The Town Council Meeting (2 page)

 

At the bar Arnold Coleman watched the sheriff walk to the bar.

“You gonna let him get away with that?” he asked.

“You see who he's playin' poker with?” the sheriff asked. “The judge, and the mayor, and two members of the town council.”

“We don't care,” Coleman said. He was the spokesman for the group. “If you're not gonna do your job, we will.”

“All eight of you?” the sheriff asked. “Which one of you is gonna take the lead? Put a gun on the Gunsmith? Huh?”

The seven men behind Coleman looked away.

“That's what I thought,” the lawman said. “Just stay here and let me do my job.” He looked at the bartender. “Gimme a beer, Sammy.”

The bartender set a full mug on the bar. The sheriff grabbed it and walked to an empty table.

Clint took the hand with a full house, then excused himself from the game. He walked over and sat opposite the sheriff. He still had full view of the room, especially the eight nervous men at the bar.

“Don't want a drink?” the sheriff asked.

“I think I'd make your nervous friends even more nervous if I went to the bar,” Clint said. “What's this all about?”

“Do you know Big Ed Kennedy?”

“Big Ed?” Clint asked. “Is he a big guy?”

“He's a big man in this part of Wyoming,” the sheriff said. “At least, he was until this mornin'.”

“And what happened this morning?”

“Somebody killed him.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” Clint said. “What's this got to do with me?”

“Big Ed told his foreman, Arnie Coleman, that he was hiring the Gunsmith.”

“For what?”

“What else? For his gun.”

“Why did Big Ed need a gun for hire?” Clint asked.

“He's havin' some trouble with some other ranchers in the area.”

“A range war?” Clint asked. “There hasn't been a range war in years.”

“These men have never stopped. You met Ed Kennedy. You know how old he is.”

“Nice try, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I never met Mr. Kennedy.”

“Well, him and the other big ranchers around here—Matt Holmes and Andy Rivers—are all in their seventies.”

“Really? Are they healthy old fellows?”

“All but Big Ed,” the sheriff said. “He's dead.”

“And let me guess,” Clint said. “I'm supposed to have killed him? A man I never met?”

“Who says you never met him?”

“Who says I did?”

“His men.”

Clint looked over at them.

“All of them? Or one of them, and the other seven are simply agreeing?”

“Those eight men would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you. That's eight bullets.”

“One from each?” Clint asked. “How many of them do you think I'd take with me? I'm betting at least . . . five?”

“Are you that good?”

Clint smiled.

“There was a time I would have said six, but I was young then.”

“And faster?”

“Dumber,” Clint said, “more arrogant. No, five is an honest opinion.”

“That wouldn't accomplish anything.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Give me your gun. Walk over to the jail with me.”

“And then what?”

“Tell your story to a jury.”

“Go to trial?” Clint asked. “For something I didn't do? Kill a man I never met.”

“They say their boss met with the Gunsmith.”

“Or a man claiming to be the Gunsmith.”

“Convince a jury of that,” Yatesman said. “We can walk back to your poker game and talk to the judge.”

“The judge doesn't want me in your jail.”

“What makes you say that?”

Clint smiled again.

“I have most of his money.”

“Okay,” Yatesman said, “how about this? You keep your gun but take a walk over to my office with me.”

“I still don't know why I'd do that, Sheriff.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“If I had my druthers? I'd go back to my poker game, finish it, have something to eat. Go back to my hotel, get a good night's sleep, and ride out of this town come morning. End of story.”

“But it wouldn't be the end of the story,” the lawman said. “Those men would hunt you down.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yes,” Yatesman said. “You see, Big Ed's men loved him. So I think they'd come after you, and there would be more than eight of them. They got at least twenty men working out there. You want to take on twenty mad ranch hands?”

“I don't want to take on anybody, Sheriff,” Clint said. “But I didn't kill Ed Kennedy, and I never met him.”

The sheriff shook his head. He looked to be about forty-five or so, was probably a career lawman who thought he'd found himself a soft spot here to finish out his career.

Clint wasn't deliberately trying to be difficult. Well, maybe he was, but the fact remained he didn't give himself much of a chance if he gave up his gun and allowed himself to be locked in a cell. If Big Ed's men loved him the way the sheriff said they did, he'd be a dead man for sure. It was only the gun on his hip—and the sheriff—that was keeping them from coming after him.

“I need somebody smarter than me to figure this out,” the sheriff said. “How about I invite the judge over here to help?”

“The judge is smarter than you?”

Yatesman shrugged. “He's a judge.”

“I hope he's a better judge than he is a poker player,” Clint said. “Go ahead. Invite him.”

Clint sat back and watched the lawman walk to the poker game and speak to the judge, whose name—Clint had heard during the game—was Curtis. He didn't know if it was a first or last name, and he'd heard it only once. The other men at the table simply called him “Judge,” just like they called the mayor “Mayor.”

The judge frowned, snapped at the sheriff, then pushed his chair back and walked over with the lawman in tow.

He was in his sixties, wearing a dark suit that made his snow-white shirt and hair stand out. He sat down opposite Clint in the seat the sheriff had vacated. The lawman sat in a third chair.

“I kinda wish you'd told me I was playing poker with the Gunsmith, Adams,” he said.

“Nobody exactly told me I was playing with a judge and a mayor,” Clint said. “I had to hear it for myself during the game. Besides, the only thing that matters during a poker game is the cards.”

The judge looked at Yatesman and said, “He's got that right.”

“Judge, we got a problem,” the sheriff said.

“Ain't that what we hired you for, Pete?”

“Well, Judge, I figure I'm doin' my job right now keepin' those eight ranch hands from shootin' up this saloon tryin' to get to Adams.”

“Yeah, I noticed them come in. They don't look happy. Big Ed's men?”

“That's right.”

“And what are they so mad about?”

“Big Ed's dead.”

“Oh,” the judge said. “That's too bad. And they think Adams killed him?”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge looked at Adams.

“Didja?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Don't know that I have to, Judge.”

Now the judge looked at Yatesman.

“What exactly is the problem you want me to address, Pete?”

“Well . . . Adams won't come along peaceable.

“You got evidence that says he killed Ed Kennedy?” the jurist asked.

“Well, not exactly.”

“What do you have, Sheriff?”

Yatesman told the judge he'd ridden out to the house, saw Big Ed in his house where his foreman had found him, shot. He and some of the hands had heard the shot and had come running. The foreman, Arnie Coleman, said the old man had told him he was going to hire the Gunsmith to clear up the trouble between him and his fellow ranchers.

“And did he?” the judge asked.

“I don't know, Judge.”

“Son, did Big Ed try to hire you?”

“I've never met Big Ed, Judge,” Clint said. “If he wanted to hire me, I didn't know anything about it. Maybe he made that decision when he heard I was in town.”

“But he never sent for you?”

“No, sir.”

“Pete, anybody see Adams out there?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Judge,” Clint said, “what if one of the other ranchers heard that Kennedy wanted to hire me and sent in a man pretending to be me to kill Kennedy when they were alone?”

The judge looked at Yatesman.

“That make sense to you, Sheriff?”

“It's possible, I guess, but Adams can't prove that.”

“T'aint his job to prove it,” the judge said. “It's yours. I suggest you get those ranch hands out of here and go find some evidence before you try to arrest this man.”

“But, Judge,” Yatesman said, “I'm just barely holdin' those men back. I think Mr. Adams would be safer in my jail.”

The judge looked at Clint.

“What do you think of that suggestion, son?” he asked.

“I think it stinks,” Clint said. “In a cell with no gun I'd be a dead man.”

“I agree with him, Peter,” the judge said. “Move those men out of here.”

“What if they won't go?”

“Then arrest every last one of ‘em!” the judge said impatiently.

“You know,” Yatesman said, standing up, “this is exactly why I been askin' for the money to hire me some deputies.”

“Is that a fact?” the judge asked. “Well, there's the mayor over there. Why don't you ask him for the money? In fact, why don't you just bring the whole dang poker game over here to this table so we can have a damned town council meetin' on the subject right now?”

Yatesman stared at the judge for a few moments, until he realized the man wasn't being serious.

“Awww . . .” he said, turned and walked to the men at the bar.

“Thanks, Judge,” Clint said.

“Don't thank me, young feller,” the man said. “I'm only sidin' with you on this because you've got all my money. If it wasn't for that, I'd be sidin' with the law.”

“Why?” Clint asked. “The law's got no right to put me in a cell.”

“The law's got every right to do what it wants if I say so,” the judge said.

“Well then, if you did that, you'd be putting the sheriff into an awful position.”

“How's that?”

“He'd have to try to take my gun from me.”

“And you'd resist?”

“I would.”

“And those eight men tried to gun ya here and now, you'd fight back?”

“I would,” Clint said.

“You'd get killed.”

“So would a lot of them,” Clint said, “and so would a lot of innocent people—maybe you, or the mayor. Maybe both. That wouldn't be very good for the town, would it?”

“Blast the town,” the judge said. “It wouldn't be so damn good for me, neither.”

They both looked over at the bar. The men were protesting, but it looked as if the sheriff was getting them closer to the door.

“You up for continuing our game?” the judge asked.

“Sure, why not? If you're not afraid of catching a stray piece of lead.”

“I'm more afraid of not gettin' my money back.”

Both men stood up and walked back to the poker game, reclaimed their seats.

“Damn well about time,” the mayor said. “This feller's got all my money, Judge, and I can't get it back if the two of you are gonna go off and—”

“Gents,” the judge said, cutting the mayor off, “I think I've got a mighty good reason for suggestin' we raise the stakes a little.”

They raised the stakes, and while they played the judge relayed the little problem they seemed to have to the other players. At the same time he introduced Clint to the other men.

“That sour-lookin' feller is our mayor, Walter Patton. We all just call him Mayor. That feller is Delbert Chambers, and this here is Ben Lawson. Ben, what do you do?”

“I open for ten,” Lawson said.

“Call,” the judge said. “The four of us have been in this town for over thirty years. In fact, the four of us pretty much built this town and we been the town council all these years.”

“Are you a real judge?” Clint asked. “I raise.”

“That I am, son,” the judge said. “My name's Curtis.”

“Judge Curtis? No first name?”

The man grinned around a slim cigar.

“My first name's Judge,” he said, “and any man at this table tried to say different will have to deal with me.”

The other three men said nothing.

“Delbert, there, he's a lawyer. Delbert, what do you do?”

“Call.”

“Mayor?”

“I call.”

“And Ben, he's a bookkeeper. Keeps the town's books, among others. Ben?” the judge asked.

“I call.”

“So we're sittin' here playin' poker with the Gunsmith,” Delbert Chambers said, “while there are eight angry men outside wantin' to pump him full of lead?”

“That's about the size of it.”

“Goddamn it,” Ben Lawson said, “if I was thirty years younger and fifty pounds lighter, I'd get the hell out of this chair and outta the line of fire.”