Anatomy of a Lawman (3 page)

Clint almost went looking for the men. They must have been standing at the bar somewhere. He held himself back, though. They were only proving what he’d already thought. At least one man would rather have had the sheriff dead, thinking that would save them from a gang. Clint had dealt with gangs like this all his life. They’d ride into town, kill the lawmen, and then either take over the town or burn it.

He was thinking of packing up and leaving town right then and there. Let the town fend for itself, but this town meant a lot to Jack Harper. He couldn’t just walk away and leave it to be destroyed.

“The sheriff’ll take care of us,” the first man said. “He always does, ya know.”

“That’s right,” the third man said. “He ain’t never let us down before, has he?”

“I’m havin’ another beer,” the second man said. “I wanna be dead drunk when them Graves boys ride in here and burn us down.”

“No tellin’ when they’ll come back,” the first man said.

“Well, I’m gonna be drunk ’til then,” the second man said. “And you mark my words. I ain’t the only one in town blames the sheriff for this. There’s members of the Town Council feel the same.”

Again, Clint almost went looking for the three men, to find out from the one with the big mouth just who on the Council felt that way, but he decided against it. Doc Foster was on the Council. He’d just ask him.

Deputy Buck Wilby came in at that point, looked around, and spotted Clint at the bar. When Clint saw him approaching, he quickly ordered the young man a cold beer.

“Here you go, Deputy,” Clint said, handing it to him.

“Are you gonna do it, Mr. Adams?”

“Do what?”

“You know,” Buck said, “take the sheriff’s place while he’s gone.”

“The sheriff’s likely to be gone a long while, Buck,” Clint said. “I can’t stay here indefinitely, you know.”

“Yeah, well, what about until the Graves boys come back?”

“You think you could handle this job, Buck?” Clint asked him.

“Nossir.”

“You don’t?”

“Nossir,” Buck said. “I can back your play, but there ain’t no way I could do the sheriff’s job. Not yet anyway. I ain’t experienced enough, or good enough.”

“It’s a smart man who knows those things about himself, Buck.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And it’s a smart man who knows what he has to do, Clint thought. He took the badge out of his pocket and pinned it on.

While they drank their beers, the three men somewhere along the bar continued their discussion, and suddenly the big mouth had some support.

“Glen’s right,” a fourth voice pitched in.

“Yeah,” a fifth man said, “why didn’t the sheriff just let ’em go?”

“And let ’em rob the bank?” the first man asked. “Don’t you got money in the bank, Hank?”

“Sure, I do,” Hank said, “and I wanna be alive to get it out.”

“And I want it to be standin’ when I’m ready to get it,” Glen said. “But that ain’t gonna happen when the Graves gang gets here.”

“Goddamned idiots!” Buck said, and before Clint could stop him, the young deputy went looking for the men.

“Glen Parks, you’re a blamed fool!” he snapped, moving down the bar. “If it wasn’t for the sheriff, this town probably woulda been burned to the ground a long time ago, so you shut yer damned mouth!”

“Oh, here’s the loyal deputy, boys,” Parks said. “And where was you when the sheriff got two in the back, Buck?” the man asked.

“Hidin’ somewheres, I bet,” Hank said, and the men laughed, even the ones who had been defending Sheriff Harper.

“Goddamnit, Parks!”

“Go ahead, boy,” Parks said, “skin that iron. Who you got to back your play now that the sheriff’s flat on his back?”

“Will I do?” Clint asked, stepping forward.

Suddenly the saloon got very quiet.

The five men looked at Clint as he stepped forward. The sheriff’s star on his chest loomed large.

“This here’s the temporary sheriff,” Buck said. “He’s gonna be around until Sheriff Harper gets back on his feet.”

“Is that a fact?” Glen Parks asked.

Clint could have picked Parks out of the five. The man with the big mouth had a sullen face and mean eyes. About forty-five, Clint was sure this man had caught as many beatings as he’d meted out in his life.

“And do you two think yer gonna be able to defend this town against the Graves boys and their gang?”

“Sure we are,” Clint said. “Because you’re going to help.”

“What?”

Clint noticed they were the center of attention now, and took advantage of it.

“And so are you,” he said, pointing to another man, “and you, and you, and you. All of you are going to help. Otherwise you’re right, this town will be burned to the ground.”

“Whataya mean?” Parks demanded. “That ain’t our job. It’s yours!”

“Since when is it not a man’s job to defend his home?” Clint asked.

“Since we pay Jack Harper—and now you—forty a month,” Parks said.

“Forty a month?”“ Clint asked. “That’s twenty for each slug he’s got in his back. And he wouldn’t leave town to get those bullets taken out in a hospital until he got somebody to take his place. He wanted to make sure this town had a fighting chance when the Graves gang returned.”

“And we’re gonna have that with you?” Parks asked.

“We sure are,” Buck Wilby said. “Let me introduce you to the new sheriff, boys. Meet Clint Adams.”

The entire saloon seemed to be staring at Clint.

“The Gunsmith?” Parks asked.

“That’s right.”

“You’re our new sheriff?” someone asked.

“Temporary sheriff,” Buck said. “Just ’til Sheriff Harper gets back on his feet.”

Someone pushed through the crowd to face Buck and Clint. He was wearing a suit, was well spoken, and Clint assumed he was one of the town fathers.

“You can’t just appoint yourself sheriff of this town.”

This was the first time Clint realized that Jack Harper was the town sheriff, not the county sheriff.

“I’m assuming this will go before your Town Council,” Clint said, “but for now, Sheriff Harper has asked me to take over.”

“Well, whatta we got to worry about, then!” somebody shouted. “The Gunsmith’ll take care of them Graves boys.”

“Like I was telling these gents here,” Clint said, indicating Parks and his friends, “I’m here to help. I’m not here to face this gang alone. I’m not a gun for hire.”

“You ain’t?” somebody asked.

“If I was,” Clint said, “it would cost you a hell of a lot more than forty a month.”

“Now look,” said the man in the suit, “before we talk about whether this man will or will not do, we have to have a meeting of the Council to see if we approve his wearing the badge.”

There was some murmuring, and some laughter, and someone shouted, “Why would you not approve of the Gunsmith wearing that badge?”

“Because he wasn’t duly elected to do so!” the man said. He turned to Clint. “Adams, I’m going to convene a meeting of the Council. I assume you’ll be there?”

“Just tell me when and where,” Clint said. “I’ll either be at the sheriff’s office or in the hotel across the street.”

“Fine,” the man said, and walked on.

The man left, and before the rest of the men in the saloon could surround Clint and bombard him with questions, he grabbed Buck’s arm and pulled him out of the saloon as well.

“Who was that man?”

“Parks? He’s nobody—”

“No, the man in the suit,” Clint said. “Obviously he’s a member of the Town Council.”

“Oh yeah, that’s Mr. Radke,” Buck said. “He owns a bunch of businesses around town. In the last election he ran for mayor and lost, but yeah, he’s on the Council.”

“Is he going to be trouble?” Clint asked.

“He just always has to have a say in what’s goin’ on,” Buck said. “He’ll make a lot of noise, but in the end he’ll go along with the Council.”

“And how’s the Council going to react to Sheriff Harper passing his badge to me?”

“Well, Doc’s on the Council and his word carries a lot of weight.”

“More weight that Radke’s?”

“Oh yeah,” Buck said, “a lot more weight than Mr. Radke’s.”

Clint shook his head.

“I better go over to the hotel and let Jack know what’s happening already.”

“He’ll just be happy to see you wearin’ that badge . . . Sheriff.”

“Yeah, well, let’s see just how long I’ll be holding on to it.”

 

Clint knocked on the door of room eleven again. It was opened by Doc Foster, who looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Trouble already?”

“Is he awake?”

“No,” Foster said. “I gave him somethin’ for the pain and he’s out.”

“The Town Council is apparently convening to decide if I should wear this badge or not.”

“And whose bright idea was that?”

“A man named Radke.”

The doctor waved his hand.

“Don’t worry about him,” he said. “I can overrule him.”

“What about the rest of the Council?”

“When they hear who you are, nobody will object—as long as you’re takin’ the same forty a month, that is.”

“I’m doing this as a favor to Jack,” Clint pointed out.

“You got the forty a month comin’,” the Doc said. “And you’ll earn it.”

“So you’ll be at the meeting?”

“Don’t worry,” Foster said. “I’ll see you there.”

Clint went to the sheriff’s office to await word of the Town Council meeting. While he was there, he looked through Jack Harper’s desk, found some wanted posters. He was leafing though them when Buck Wilby came walking in.

“I just did my rounds, Sheriff,” Buck said. “What should I do next?”

“First, don’t call me Sheriff,” Clint said. “Just call me Clint.”

“Okay, Clint. What do you want me to do next?”

“What does the sheriff usually have you do?”

“Um, just drift around town and keep an eye out for trouble.”

And how often do you find trouble?”

“Uh, not that much really,” Buck said, “except on weekends, when the cowpokes and drifters come into town and get liquored up.”

“Okay, well, why don’t you just do what you usually do?” Clint said. “Meanwhile, give some thought to who in this town would be useful when the Graves gang comes back.”

“Me?” Buck asked. “You want me to recommend somebody?”

“You know the people in this town,” Clint said. “I don’t. Come up with some names and we’ll talk about them. Okay?”

“Okay, Sher—I mean, Clint.”

Buck went out the door and pulled it closed behind him. Clint looked down at the pile of wanted posters on the desk, then opened a drawer and put them away. He decided to check the weapons in the rifle rack, found them in need of cleaning. He was just about to begin when Doc Foster came in.

“Hey, Doc,” he said. “How’s Jack?”

“I’m takin’ him on the first stage tomorrow,” Doc said. “Then to the train. I’ll need some help carryin’ him from his room. I need four men, because we have to hold him steady.”

“You got me,” Clint said, “provided I’m still here.”

“About that,” Doc said. “You should walk over to the Council meeting with me . . . now.”

“Fine,” Clint said, replacing the rifle in the rack. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Doc Foster walked Clint over to the two-story brick City Hall. They walked in and Doc led him to a room in the back.

There was a long table with five chairs, four of which were occupied. Doc Foster walked around the table and sat in the fifth chair.

“Have a seat, Mr. Adams,” said a man whom Clint didn’t recognize.

He only knew Doc Foster and the man from the saloon, Radke.

There was an empty chair in front of the table and Clint sat down in it.

The man seated at the other end of the table introduced himself. “I’m Hal Finley, mayor of Guardian.” He was in his sixties, well dressed and healthy looking.

“Mr. Mayor,” Clint said, nodding.

“You know the two men to my left, Doctor Foster and George Radke,” the mayor said. “To my right are Mr. Lew Preston and Mrs. Henry Dennison.”

Preston was a sad-looking man in his forties. Mrs. Dennison was a handsome-looking woman of about forty.

“Mrs. Dennison is here representing her husband, who died last year.”

Clint wondered why the mayor thought that was important enough to mention.

“Mr. Adams, we understand Sheriff Harper has asked you to take his place until he’s back on his feet.”

“That’s not quite right, Mr. Mayor.”

“Oh?”

“He may never get back on his feet,” Clint said. “I told him I’d wear this badge until I found someone who could handle the job.”

“Well, you understand that the Town Council has to approve you as temporary sheriff.”

“I understand that’s a formality,” Clint said.

“Actually, it’s quite serious—”

“Mr. Mayor,” Clint asked, “do you intend to go out into the street with a gun when the Graves gang comes back?”

“Well . . . I don’t use a gun, Mr.—”

“What about you, ma’am?” Clint asked.

“Certainly not, Mr. Adams,” she said. “You definitely have my vote to keep that badge.”

“We haven’t put this up for a vote yet—” Radke started.

“None of you plan to take up a gun when the gang gets here,” Clint said, “so there’s no way you’re going to take this badge away from me—and there’s no way I’m going to jump through your hoops.” He stood up. “I intend to do what I told Jack Harper I’d do.”

He turned and walked to the door, pausing for a moment.

“But I may just be calling on some of you to pick up a gun, whether you want to or not.”

He left them all there staring as he went out the door.