Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) (10 page)

“Okay, so one was short, three were tall,” Clint said. “Were they husky, thin . . . what?”

“Lemme think.” Sawyer eyed the whiskey bottle. “Two . . . two of them were thin, one was thick.”

“The thick one had to be the sheriff,” Kelly said.

“Thin,” Clint said, “two tall thin men, one short . . . was the short man thick or thin?”

“Thin,” Sawyer said.

“Little Jim thin?” Clint asked.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Clint gave Sawyer the bottle, turned to Kelly.

“One night I thought I saw two men outside my window. I think one was tall and thin, the other short.”

“You think one was Little Jim?”

“A Little Jim type,” Clint said, “but maybe . . . Billy told me that Little Jim is a killer, just runs the saloon for something to do.”

“That's true enough,” Kelly said.

“Garver drank there, so maybe they were friends.”

“So the thick man was Garver, and the small man was Jim?” Kelly asked.

“It's possible,” Clint said.

“So what do you want to do now?” Kelly asked.

“Let's go over to Little Jim's,” Clint said. “Since his face was covered, maybe he'll go back there.”

“You really think he would?”

“Sawyer said the front door was open and nobody was behind the bar,” Clint said. “Maybe he left it open because he knew he'd be back.”

“But leavin' it unlocked,” Kelly said, “that leaves him open to havin' folks come in to drink for free.”

“Well, supposedly he doesn't care,” Clint said. “He's just running the place to have something to do.”

Kelly shrugged then and said, “Well, it don't hurt to check.”

They left their horses in front of the saloon and walked over to Little Jim's. Like Sawyer said, the front doors were wide open. They went in, found the place empty with nobody behind the bar.

“I thought there'd be some men in here drinkin' for free,” Kelly said.

“Well, since folks seem to know that Little Jim's a killer, maybe that's as good as keeping the doors locked.”

“You might be right.”

“Let's see if there's an office, or a back door, or something.”

They searched, found a small office with a rolltop desk. Clint went through the drawers, found one drawer filled with unpaid bills.

“He really doesn't care about this place,” he said, closing the drawer. “He doesn't bother to pay his bills.”

“Maybe his creditors are afraid of him, too.”

They left the office and went back into the saloon. In the back they found a store room, and a back door that was also unlocked.

“Whataya wanna do?” Kelly asked.

“There's nothing to do,” Clint said, “so let's wait here awhile and see if he comes back.”

Kelly eyed the bar and asked Clint, “Want a drink while we wait?”

 

Just outside of town Garver was hunkered down by a fire, waiting for the second pot of coffee to be ready. With him were Wycliffe and Little Jim and a man named Stanford, who was nervous.

“You sure a posse ain't out there lookin' for us?” he asked.

“I told you,” Garver said. “I'm the sheriff—I was the sheriff—so there's nobody to get a posse together.”

“Won't they just name a new sheriff?” the man asked.

“Believe me, Stanford,” Garver said, “even if they do name a new sheriff, it'll take them days. Nobody in that town wants the job. Now why don't you go and stand watch?”

Stanford stood up, then asked, “If there ain't no posse, why are we standin' watch?”

“We're just being careful, Stanford,” Garver said. “Now go.”

As the man left, taking his rifle and a cup of coffee with him, Wycliffe asked, “What if Clint Adams takes that badge?”

“He wasn't even in town when we left,” Garver said. “Even if he takes it, it'll be a while.”

Little Jim dumped the remains of his coffee into the fire and stood up.

“I'm goin' back into town,” he said.

“What for?” Wycliffe asked.

“I left my place open.”

“Nobody's going to touch anything there,” Garver said. “They're afraid of you.”

“Don't matter,” Jim said. “I gotta go. 'Sides, I'm changing the name.”

“To what?” Wycliffe asked.

“Big Jim's.”

“Ain't gonna work,” Wycliffe said.

“Why not?” Jim asked.

“Nobody's gonna believe it.”

“It's got . . . what's it got?” Jim asked Garver.

“Irony.”

“Yeah,” Jim said, “it's got irony.”

“Here's your cut,” Garver said, handing Jim some packs of cash. It took two hands to hold them.

“How much?” Jim asked.

“Thirty thousand.”

Jim took the money and shoved it into his saddlebags.

“Don't start spending it too soon,” Garver said.

“I don't spend my money,” Jim said.

He saddled his horse while the other two watched him, then rode off with a wave.

“Why not kill him instead of lettin' him go back?” Wy-cliffe asked.

“You want to try and kill him?” Garver asked. “Be my guest.”

“No, not me,” Wycliffe said. “The little monster is a killin' machine.”

“You answered your own question, then.”

“Maybe I shoulda went with him,” Wycliffe said.

“What for?”

“He might find himself goin' up against the Gunsmith,” Wycliffe said, “since you shot the postmaster, Dixon.”

“He was about to take some shots at us,” Garver said. “He might have hit any of us. Seems to me I might have saved your life.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Wycliffe said, “but killin' the bank manager, that pretty much makes sure there'll be a posse after us eventually.”

“Well, he recognized me. I had no choice. Besides, you know what they're gonna do?” Garver asked. “They're gonna track Little Jim right back to town.”

“How they gonna do that?”

“When we break camp,” Garver said, “we're gonna wipe our tracks out.”

“But not Jim's?”

“Not Jim's.”

“So that's why you didn't want to kill him,” Wycliffe said. “It wasn't that you was afraid of him.”

“No,” Garver said, “I'm not afraid of the little monster.”

“Yeah,” Garver said with a shrug, “me neither.”

 

Jim rode back to town, rode his horse right up to the back door of his place. He knew he'd taken a chance, leaving the front doors open, but he didn't want anyone questioning the fact that he was closed. Besides, Garver and Wycliffe were right. Nobody would have the nerve to drink his beer or booze while he was gone—not without leaving some money on the bar anyway.

He dismounted, shouldered his saddlebags, and went in the back door.

Little Jim went into his saloon and moved around behind the bar. He took the saddlebags off his shoulder and placed them on top of the bar.

Clint came out of the little office, and Kelly walked through the front door.

“Hey,” Jim said to Kelly, “want a drink?”

“No drinks, Jim,” Clint said.

Jim turned quickly and looked at Clint. Then he looked at Kelly and noticed the badge. Then looked at Clint again.

“What the hell—” he said. “What the hell were you doin' in my office?”

“Where've you been, Jim?” Clint said.

“What's it to you?”

“I got a better question,” Kelly said. “What's in the saddlebags?”

Jim looked at Kelly.

“None of your business.”

“I think we're going to make it our business, Little Jim,” Clint said.

“Big Jim,” the small man said. “I'm changin' my name to Big Jim.”

Clint studied the man. He wasn't wearing a gun, and he wasn't carrying a rifle, yet he had been described as a killer.

“Little J—Big Jim,” Clint said, “have you seen your friend Garver?”

Jim looked at Kelly.

“Why are you wearin' the sheriff's badge?” Jim asked.

“I'm the new sheriff.”

“Since when?”

“Since you and Garver robbed the bank, and killed the bank manager.”

“We're gonna have to take a look inside those saddlebags, Jim,” Kelly said.

“Like hell,” the little man said.

Kelly took one step toward him, and Jim reached under the bar. Clint knew he had a split second to make a decision. If he was too slow to act, Kelly would be dead.

Jim was coming out from under the bar with a shotgun when Clint drew. As if he sensed his danger was from Clint, the little killer turned toward him, ignoring Kelly. As Clint fired, Jim pulled both triggers on the shotgun. Both barrels discharged into the bar, splintering it. Clint's bullet went into Jim's chest, and he went down behind the bar.

Clint walked to the bar, checked Jim to determine that he was dead.

“He was pretty quick with that shotgun,” Kelly said. “I didn't have time to react.”

“Forget it,” Clint said. He replaced the spent shell and holstered his gun. “Check the saddlebags.”

Kelly opened the bags and found the cash.

“Jeez,” he said. “I never seen this much money.”

Clint spread the bank bundles out on top of the bar.

“Looks like thirty thousand,” he said. “We should find out how much was taken from the bank.”

“We'll have to wait 'til tomorrow, then,” Clint said. “We'll have to talk to somebody at the bank before we go—or maybe the mayor will have the numbers.”

“The mayor . . .” Kelly said, shaking his head. “What a waste.”

“That's the way he seemed to me, but right now we have to deal with him.”

“Okay. What do we do with the money for now?”

“I'll keep it in my room,” Clint said. “And we should get you a room.”

“What about him?” Kelly asked.

“Let's lock the front door and go out the back. Forget about him for now.”

“As the law, I should do something about the body,” Kelly said.

“Tomorrow we can have it taken over to the undertaker's.”

“Okay.”

“So let's get out of here now, before somebody comes to see what the shooting was all about.”

Kelly moved quickly, slammed the front doors, and locked them. Then they walked through the back room and out the back door, Clint with the saddlebags. Little Jim's horse was still there, and they decided to just leave it there.

They went to the hotel and got Kelly a room right across from Clint's. On the second floor they stopped in front of their rooms.

“If either of us hears shots, we'll come running,” Clint said.

“Okay.”

Kelly's eyes went to the saddlebags.

“Something on your mind?” Clint asked.

“I just wondered . . . you ever think about keepin' that money?”

“No,” Clint said.

Kelly hesitated, then said, “Me neither.”

The night went by without incident. Clint knocked on Kelly's door, carrying the saddlebags, early the next morning.

“We need some breakfast,” Clint said, “then we'll go and talk to the mayor.”

“What about getting an early start?” Kelly asked.

“We found out something we needed to know last night,” Clint said. “Now we have to tell the mayor about little Jim and get the body taken care of. And we have a good place to start tracking Garver and the rest.”

“I'm not a tracker,” Kelly said. “How will we do that?”

“Easy,” Clint said. “We just track Little Jim back to where he came from—probably a camp. From that camp we can track Garver.”

“You'll track him,” Kelly pointed out. “I'll follow you.”

“That'll work,” Clint said. “Let's get something to eat.”