Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) (2 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657)
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“Running the post office?” Clint repeated. “But . . . why?”
“I got tired of making my way with a gun,” Dixon said. “I've got a ranch near here—actually, right on the site of Adobe Walls—and I'd been living here awhile when they offered me this job.”
“Who offered it to you?”
“The government.”
“So, how long . . .”
“I've only been postmaster for a few months. What are you doing here?”
“I was near here, so I rode out to your ranch to see you. Your foreman told me you were here, working as the postmaster. So I came to see for myself.”
Dixon stepped back and spread his arms.
“So what do you think?”
“I'm not used to seeing you without a gun,” Clint said. “And . . .”
“And what?”
“Well . . . you're so clean.”
“That's because I don't spend that much time on the trail anymore. You, though . . .”
“What?”
“You could use a bath and a change of clothes. Just get here?”
Clint nodded. “Just had time to take care of my horse and get a room. Why don't we go get something to eat?”
“I'm the postmaster,” Dixon said. “And I work here alone. I can't just leave . . . but we can meet at five and then get something to eat.”
“That's three hours.”
“Well, if you're hungry, go and have something small,” Dixon said. “Meet me back here and I'll take you for the best steak in town. Whataya say?”
“That sounds like a good deal,” Clint said. “Can you tell me where I can get a good slice of peach pie?”
THREE
Dixon had not steered Clint wrong.
He'd given him directions to a small café a couple of blocks away, where he got a piece of the best peach pie he'd had in a while. If only the coffee had been as good. It needed to be stronger, but it was okay to wash down the pie.
“Anythin' else?” the waiter asked.
“Nope,” Clint said. “That was what I needed.”
He paid the waiter, who told him to come back when he was hungry again.
“I'll do that,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
Clint left the café, still having better than two hours to kill before meeting with Dixon. He decided he might as well spend some of it finding out who the law in Adobe Walls was.
 
He found the sheriff's office and went inside. It was typical of sheriffs' and marshals' offices in smaller towns in the West. Larger Western cities were setting up more modern police departments, but Adobe Walls still depended on a sheriff to keep the peace.
He heard the sound of a broom then saw a man come out of the cell block, wielding the broom and wearing the badge.
“Sheriff?”
The man's head whipped up, and he looked surprised.
“Didn't hear you come in,” he grunted.
“Sorry if I startled you.”
The man straightened up, leaned on the broom. He was a thick-bodied man in his forties. The star on his chest was showing wear—dents, and a bit pitted.
“Sheriff Garver. What can I do for you?” the sheriff asked.
“My name's Clint Adams, just got into town a while ago,” Clint said. “I got a room in the Stetson Hotel.”
“Adams?”
“That's right.”
The sheriff chewed his mustache for a moment.
“The Gunsmith?”
“Right again.”
“What brings you to town, Mr. Adams?”
“Friend of mine works here,” Clint said. “I came to visit him.”
“And who would that friend be?”
“Billy Dixon,” Clint said, then added, “your postmaster.”
“Dixon, huh?” the sheriff said.
“The hero of Adobe Walls.”
“If you say so.” The man didn't say so with any kind of feeling.
“I don't say so,” Clint said. “I was there.”
“That so?”
“That so.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Well, then, you oughtta know, right?”
“Right.”
He started working the broom again.
“You ain't come to town to cause trouble, have ya?” the sheriff asked.
“I never come to town to cause trouble.”
“But it follows you.”
Clint shrugged. “If you say so,” he commented. “All I know is I came here to see Dixon.”
“Gonna stay long?”
“A few days maybe.”
“Well,” the lawman said, leaning on the broom again, “have a good time.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Clint walked to the door and went out without further word.
 
The lawman leaned on the broom until Clint was gone. When the door closed, he leaned the broom against the wall and went into the cell block. Only one cell was occupied. He unlocked the door and woke the occupant up.
“Come on, Lenny.” He shook the man.
“Hey—wha—that you, Sheriff?”
Lenny Wilson stared owlishly up at Garver.
“It's me, Lenny. Come up, stand up.”
Wilson had been in the cell since the night before and still smelled like whiskey. He was relatively sober, though.
Garver got him to his feet and walked him into the office. He poured him a cup of coffee and sat him down with it.
“Drink it,” he said. “I want you to understand what I'm sayin'.”
“Okay, okay,” Wilson said. “I'm listenin'.”
“I want you to leave here and go find Al Wycliffe. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Wilson said. “Al.”
Wilson was about six-two and weighed about one-forty when he had a heavy beard stubble, which he had now.
“You know where to find him, right?”
“He could be in two or three places.”
“Well, you check them all, huh?”
“Sure, sure . . .” Wilson put the coffee down.
“How about a drink, Sheriff?”
Garver stared at Wilson, then opened his desk drawer. He took out a bottle of whiskey. Wilson reached for it, but Garver simply poured some into the man's coffee and then put the bottle away.
“Aw, Sheriff—”
“That's all you get, and don't stop for any more until you deliver my message. You sabe?”
“I got you.” He picked up the cup and drank the combination down greedily.
“Now go!” Garver barked. “Tell Al we got to call it off, and he should come and see me. Got it?”
“Got it. Call it off and come see you.”
“Go ahead.”
“How about a little—” Wilson said, extending the cup.
Garver grabbed it from his hand and said, “Go!”
He watched as Wilson went out the door. As it slammed, he was thinking, this was the wrong time for the Gunsmith to show up.
FOUR
Clint met Dixon in front of the post office as the man locked the door.
“Anything of value in there?” he asked.
“Letters, my friend,” Dixon said. “Just letters.”
They started walking.
“You know, I really liked it when the pony express was operating,” Clint said.
“They figured out a better way real quick,” Dixon reminded him. “You can't believe how fast the mail gets cross-country now.”
“Yeah, well, I don't get much mail,” Clint said.
“You don't stay in one place long enough for a letter to reach you.”
“That's true.”
“Turn here,” Dixon said. “This place has the best steaks in town.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “but does that mean that they're good?”
“You'll find out.”
The steaks were good. Once again, however, as with the café, the coffee was lacking.
“Is there good coffee in town?” Clint asked.
“What's wrong with this coffee?” Dixon asked.
“Not strong enough.”
“That's right. You like that really strong trail goop that you make.”
“I make good coffee.”
“Yeah,” Dixon said, “if you want to get the paint off a building.”
“Shut up and eat your steak.”
 
Over the meal they caught up with each other. Dixon, while younger than Clint, had become weary of the life of a scout, a life in the saddle, which was why he'd decided to become a rancher, and then a postmaster.
“Did you say you were at the hotel?” Dixon asked.
“Yes, the Stetson.”
“Why don't you come back to the ranch with me and stay there? It'll save you some money.”
“Have you got a wife?”
“What? A wife? No, no wife. Just me and some ranch hands.”
“In the morning you'll have to come back here to the post office, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, no offense, but I think I'd rather be in town so I can find something to do.”
“Yeah,” Dixon said, “I can see where you'd want that. You gonna stay long?”
“I've ridden a long way, so I thought I'd let my horse rest a few days.”
“Good,” Dixon said. “We still have time to catch up.”
“Right.”
“Maybe play some poker.”
“You got a game going?”
“Nothing regular, but I'm sure there are games in the saloons.”
“How many saloons?”
“Three that have gaming,” Dixon said, “a couple just for drinkin'. A whorehouse, too, but you still don't use those, do you?”
“No.”
“Never understood that myself, but then you've never had a shortage of women, have you?”
“I guess not,” Clint said.
“How's that work?”
Clint shrugged. “Women like me.”
“That's obvious,” Dixon said. “They don't like me much.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don't know how to talk to them,” Dixon said. “Even when a woman comes into the post office, I get nervous. So whores are good enough for me. You don't have to talk to them.”
“I suppose that'd be a plus in your situation,” Clint said.
“How is it you know what to say to 'em?” Dixon asked.
Clint shrugged and answered, “I just say what comes into my head.”
“And it's the right thing?”
“Usually.”
“You're lucky, then.”
Clint decided to change the subject from women.
“I dropped in on your sheriff.”
“Garver?” Dixon said with a look of distaste. “He's not much of a lawman. In fact, I think he's downright crooked.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I don't want to,” Dixon said. “It's not my job.”
“You can live in a town where you know the law is crooked?”
“Long as I don't have to deal with him,” Dixon said. “Look, I stay at my ranch, or I stay in the post office. I don't go lookin' for trouble.”
“I suppose I can understand that,” Clint said. “You've had your share over the years.”
“And most of the time I went lookin' for it,” Dixon said. “Like scoutin' for the Army. That's just always lookin' for trouble.”
“And hunting buffalo?”
“Now that was the life,” Dixon said. “As long as you weren't greedy and left enough for the Indians, but men like you, me, and Bat Masterson were the only ones who wasn't greedy. And now the buffalo are gone.”
“I know,” Clint said, shaking his head, “it's a damn shame.”
Dixon nodded his agreement, and they ordered pie.
FIVE
They left the café, and Dixon took Clint to one of the saloons that didn't have gaming. They wanted a quiet place to have a beer and continue talking.
The saloon was called the Big Tap Saloon, and when they entered, Clint saw why. It was fairly small, but the bar filled almost half the room, and the beer taps themselves were huge. Clint only hoped the beer itself matched the bar and the taps—and it did. It was cold, and smooth.
“Best beer in town,” Dixon said. “If you want games and girls, though, you go to one of the bigger places.”
“I stopped into one of those earlier, without even noticing the name,” Clint said. “The bartender was a young guy who thought I needed a girl.”
“You were probably in the Tumbleweed,” Dixon said. “The bartenders there are pretty aggressive.”
“The Tumbleweed?”
“Yeah, I know,” Dixon said, “not very original.”
“This beer is good,” Clint said. He paused to look around the place. It looked like there were only eight to ten tables, but they all had two or three people at them.

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