The Devil's Collector (7 page)

TWENTY-THREE

In the morning Clint waited for Sonnet in the lobby and then they went into the hotel dining room for breakfast. Over steak and eggs, Clint told Sonnet what his plan was.

“I want you to keep quiet,” he said.

“What?”

“Let me do all the talking,” Clint said, “unless I ask you a question.”

“Well . . . okay.”

“The sheriff is going to be curious about my part in this,” Clint said. “He'll also be curious about why you're back here. We're not necessarily going to satisfy his curiosity in either case. But we'll see if we can get some of our own questions answered.”

“Okay,” Sonnet said. “I'll let you call the play, Clint.”

They finished their breakfast, left the hotel, and walked over to the sheriff's office.

• • •

As Clint and Sonnet entered the sheriff's office, the man with the badge turned to face them.

“I was wonderin' when you two would show up,” the man said. He had a coffeepot in his hand, finished pouring himself a cup, then walked to his desk without offering them any.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” Clint said.

“Mr. Adams,” Koster said. “What's the Gunsmith doin' in Monroe City?”

“You remember my friend, don't you?”

“Mr. Sonnet?” Koster said. “Sure I do. Jack, isn't it?”

Sonnet didn't answer.

“I guess I'm gonna be doin' my talkin' to you, Mr. Adams,” Koster said. “My name's Jubal Koster.”

“Obviously you know who I am,” Clint said.

“Well, a man with your reputation can't ride into a town without being recognized.”

“Probably not.”

“What can I do for you?” Koster asked. “If you're here with young Mr. Sonnet, I guess this is about the murder of his brother.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“What's to tell?” Koster asked. “Somebody gunned down his brother. Nobody knows who.”

“Somebody knows.”

“If they do, they didn't tell me.”

“How many shooters were there?”

“Five.”

“Now see,” Clint said, “if there were no witnesses, how do you know there were five shooters?”

“Well . . . yeah, somebody saw that there were five men, but nobody actually saw who they were.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said. “There you go. There's a witness. We'd like to talk to the witness.”

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Sonnet here is interested in who killed his brother.”

“I thought he knew,” Koster said. “I thought he had the names and was trackin' them down.”

“Well, somebody gave him some names,” Clint said, “but we decided to try and find out for ourselves before killing anybody.”

“I can't help you,” Koster said.

“Can't? Or won't?”

“I'd like to,” Koster said. “Really I would. But I can't.”

“Why not?”

“The fella who saw the five shooters was a stranger,” Koster said. “He's gone.”

“What was his name?”

“Smith,” Koster said, “John Smith.”

“That's the name he gave you?” Clint asked. “Or the name you're giving me?”

“That's the name he gave me.”

“And you believed him?”

“It didn't matter,” Koster said. “He couldn't identify any of the men.”

“Somebody was able to identify them,” Clint said. “Somebody started sending Jack here one name at a time in telegrams.”

“Then it sounds to me like he had all the help he needed.”

“Not quite,” Clint said, “because now there's some question about whether or not he was being given the right names.”

“Oh, I see,” Koster said. “Somebody gave him the names and he started killin'. Now he's wonderin' if he killed the right men.”

“That's it.”

“Well, I can't help you,” Koster said.

“That may be true,” Clint said.

“What do you mean, may?” Koster asked. “Are you callin' me a liar?”

“No,” Clint said, “not yet anyway. When I do, you'll know. We'll talk again soon.”

Clint turned and headed for the door.

“So, you don't talk anymore?” Koster asked Sonnet.

“I'll talk,” Sonnet said, “when I have something to say.”

Sonnet followed Clint out the door.

Outside, the young man asked Clint, “What did we accomplish there?”

“Koster now knows you're not just going to accept any answer,” Clint said. “You want the right answer. And if I'm right, the sheriff is going to have to check with somebody on his next move.”

“So what's our next move?”

“Like I said at breakfast,” Clint said, “you're going to take me and introduce me to the Rayfields.”

TWENTY-FOUR

The Rayfield farm was fifty-four miles east of Monroe City. Clint decided that he and Sonnet should camp along the way, so as not to startle the family by knocking on their door too late at night.

“After all,” Clint said, “they're farmers. They'll be up early, and so will we.”

They built a campfire a few miles from the farmhouse, prepared some beans and coffee.

“What's the next town?” Clint asked.

“Just a few miles beyond the farm is a small town called Garfield.”

“Do they have a telegraph key there?”

“I know what you're thinking,” Sonnet said. “I never got to go to that town, but that's where I been sending telegrams for Betty.”

“So she hasn't been riding into Monroe City to pick them up.”

“I don't think her father would let her do that.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “After we talk with Betty and her father, we'll take a ride to Garfield.”

“Also her mother.”

“What?”

“Her mother and her uncle, they'll be there, too.”

“We'll talk to the whole family,” Clint said.

“What makes you think they know somethin' they didn't tell me?” Sonnet asked.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Maybe they saw something when they found you that they don't know was important.”

“Well,” Sonnet said, “I don't remember anything until I woke up in their house.”

“What happened before that?”

“I was just riding,” Sonnet said.

“To Monroe City?”

“That's right.”

“From where?”

Sonnet hesitated. Clint stared at his confused face across the fire.

“Don't you remember?”

Frowning, Sonnet said, “I guess maybe I don't.”

“But you know you weren't coming from Garfield.”

“I don't think I was ever in Garfield.”

“And you didn't stop at the farm.”

“No, I had never seen them before.”

“You had to be coming from somewhere.”

“There are a lot of little towns hereabouts,” Sonnet said. “It could have been any one of them.”

“All right,” Clint said, “we'll let that go for now. But that may be something the Rayfields can help us with. Maybe you said something while you were unconscious.”

“I guess.”

“More beans?”

• • •

They decided to stand a watch, just in case somebody was following them—somebody so good at it that Clint couldn't tell.

Clint took the first watch, putting on another pot of coffee for himself.

Sonnet rolled himself up in his bedroll and fell asleep. He did not, however, sleep well. He rolled about fitfully, obviously having dreams that were not restful.

Clint didn't blame him. First his brother was killed. Then he started hunting down and killing men who might turn out to be innocent.

With that on his mind, Clint doubted he'd be able to sleep soundly either.

TWENTY-FIVE

In the morning they finished the beans and coffee for breakfast, and mounted up. Sonnet took the lead and headed for the farm.

“You didn't sleep very well last night, Jack,” Clint said.

“I didn't?”

“You were tossing and turning,” Clint said. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I don't know,” Sonnet said. “I never remember my dreams.”

“I suppose that could be a good thing,” Clint said. “I always remember my dreams. Especially the bad ones.”

“If you say I didn't sleep well,” Sonnet said, “I guess that explains why I'm so tired.”

“Don't worry,” Clint said. “When this is over, you can sleep for a week.”

“Maybe more,” Sonnet said.

“Sure,” Clint said, “maybe more.”

• • •

As they approached the house, the sun was just starting to come up. They could see a man walking toward the house, shoulders already slumped, and smoke tendrils coming from the chimney.

As they approached, the man stopped walking and turned to face them.

“Good morning, Mr. Rayfield,” Jack Sonnet said. “Remember me?”

“I remember,” the farmer said, but he didn't look happy about it. “Yer just in time for breakfast. Put your horses in the barn.”

“Thank you kindly,” Sonnet said.

The farmer grunted and went inside the house.

Clint and Sonnet rode to the barn, dismounted, and walked their horses inside.

“He doesn't look too happy to see you,” Clint said.

“I don't think Mr. Rayfield is happy about the way Betty and I feel about each other.”

“You're talking like a man in love, Jack.”

Sonnet ducked his head, but not before Clint saw his face color.

They took their horses to the barn, left them saddled, and gave them a little hay before walking to the house.

As they approached the house, the door opened and a woman stepped out, carrying a bucket of water.

“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.