Death in the Desert (13 page)

Clint followed Ned from well behind. There was no chance the man would notice him. But Ned never even turned in his saddle. He was apparently unconcerned about the possibility of being followed. He would lead Clint right to the man who'd planned the job.

Ned rode right up to the main house of the Bar Double-B Ranch. He dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a man who knew him.

“Hey, Ned.”

“Sam. Boss in?”

“You'll have to talk to Hale first.”

“Oh yeah, Hale,” Ned said. “He's still here?”

“They served together in the war,” Sam said. “Hale was Brock's aide. That makes men form a bond.”

“Yeah, right,” Ned said. He had never formed any sort of bond with another man, so he didn't understand. “There'll be men and wagons here tomorrow,” he told Sam. “Better get ready to take care of them.”

“Okay.”

Ned went up the steps to the front door and knocked.

Clint watched from a high knoll as the two men talked, and then Ned went to the front door. The ranch seemed sparsely populated at the moment. Either the ranch hands were away, or it wasn't a working ranch. There were no horses in the corral. There was plenty of room for the wagons and horses, not to mention the loot. Perhaps that was why there were no men. They had been sent to Medicine Bow.

The lone man he did see walked Ned's horse to the livery. Clint decided there were no other men around. And the one who was there wouldn't know him when he rode in.

He mounted Eclipse and started down to the house.

Hale opened the door and looked at Ned.

“What are you doing here?”

“Reporting in,” Ned said. “Harwick sent me on ahead.”

“Is it done?”

“It's done.”

“All right,” Hale said. “Come on in.”

Ned entered and Hale closed the door behind him, then turned to face Ned.

“Follow me,” Hale said.

Ned knew the way, but he followed Hale anyway. The man was only doing his job.

Clint rode up to the house, alert for the appearance of the man in the barn. When he came out and saw Clint, he walked over to him. Clint waited, not dismounting. He was hoping to talk his way into the house without gunplay. The man approaching him was wearing a gun on his hip, so Clint would have to be careful.

“Help ya?”

“I want to see your boss.”

“Dr. Brock?”

Helpful.

“Yes, Dr. Brock.”

“I don't think he sees anybody without an appointment.”

“Tell him it's an emergency,” Clint said. “Tell him I may be carrying a plague.”

“What?” The man took several steps back.

“Just tell him.”

“Yeah, okay,” the man said, putting even more distance between them. “You wait here.”

Clint nodded, still did not dismount. He wanted to be ready to move fast, if he had to. Evasive action would be better on horseback.

“What are you doing?” Hale demanded as Sam came down the hall toward Brock's office. Ned was inside with the boss.

“Somebody at the door,” Sam said. “There's a fella outside wants to see the doc.”

“What for?”

“He says he might be carrying a plague.”

“What?”

“That's what he said.”

“What's his name?”

“Um, I don't know.”

“Did you ask?”

“No.”

Hale shook his head and said, “Wait here.” He knocked and went inside.

Dr. Stuart Brock looked away from Ned, who was sitting in front of him, to focus on Hale as he entered.

“Yes, Hale?”

“There's a man outside, boss, wants to see you.”

“Me?” Brock asked. “Or a doctor?”

“You,” Hale said, even though he wasn't sure it was the right answer.

Brock looked at Ned.

“Were you followed?”

“I don't think so.”

Brock gave him a hard stare. “Yes or no?”

“No.”

“It could be Clint Adams,” Brock said to Hale.

“The Gunsmith?”

“Yes,” Brock said. “These idiots allowed him to get involved in our operation.”

“So what do we do?” Hale asked.

“Get your gun,” Brock said. “Take Ned with you, let him have a look out the window. If it's Adams, let him in and bring him here.”

“Then what?”

“Then you and Ned stand outside that door. Got it?”

“Got it, boss.”

Brock looked at Ned. “Go!”

“Sure thing.”

Ned got up and followed Hale out. Brock opened his right-hand drawer, took out a Colt, checked to make sure it was loaded, and then put it back.

He sat back to await his guest.

Clint kept his eyes on the front of the house. Briefly, he thought he saw somebody at one of the front windows. A few moments later the front door opened and a man stepped out. He was short, about five-eight, stocky, in his forties, wearing a black suit.

“Are you waiting to see the doctor?” he asked.

“That's right.”

“Come this way, then,” the man said. “You can leave your horse there. No one will touch it.”

Clint knew that Eclipse wouldn't allow anyone to touch him. He dismounted and ascended the steps.

“My name is Hale,” the man said, not offering a hand. “Come this way.”

He entered the house and Clint went in behind him. There was no one else there. He waited while Hale closed the door.

“What's your name?” Hale asked.

“Clint Adams.”

“I know that name,” the man said. “It's very famous.”

“Kind of.”

“Come with me.”

He did not take Clint to Dr. Brock's office, where he had left his boss. Instead, he took him to an examination room farther back in the house, where Brock was waiting. He was wearing his white doctor's jacket, and had a stethoscope around his neck.

“Hello,” the doctor said. He was a tall, slender man about Hale's age. “I'm Dr. Brock.”

“Hello.”

“Please, sit. What seems to be the trouble?” Brock asked. He moved around behind his desk and sat. Clint remained standing. “You said something to Sam about a plague?”

“Plague, disease,” Clint said, shrugging his shoulders. “I don't know what it was, but I've been exposed to it. I thought I should see a doctor.”

“That's all right, Mr. Hale,” Brock said. “You can wait right outside.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Hale left, closing the door behind him.

“Why don't you start by telling me where you think you contracted this disease?” Brock asked.

“I think you already know.”

“Do I?”

“I recognize your name from papers in your office in Medicine Bow, Doctor,” Clint said. “I know you were their doctor.”

“That's no secret.”

“Tell me about the epidemic.”

“It came on suddenly,” Brock said. “People began to die. There was nothing I could do.”

“So you left with the others?”

“That's right.”

“And left the sick behind, unattended? Like the little girl, Emily? And a woman named Kathy?”

“Did they survive?”

“They did.”

“I'm glad.”

“Sure you are,” Clint said. “Tell me, where did the townspeople go? Where did Emily's parents go?”

“They headed for Flint,” Brock said. “I don't know if the people there will let them in, though.”

“And you don't care,” Clint said, “because you came here and put your plan into motion to rape the town.”

“Rape?” Brock asked. “I prefer to think of it as . . . recovering.”

“And selling?”

Brock spread his arms. “Well, I can hardly keep it all for myself.”

“You could return it.”

“Why would I bother taking it if I was going to return it?” Brock asked.

“Tell me something,” Clint said. “Why haven't I contracted this disease?”

“You must have a natural immunity,” the doctor said, “as did the girl and Kathy.”

“But they were sick.”

“If they came through it, they're immune.”

“Well, they did, and they are probably already in Givens, talking to the law.”

“That's not a problem since you're the only one who knows I'm involved.”

“I'll talk to the sheriff in Flint when I get there.”

“When, or if?” Brock asked, his hand inching toward his desk drawer.

“Go ahead and go for that gun in your drawer,” Clint said.

Brock pulled his hand away as if burned, then smiled.

“I wouldn't dare draw on the Gunsmith,” he said, “but there are two men with guns outside that door.”

“If they come in, you're the first one I'll shoot.”

That didn't sit well with Brock. He recognized that he had made the wrong play. His eyes went to the drawer that contained the gun.

“You're a doctor first, not a crook, Brock,” Clint said. “You've misplayed this whole matter. What makes you think Steve Harwick is even bringing the loot here?”

“What—he sent Ned ahead to say he was coming.”

“And you believed him?”

“I have the connections to sell everything.”

“I think Harwick could handle that himself.”

“You're wrong.”

“We could wait and see,” Clint said, “but first I'll take that gun. Open the drawer . . . slowly.”

Clint could tell Brock's mind was working. Was he right about Harwick? Could the doctor reach his gun in time?

“Feel free to try,” Clint said. “Open it. I'll give you a chance.”

“No,” Brock said, “as you said, I'm a doctor, not a gunman.”

“Call your men in,” Clint said.

“They'll come in shooting.”

“For your sake, I hope not.”

“Hale? Ned? Come in here.”

The door opened and the two men came rushing in, their guns out. At the same time Brock went for the gun in his drawer.

Clint moved swiftly. He drew his gun with his right hand, at the same time stepping to the desk and slamming the drawer on Brock's hand. He fired, killing both Hale and Ned before they had a chance to pull the triggers of their weapons. Then he removed the gun from the top drawer.

Brock sat back in his chair, cradling his injured hand.

“Now,” Clint said, “we'll wait and see if Harwick appears with your loot. Personally, I hope he does.”

“And when he does, he and his men will kill you.”

“They'll try.”

“Who else is in the house?”

“Only the cook.”

“And your other men?”

“Just Sam. The rest are with Harwick,” Brock said. “This is not a working ranch, so I have no hands.”

That confirmed what Clint had surmised.

“All right,” he said, “we'll have the cook prepare some food and you can tell me your plan for all your profits. Perhaps to set up a new practice?”

“No more town doctor's office for me,” Brock said. “I have bigger plans.”

“Tell me over supper.”

They ate a fine supper prepared by Brock's cook, who clearly hated her boss. Clint could tell by the way she looked at the doctor. And she smirked afterward when Clint tied the man to his chair for the night.

“You're going to make me sleep like this?” he demanded.

“I don't care if you sleep or not,” Clint said. “Just that you don't move while I sleep.”

“I'll keep watch if you like,” the woman said. She was a middle-aged woman with gray hair, but lively blue eyes.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Here,” she said. “He makes me live here.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes, I have a husband in Flint.”

“How far is it?”

“A few hours.”

“Then take a horse in the morning and go home.”

“I can go now,” she said. “I know the way, and can make the ride in the dark.”

“All right,” he said, “but when you get there, tell the sheriff what's going on.”

“It'll be my pleasure, mister.”

“Then go.”

She started for the door.

“Wait,” Clint said. “Is he telling me the truth about this not being a working ranch? No ranch hands?”

“None except Sam,” she said. “He sent his other men to help Harwick.”

“Okay,” he said, “you can go.”

She ran to him, kissed his cheek, and said, “My name's Molly Sims. When you get to town, come to Molly's Café. You'll eat free.”

“I'll be there.”

She left, and he turned to Brock, who was securely tied to his chair.

“Pleasant dreams,” he said.

In the morning Clint was waiting on the porch with a trussed-up Brock.

“Well,” he said, “no sign of your loot.”

“They'll be here,” Brock said, “and you'll be outnumbered.”

But when they heard horses, it was the sheriff from Flint, with a posse.

“You Clint Adams?”

“That's right.”

The sheriff dismounted and shook hands with Clint. He was a tall man in his forties. His posse looked to be made up of deputies and townsmen, a full dozen.

“Sheriff Jeff Stone,” he said. “Molly rode in and told us what happened.”

“Brock thinks his men will be along with their loot,” Clint said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Stone said. “Either way we'll find them and get it all back. Most of the people of Medicine Bow are still in Flint, waiting to return home.”

“Does that include the Pattersons?”

“Yep, they're there.”

“Their daughter is alive and should be in Givens right now, with a woman named Kathy.”

“We heard from the sheriff of Givens,” Stone said. “He's on his way with a posse of his own. Those looters can't move very fast with all that stuff. We'll catch him—but the one we really want is Dr. Brock.” “I know, the whole thing was his idea.” Clint looked over at the still trussed-up man.

“You don't know the half of it,” Stone said. “Molly told us she overheard him planning the whole thing with his men. Brock gave those people a poison.”

“What?”

“He created a phony epidemic to get them all to leave so he could loot the town.”

“He killed twenty-seven people for that?”

“And more,” Stone said, disgusted. “A lot of them were buried before the others left. He started out giving a few of his patients what he called a health tonic, then when they got sick, he told everyone else to come in and get some medicine to help fight off the disease. Instead it made them sick, too. After a bunch of them died, he changed the amount of poison so some folks would get better, but he got what he wanted—the rest of the town ran away. Of course, he didn't give it to his men, so they didn't get sick at all.”

Clint turned, his hand twitching as he looked at Brock.

“I know what you're thinking, Adams,” the lawman said. “If you did it, I'd like to give you a medal, but I'd have to arrest you. Just leave him to the law.”

“He better hang,” Clint said, “because if he doesn't . . .”

“If he doesn't,” Sheriff Stone said, “I promise to look the other way.”