The Hunt for Clint Adams (3 page)

When he spied the tracks leading into Manhattan, Clint shook his head. Was Tarver arrogant enough to think he wouldn't be tracked this far? So confident that he'd stoop in Manhattan and . . . what? Rest up? Wait for someone else from his gang to catch up?

Jed Tarver may have been tough, he may have been fast, but he needed some lessons in smart.

Tarver knew he was taking a chance stopping in Manhattan, but he had done his research back in Abilene. He'd found out that Murdo had no reputation, and had a couple of green deputies. What were the chances they'd be able to track him once he, Dexter, and the others split up?

He decided to take the chance, at least for one night, to give his horse some time to rest up, and to give Dexter a chance to catch up.

Of course, all the research Jed Tarver had done in Abilene had not included Clint Adams.

Clint was not surprised at the size of Manhattan. He knew that the railroad coming in almost twenty years before had been a boon to the town. He also knew there was now a major university there that was considered one of the finest educational institutions in the West.

Clint rode to the livery stable, figuring that was step one: Find out if Tarver put up his horse there. Also, the man to ask questions about any town was always the liveryman.

He dismounted, casually walked his horse in, and found the liveryman shoeing somebody's horse.

“Be right with ya.”

“Take your time,” Clint said.

The man finished pounding a nail into the horse's hoof, then lowered it and stood straight. He was a tall man with a stoop, maybe from all the shoeing he'd done over the years. He was seventy if he was a day, but even with the stoop he looked fit and strong.

“Once you start poundin' in one of them nails ya gotta finish it, ya know?” the man asked, dropping his hammer to the ground.

“I do know,” Clint said.

The man looked at Eclipse and his eyes widened.

“Say, that's just about the best-lookin' horseflesh I ever seen, and I been around a lot of horses. Lookin' ta sell?”

“Not a chance,” Clint said.

“Don't blame ya,” the man said. “Well, then, what kin I do for ya?”

“Wondering if anyone rode into town last night or this morning,” Clint said.

The man squinted. “You law?”

“Not really.”

“What's that mean?”

“Means I was riding with a posse,” Clint said. “Bank job in Abilene. We followed them 'til they split up. I took the trail that led me here.”

“Well,” the man said, “fella did ride in here early today. Seemed kinda suspicious ta me.”

“How's that?”

“Most fellas treat their saddlebags important like, but this fella—well, let's just say he was holdin' on to 'em like they was real important,” the livery man said. “You know what I mean? Like, both arms wrapped around 'em. And they was, ya know, kinda . . . full.”

“Bulging?”

“Some,” the man said. “So, just how much did they get away with?”

“Better than forty thousand.”

The man whistled. “Well,” he said, “we get lots of riders in and outta here, but he was the only one last night, ceptin' you, now.”

“He ask you to recommend a hotel?”

“He did. I told him the Regency.”

“Did he go there?”

The man shrugged. “I told him about it. I got no way of knowing if that's where he went.”

“Who's the sheriff in town?”

“Name's Gannon.”

“Any good?”

“He's had a job a couple of years,” the liveryman said. “ 'bout forty years old. But Manhattan ain't exactly the old West, if ya know what I mean.”

“So you're saying he wouldn't have lasted in Dodge, or Wichita?”

“Not in the days,” the man said. “And you look like a man who remembers the old days.”

“Okay,” Clint said, handing the man Eclipse's reins. “Rub him down and feed him. Take good care of him. He's come a long way.”

“You stayin' in town overnight?”

“Unless the man I'm looking for has managed to leave town without his horse.”

Clint knew he had two ways to play it: Go to the hotel looking for Tarver, or stop in and talk to the sheriff first. Since he was actually a member of a posse, he decided to play it the legal way.

He found the sheriff's office and walked in. He thought the office was empty but then he heard a sound from the back, probably the cell block. A familiar sound. He stuck his head back there and saw that he was right. The sound of sweeping. There was a man in one of the cells, sweeping it out. In another cell was a pale of water and a mop. The floor looking freshly cleaned.

“Excuse me?”

The man looked up from his sweeping. Clint saw the sheriff's star on his chest.

“Sheriff Gannon?”

“That's right. Sorry for the smell,” he said. “Cowpoke left his dinner on the floor of one of these cells last night. I tried to mop it out.”

“Didn't think a jail cell was supposed to smell good,” Clint said.

“Not good, maybe,” the sheriff said, “but don't have to smell like no puke.” He put his mop down. “Can I help ya?”

“I hope so,” Clint said.

“Let's talk out in the office,” the sheriff said. “Still kinda rank back here.”

He walked past Clint, who noticed the man wasn't wearing a gun. Clint also noticed the bald spot in back of his head. Didn't mean anything, he just noticed it.

The sheriff got around behind his desk and said, “What brings ya to Manhattan?”

“I'm riding as part of a posse out of Abilene,” Clint said.

“Posse?”

“That's right,” Clint said. “The Tarver gang hit the Bank of Abilene yesterday; got away with about forty thousand or so.”

The sheriff whistled.

“That's a lot of money. You figure they went through here?”

“We tailed them until they split up,” Clint explained. “The sheriff and his deputies are following other trails. I followed one here.”

“So one of the gang's in my town?”

“According to the old man at the livery—”

“That'd be Abe Sanders.”

“—a man came to town early this morning with some bulging saddlebags. That makes me think it's Jed Tarver himself.”

“Tarver? In Manhattan?”

“I'm going to pick him up,” Clint said. “Could use some help.”

“Help?” Gannon wiped his palms on his thighs nervously. “Well, now, Mr.—”

“Adams,” Clint said, “Clint Adams.”

“Adams!” Now Sheriff Gannon got real agitated. “The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“Well, look Mr. Adams,” Gannon said, “I don't see why somebody like you would need my help.”

“How about because you're the law hereabouts. I'm trying to keep this legal and on the up-and-up, Sheriff,” Clint explained.

“I understand that,” the lawman said, “but it ain't my help ya need.”

“Then whose?”

“The police department,” Gannon said. “We got a police chief and everythin'.”

“Why didn't Abe tell me that when I asked him who the law was?”

“Abe's tryin' ta hang onto the old days,” Gannon said. “You probably know that just from the short talk you had with him.”

“I reckon I do.”

“So you better go and talk to Chief Shelby, over at the police station.”

“And where's that?”

“Down the street, about three blocks—police chief and five uniformed lawmen in a big brick building. Can't miss it.”

“So if they're the law, what's that make you?” Clint asked.

“Somethin' left over from the old days, I guess,” Gannon said. “The drunks in town usually end up in my cells. You're lookin' for somethin' a lot more dangerous than a drunk.”

“You're right about that,” Clint said. “Well, thanks for your time. I guess I'll go and dump this in the lap of the chief.”

“And I'll go back to muckin' out my cells.”

Clint could hear the broom being put to work before he got out the door.

Tarver was starting to think he'd made a mistake.

A walk around town revealed that not only was there a sheriff in Manhattan, but they had a police station, as well. He was looking to meet up with Dexter in a small town, and had made the wrong call. This was not the place to lie low and wait.

He couldn't afford to leave town, though. If he did that, Dexter would think he'd run out on him with all the money.

On the other hand . . . maybe that wasn't such a bad idea . . .

Clint walked to the police station—a large, two-story new-looking brick building—and walked through the front door. Several men in uniform turned as he entered. They all looked pretty young, except for one who had three stripes on his arm.

The three striper, a fit man in his late forties, approached Clint and said pleasantly, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” Clint said, “I'd like to see the chief of police.”

“The chief's pretty busy, sir,” the sergeant said. “What's it about?”

“A bank robbery that took place yesterday in Abilene,” Clint said shortly.

The sergeant stared at him blankly then said, “Yes? And?”

“I'm part of a posse tracking the bank robbers,” Clint explained, “and I've managed to track one of them here.”

“I see,” the sergeant said. “Please wait here.”

The sergeant walked away and went up a flight of stairs. Clint waited, wishing now that he'd gone to the saloon first for at least one beer. His throat was very dry.

The sergeant came back downstairs and said, “This way, sir.”

Clint followed the sergeant to the second floor to an office with CHIEF OF POLICE written on the door. As he entered, a florid-faced man with a belly that strained the buttons of his blue uniform stood but made no move toward him.

“Sir, I'm Chief Shelby. And you are?”

“My name is Clint Adams, Chief.”

The chief looked at the sergeant with a look that said, Why didn't you tell me? Then he looked back at Clint.

“Sergeant McCall tells me you're part of a posse out of Abilene.” The man squared his big shoulders. “Do you have a badge, sir?”

“No,” Clint said, “I was recruited by Sheriff Murdo at the last minute.”

“And you're sure you followed one of them here?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?” he repeated.

“I am,” Clint said. “Furthermore, I believe the man I followed to be the leader, Jed Tarver, and I think he has the money.”

“How much?”

Why was that a concern to everybody? A bank robbery was a bank robbery. The amount of money didn't make the crime better or worse.

“Forty thousand dollars.”

Shelby looked at Sergeant McCall and waved him away. The sergeant left and closed the door.

“Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” Shelby invited, seating himself. He opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “You look dry from riding. Perhaps a drink will help?”

“Don't mind if I do,” Clint said.

The chief poured two drinks, handed one to Clint, and downed his own. Clint sipped his, just to ease the dryness in his throat. In the absence of beer he actually would have preferred water, but this would have to do for now. He felt the liquid cutting the dust as it worked its way down his throat.

“Can you describe Jed Tarver for me, sir?” the chief asked.

“I've never seen him.”

“That means you can't point him out,” the man said, stating the obvious.

“No, sir.”

“Then how did you plan to identify him when you found him?” the chief asked.

“I understand from Abe at the livery stable that Tarver is carrying his saddlebags with him—and they look full.”

“Ah,” the chief said, “I see. Well, that's a start, although we can't stop every man who's carrying a set of saddlebags.”

“I'm not suggesting you should,” Clint said. “In fact, all I need is for you to give me one man and I can go and get—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Shelby said, holding up a beefy hand. “Give you a man?”

“Yes,” Clint said. “I can take Tarver quietly, without anybody else—”

“Sir, you do not have a badge, and even if you did you'd be out of your jurisdiction,” Chief Shelby explained officiously. “No, we will take Mr. Tarver into custody.”

“And how will you identify him, Chief?” Clint asked. “Without me?”

“I'll send my men out looking,” the chief said. “Same as you would have done.”

“And as soon as your men hit the streets in their uniforms, Tarver will know you're coming and he'll take off.”

“My men know their jobs.”

“Tarver's very good with a gun, Chief,” Clint said.

“Gun play has no place in Manhattan, Adams,” the chief said. His manner changed suddenly. “You see, I know who you are, and you're not going to be gunning any men down in my town.”

“It wasn't my intention to gun anyone down.”

“Be that as it may,” the chief said, “my men will bring Tarver in, and after I've checked your bona fides we'll turn him over to you to take back to Abilene.”

Clint sat back and decided not to argue. This was going to be interesting.