East of the River (8 page)

“That so?”

“Well,” Clint said, “I mean, I passed by and they were pretty busy.”

“Well,” the clerk said, “they're bigger, and newer. Folks generally check out a new store, but they usually end up comin' back.”

“I hope that's true, for your sake,” Clint said. “Oh, I just assumed you were the owner?”

“I am,” Thomas said. “That is, one of them. Me and my brothers own it.”

Clint approached the counter and put his hand out.

“My name's Clint.”

“Thomas,” the other man said, “Archer, like the store.” He shook Clint's hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” Clint said. The smart one, he thought.

At that point another man came out of the back.

“Oh, didn't know you had a customer.”

“This is my brother John,” Thomas said. “Johnny, this is Mr. Clint . . . I didn't catch your last name.”

Clint hesitated, then decided he really didn't have any reason to lie.

“Adams,” he said, “Clint Adams.”

Both men stared at him.

“The Gunsmith?” John asked. “That Clint Adams?”

“The only one I know of,” Clint said.

John looked at Thomas, but spoke to Clint.

“What's the Gunsmith doin' in Dexter?”

“Like I told your brother,” Clint replied, “I'm just passin' through. Thought I'd rest a couple of days. Took a turn around town, saw your store . . .”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, “yeah, that's what he said.”

“So you're not a customer then?” John asked.

“That's right.”

“Well,” John said, “it was nice to meet you. Thomas, I need your help in the back for a minute.”

“Sure, Johnny,” Thomas said. “ 'Scuse me, Mr. Adams. Uh, feel free to keep lookin' around. Maybe you will see somethin' you want, or need.”

“Thanks,” Clint said. “Don't want to take up too much of your time unnecessarily. I'll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“Tom!” John said from the doorway to the back room.

“I'm comin',” Thomas said.

While both brothers were in the back room, Clint had a quick look around. There was dust on a lot of the products and on some of the glass display cases. This place didn't do much business at all.

The family business was pretty much a match for the family farm.

Mort followed the man's tracks to a copse of trees behind the barn. He dismounted and walked around.

“Whataya see, Mort?” Sam asked from astride his horse.

“Get down off your horse, boy,” Mort said. “Come over here.”

Sam dismounted and walked over.

“Careful,” Mort said. “Don't trample the sign. See there?” He pointed.

“Tracks, made by a horse.”

“But look at the size of 'em,” Mort said. “That's some horse.”

“Sure looks like.”

“Get mounted,” Mort said. “These here tracks ain't gonna be hard to follow.”

“We gonna follow them all the way?”

“We are,” Mort said as they both mounted up. “But I'm pretty sure they're gonna lead us to Dexter.”

“We can stop in and see the boys.”

“Yeah,” Mort said, “we'll do that.”

In the back room John said to Thomas, “What's the Gunsmith doin' here?”

“Lookin' around, John.”

“I mean here in town.”

“Why shouldn't he be in town?” Thomas asked. “Says he's passin' through.”

“Don't that seem like a coincidence to you?” John asked.

“Coincidence?”

“Him comin' to town just when we're plannin' our next job?” John asked, lowering his voice.

“What's one got to do with the other, Johnny?”

“I'm just thinkin'—”

“Clint Adams ain't a lawman, is he?”

“Well, no—”

“So why should we be worried?” Thomas asked. He slapped his brother one the shoulder. “Don't go lookin' for trouble where there ain't none, Johnny.”

 

Clint left Archer's General Store and stopped just outside. Coming down the street was Sheriff Perry. He stopped when he saw Clint.

“Doin' a little shoppin', Mr. Adams?” the lawman asked.

“Window shopping's more like it, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Just taking a look around town.”

“We got a new store, you know. One of them big mercantiles.”

“So I heard.”

“Pretty much takin' most of the business away from these poor Archers.”

“What do you know about the Archers, Sheriff?”

“They're good boys,” Perry said. “Hardworkin'. Got this store and a farm outside of town.”

“I see.”

“What's your interest in the Archers?” Sheriff Perry asked, suddenly suspicious.

“No interest really,” Clint said. “I just met two of them inside.”

“Tom and John?”

“That's right.”

“Yeah, they run the store, their older brother Mort runs the farm. They got a young'un, too—Sam—but I guess he must be about eighteen by now.”

“Pretty much a man, then.”

“I guess.”

“Well,” Clint said, “guess I'll just keep walking, taking a look at your nice, quiet town. Maybe buy you that drink, later?”

“Maybe,” the sheriff said. “I got rounds, so . . .”

The sheriff moved off, perhaps now suspicious about why Clint was asking about the Archers. Clint figured he'd better go and talk to Randle and let him know what he'd found out.

Mort and Sam followed the tracks all the way to Dexter, just as Mort had predicted. Once they reached town, though, the tracks pretty much got trampled by all the traffic.

“What do we do now?” Sam asked.

“We'll stop in and see the boys, tell 'em we're in town,” Mort said. “Then we're gonna check barns and livery stables, see if we can't locate the horse that belongs to these tracks.”

“What do we do once we find it?”

“Find out who owns it, and then ask him what he was doin' snoopin' around our farm.”

“This gonna hold us up from doin' our job, Mort?” Sam asked.

“Well, we ain't even decided what the job's gonna be yet,” Mort said, “but once we do, we ain't gonna let nothin' keep us from doin' it. Now, come on, we'll ride around behind the store so nobody sees us.”

“Who we hidin' from, Mort?”

“Whoever it was snoopin' at the farm, boy,” Mort said. “I don't want them to know we're in town.”

“Okay, Mort.”

They rode around to the back of the store, dismounted, tied the horses off, and entered through the back door, into the storeroom.

“What the hell are you guys doin' here?” John asked, surprised.

“We followed some tracks here,” Sam said.

“Tracks? To the store?”

“Where's Tommy?” Mort asked.

“Out front.”

“Get 'im.”

“He might be busy.”

“Don't be funny, Johnny.”

John went out front and came back with Thomas.

“Somebody was out at the farm snoopin' around today,” Mort said. “The kid found tracks in the barn.”

“Good eye, kid,” John said. Sam grinned.

“We followed a man's boot tracks to a place where he'd left his horse. The horse's tracks would fit a big animal. Sam and me are gonna check around town, see what we can find.”

“You think a lawman was out there?” John asked.

“I don't know why a star packer would be lookin' around us,” Mort said, “and I sure don't think Sheriff Perry's got the brains or the guts.”

“Then who?” Thomas asked.

“You guys notice any strangers in town?” Mort asked. “Anybody new?”

“Well,” John said, “Doyle's in town.”

“Doyle. What's he want?”

“He wants in on our next job.”

“I knew we never should've used him,” Mort said. “What do I always say?”

“Only family,” Sam offered.

“That's what I always say,” Mort said. “We'll have to take care of Doyle, but I don't think he's workin' for the law. Anything else?”

“Clint Adams,” Thomas said.

“What?”

“He was here.”

“That's the Gunsmith, ain't it?” Sam asked, wide-eyed.

“That's right.”

“What the hell is the Gunsmith doin' here?” Mort asked.

“I don't know, Mort,” Thomas said. “He said he was passin' through. And he wasn't wearin' any badge.”

“Well,” Mort said, “what are we supposed to do now?”

“I think,” Thomas said, “havin' the Gunsmith here might work for us.”

“How's that?”

“As a diversion,” Thomas said. “He can attract enough attention away from us so we can do what we gotta do.”

“That could work,” Mort said. “All we gotta do is figure out what we gotta do.”

“If we're gonna hit two banks,” Thomas said, “they've gotta be close together.”

“Like?” John asked.

Thomas shrugged. “Ten, twenty miles apart.”

“That'd make it . . . What two towns are that far apart?”

Thomas grinned. “Dexter and Hopewell.”

“Dexter?” John said, shocked. “You wanna hit the bank in this town? Where we live?”

“Why not?” Thomas asked, looking at each of his brothers in turn. “Who'd ever suspect it? And who'd suspect us of doin' it?

Clint was sitting in the Ox Bow, nursing a beer at a back table, when the woman walked in. The place was quiet, just a couple of guys at the bar and one other table with a man nursing a whiskey.

She was tall and wide-shouldered, and had a long stride on her as she walked to the bar. Two things impressed him. She had a mane of chestnut hair that just about shimmered. The other thing was the Peace-maker on her hip. Not a new gun, but he could see how well cared for it was.

She stopped at the bar, collected a beer from Newly Hagen, exchanged a few words, then turned and looked at Clint. Her gaze was both bold and assessing. Finally, she picked up the beer and started over to him. Hagen watched her go with admiration.

When she reached Clint's table, she pulled out a chair and asked, “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he said. “You can have a seat, but I'm going to need a name.”

“Hannie,” the woman said. “Hannie Welch.”

“Go ahead, sit down, Hannie.”

She sat and stared at him.

“You're Clint Adams.”

“That's right.”

“I heard you were in town.”

“Funny,” Clint said, “I didn't hear a thing about you.”

“I was talkin' to the sheriff and he told me you were here.”

“When did you get here?”

“Just today.”

“What brings you here?” Clint asked. “Or, more important, what brings you looking for me?”

“I'm looking for a man named Doyle.”

“I don't know him,” Clint said. “What did he do?”

“He and some friends of his killed my sister and her husband. Left a little girl—my niece—without a mother and father. And my sister was my only relative.”

“I'm sorry,” Clint said. “So you're looking for him and his partners?”

“No,” she said, “I found them. Three of them. He's the last one. I thought maybe you might've seen him.”

“Sorry,” Clint said, “but I don't know anyone named Doyle.”

She fingered her beer mug, then lifted it and drained half of it. She had trail dust on her clothes, but none on her gun.

“You got a room yet?”

“Yeah,” she said, “Dexter Hotel—I think.”

“I know,” he said. “It's confusing.”

Suddenly, she slumped and looked very tired. But it only lasted a moment, and then she squared her shoulders again.

“You need some sleep.”

“You're right about that.”

“So go get some.”

“Not yet,” she said. “Not until I find Doyle.”

“What's your next move?”

“Street by street,” she said, “door to door, bartender to bartender . . .”

“He'll hear that you're looking for him.”

“I hope he does,” she said. “I want him to know I'm comin'.”

“He'll be waiting for you.”

“I wish he would,” she said, standing up. “It's more likely he'll start runnin', but at least that would flush him out.”

She left half her beer and started away.

“You're not a bounty hunter, are you, Hannie?”

“Not hardly,” she said. “Just somebody who's lost her whole family.”

“Except for your niece.”

“Yeah.”

“How old is she?”

“Four.”

“Doesn't she need her aunt?”

“I'm no good with kids,” she said. “She's in good hands with a family I know.”

She started away again.

“You said you found the other three men?”

“That's right.”

“Where are they now?”

“Six feet under,” she said, “if anyone bothered to bury them.”

She turned and left.