon open this early?” another said. “What a great town.”
“Sorry, fellas,” Randle said, “we ain't open yet.”
“But your door's open.”
“We're just airin' the place out,” Randle said. “Come back in a few hours.”

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