Crossing the Line (12 page)

“I was about to tear the son of a bitch in half when he threatened to start shooting,” Les said. “About a second after that, he pulled his trigger anyway.”

“It happened just like that, Adams,” Pace verified. “And just as quick. I don't have to tell you what a slippery, fucking little coward George was. You shouldn't have any trouble believing he'd take a shot at a woman to save his own skin.”

“Was?” Clint asked. “So he's gone?”

“Gone as in not around here anymore,” Pace replied. “Any more than that . . . who's to say?”

“So when was Delilah shot?”

“George said he wanted to kill Carl and anyone else who meant to put him behind bars,” Pace explained. “Carl stepped up to speak for himself and Delilah stepped up to stand with him. I don't let Carl carry a gun while he's working, but Delilah usually had one handy. I don't know if she got to it or not before George shot her.”

“She didn't,” Les said. “George got spooked the longer he was here and then he fired at Carl. Either he's a piss poor shot or he meant to kill Delilah, because he put a bullet right into her heart.”

Hearing those words hit Clint like a punch to his chest. Even though he'd been told the basics, having it laid out so plainly for him like that was tough to swallow.

Les may have felt the same thing, because his voice wavered slightly when he continued speaking. “George was gone before Delilah hit the floor. I took off after him, but he could've gone anywhere.”

“What about the law? Aren't they looking for him?” Clint asked.

“Like Mister Pace said, you'll have to ask them for yourself.”

“And like I said, I'll do that very thing unless you intend on keeping me locked up in this room.”

Pace tapped his cigar against his desk. “I have a lot invested in this place, Mister Adams. I can't afford to have folks driven away. George has done enough damage, but he hasn't been heard from since. For all we know, Carl got to him.”

“Did Carl go after George?”

“Could be. We haven't seen him, either. My point is that I don't want to have you kicking up any more dust in my place. You're welcome to stop by. After what you did the last time you were here, you can sleep, eat, and drink here without spending a cent. I know Mack wants to hold his game and I'll even offer a private table for it without taking my usual percentage.”

“How generous of you,” Clint grumbled.

“It is generous, Mister Adams. You're upset right now, so you may not be able to see that so clearly. Just don't spit in the face of my generosity by conducting any more rough business in my Emporium. I know you and Delilah had a . . . shall we say . . . especially friendly relationship. If you intend on paying anyone back for what happened to her, you have my blessing. She was a good woman and a wonderful dealer. I've never had a game where so many men were so willing to buck such shitty odds on such a consistent basis.”

Pace stood up and pointed his cigar at Clint. “If you want to gun somebody down, do it outside. If you want to beat to a pulp someone who had anything to do with what happened or has any connection to George, do it somewhere else. You understand me?”

Despite the fact that Pace had raised his voice to a threatening snarl, Clint found it easier to deal with him. It did him some good just to see someone else get riled up while talking about George. “I understand. When you say I have your blessing, does that mean you'll back me up if I need it?”

“As long as you don't cross the line,” Pace replied as he extended his hand across the top of the desk, “most definitely.”

Clint shook Pace's hand. Only after that did Les step aside to let him walk through the door.

The first time Clint had been in town, he'd thought the sheriff's office had been an abandoned building. The windows had always been dark and the structure sat without a sign of life within its quiet walls. Now it was one of the few parts of Trickle Creek that actually looked to be thriving. The windows were no longer covered. A light shone from inside. A few shadows even moved around in there. It seemed the town's justice wasn't completely dead after all.

When Clint opened the office's front door, he was greeted by a lanky kid in his late teens who wore a deputy's badge on his vest. The kid might have wanted to say something, but he didn't get the words out before Clint walked right past him and toward a balding man securing a wanted notice to the wall.

“Sheriff DeFalco?” Clint asked.

Just as he'd suspected, the balding man turned around to answer.

“That'd be me.”

“I'm Clint Adams.”

The sheriff thought about that for a second and then grinned. “The fella who won the tournament? Congratulations. I trust Pace handed over your prize money.”

“Yes, he did. I came to talk about one of his faro dealers.”

“Please don't tell me you were cheated.”

Resisting the urge to kick over the sheriff's desk, Clint said, “No. I mean Delilah. You know . . . the one that was shot in front of half the town.”

“I wouldn't say half the town, but it was quite a spectacle.”

“And what are you doing about it?”

Sheriff DeFalco turned around to make sure the notice he'd just put up was straight. Then, he settled into his chair and hooked a thumb toward the newest addition to his wall. “See for yourself.”

The notice he'd hung advertised a five-hundred-dollar reward for the capture of George Willem. Other than a sparse description of George's crimes, the only thing on the notice was a hastily drawn sketch of the fugitive. Even after all the times Clint had seen the man, he barely recognized the picture as George.

“That's it?” Clint asked. “Do you at least have a posse going after him?”

“All right, then. Say I round up a posse. That should only take a week or so to find enough men willing to sign on for a long ride away from home and hearth. Once I get my men, I do what?”

“Look for George,” Clint snarled.

“Do you happen to know where we should start?” DeFalco asked. “Do you know where he went? Do you even know in which direction he might have gone? There's a lot of open country out there, Mister Adams.”

Clint pulled in a breath to steady himself. He'd ridden on enough posses to know how much work it took to form one. He'd also hunted down plenty of wanted men, so he knew that was no easy task. He'd also dealt with his share of lazy lawmen, enough to know when one was dragging his heels on purpose.

“Just about everyone who knows George hates the bastard,” Clint said. “Rounding up a few to hunt him down shouldn't be too hard.”

“And after that?”

“Don't you know how to track someone? For Christ's sake, you've got to at least know a tracker. Is this all you do when someone escapes from you? Kick your feet up and hope they cross your path on their own?”

The sheriff cocked his head as if he was about to tell a slow child why they should wipe their nose. “Don't tell me how to do my job.”

“Maybe someone should start by telling you to
do
your job!” Clint roared. “After you get off your ass, we'll worry about how.”

DeFalco was on his feet quicker than Clint thought he was capable of moving. “You want to see me do my job? Why don't I knock you on the skull and toss your sorry hide into my jail for disrespecting a keeper of the peace?” After a few seconds passed without either man making a move, the sheriff said, “George is a pathetic piece of shit, but I won't waste my time chasing after him while he runs and hides in a cave somewhere. As long as he stays out of my town, it's just as good as if he was in my jail.”

“This is because his problem was with Carl?” Clint asked.

“Most folks around here would demand I run that darkie out of here just for taking a white man's money at that faro table.”

“And what about Delilah?”

“Her death is a shame, but I've heard enough to convince me it was an accident. You may not like to hear this, Mister Adams, but she was also a whore who spread her legs any chance she could get.” Grinning ever so slightly, DeFalco added, “I hear you know plenty about that.”

Clint didn't approve of hurting a lawman, but he wanted to knock this one out so badly, he could taste it.

“Did you know Delilah was brought in more than once for cheating?” the sheriff asked. “Do you happen to know how she got the charges dropped and went back to work without so much as a blemish to her name? Want to guess how many dicks she sucked to earn enough money to buy all those fancy dresses when other dealers can barely feed themselves?”

“That's enough, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I've found out all I needed to know.”

“Good. Don't come back around here expecting me to waste my time and money on a posse when this town is better without that whore and her shifty bean counter. George is gone and he won't come back. That's the end of it, and I don't want to see you in my office anymore.”

“Don't worry,” Clint said. “I sure as hell don't want to see your face again, either.”

From what he'd seen of the job Sheriff DeFalco did when he was on his game, Clint knew he was better off without having to worry about the lawman getting in his way. If DeFalco wanted to sit in his office and do nothing, that just cleared the way for Clint to do his own work unimpeded.

Somehow, no matter how many times Clint told himself things like this, they didn't make him feel any better. More than anything, he'd wanted to bury his fist into that pompous lawman's face. It wasn't as if the greasy bastard could have stopped him. Even his deputies weren't any kind of threat. The only thing that stopped Clint was his own common sense.

Knocking a lawman on his ass was just too much trouble. No matter how much it would be worth some time in jail, Clint wasn't about to give DeFalco the pleasure of locking him up. Unlike the town's law, Clint had a job to do.

He didn't bother going back to Pace's Emporium, or anywhere else in town, for that matter. Instead, Clint rode out to the one spot where he thought he might get some honest answers. Sure, the people doing the talking may not be completely impartial, but he doubted they would leave such a bad taste in his mouth.

Eclipse took him to the cabin on the outskirts of town in no time at all. By the time Clint was swinging down from the saddle, he was getting the first glimpse of his welcoming party.

“You get right back on that horse and keep riding!” Sadie demanded as she stormed out of the cabin with a shotgun in her hands.

Clint raised his hands, but didn't make a move to climb back onto Eclipse's back. “I'm not here to bother you two. Just give me a chance to prove it.”

Slowly, she lowered the shotgun from her shoulder. “Clint Adams? Is that really you?”

“It sure is.”

“You don't have to prove anything to me. Come on inside.”

Eyeing the shotgun, Clint asked, “You sure it's safe?”

Sadie shook her head as if she'd just realized the shotgun was still in her possession. Taking hold of it by the barrel, she walked into the cabin and propped the shotgun against the wall right next to the door. Now that her hands were both empty, she rushed to Clint and gave him a strong, almost desperate hug.

“I'm so glad to see you!” she said. “Of all the folks I thought would come here, I wasn't expecting one of them to be you. I can't tell you how happy I am!”

After catching his breath from being squashed like a grape, Clint rubbed Sadie's back and told her, “I was hoping to find you, but after talking to some people in town, I don't know if you should be here.”

Sadie was a full head shorter than Clint, but was very strong for her size. When she let go of him, she straightened his shirt as if to make up for nearly cracking his ribs. “Where else would I be? This is my home.”

“Yes, but . . .” Rather than frighten her with the things he'd heard, Clint bit his tongue. “Where's Carl?”

“Lord knows.”

“You don't know where he is?”

“Nobody does,” she said. “And I hope it stays that way.”

During his previous visit, Clint hadn't spent a lot of time with Sadie. For the most part, she'd been checking in on them while he and Carl practiced with the old Army model pistol outside. She'd stayed out of their way and tended to her own affairs. Now, she paced the kitchen area as if she didn't know quite why she was there. Her simple brown skirts swirled around her as she kept scrambling from one spot to another.

“Will you sit down?” Clint asked. “You're making me nervous.”

“Nervous? You can't be half as nervous as I am.”

“Then sit down and tell me about it.”

She stayed still for a moment before she looked ready to jump out of her skin. “Do you want some water? I want some water.”

“Sure. Let's both have some water.”

Now that she had something to keep her hands busy, she calmed down a bit. Once he saw her hands had stopped trembling, Clint asked, “What do you know about Carl?”

“Just that he's off trying to hunt down that murdering bastard that shot poor Delilah.”

“He's going after George?”

She nodded and brought two cups of water to the table where Clint was sitting. Setting both cups down, she lowered herself onto a chair and let out a slow breath. “He went to the sheriff, but that lazy pig isn't good for anything but taking up space. He even went to Mister Pace, since he's known Delilah ever since she came to town. But do you know what that rich man said to Carl?”