Gunsmith #361 : The Letter of the Law (9781101553657) (5 page)

The answer was simple.

He had a hard time minding his own business when he knew a crime was about to be committed.

Clint found a post to lean against as he waited for the sheriff and the bank manager to come out of the telegraph office. At the same time he took a casual look around to see if anyone was watching him. No one seemed to be paying him any special attention. He still refused to believe, though, that he'd imagined the two men watching his hotel the night before.

He hated to think that he was starting to see things that weren't there.

 

While Bank Manager Birzer sent his telegram, Sheriff Garver looked out the front window and saw something he didn't like. Clint Adams was across the street, leaning against a post. He seemed to be watching the door of the telegraph office. Had he been standing there the whole time, or had he—for some reason—followed them there?

“Sheriff?”

Garver turned, realizing that Birzer was speaking to him.

“It's done,” the bank manager said. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Garver said, “you'll just have to make your way back to the bank yourself, Mr. Birzer. I've got somethin' I need to take care of.”

“Oh, well, all right,” Birzer said. “I, uh, suppose I can do that.”

“Yeah, you can,” Garver said. “Nobody's gonna bother you.”

“Well,” Birzer said, “I hope not.”

The two men walked out together, and Garver slapped the bank manager on the back.

“Go ahead,” Garver said.

The bank manager nodded and headed back to the bank. Garver looked across at Clint Adams to see if he'd follow Birzer. He didn't. He remained where he was, looking at Garver. The sheriff considered walking across and asking Adams what was on his mind, but instead he turned and walked in the opposite direction from the bank manager.

 

Clint watched the bank manager walk back toward the bank. The sheriff stayed where he was, looking across at Clint. Clint had considered ducking inside to avoid the man, but he was standing in front of a hat shop. He would have looked more suspicious if he'd gone in there. So instead he stayed where he was and stared back, decided to see what would happen. After all, he was just killing time.

Abruptly, Sheriff Garver turned and walked away from the bank manager. Clint decided to keep pace, staying across the street, and see what occurred.

Garver saw that Clint Adams was following him—or at least, was keeping pace with him.

What did the man have on his mind?

The sheriff came to Little Jim's, stopped, thought a moment, then went inside. Let's see, he thought, if the Gunsmith is curious enough to follow me.

 

When Garver went into the saloon, Clint stopped, found another post, and leaned against it. He had two choices. He could stand there and wait, or go in and have a beer. Maybe the lawman would tell him something.

Yeah, he decided he could use a beer.

 

“What's goin' on, Sheriff?” Jim asked. “Little early for you, innit?”

“I'll have a beer, Jim,” Garver said, “and one for my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“Clint Adams,” Garver said, “should be followin' me in here any minute.”

“The Gunsmith?” Jim asked. “He's comin' in here?” He put his hand beneath the bar to check that his shotgun was still there.

“Don't get excited,” Garver said. “Leave the shotgun where it is.”

Jim pulled his hand away.

“Just wanted to make sure it was still there.”

“Come on,” Garver said, “two beers, before my new friend gets here.”

“Comin' up.”

Clint walked into the saloon, which had a small, almost invisible sign on it that said, LITTLE JIM'S SALOON. The sheriff was standing at the bar, and there were only a few other men in the place, seated at tables. Little Jim's was a bit smaller than the Big Tap, but the ambience was along the same lines.

The sheriff kept his back to the door, but he knew Clint was there. He was leaning over a beer mug. The bartender—a small man with a mean look on his face—watched as Clint approached the bar. When he got there, he saw the second beer.

“Sheriff.”

“Your beer's gettin' warm.”

Clint picked it up and drank from it.

“How'd you know I'd come in?” he asked.

“Why would you stand outside once you knew I saw you?” Garver asked.

“Thanks for the beer,” Clint said, drinking from it again.

“Sure,” Garver said. “What's on your mind?”

“What makes you think something's on my mind?”

“Well, you followed me and the bank manager to the telegraph office, and then you followed me here.”

“Would you believe curiosity?”

Garver half turned toward Clint and leaned an elbow on the bar.

“You know, I would believe that,” he said. “You know why?”

“No, why?”

“Because I can't think of any other reason you'd follow me.”

“Boredom?”

“That, too,” Garver said, “but boredom can get you into trouble, Adams. You know that better than anybody.”

“You're right, I do,” Clint said. “So I'll apologize. I was out walking, saw you and the bank manager, and for want of something else to do, I followed you.”

“And you ended up gettin' a free beer out of the deal.”

“Not bad,” Clint said.

“Not bad at all,” Garver said. He turned to the bar again, finished his beer, and set the empty mug down.

“I've got work to do,” he said to Clint. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't follow me anymore.”

“I'll try to find some other way of relieving my boredom,” Clint promised.

“Good.”

Garver left Clint with a half a glass of beer.

“You mind topping that off and making it colder?” he asked the bartender.

“I'll just get you a fresh one,” the man said.

“Thanks.”

Jim brought him a full mug of beer.

“Are you Jim?”

“Little Jim,” the man said. “That's me.”

“You don't mind being called ‘Little Jim'?”

“Why would I?”

All the short men Clint had encountered in the past hated being referred to as “Little.”

“I'm five foot one,” Jim went on. “What else would you call me?”

“Big Jim?” Clint asked.

Jim laughed.

“That would be funny,” he said. “I never thought of that.”

“Have you been in town long?” Clint asked.

“A couple of years,” Jim said, “since I opened this place.”

“Have you known the sheriff all that time?”

“I've known Garver all that time, but he's only been sheriff the last few months. Why?”

“No reason,” Clint said. “Like I told the sheriff, I'm just curious.”

Clint drank down half his beer and then said, “Thanks for the beer, Jim.”

“Big Jim,” Jim said again, chuckling as Clint went out the batwing doors.

 

Sheriff Garver took up position inside one of the buildings across from Little Jim's, rather than standing out in the open the way Clint Adams had. He waited for Adams to leave, then watched as the man walked away in the direction of his hotel. He'd stayed in the saloon for a few minutes. Having another beer? the sheriff wondered. Or asking some questions?

He slipped out of the building by a side door and crossed the street to go back into Little Jim's and ask.

“He didn't ask anythin' about me?” Garver said to Little Jim.

“No,” Jim said, “he asked about me.”

“What?” Garver said. “What did he ask?”

“Well, he wanted to know how long I been in town,” Jim said.

“And?”

“I tol' him two years, since I opened up this place.”

“Yeah, yeah, but what else?” Garver said.

“Well”—Jim thought—“he wanted to know if I knew the sheriff all that time.”

“That's it?”

“Well, yeah.”

Garver frowned.

“What did you think he'd ask?” Jim said.

“I thought he'd ask some more questions about me,” Garver said. “I thought I'd find out what was on his mind.”

“Sorry,” Jim said, “but that was it. Oh, I tol' him one more thing.”

“What?”

“Well, when I told him I been here two years, and he asked me if I knew the sheriff all that time, I tol' him I knew you all that time, but you wasn't the sheriff the whole time.”

“And that's all? Nothin' else?”

“Nope, that's it.”

“Okay. Let me know if he comes in again.”

“Okay.”

As Garver started for the door, Little Jim called out, “Hey, Sheriff?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatayou think of me changing the name of this place to Big Jim's Saloon?”

Garver stared at Jim, frowned, and asked, “Now, why would you do that?”

“Well,” Jim said, “see, I'm little, but if I called it Big—”

“That's not a good idea, Jim,” Garver said. “It would just confuse your customers.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jim said, looking disappointed, “I guess you're right.”

“I'm always right, Jim,” Garver said. “Remember that, huh?”

As Garver walked out, Jim rubbed his jaw, cocked his head, and said, “Big Jim.” It sounded okay to him.

 

Clint was waiting outside the post office when Billy Dixon came out and locked the door.

“What do people do for their mail while you have lunch?” he asked.

“They wait,” Dixon said. “A man's gotta eat. You mind the same place?”

“No,” Clint said, “it's fine with me.”

 

When they were seated, Clint asked Dixon about his ranch. His friend told him how he wanted to raise horses, and how he was off to a small start.

“Well,” Clint said, “you sure know horses.”

“That I do.”

“I met your foreman. Is he a good man?”

“He's okay,” Dixon said. “And I've got three hands. They're out collecting some wild mustangs today.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“You want me to put you to work while you're here?” Dixon asked. “I could always use another hand—especially somebody as experienced as you.”

“How would your foreman feel?”

Dixon shrugged. “Why would he object? He's still the foreman. I'm just givin' him an extra hand.”

“You know,” Clint said, “that does sound like fun.”

“Good,” Dixon said. “Be at my place tomorrow morning, first thing. I'm sure they'll be goin' out again.”

“Okay.”

“I'll even pay you a day's wages.”

“I don't need a day's wages, Billy,” Clint said. “Not from you.”

“Well then, I'll buy lunch. How about that?”

“That's a deal,” Clint said.

 

“Saw the sheriff and the bank manager go to the telegraph office today,” Clint said.

“To do what?”

“I don't know. They went in, then came out and split up.”

“Garver see you followin' him?”

“Yeah, he did. And we talked, in a place called Little Jim's.”

“Little Jim,” Dixon said. “There's a stone-eyed killer if there ever was one.”

“Really?” Clint asked. “He looked kind of scruffy and harmless.”

“Until he gets riled,” Dixon said. “No, he's a killer, all right, with no remorse. He only keeps that place to give him somethin' to do between killin'.”

“That's an odd person for a lawman to be associating with,” Clint said.

“I tol' you, Garver's dirty. If you saw him with the bank manager, then somethin's goin' on with the bank.”

“You think the sheriff is going to rob the bank?” Clint asked.

“I don't know,” Dixon said. “It ain't my job to know. I keep my nose out of other people's business.”

“That's something I've never been able to do,” Clint said.

“Well, if Garver already knows that you were watchin' him, it's a little too late for you to start now. I'd watch my back if I was you.”

“Maybe it's a good idea I'll be out at your place tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Dixon said. “Maybe they'll rob the bank and be gone by the time you get back.”