The Town Council Meeting

Table of Contents

 

 

“Those eight men would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you. That's eight bullets.”

“One from each?” Clint asked. “How many of them do you think I'd take with me? I'm betting at least . . . five?”

“Are you that good?”

Clint smiled.

“There was a time I would have said six, but I was young then.”

“And faster?”

“Dumber,” Clint said, “more arrogant. No, five is an honest opinion.”

“That wouldn't accomplish anything.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Give me your gun. Walk over to the jail with me.”

“And then what?”

“Tell your story to a jury.”

“Go to trial?” Clint asked. “For something I didn't do? Kill a man I never met.”

“They say their boss met with the Gunsmith.”

“Or a man claiming to be the Gunsmith.”

“Convince a jury of that,” Yatesman said. “We can walk back to your poker game and talk to the judge.”

“The judge doesn't want me in your jail.”

“What makes you say that?”

Clint smiled again.

“I have most of his money.”

Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

 

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J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he's the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

THE TOWN COUNCIL MEETING

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / August 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Robert J. Randisi.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-10513-9

 

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Clint was in a café when he heard all the commotion outside. He picked up his mug of coffee and carried it outside with him. About eight riders had come storming into town, kicking up dust and scattering people. Folks were coming out from their homes and businesses to see what the ruckus was about.

“What's going on?” he asked a man with an apron who was standing near him. He had come out of the general store next to the café.

“Don't rightly know,” the man said. “Those boys are from the Bar K ranch, though.”

“Big outfit?” Clint asked.

“Not the biggest, but big enough,” the man replied. “Looks like they're goin' into the sheriff's office.”

“Well,” Clint said, “none of my business.”

He took his cup back inside and asked the waitress for some more.

Clint had been in Cannon City, Wyoming, for three days. The food at this small café wasn't the best, but the coffee was. He'd go a long way for a good cup of coffee, and they served a nice little breakfast to go with it.

The waitress was also the prettiest girl he'd seen since arriving in town. Well, actually, she was more woman than girl, probably about thirty. She flirted with him, but he'd seen her flirt with other customers. He also found out early—and better early than never—that she was married to the cook.

So he went there for the coffee and to watch her walk around and serve customers.

At the moment, though, he was the only customer in the place. She poured him some more coffee, then put the pot down on the table and went to stare out the window.

“Somethin' awful must've happened out at the Bar K,” she said. “Usually, those boys are avoidin' the sheriff, not visitin' him.”

Is that unusual?” Clint asked. “Trouble out at the Bar K?”

“No, she answered, “but like I said, those boys are usually causin' the trouble.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I'm sure the sheriff can handle it. Him and his deputies.”

“What deputies?” she asked. “This is a small town. It's just Sheriff Yatesman.”

“In a small town news travels fast,” Clint said. “I'm sure it'll make its way to you, soon.”

Clint finished his coffee and paid the check, then put his hat on and stepped outside. As he did a bunch of men came pouring out of the sheriff's office, followed by the sheriff himself. They all mounted up and went riding out of town as hell-bent for leather as they had ridden in.

Somebody's dead, Clint thought.

Later, Clint was in Cannon City's smallest saloon. He liked it better than the other two because it was quiet. It was possible to play poker without having to listen to bad piano playing, bad singing, and drunken cowboys shouting back and forth. The other two saloons never had any poker games going.

He was in a five-handed game, not high stakes, but not penny ante, either. He was far enough ahead to make the game worth it. The other players were regulars, four men from town who always had room for a fifth, stranger or not.

Clint was staring down at a full house when the batwings swung inward and the doorway belched men into the room. He was facing the door so he saw them—the sheriff and the men from the Bar K.

“There he is!” someone shouted, pointing.

“Easy,” the sheriff said. “Just stay here.”

The ranch hands were obviously agitated, but they remained behind and went to the bar. They shoved several men out of the way and ordered drinks.

The sheriff walked over to the poker table.

“Clint Adams?”

Clint didn't look up.

“That's me.”

“Can I talk to you?”

Now Clint looked at the man.

“Talk.”

“Privately.”

“I'm in the middle of a game, Sheriff,” Clint said. “In fact, in the middle of a hand.”

“Finish the hand, then,” the sheriff said.

“You taking me in, Sheriff?”

“Not even takin' you to my office, Mr. Adams. We can talk here, at an empty table.”

Clint thought it over, then said, “Okay. Get yourself a drink and wait for me at an empty table. I'll finish up this hand.”

The sheriff stood there for a moment, then turned and went to the bar.