Message on the Wind (10 page)

A bell?

The sound was coming closer, but slowly. Clint decided to put on a pot of coffee. By the time it was ready, the tinkling of the bell was right upon them.

A man, riding a donkey. No, a mule. He wasn't wearing a gun, but was wearing a bandolier for the rifle he was carrying.

“Hello, friend,” the man said.

“Good morning.”

“I smell coffee.”

“It's just about ready,” Clint said.

“Mind if I step down?” the man asked. “Never like to enter a man's camp without permission.”

Clint picked up the coffeepot and said, “Sure. Permission granted, Mr.—”

“My name is Arnold,” the man said, stepping down from the mule, “and this is Matilda.”

Arnold had some beans in his pack, and a pan, but he had run out of coffee days ago, so they pooled their resources and had some breakfast.

“Ah,” the older man said, “you know how to make trail coffee, my friend. I, uh, didn't catch your name.”

“Clint.”

Arnold's face was wrinkled where it wasn't covered by white hair—wrinkled and leathered. His eyes, though, they were a sparkling blue, a startling blue for a man so old. They were filled with life.

“Well, thanks for the coffee, Clint.”

Clint handed Arnold a plate of beans and said, “Thanks for the grub.”

“Beans ain't much to be thankful for,” Arnold said, “but they fill the belly.”

“All I had all day yesterday was beef jerky.”

“Beef? Got any left?”

“Sure.”

“Matilda loves beef.”

“You want to give jerky to the mule?”

“Sure,” Arnold said, walking over to her. “She's gotta eat, too, ya know.”

“I suppose.”

Arnold gave Matilda a nice big hunk of jerky, then came back to the fire to finish his coffee and beans.

“That's some animal you got there,” he said. “He got a name?”

“Eclipse.”

“Good name,” Arnold said. “Strong. Where are you and Eclipse headed?”

“Organ Pipe.”

Arnold stopped chewing and stared.

“Organ Pipe? Why the hell would you wanna go there?” he asked.

“I got a message from somebody,” Clint said. “Somebody who needed help.”

“What kind of message?”

“Came on the wind,” Clint said.

“Well, that's some kinda message to get,” Arnold said, chewing and washing the mouthful down with coffee.

“You from around here?”

“Friend Clint,” Arnold said, “that's all I do is travel around here—here and Mexico, maybe. Right now I'm huntin'.”

“Huntin' what?”

“A wolf.”

“Mexican wolf?” Clint asked.

“Big gray sucker,” Arnold said. “You ain't seen ‘im, have ya?”

“No.”

“If ya do, do me a favor and leave ‘im be,” Arnold said. “He's kinda mine.”

“Sure thing,” Clint said. “Far be it from me to kill another man's wolf.”

“So,” Arnold asked, “who was this message from?”

“Don't know.”

“And what kind of trouble were they in?”

“Don't know.”

“And when was the message sent?”

“Don't know that either.”

“Don't sound like you know much about this, friend Clint,” Arnold said. “What if you're ridin' into a whole mess of trouble?”

“I'll know that when the time comes.”

“Guess you will.”

“So,” Clint asked, “what do you know about Organ Pipe, Arnold?”

Clint waited for the man to lie to him, but instead Arnold said, “Pretty much what everybody knows about Organ Pipe.”

“And what's that?”

Arnold jerked his chin and said, “It lies over that way.”

“Lies?”

Arnold shrugged. “What's left of it.”

“So then what I heard,” Clint asked, “about it being burned to the ground because of a plague of some kind? It's true?”

“As true as anythin' you hear.”

“That's not a very clear response, Arnold.”

“If you knew everythin' there was to know about Organ Pipe,” Arnold asked, “you wouldn't be goin' there yerself for answers, now would ya?”

“I guess not.”

“You'll find all your answers when ya get there, friend Clint,” Arnold said.

He finished his coffee and beans, stood up, cleaned up his pan and his plates, and stowed them back in his saddlebags.

“Here,” Clint said, handing him some beef jerky. “For you and Matilda.”

“Thanks,” Arnold said.

He mounted the mule, then looked down at Clint. “You be careful, now.”

“You, too,” Clint said, “with that wolf.”

“I'll get ‘im,” Arnold said. “I always get them. Adios.”

Clint watched Arnold ride off due south, then saddled Eclipse and rode southwest, to Organ Pipe.

Or what was left of it.

Clint had put the map away, because the location of Organ Pipe was supposed to be just ahead of him. Just over a series of hills. That much had been confirmed by Arnold's jerk of the chin.

Just then a flock of birds flew overhead. He watched them until they were out of sight, and then they turned and came back.

He crossed paths with a Gila monster, and a snake.

A jackrabbit.

And then a Mexican wolf.

He reined in Eclipse as the wolf crossed their path. It watched him warily as it went north. Clint would have had a nice clear shot at it, but the wolf was not doing him any harm. Eclipse also knew that, for he stood still and relaxed. And besides, Clint had promised Arnold. The older man had gone south on his mule, though, and here was his wolf going north.

When the wolf was gone, Clint gave Eclipse his head and off they went again.

Suddenly, up ahead, Clint saw something. It looked like . . . a steeple.

A steeple?

The top of a building?

He topped the hill the steeple was rising above and looked down on a town.

A complete town.

Many buildings.

People walking and riding up and down the streets.

But there wasn't supposed to be a town here.

Not anymore.

 

Clint rode down the hill toward the town ahead of him, not sure what the hell was going on. Was this Organ Pipe? Was it another town? And if so, had it been erected on the same site?

He rode down the main street and became the object of everyone's attention. Apparently they didn't get many strangers in town. It wasn't a large town, and a lot of the buildings looked empty, but it certainly didn't have the feel of a dying town. Rather, it felt like a town that was growing.

This was nothing like what he had expected.

Under close scrutiny the entire way, Clint began to look for a likely spot to rein in. He finally decided on the sheriff's office. Along the way he never saw the name of the town above any of the businesses, so he still didn't know where he was.

Oddly, not all the buildings looked new. This did not have the appearance of a town that had been built within the last two years. The sheriff's office, in fact, looked as if it had been around for decades.

He entered without knocking, and found himself inside a small, cramped, good old-fashioned sheriff's office, with all the comforts of home for a sheriff, including the potbellied stove.

A man wearing a badge was standing before a gun rack, holding a carbine and a rag. The metal of the rifle gleamed with oil.

“Help ya?” he asked.

He was fairly young for a sheriff, mid-thirties. He put the rifle back on the rack and laid down the rag, then turned to face Clint head-on. He wore a well-cared-for Colt on his right hip.

“I've got a question,” Clint said. “Thought I'd ask the local law rather than just stop somebody on the street. Besides, they all seem to be staring at me funny.”

“What's the question?”

“Where am I?”

“Come again?”

“What's the name of this town?”

“You don't know where you are, friend?”

“If I did, I wouldn't be asking,” Clint said.

“You lose your memory or somethin'?” the lawman asked. “Hit your head?”

“Nothing like that,” Clint said. “I just didn't see any signposts, and none of the businesses have the name of the town on them.”

“So you just want to know the name of the town?” the sheriff asked. “That it?”

“That's about it.”

“I got a question for you first.”

“Go ahead.”

“What's your name?”

“Clint Adams,” Clint said. He could see the name scored a bull's-eye with the man. “Now can you answer mine?”

“Sure, friend, sure,” the sheriff said. “You're in the town of Organ Pipe.”

“Are you sure?” Clint asked.

“Now, what kind of fool question is that?” the lawman asked. “Of course I'm sure.”

“No, sorry—look, that's not what I meant,” Clint said,

“but all the information I've gotten about Organ Pipe lately is that it was burned to the ground because of some kind of plague.”

The sheriff put both hands on the front of his gun belt. Clint had a feeling the man could get to his Colt just fine if he had a mind to.

“Where'd you hear that?”

“Around.”

“And to hear it, you must've been askin' questions,” the sheriff said.

“That's right.”

“Why?” the man asked. “What's your interest in Organ Pipe?”

“What's your name?”

“Patterson,” the man said, “Sheriff Harry Patterson.”

“How long have you been sheriff?” Clint asked.

“Long enough,” the lawman said.

“How long has this town been here?” Clint asked.

“A couple of years, maybe less.”

“You got a newspaper here?”

“Sure.”

“Called the
Organ Pipe Register
?”

The sheriff frowned.

“What's all this to you, Adams?” he asked. “What's the Gunsmith's interest in Organ Pipe?”

“I got a message saying somebody here needed help,” Clint said.

“Message from who?”

“I don't know.”

“And you came running?” the sheriff asked. “Because you got a message from somebody you don't know?”

“It's become a bad habit,” Clint said.

“Bad habits can be hard to break.”

“Don't I know it.”

“Look,” Clint said, “something's going on here. I don't know what, but I intend to find out.”

“What makes you think somethin's wrong?” Patterson asked.

“Can I have a seat?” Clint asked.

“Be my guest.”

The sheriff relaxed for the first time since Clint entered the office, and sat down.

Clint took the newspaper clipping from his pocket and handed it to the sheriff across his desk. The man took it and looked at both sides.

“This is what brought you here?” he asked. “A scribble on an old newspaper?”

“Is that from your town newspaper?”

“Looks like it.”

“It's dated over two years ago.”

The sheriff looked at it again. “When did you get this?”

“Not long ago,” Clint said. “It came into my camp on the wind.”

“Blowing on the wind, you mean? It could've been blowing around Arizona for a long time.”

“I know it.”

“Why would you respond to somethin' like this?” Patterson asked. “Don't you have other things in your life to keep you busy?”

“Not at the moment,” Clint said. “It started out as curiosity, but then people started lying to me about Organ Pipe, until I talked with a convict at Yuma Prison named Joe Hickey.”

“Hickey?” The sheriff sat up. “You talked to Joe Hickey?”

“That's right.”

“He's in Yuma?”

“Right again.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“You know him?”

“Oh, I know him,” Patterson said. “I know him real well.”

“Well, he's the one who told me Organ Pipe was burned to the ground because of a plague.”

“A plague?” Patterson laughed.

“You find that funny?”

“You got your horse outside?”

“That's right.”

“Come with me,” Patterson said. He stood up and grabbed his hat, headed for the door.

“Where we going?” Clint asked, standing and falling into step with the lawman.

“First to the livery to get my horse,” Sheriff Patterson said, “and then I'm gonna show you somethin', Mr. Adams.”

The ride took about three hours. Clint never asked Sheriff Patterson where they were going, because he had an idea. Finally, they came to the site of what looked like an old fire. It covered enough acreage to have been an entire town.

“Organ Pipe?” Clint asked.

“The original town of Organ Pipe,” Patterson said. “This is where it stood.”

“What happened?”

“I'll tell you what happened,” Patterson said. “That is, I'll tell you what I think happened, but I can't prove it.”

“Okay.”