The Gunsmith 406 Page 5

  “What happened?” Sheriff Moreland asked the rancher as he came out of the cell block.

  “He wants to think about it.”

  “He’s in a cell, charged with murder, and he wants to think about it?”

  “I gave him until morning and then I told him the charges stick.”

  “How do you intend to make these charges stick when nobody’s really been shot?” Moreland asked.

  “Don’t worry about it, sheriff,” the rancher said. “That’ll be my problem. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As Restin left, Moreland couldn’t believe that the man would really have Ed Nolan shot in order to make these charges stick. If that was the case, would he be able to go along with it?

  He poured two cups of coffee and carried them into the cell block.

  “Coffee?” he asked Clint.

  “Thanks.”

  Moreland passed the cup through the bars.

  “This guy is really serious, isn’t he?” Clint asked Moreland.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And you’re going to go along with it?”

  “I like my job.”

  “What if he decided to really shoot this Nolan fella just so he can charge me with the crime?”

  Moreland didn’t answer.

  “Ha!” Clint said. “You were just thinking the same thing, weren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” Sheriff Moreland said, “you might want to talk to a lawyer.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the lawyer walked into the cell block he did not fill Clint with a lot of confidence. For one thing, he was eating a sandwich, and had crumbs down the front of his suit. And for another, the suit had seen better days.

  Was the sheriff digging his grave deeper with this recommendation? Moreland did strike Clint as a man who loved his job, but hated his situation. He supposed he’d have to give this fellow a chance.

  “Mr. Adams?” the man asked.

  “That’s right,” Clint said. “And you’re Eugene Barkley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re kind of … young.”

  “I’m very young,” Barkley said, “and I’m broke. I need a case, and you need a lawyer.” The young man shrugged. “It’s a match made in heaven.”

  “Maybe …”

  Barkley stood just outside the cell, holding a leather briefcase, staring at Clint.

  “Do I stay, or do I go?”

  “Stay,” Clint said. “We’ll talk.”

  After fifteen minutes Eugene Barkley looked at Clint and said, “You need help.”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  “No,” the lawyer said, “you need a lot of help.”

  “Are you telling me you’re not the one to give me that help?” Clint asked.

  “Well, now, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Can you pay me?”

  “Of course I can pay you.”

  “Then like you said, “Barkley said, “let’s talk …”

  Clint explained his predicament to Barkley, who listened intently without interrupting.

  “I don’t get it,” he said, when Clint was done.

  “What don’t you get?”

  “Why don’t you take the job, deliver the girl and accept the five thousand dollars?”

  “I don’t want to work for Vance Restin,” Clint said.

  “Maybe he’d let me deliver her, then.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Clint suggested. “Maybe that would get me out of here.”

  “Maybe,” Barkley said, “we should look into some legal way of getting you out of here.”

  “So you’ll take my case?”

  “I will,” Barkley said. “But you should probably take my advice.”

  “Which is?”

  “Do the job,” Barkley said, “and while you’re doing it, I’ll be here working on our defense.”

  “If I do the job,” Clint said, “I won’t need you to work on my defense.”

  “Do you really think Vance Restin will drop the charges even if you do the job?” Barkley asked. “If you do you’re more naïve than I would’ve thought a man of your caliber would be.”

  “If I don’t come back here after I deliver the girl,” Clint said, “– and that’s if I do the job – if I don’t come back here, what could he do?”

  “I’m sure you’d have some wanted posters out on you in no time,” Barkley said. “I think this battle has to be fought on two fronts, Mr. Adams.”

  Clint was starting to think that Eugene Barkley might be right. Vance Restin was not a man who could be trusted.

  “Okay, then,” he said, “let’s talk about that.”

  After the young lawyer left, Sheriff Moreland came into the cell block.

  “The kid said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “first, I wanted to thank you for recommending him to me.”

  “Me?” Moreland said. “Did I do that? I don’t remember.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s fine,” Clint said. “Anyway, take a message to your boss.”

  “My boss is the Mayor of the town.”

  “Then take a message to your town’s number one citizen,” Clint said.

  “And what would that message be?”

  “Tell him … I’ll take the job,” Clint said. “Five thousand dollars to deliver his daughter to a university in Sacramento.”

  “Five thousand, huh?” He didn’t move.

  “Are you looking for a cut?” Clint asked.

  “Naw,” Moreland said, “just wonderin’ what my price would be to give up my job.”

  “Five thousand dollars for a hunk of time,” Clint said. “What do you think?”

  Moreland touched his badge, thought a moment, then said, “I’ll deliver your message.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You’re out of here!”

  Sheriff Moreland came walking into the cell block, keys jangling. He inserted the key into the lock of Clint’s cell and swung the door open.

  “Just like that?”

  “Come outside.”

  The sheriff left the cell block. Clint picked up his hat and followed. Moreland had put his gunbelt on top of his desk.

  “I gave Mr. Restin your message,” he said. “He wants to see you.”

  “Out at his ranch?”

  “No,” Moreland said. “A saloon called the Drinkwater, here in town.”

  “When?”

  “Today,” the lawman said. “Right away, if you can.”

  “I can’t,” Clint said. “I need a hot bath and a shave, first.”

  “You’re gonna keep him waitin’?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, strapping on his gun, “why not?”

  Clint went to his hotel, where he still had his room. He arranged with the clerk for a hot bath, then got some fresh clothes from his saddlebags.

  After the bath he felt almost human again. Even one night behind bars was enough to make a man feel like an animal. He crossed the street to a barber shop and got himself a shave and a trim. When he stepped back out on the street, he felt like himself, again.

  He headed for the Drinkwater Saloon.

  Vance Restin sat opposite his man, Peterson.

  “You think I didn’t know you and your men followed me to town yesterday?”

  “Just lookin’ out for you, boss.”

  “That’s what I pay you for. That’s why I brought you to town with me, today.”

  Stan Rhodes came running over from the batwing doors.

  “He’s comin’ down the street!”

  “All right,” Restin told them, “get out. Go out the back way.”

  “But boss—”

  “Go!” Restin said. “He’s not going to kill me.”

  Peterson stood and jerked his head at Rhodes to follow him. The other two gunnies were somewhere else, probably a whorehouse.

  “Buck!”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “When Adams sits down bring him a
beer.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “You still got that shotgun behind the bar?”

  “Yep.”

  “Keep an eye on him,” Restin said. “If I’m wrong and he kills me, you kill him.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Restin sat back and poured himself a drink from the bottle on the table. He picked it up, and waited.

  Clint approached the little saloon, looked around. People were walking by, but nobody went in or came out of the saloon.

  When he stepped inside he saw that the place was empty except for Restin, and the bartender. He walked to Restin’s table.

  “Have a seat,” the rancher said. “I’m sure you could use a beer.”

  Clint sat. The bartender came over with a cold mug of beer.

  “You got a shotgun behind that bar?” he asked the man.

  The barman looked at Restin.

  “He does,” Restin said.

  “He won’t need it.”

  Restin waved the man back to the bar.

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. “The sheriff tells me you’ve decided to accept my offer.”

  “How could I refuse?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do we do first?”

  “First, you have to meet my daughter.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “You’ll come to my house for supper tonight,” Restin said. “I’ll introduce you.”

  “Why does she need to be taken to Sacramento?” Clint asked. “Isn’t she old enough to go on her own?”

  “She is,” Restin said, “but she won’t. She doesn’t want to go. You’re going to have to make her.”

  “Great,” Clint said. “Will she be kicking and screaming the whole way?”

  “I guess that’ll be up to you,” Restin said. “I will say this. She’s not an easy girl to handle.”

  Clint picked up his beer and drank down half of it morosely.

  “Relax,” Restin said. “Maybe she’ll like you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After Clint agreed to ride out to Restin’s ranch to meet this daughter and have supper, he walked to his young lawyer’s office on one of the town’s side streets.

  “You’re out,” the young lawyer said happily as Clint entered his small, cramped office.

  “I’m out,” Clint said. He looked around for a place to sit.

  Barkley got up from his desk to move some files from a chair so Clint could sit.

  “I was under the impression you didn’t have a lot of cases,” he said, looking around at the clutter.

  “Not like yours,” Barkley said. “Most of this is just filing, lots paperwork. Your case is different. Did you meet with Mr. Restin?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I accepted his job, for five thousand dollars.”

  “Delivering his daughter to the University in Sacramento?” Barkley asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” the lawyer said. “When do you leave?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “I’m supposed to go out to his ranch tonight for supper and meet the girl.”

  “I understand she’s … difficult.”

  “That’s what he said. Have you met her?”

  “I’ve seen her, but I haven’t met her,” Barkley said. “She’s a lovely girl.”

  “I’ve heard that, too. Do you know if she has a boyfriend in town?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Maybe one of her father’s hands? Or gunnies?”

  “Nope. Unless she’s doing it on the sly.”

  Clint sat back in his chair.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “I just don’t think I’m being told the whole truth,” Clint said. “Why does this girl need to be escorted to Sacramento? Is somebody going to try to stop her?”

  “Don’t you think he’d tell you that?”

  “I think he should tell me that,” Clint answered, “but maybe he’s not.”

  “Maybe you should take somebody with you,” the lawyer said. “You know, somebody to watch your back.”

  “Are you volunteering?”

  “Me?” The lawyer shook his head. “I can’t shoot, and I’d never be able to stay in the saddle all the way to Sacramento.”

  “I don’t know anybody else in town.”

  “You can’t hire somebody for that job?”

  “I can’t have somebody watching my back if I don’t know them.”

  “I guess I can see that.”

  “But I might be able to get somebody to meet me somewhere along the way. But I’ll have to send some telegrams.”

  “Meanwhile,” Eugene Barkley said, “I’ll be working on your case, trying to make sure Restin can’t go back on your deal.”

  “You’ll need some money,” Clint said.

  “Yes, I will.”

  “I’ll have to go to the bank first thing in the morning.”

  “You have money in the local bank?”

  “I’ll have to send it by wire,” Clint said, “transferred into the bank in your name. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine,” Barkley said. “Money’s money.”

  Clint stood up.

  “I can send my telegrams now so it’ll be done by morning,” Clint said. “And maybe I can find myself some back-up.”

  “I hope so,” Barkley said, standing. “Just come and see me in the morning and let me know what’s going on. And what happens at the Restin ranch tonight.”

  “All right. Do you want to tell me where you live?”

  “Right here, for now,” Barkley said. “It’s cheaper to live and work in the same place. For now.”

  Clint went looking for the telegraph office, found it on the main street. He sent several telegrams, only one of which was to a bank.

  He told the clerk what hotel he was at.

  “I’ll bring the replies over there, sir.”

  Clint handed him some extra money and said, “As they come in, all right? Don’t wait for them all to come in so you can bring them at one time.”

  “Yessir,” the clerk said, happily pocketing the extra money.

  Clint left the telegraph office and went to the Drinkwater Saloon. He peered inside over the batwing doors, saw that nobody was there but Buck, the bartender. He went in.

  Buck looked up from the bar in surprise, as if shocked that anyone would walk in off the street.

  “You don’t do much business around here, do you?” Clint asked.

  The man shrugged.

  “I get paid whether I pour drinks or not.”

  “Care to pour me one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Beer.”

  Buck nodded, drew the beer and set it down in front of Clint.

  “No charge, according to the boss.”

  “The boss?”

  “Mr. Restin owns this place.”

  That didn’t surprise Clint.

  “Figures.”

  “Look, friend,” Buck said, “Want my advice?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “a bartender’s advice is always welcome.”

  “Do the job, take the money, and don’t come anywhere near here again.”

  “That does sound like good advice.” Clint drank down the beer. “Does your boss keep his word?”

  “If it means money to him.”

  “Otherwise?”

  Buck shrugged.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  Clint left the saloon and went to the livery to saddle Eclipse.

  He had a supper to attend.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Are you ready?” Restin asked.

  His daughter turned and looked at him.

  “Can’t I even have some privacy in my own room?”

  “Our guest will be here soon.”

  “Then go on downstairs, Daddy,” she said. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “You look fine now.”

  “Daddy!”

  He pointed his finger at her.


  “Don’t make me have to come up and get you,” he said, “or send somebody.”

  “Like one of your gunmen?”

  “Just come down,” Restin said, “like a good girl.”

  She turned to face him, hands behind her back and said, “Yes, Daddy.”

  This time when he rode up to the house there were no hands in the corral, and no gunmen on the porch. But as he started up the steps the front door opened and a tall man stepped out.

  “You must be Adams,” he said.

  “I must be.”

  “I’ll have somebody see to your horse.”

  “I don’t think he needs to be unsaddled.”

  “We’ll just put him in the barn and feed him.”

  “Okay, thanks. You’re not one of Restin’s gunnies, are you?”

  “I’m the foreman,” the man said, “whatever that means, anymore.” He stuck his hand out. “Ray Owens.”

  “Clint Adams.” Clint shook his hand.

  “Actually, if you want my advice, you’ll mount back up and ride out. Keep ridin’.”

  “That’s good advice,” Clint said, “if I didn’t think the West would be wallpapered with wanted posters if I did that.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Go on in, then. They’re waitin’ for you. I’ll see to your horse.”

  “You going to come in and eat?”

  “They don’t eat with the help,” Owens said.

  The man appeared to be in his thirties, looked as if he’d earned his way up to foreman.

  “Why don’t you take your own advice?” Clint asked. “I mean, if you feel the way you do.”

  “I doubt I could find a job that would pay me this good,” Owens said. “I’ll put up with a lot as long as I can.” Owens waved. “Go.”

  Clint handed the man Eclipse’s reins and went inside.

  As he entered he saw a girl coming down a wide staircase, dark hair cascading down around her blue dress. She stopped short when she saw him.

  “You must be him,” she said.

  “Who’s that?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t even know what to call you. My babysitter? My … deliverer?”