Read Message on the Wind Online
Authors: J. R. Roberts
Message on the Wind (13 page)
“Did Andy live there?”
“Oh, yeah, he did.”
“Maybe that explains it,” Clint said. “Why folks eat there more than here?”
“I never looked at it that way, but you're probably right.”
“Is there that kind of separation here?” Clint asked. “Folks from the old Organ Pipe and folks from the new one?”
“Oh yeah,” Crews said. “In fact, I think that may be what's keepin' us from growin' as fast as we could.”
“You mind talking to me about that, Mr. Crews?” Clint asked.
“Hell, I don't mind at all,” Crews said. “Ain't every day I get to talk to the Gunsmith.” Crews sat down. “What's on your mind?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Paul Harris listened to Sheriff Patterson, then sat back in his chair and stared at the man.
“What the hell?” he said. “Where did this story of a plague come from?”
“Joe Hickey.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I know.”
“Hickey's been in Yuma all this time?” Harris asked.
“ 'Pears like.”
“And who else is in Yuma?”
“Don't know,” Patterson said.
“Well,” Harris said, “somebody should ask Adams, don't you think?”
“He's comin' to see you next, probably,” Patterson said.
“So I should ask him?”
“Why not?”
“I'm not the sheriff.”
“Come on, Paul,” Patterson said. “You and me, we're equal in this.”
“Except you got to wear the badge, and I got to run the newspaper.”
“You wanted to run the newspaper.”
“Yeah, well . . . Okay, when he comes, I'll feel him out, talk to him,” Harris said. “See what I can find out.”
“Maybe get him on our side,” Patterson said.
“I tell you what,” Harris said. “I'll feel him out, find out what he knows . . . You get him on our side.”
“Paulâ”
“That feels more equal to me, Harry.”
Patterson sighed. “Fine.”
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Because Crews felt like an outsider in the new Organ Pipe, Clint had the feeling he could trust him. He laid out his thoughts for the man, who listened carefully and waited until Clint was done before asking questions.
“And who told you about a plague?”
“Joe Hickey.”
“Well, I don't know this Hickey,” Crews said, “but that don't mean he wasn't part of the old Organ Pipe.”
“And the plague?”
“I never heard nothin' about no plague,” Crews said. “I heard a gang had Organ Pipe under their thumb, and when the town decided to fight back, the gang burned it down.”
“That'd be Joe Hickey's gang.”
“You better talk to the sheriff about that.”
“I did,” Clint said, “but I get the feeling I'm not getting the whole story.”
“So what's your next move?”
“The newspaper.”
“Paul Harris,” Crews said.
“He the editor?”
“Editor, owner, reporterâhe does it all,” Crews said. “Usually up to his elbows in printing press ink, trying to get the thing to keep workin'.”
“So you know him?”
“He's old Organ Pipe, but yeah, I know âim. Don't think you're gonna need me for an introduction, though.”
“Why not?”
“Once you tell him who you are, he'll smell a story.”
“Or an interview,” Clint said, sourly.
“Probably.”
“I've done enough interviews for one week,” Clint said.
“Yuma?”
Clint nodded.
“Newspapermen,” Crews said. “They think alike. You could probably trade him an interview for some information, though.”
“That's what I did in Yuma.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Got me to Joe Hickey.”
“And that got you here,” Crews said. “Seems like you've come as far as you can on that bargain. Might be time to make another one.”
“Might be.”
A young couple walked in the front door, and Crews said, “Glory be, I got more customers.”
“Go take care of them,” Clint said. “Thanks for listening, Carl.”
“Sure thing,” Crews said, standing up. “Lemme know what happens, will ya?”
“I'll do that.”
Clint went past the young couple, who were new in town and looking for a good breakfast.
“You're in for a treat,” Clint said. “Good breakfast here.”
“Thank you, sir,” the young woman said, with a smile.
Her husband scowled at Clint and put his arm around his young bride protectively.
Clint left and headed for the newspaper office.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Clint Adams?” Paul Harris asked as Clint entered the newspaper office.
“How'd you guess?”
“I was told you'd be comin' to see me.”
“Told, or warned?”
“Both, I guess,” Harris said. “What's the difference? Paul Harris.” He wiped his hand on a rag and then extended it to be shaken. “Don't worry. It's just a little ink.”
Clint shook the man's hand. A negligible amount of ink was transferred.
“Why don't we go into my office and have a drink?” Harris said.
“Fine.”
He led the way down a hallway and into a small room.
“This was one of the buildings left standing here,” he said, getting a bottle out of the bottom drawer of a roll-top desk. “I decided to renovate it, rather than build a new one.”
He pulled out two coffee mugs, poured two fingers of whiskey into each, and handed Clint one. There were two chairs in the room. He sat at the one in front of his desk.
“Have a seat.”
Clint took the remaining chair.
“I heard you'd have some questions for me.”
Clint took the clipping from his pocket and passed it over.
“This what brought you here?”
“That's right.”
Harris studied it.
“Before my time, from the old Organ Pipe,” he said. “According to the date, anyway. Who wrote this on it?”
“I don't know,” Clint said. “Don't think I'll ever find out.”
“But you came anyway?”
Clint took the clipping back. “Somebody needed help.”
“That was probably written while Joe Hickey and his gang were in control of Organ Pipe.”
“Sounds likely. Who else was in Hickey's gang?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“So I can talk to them.”
“The sheriff told me you came here from Yuma,” Harris said.
“That's right.”
“And that Joe Hickey's in prison there?”
“Right again.”
“Well, if Joe Hickey was in Yuma, I'll bet some of his gang is still there. I'll bet you've already talked to them.”
“I won't know that until somebody gives me some names,” Clint said. “Nobody's being very forthcoming about Organ Pipe's history.”
“Well,” Harris said, “a lot of us are not proud of the town's history.”
“And why's that?”
“Because we stood by and let Joe Hickey bully us,” Harris said.
“What was your job in the old Organ Pipe?”
“I was a clerk at a store,” Harris said. “But I wanted to be a newspaperman.”
“Why didn't you work at the newspaper?”
“The editor wouldn't hire me.”
“Why not?”
“He was a friend of Joe Hickey's.”
“Joe Hickey had friends?” Clint asked. “I thought he just had gang members.”
“Some of the citizens became his friends. I guess they thought they'd get preferential treatment.”
“They were sleeping with the enemy?”
“You could say that,” Harris answered. “Eating and drinking with him, anyway.”
“And you know the names of these citizens?”
“I know some,” Harris said, “the sheriff knows some others. Why?”
“Well, folks have been lying to me, Mr. Harris,” Clint said. “I'd kind of like to know why.”
“You mean about the plague?”
“And I mean about not knowing a thing about a town called Organ Pipe.”
“Well, maybe some of the gang is actually ashamed of what they did,” Harris said.
“Mr. Harris,” Clint said, “can you just give me some names?”
Harris poured himself more whiskey, offered Clint some. He shook his head.
“Just the names.”
“Well, I don't know if you've met any of these gents or not,” Harris said. “You might try talking to Fred Fellows, and Steve Wynn.”
“What positions did they hold in Organ Pipe?”
“Fellows was a deputy, and Steve Wynn ran the paper.”
“And they were friendly with Joe Hickey?”
“They made sure Hickey knew they weren't against him,” Harris said.
“I've already run into Fellows and Wynn,” Clint said. “In fact, it was Wynn who took me to see Hickey in prison.”
“Are they in Yuma?”
“They most certainly are in Yuma,” Clint said, “and doing much the same thing they did in Organ Pipe.”
“Son of a bitch,” Harris said. “I had no idea they were so close.”
“Took a lot of nerve, I guess,” Clint said.
“Have you run into Mike Callum yet?”
“Callum? No. Who is he?”
“He was one of Hickey's men. I heard he stays close to Hickey. If you haven't run into him, you will, and I'd watch my back.”
“I'll do that. Thanks for talking to me, Mr. Harris.”
“Where are you off to now?”
“To see the sheriff,” Clint said. “Reckon I can get the last of what I need from him.”
“Good luck.”
THIRTY-NINE
“Mike Callum?” Sheriff Patterson repeated. “Sure, I know him. He was part of the Hickey gang.”
“So he helped Hickey burn the town down?”
“Sure.”
“And those other two you told me about?”
“Yep.”
“So now that you know that Callum is in Yuma, will you go and get him?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I can't prove he and Hickey burned the town down,” Patterson said.
“No witnesses?”
“Not witnesses that will come forward.”
“What about Fellows and Wynn?”
“I don't like them,” Patterson said, “but they didn't break the law. All they did was look out for themselves.”
“Why do you think they went to Yuma, and didn't stay here and help you rebuild?”
“Nobody would've worked with them, or spoken to them,” Patterson said. “They were traitors.”
“So they wouldn't have gotten their jobs back?”
“Jobs. Lives.” Patterson shrugged. “They wouldn't have been welcome here.”
“Well, Yuma welcomed them.”
“Nobody in Yuma knew what they did,” Patterson said. “Course, if you went back to Yuma and told people . . .”
“But there's no proof, right?”
“You're not the law,” Patterson said. “You're the Gunsmith. Why do you need proof?”
“I'm not just going to shoot someone,” Clint said. “Not on your say-so, anyway.”
Patterson shrugged again.
“As long as they don't come back here, I got no problem with them,” Patterson said.
Clint nodded and stood up.
“Well, thanks for the information, anyway,” Clint said. “At least I know why some people were lying to me.”
“They got something to hide.”
Clint started out, then stopped.
“You know a black man named Antoine? Got a young girl with him, named Jada?”
“Antoine ran the livery in Organ Pipe,” Patterson said. “He ran out before the fire even started.”
“Was he part of Hickey's gang?”
“Don't know,” Patterson said. “He just lit out.”
“Well,” Clint said, “he's on the run from something.”
“You headin' back to Yuma?” Patterson asked.
“Right now,” Clint said. “I want to wrap this up and get back to my life.”
“What about whoever wrote that note?”
“Don't think I ever expected to find that out,” Clint said. “See ya, Sheriff.”
“Probably not,” Patterson said, as the door closed behind Clint.
Moments after Clint walked out, Patterson heard two shots. He sighed, got up, and headed for the door.
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As Clint stepped outside, he saw a man in the street, facing him, maybe waiting for him.
“Saw you go in,” the man said. “Figured I'd wait out here.”
“Let me guess,” Clint said. “Mike Callum.”
“Gonna make a name for myself, Adams, by killin' you,” Callum said, “no matter what Joe Hickey says.”
“Going to make a name for yourself, all right,” Clint said, “but it won't be for killing me. It'll be for getting killed by me.”
“No more talk.”
Clint shrugged. Callum went for his gun, but never made it.
FORTY
When Clint rode Eclipse back into the livery in Yuma, he made the liveryman very happy.
“You brought him back,” he said, happily jumping from one foot to the other and back.
“Take good care of him,” Clint said.
“Of course.”
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