The Devil's Collector (11 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

Outside City Hall, Clint said to Sonnet, “This town's a mess.”

“I don't care,” Sonnet said. “I'm not leaving here without finding my brother's killers, no matter what I have to do, or what we leave behind.”

“I have a feeling we only need to talk to one more man,” Clint said.

“Not the ranchers?”

“I think the man we're after is somebody in town,” Clint said, “and I think the other prominent townspeople know who it is.”

“Who's left?”

“Michael Albert,” Clint said. “He owns the biggest saloon in town.”

Sonnet was quiet.

“What are you thinking?” Clint asked.

“The biggest saloon in town,” Sonnet said, “was something my brother never could have resisted.”

“Then let's have a look,” Clint said.

• • •

They entered the Silver Queen Saloon and went right to the bar. The place was packed, which explained why Michael Albert was one of the wealthiest men in town.

At the bar they ordered two beers and then Clint asked the bartender, “Where's your boss?”

“Mr. Albert?”

“He owns the place, right?” Clint asked.

“That's right.”

“Then that's who I want to see.”

“And who are you?”

“Clint Adams.”

“Wait here.”

The bartender left the bar and walked through the crowd to the back of the room. Clint and Sonnet took a look around, saw that several men were watching them.

“This feels good,” Clint said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it feels bad,” Clint said. “There's any number of men in here who could be part of the five.”

Sonnet looked around more intently.

“Why don't they just come after us?” he asked. “That would make it so much easier.”

“Looking at these people,” Clint said, “I can see how nobody from here would have bothered to run down the street when they heard the shots.”

The bartender returned, didn't get behind the bar, and said, “Follow me.”

They followed the man through the crowd, some of whom turned to watch them go. Clint walked behind Sonnet, and kept an eye out for backshooters.

At a door the bartender knocked and opened it.

“Boss, the Gunsmith is here.”

“Let him in.”

Clint let Sonnet go in first. The man behind the desk looked tense, but was trying to look relaxed. Clint noticed that the top-right-hand drawer of his desk was ajar.

“That's all,” Albert told the bartender.

The man left, closing the door.

“You're Adams?” Albert asked.

“That's right.”

“And you?”

“Jack Sonnet.”

“Ah,” Albert said, “it was your brother who was shot here a few months ago.”

“That's right.”

“What brings you to me?” Albert asked.

“We've been talking to prominent citizens in town,” Clint said, “about the shooting. They seem to feel you were behind it.”

Sonnet looked surprised for a moment before he recovered.

Michael Albert smiled at Clint and said, “Nobody told you that.”

“Well,” Clint said, “let's say men like Toth, and the mayor, sort of intimated it. They said nobody else had a motive.”

“And what would my motive be?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Maybe you'd like to explain to this man why you had his brother killed.”

“Mr. Sonnet,” Albert said, “I did not have anything to do with your brother being killed.”

“Well,” Clint said, “somebody in town did. And somebody in town was sending telegrams to Jack here, giving him names of men who were supposed to have killed his brother.”

“Not me,” Albert said.

“Then who?” Clint asked.

“How would I know?”

“Look,” Clint said, “it takes a lot of money to hire five men to kill somebody. I intend to find out which one of you prominent citizens did it.”

“And when we find that out,” Sonnet said, “I'm gonna kill him first, before I kill the others.”

“You think you can just ride into town and starting killing people?” Albert asked.

“Yes, sir,” Sonnet said. “I've already killed at least two of the men who murdered Carl. I'm planning to kill the rest, and one more—the man who hired them.”

“And I'm going to back his play,” Clint said.

“You know, there's law in this town,” Albert said.

“We know that,” Clint said, “and the mayor told us he'd hire special deputies if he thought he needed to.”

“So I think the best thing for everyone would be if you two left town.”

Clint and Sonnet had not sat down. Now Clint moved toward the door and said, “That's not going to happen, Mr. Albert. I suggest that you, or whoever's in charge, send those same men after us—the ones who are left—and then we'll see what happens.”

“I'm a businessman, Mr. Adams,” Albert said. “I don't employ gunmen.”

“It has been my experience, Mr. Albert,” Clint said, “that it's businessmen who
can
afford gunmen.”

Clint noticed Albert's eyes going to his desk drawer. He was sure there was a gun in there. But a man who paid for guns would never have the courage to go for one himself.

“We'll talk again,” Clint said. He let Sonnet go out ahead of him, and followed.

• • •

Another door opened and Benny Nickles stepped in.

“You heard?” Albert said.

“I did.”

“It's time for you to do something.”

“He doesn't know a thing,” Nickles said. “He's bluffing.”

“I want them dead.”

“If we try this and we don't succeed, they'll know it was you.”

“Then you better get the job done.”

“I'll need some special deputies.”

“I'll talk to the mayor,” Albert said. “Get your men together.”

“Usual paycheck?”

“More,” Albert said. “You get this done and there'll be a lot more.”

THIRTY-NINE

“Why did you push that hard?” Sonnet asked outside.

“Because,” Clint said, “whether he's in this alone or with one or two of his colleagues, he's the one who has access to the men.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just didn't like him.”

“Well,” Sonnet said, “maybe we pushed hard enough that somebody is going to come after us.”

“Special deputies,” Clint said.

“Will that be a problem for you?”

“About as much of a problem as it was to kill the man with the badge in Busby. ‘Special deputies' will just be another name for hired guns.”

“So what do we do now?” Sonnet asked. “Just wait?”

“No,” Clint said. “I say we push even harder.”

“Who?” Sonnet asked.

“The man behind the real badge,” Clint said. “I want to push him a little more and see what we can get.”

“Now?”

Clint nodded and said, “Now.”

• • •

Clint could tell by the look on Koster's face that the man wasn't happy to see them.

“What do you want now?”

“We've just come from talking to your boss,” Clint said.

“I work for the town, Adams,” Koster said. “If you want to say I have a boss, that would probably be the mayor.”

“Oh, we talked to him, too,” Clint said. “But I was talking about Michael Albert.”

“Mr. Albert is a saloon owner,” Koster said. “How would that make him my boss?”

“Money,” Clint said. “It always comes down to money.”

“Are you accusing me of taking payoffs?”

“I'm accusing you of being the worst kind of lawman, Koster,” Clint said. “You're either crooked, or incompetent.”

“You got a lot of nerve—”

“I think you're the one with the nerve, Sheriff,” Sonnet said. “You got nerve wearin' that badge.”

“Mr. Sonnet,” Koster said. “I understand your grief over your brother's death—”

“Don't talk to me about my brother's death,” Sonnet said. “You haven't done a thing about it since it happened. Well, Clint and me, we are doing something about it.”

“You've got a choice, Sheriff,” Clint said.

“What's that?”

“Change sides,” Clint said. “Enforce the law with us, or stay where you are and go against us.”

Koster studied the two men, and for a moment Clint thought he was going to say or do something useful.

“You're only two men,” he said instead.

“It took five men to gun down my brother,” Sonnet said. “It'll take a lot more than that to gun down me and Clint Adams.”

Sonnet turned and left.

“This ain't the way to go, Adams,” Koster said.

“Then you tell me, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Save us all a lot of trouble. Tell me what happened that day. Tell me who was sending Jack Sonnet all over the country to kill men who might have been innocent.”

“Nobody's innocent,” Koster said. “Everybody's guilty of something.”

“Present company included, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Present company included.”

FORTY

Michael Albert looked at the half a dozen special deputy badges Mayor Atwill dropped on his desk.

“Pin 'em where you need 'em,” Atwill said. “Just get the job done.”

“I'll give them to Nickles,” Albert said, picking them up.

Atwill pointed a finger at Albert from behind his desk.

“This better work,” Atwill said. “You really messed things up when you had that Sonnet kid killed.”

“Who knew he was part of that family?” Albert asked.

“Sonnet?” Atwill repeated. “That wasn't a clue for you?”

“Okay, look,” Albert said, “I made a mistake with one Sonnet. I won't make a mistake with the other.”

“Never mind Sonnet,” the mayor said. “Don't make any mistakes with the goddamned Gunsmith!”

“Don't worry,” Albert said. “This will get done.”

“It better!”

• • •

Later, in his own office, Michael Albert laid the badges down on his desk.

“Six?” Nickles asked.

“You gonna need more?” Albert asked.

“Maybe,” Nickles said. “This is the Gunsmith we're talkin' about.”

“Well,” Albert said, “hire as many as you need, but there's six badges.”

Nickles picked one up and pinned it on, then scooped up the other five and put them in his pocket.

“Just let me know when it's over,” Albert said.

“You'll know the same way you knew last time,” Nickles said. “By the noise.”

“And don't worry,” Albert said. “Nobody'll come running. Not in this town.”

“If that idiot sheriff shows up too soon again, I'll put a bullet in him, too,” Nickles said.

“Suits me,” Albert said.

Nickles nodded and walked out.

• • •

In a run-down saloon at the south end of town, Benny Nickles laid the five badges out on a table. Seven men—three from the last shoot-out and four new ones—were gathered around him.

“There's only five,” Simon Dent said. “There's seven of us.”

“First come, first served,” Nickles said.

The men all grabbed for the badges. The two slowest stood back with frowns on their faces while the others pinned on their badges.

“So whatta we do?” one of them asked.

“Don't worry,” Nickles said. “You're all special deputies.”

“Gettin' paid the same?” asked the other of the men without a badge.

“Exactly the same,” Nickles said.

“How do we do this, Benny?” Dent asked.

“Same way as last time,” Nickles said. “Catch them out in the open.”

“And when do we do it?”

“No time like the present,” Nickles said.

“What about the law?” somebody asked. He wasn't one of the original five men who'd gunned Carl Sonnet down.

“It's just like last time, boys,” Nickles said. “We are the law.”

FORTY-ONE

Clint and Sonnet went into a small café and ordered coffee. For a change, they sat by the window. Clint wanted to be able to see the street.

“We just gonna sit here?” Sonnet asked.

“For a while,” Clint said. “I want to see what kind of activity we might have caused.”

Sonnet looked out the window.

“Look like folks going to and from work to me,” he said. “Like always.”

“Keep watching.”

As they watched, there seemed to be fewer and fewer people on the street.

“What's happening?” Sonnet asked.

“The word's getting around,” Clint said. “People are getting off the street.”

“So they're coming?”

“They're coming.”

“That means it was Albert,” Sonnet said. “He had Carl killed.”

“Or he went to the mayor, who told him what to do. Or one of the others.”

“What if it's one of the ranchers we haven't talked to?”

“Then we'll find out,” Clint said. “When they come for us, we have to make sure we take at least one alive.”

“So we have to be careful
not
to kill them all?” Sonnet said. “Couldn't we get killed doing that?”

“It's possible,” Clint said, “but we're going to need somebody to tell us who hired them.”

“I thought we knew it was Albert.”

“Albert, or the mayor, or one of the others,” Clint said. “We still can't be sure.”

Sonnet finished his coffee.

“You want to be sure, don't you, Jack?” Clint asked. “Before you kill someone else?”

“I didn't,” Sonnet said. “I didn't care before, but yeah, you've made me care. So yeah, I want to be sure.”

“Okay, then.”

Clint poured them both more coffee.

“What was the name of that fella?” Sonnet asked.

“Which one?”

“The one the clerk in Garfield told us about.”

“Oh. Benny Nickles.”

“Maybe he's the one coming,” Sonnet said.

“Could be.”

“Maybe we should have asked around town about him.”

“You're probably right,” Clint said. “We can go and ask a bartender or two about him. But how about some pie first?”

• • •

“Benny Nickles?” the bartender said. “Sure, I know him.”

“How well?” Clint asked.

“Well enough not to answer questions about him.”

“He's that kind of man?” Clint asked.

“Yeah,” the bartender said, “that kind.”

“Hard man?”

“The hardest.”

They were in a small saloon called The Buffalo Chip. Not the most attractive name for a place, but Clint wanted to ask his questions in a small saloon, not a large one.

“He ever come in here?” Clint asked.

“I tol' you,” the bartender said, “I don't answer questions that could get me killed.”

“So he's a killer,” Clint said. “For hire?”

The man didn't answer. He was a small man, with small hands and features. His features looked worried now.

“Like a special deputy?” Clint asked.

“Mister . . .”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

Outside, Sonnet said, “His help?”

“What he said without saying it.”

“So now we know Benny Nickles is not just an errand boy, he's a killer.”

“Right.”

“So let's find him.”

“Let's let him find us, Jack,” Clint said.

“But maybe we'll find him alone,” Sonnet said. “If he finds us, he'll have some men with him.”

“I know.”

“You think you and I can go up against five, six men?” Sonnet asked. “And live?”

“I've seen you use a gun, Jack,” Clint said. “Don't worry about it.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where should we wait for them?”

Clint thought a moment, then said, “I think I know the perfect place.”