The Town Council Meeting (13 page)

“Ya can't raise, ya damn fool,” the mayor said. “Ain't nobody opened yet. It's up to you.”

With a small smile the judge said, “Oh, sorry . . . I open.”

Clint walked Eclipse back into Cannon City. Even though it was daylight, there was nobody around the livery. The people were still inside, peering out their windows at what was going on near the saloon.

He unsaddled the big gelding, rubbed him down and fed him, then left the stable and use alleys to get back to the hotel.

He was able to see what was going on out front. The Bar K boys and the lawmen had been joined by others—mostly by some enterprising types who were taking the opportunity to make some money. With the saloon closed one of the other saloon owners had set up a temporary, portable bar and was selling whiskey and beer. He had also brought a couple of saloon girls out there with him.

The temporary bar had brought some of the men out of their homes and stores, and they were standing at the bar, drinking and waiting for the action to start at the smaller saloon.

On the boardwalk some people—men and women—had gotten brave and had gathered to watch. One of the cafés in town had brought out some sandwiches to sell.

The whole thing had a very carnival atmosphere to it. All that was missing was the fat lady. Clint thought, at some point, he'd probably end up providing the trick-shooting entertainment.

He moved into the alley, wondering how he was going to get in the back door, when he spotted an open window on the second floor. It didn't take him long to figure out it was Jennifer's room.

He found a couple of barrels he could use to climb on so he could reach the lower roof beneath the window, then made his way to the open window, hoping this wasn't some kind of trap. He paused with one leg inside, wondering if Jennifer would be able to smell Barbara Kennedy on him. He shrugged, figured he had to take the chance.

He stepped inside.

 

The mayor took a hand.

The tide had turned again, away from the judge to the mayor.

Lawson sat back in his chair, rubbed his face, and said, “Got to be my turn sooner or later.”

Sammy came over and said, “When will you guys get tired of playin' poker and go home? I need to reopen my place.”

“Soon, Sammy,” the judge said, “very soon.”

Delbert Chambers was gathering up the cards for the next deal.

“Yeah, Sammy, as soon as the judge, here, admits that Clint Adams ain't comin' back you can open.”

“Have you looked out the front window, Judge?” Sammy asked. “It's like a damn circus.”

“Hmm? Oh, let me take a look.”

The judge stood up and walked to the window. He looked out at what was going on and shook his head.

“I'm losin' business, Judge,” Sammy said. “Look, they even got a bar out there.”

Lawson laughed.

“Somebody put up a bar? Now that was good thinkin',” the lawyer said.

“Good thinkin',” the judge said, “but they got no permit for that.”

“Hey, that's right,” Sammy said. “Close ‘em down, Judge!”

“I will, Sammy,” the judge said. He walked back to the table. “As soon as Adams gets back.”

“Why does my business depend on the Gunsmith?” the saloon owner complained. “He don't even live here in town.”

“Don't worry, Sammy,” Lawson said, “Adams will soon be takin' up residence in the jail.”

“You think so?” the mayor asked. “I thought you bet the judge he wouldn't even be back.”

“I'm hedgin' my bet,” Lawson said, with a smile.

“I'll bet,” the judge said, “that Clint Adams doesn't do a minute in jail. Any takers?”

“Not me,” Lawson said.

“Why not?” the judge asked. “You're so cocksure of everythin'.”

“Yeah, well,” Lawson said, “you're the damn judge. You'll just make sure he don't go to jail.”

“That would be dishonest of me,” the judge said.

“Come on, Delbert,” the mayor said, “deal out the cards.”

“Don't forget me,” another voice called.

They all looked over and saw a man coming down the stairs from the second floor.

“Deal me back in,” Clint Adams said.

Clint took his first hand back.

“Sammy, bring me a beer,” he called as he raked in the pot.

“I thought you didn't drink while you played?” Lawson asked. He was morose because he'd had to pay the judge a thousand dollars to square their bet.

“I've been exerting myself a bit since I left,” Clint said. “In fact, I haven't had anything to eat.”

“Come to think of it,” the judge said, “neither have we. Joby!”

Nobody had seen Joby since the day before, but they knew the kid was always around. He came running out while Sammy set a beer at Clint's elbow.

“Joby, here's some money; go out front and get some sandwiches.”

“Right, Judge!”

As the boy ran out the front door the judge said to Sammy, “You can leave the doors open if you like, Sammy.”

“I can reopen?”

“You can reopen.”

“Finally!”

Clint drank some beer and the judge said, “You gonna fill us in?”

“Yeah,” Lawson said, “if you're back, you must have figured out who killed Big Ed Kennedy—that is, if you didn't.”

“I've got an idea,” Clint said, “but before I say anything I need to talk to someone.”

“Who?” the judge asked.

“Arnie Coleman.”

“What makes you think Coleman will talk to you?” the judge asked.

“Because you're going to tell him to,” Clint said. “Have him sit in the corner and I'll join him.”

“You don't want us to hear what you have to say?” Lawson asked.

“I really don't care,” Clint said, “but Coleman might not want you to hear what he has to say.”

“You sayin' Coleman killed his boss?” Chambers asked.

“I'm not saying anything . . . yet,” Clint said. He looked at the judge. “Can you arrange that for me?”

“Sure.”

“Right away?”

“How about after the sandwiches?” the judge asked. “And after we get some of our money back.”

 

While they ate, the judge had Joby go out and fetch Sheriff Yatesman.

“Judge wants to see you, Sheriff,” Joby said.

Yatesman turned and was surprised to see the front doors of the saloon open.

“Saloon open for business, Joby?”

“Yes, sir.”

One of the deputies looked at the sheriff.

“Can we go in and get a drink, Sheriff?”

“No,” Yatesman said. “Go in the back and change places with your brother.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sheriff?” Joby said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yatesman said, “tell the judge I'll be right in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yatesman waited, seeing Arnie Coleman come walking over.

“What's goin' on, Sheriff?” he demanded.

“The saloon's open again, Arnie,” the sheriff said. “I'm goin' in to talk to the judge.”

“What about?”

“I don't know,” Yatesman said. “Guess I'll find out when I get inside.”

“Well, tell the judge somethin' for me.”

“What?”

“Tell ‘im I don't know how long I can keep my men back,” Coleman said. “They're gettin' pretty liquored up.”

“I'll tell ‘im,” Yatesman said.

Yatesman had noticed that since the temporary bar had gone up his men were drinking heavily. All but the kid on the roof with the rifle. Yatesman figured he was there to take a shot at Adams first chance he got. He decided not to do anything about it, though. Just let nature take its course.

He turned and went inside.

“What's on your mind, Judge?” Yatesman asked.

“Sandwich, Sheriff?”

“No, thanks,” Yatesman said. “I had some outside.”

“I want you to bring Arnie Coleman in here,” the judge said, “and sit him at that corner table.”

“Am I supposed to ask ‘im, or tell ‘im?” Yatesman asked.

“You're supposed to bring him,” the judge said.

“What's this for?”

“Don't worry about it, Sheriff,” Lawson said. “Somebody else is gonna do your job for you. All you've got to do is bring him in.

“Now wait a minute—”

“Come on, Sheriff,” the judge said. “Just do it.”

Yatesman glared at Lawson, then looked over at Clint Adams.

“What?” Clint asked.

“Just surprised you're still here,” the sheriff said. “That's all.”

“What'd you think I did, slipped out the back past your deputies?”

“No chance.”

Yatesman turned to go out, then stopped and looked at the judge.

“One more thing, Judge. Coleman says his men are getting all liquored up. He doesn't know how much longer he can hold them back.”

“Okay, Sheriff. Thanks.”

Yatesman left. Moments later he came back in with Arnie Coleman, who didn't seem to need to be forced. Coleman glared at Clint while Yatesman led him to the corner table.

“What's this about, Sheriff?” Coleman asked.

“You got me, Arnie,” Yatesman said, “but you said you wanted in, so you're in.”

The sheriff turned and walked out.

Clint got up, walked over, and sat down opposite Arnie Coleman.

“What do you want?” Coleman asked.

“I've got some questions for you, Coleman.”

“What makes you think I'll answer any questions you have?”

“Because you know I didn't kill your boss.”

“You're crazy—”

“No,” Clint said. “That's why I wanted to talk to you over here, where nobody else can hear us. We both know I didn't kill Ed Kennedy.”

Coleman thought a moment, then squinted.

“So who are you sayin' did it?”

“I think his wife had something to do with it,” Clint said. “Barbara.”

“What do you know about Barb—about Mrs. Kennedy?” Coleman demanded. He could see in the man's eyes that he was right, at least partially.

“I know she's a woman with appetites,” Clint said. “Appetites her husband wasn't satisfying . . . so who was, Coleman?”

“What do you know—you don't know her!”

“Sure I do,” Clint said. “I met her yesterday. Last night.”

“What?”

“That's right,” Clint said. “I got out of here while a deputy was looking down the front of a saloon girl's dress.”

“You got out? What'd you do? And why the hell did you come back?”

“Yeah, you wish I'd kept going, right?” Clint said. “That would have proved I did it. But I didn't and we know it. She did, and she had help.”

“You're crazy,” Coleman said.

“You think so?” Clint asked. “Wait till I tell you where she went this morning.”

“Where?”

“Over to the Triple R,” Clint said.

“What the hell was she doin' there?” Coleman demanded.

“She saw Andy Rivers,” Clint said. “Spent about forty minutes in the house with him.”

“With the old man?” Coleman said. “Not Stark?”

“Stark came later,” Clint said, “just after she left.”

He'd watched Barbara ride away, had let her go. Then, as he was about to leave, Stark rode up.

Now he got it, especially with the look on Coleman's face.

“She rode out, Stark rode in,” Clint said. “But they were both out there for a while. And look at you, worried that she was with Stark.”

Coleman looked away.

“I get it,” Clint said. “She can't be satisfied by one man. She had you and Stark going. But which one of you killed Kennedy?”

Coleman glared at Clint.

“I'd never kill Big Ed. Never.”

“But you'd sleep with his wife, right?”

“If you met her,” Coleman said, “then you know.”

“So who did it, Coleman?” Clint asked. “Stark? Or did the lady shoot her husband herself?”

“I ain't sayin' anythin' against her!”

“Well, you're not going to frame me for this murder, Coleman,” Clint said. “If it was you, I'll get you. Same for Stark. And the same goes for her. Think about it.”