The Last Trail Drive (4 page)

As he headed for the livery stable the man watching him fell into step behind him.

 

Flood talked more with Spud Johnson, assuring him that the chuckwagon would be properly outfitted for the trip. Johnson then went to talk to the owner of the saloon to explain that he was leaving.

“After all,” he said to Flood, “this was supposed to be a temporary job.”

“The herd is just west of town, Spud,” Flood said. “See you there early tomorrow.”

“First light, Boss,” Spud said. “I'll be there at first light.”

Johnson came out from behind the bar to find the saloon owner.

“I better go and find Jack,” Flood said. “He's the type to sulk and brood.”

“He's mad that you hired Spud.”

“He'll get over it.”

“And he doesn't want me along.”

“He'll get over that, too. He hired all the other men. He'll have to give me two. After all, I am the boss.”

“I'll come with you to find him,” Clint said. “In his mood he might be getting himself into trouble.”

“Ah, if he gets into a fight he'll just be blowing off some steam, but come ahead.”

Together, they left the saloon.

They didn't find Jack Trevor until they reached the livery stable. At that point they'd pretty much been all over town.

“Why would he come here?” Clint asked. “He can't get into trouble here.”

“Maybe not,” Flood said, “but he might have wanted to check on his horse.”

“I never knew a cowboy to put store in one horse. Not when he had a remuda to pick from?”

“Jack likes this particular horse for some reason. Well, you know all about havin' special feelings for a horse—first Duke, now this monster that you ride.”

The livery seemed empty, except for the horses in the stalls. And the feet Clint saw sticking out of an empty stall.

“Hank!”

He hurried to the stall, followed by Flood. He leaned over the body and turned the man over.

“Is it—” Flood said.

“Yeah,” Clint said, “Trevor. Somebody stabbed him in the back.”

“Damn it, Jack!”

Clint stood up and stepped away so Flood could check for himself.

“Damn it, kid,” Flood said, bowing his head.

“I'm sorry, Hank,” Clint said. “I'll go and find the law after I take a look around and make sure whoever did this isn't still here.”

“I can take care of that,” Flood said. “Go find the sheriff, Clint.”

“Any idea who might have done this?” Clint asked.

Flood stood up.

“Why would I?”

“You know Jack,” Clint said. “He has a temper, right?”

“If he ran into somebody and got into a fight, how am I supposed to know who it was?”

“What if it was somebody following him,” Clint asked. “Somebody who new him, and had a grudge.”

“You mean one of my men?”

“Could be, right?”

“Could be anybody,” Flood said. “How about that law?”

“I'll find him.”

 

While Clint was gone Flood went through Jack Trevor's pockets. He'd given the man money to buy supplies. Whatever was left was rightfully his, but try explaining that to a lawman.

He looked around for Trevor's horse, found it standing in a storm, undisturbed. It also belonged to him.

That done, he returned to the body. He was saddened by the murder or Jack Trevor, but he had to act like a trail boss, too. Now he was not only going to have to replace a man, but his segundo, as well. And there were slim pickings in town.

He could only think of one man to replace him.

 

Clint found the sheriff's office, with the sheriff in it. The man was sitting at a rolltop desk that was set up flush against one wall.

“Help ya?” The sheriff was a sleepy-looking fifty, blood-shot, heavy-lidded eyes that indicated lack of sleep, or too much whiskey. Maybe both.

“There's been a murder.”

“Where?”

“The livery.”

The lawman stood up, grabbed his hat.

“Friend of yours?” he asked.

“More like a friend of a friend. We found him together.”

“Good alibi,” the sheriff said “for both of you.”

“You're a suspicious man, Sheriff.”

“Comes with the job.”

They went out the door, headed for the stable.

“You got a name?” the lawman asked.

“Adams, Clint Adams.”

“Adams . . . like the Gunsmith, Clint Adams?” the sheriff asked.

“That's right.”

“How long you been in town?”

“Got here this morning,” Clint said. “I meant to drop in on you, but never had the chance.”

“Not even here a day and a dead man, already?”

“Oh, I had nothing to do with it,” Clint said. “I just happened to find him.”

“You mind tellin' me why you're in town?”

“To meet my friend.”

“Your friend who is the friend of the dead man?”

“Now you've got it,” Clint said.

“So, you're just a innocent bystander?”

“That's exactly what I am, Sheriff,” Clint said. “An innocent bystander.”

When Clint and the sheriff got to the livery, Flood was standing there with another man.

“Pete,” the sheriff said.

“Sheriff Lee.”

“This fella says he found a dead body here,” Pete said. He was a tall, string bean of a man in his sixties with skin that looked like old paper. “That right?”

“That's what this fella says, too,” the lawman said. “This is Clint Adams. Pete owns the livery.”

“And this is Henry Flood, Sheriff,” Clint said.

“The trail boss,” the sheriff said. “Nice to meet you. Sorry it's like this. Do you know this fella?”

“Yeah,” Flood said. “He worked for me . . . and he was a friend of mine.”

“What happened?”

“Looks like he was stabbed in the back,” Flood said.

“Robbed?” the lawman asked.

“No, and he still has his gun in his holster.”

The sheriff leaned over Trevor's body, confirmed what he had been told.

“His name's Jack Trevor,” Flood said.

“Pete,” the sheriff said, “go and get Doc Ryan.”

“Sure, Sheriff.”

The livery owner left. The sheriff stood to face Clint and Flood.

“What happened before this?” he asked. “Where did you last see Mr. Trevor?”

“The saloon,” Flood said.

“What was goin' on at the saloon?”

“Nothin',” Flood said. “We were hirin' a cook for the trail drive.”

“And you split up?”

“Jack wanted to check on his horse, I guess,” Flood said. “Later we went lookin' for him.”

“And found him here?”

“That's right, Flood said.”

The sheriff looked at Clint. It wasn't exactly the story, but it was close enough.

“That's right, Sheriff,” Clint said. “That's what happened.”

“So somebody snuck up behind him and stabbed him,” the sheriff said. “The question is why?”

“I don't know,” Flood said.

“Did Mr. Trevor have any enemies?”

“Not in town,” Flood said.

“Then where? In your camp?”

“That ain't what I meant,” Flood said. “He didn't have any enemies that I know of.”

Sheriff Lee looked back down at Trevor.

“I ain't no detective,” he said. “There ain't much I can do about this other than have him taken to the undertaker's.”

Clint was looking at the dirt floor of the stable, then looked at Flood.

“Hank, let me see your boots, Clint said.”

“What?”

“The bottom of your boots.”

Flood sat on a bale of hay and lifted both feet.

“Now you, Sheriff,” Clint said.

The lawman lifted his one at the time, showing Clint the bottoms.

“Wait.”

He knelt down, checked Trevor's boots.

“What is it, Clint?”

“There are some boot prints here, see 'em? The heel is scored in kind of a Z shape.”

The sheriff and Flood took a look.

“If that print wasn't made by Pete, maybe it was made by the killer.”

“If it wasn't made by somebody else puttin' up his horse,” Flood said.

“Mr. Flood is right,” the lawman said. “That ain't somethin' I could take to a judge.”

“Well,” Clint said, “we don't all have to justify ourselves to a judge. I'll check Pete's boots anyway, when he gets back.”

Speak of the devil, Pete returned at that moment with a young man in tow. The man was carrying a black bag.

“Doctor Ryan?” Clint asked.

“That's right.”

Ryan leaned down over Trevor's body.

“He's a little young,” Flood said.

“He's real young,” Sheriff Lee said, “but we need a doctor.”

“Yup, he's dead,” Ryan said.

“We knew that,” Flood said sourly.

“Stabbed in the back by a wide blade,” Ryan said, “by somebody who knows how to use a knife.”

He stood up.

“I'll get some men to take him over to the undertaker's. There's not much else I can do.”

“Not much more any of us can do,” the lawman said.

“Pete, let me see your boots.”

“Huh?”

Clint and Flood were back in the Crystal Saloon, sitting at a table near the back. There was a different man working as the barman. They had a beer in front of each of them, and a bottle of whiskey on the table with two glasses. Clint had taken one glass of whiskey just to have a drink with Flood for his deceased friend Trevor. Since then he'd been sipping his warm beer.

“I don't get it,” Flood said. “Who'd wanna stick Trevor like that?”

“There must be something going on, Hank,” Clint said. “This can't be a surprise. Trevor must have gotten somebody mad at him.”

“Oh, he was a hothead. He had fights all the time, but they usually ended up with him and the other fella havin' a drink together.”

“Not this time.”

“No,” Flood said. “Not this time.” He poured himself a glass of whiskey.

Clint still thought something else had to be going on, but he didn't press it at that point.

“You've got a trail drive starting tomorrow, Hank,” Clint warned.

“Yeah, yeah, one last drink to Jack's memory,” Flood said. He tossed it down. “Now I gotta think about replacing him. I got my cook, but lost my segundo.”

“You must have a man working for you who qualifies,” Clint said.

“No, I don't,” Flood said. “We hired experienced hands, but none of them knows anything about running a drive, handling men, handling
me
.”

“Then you better start looking.”

“I'm done looking,” Flood said, looking across the table at Clint. “I want you.”

“Look, Hank—”

“I was askin' you to come with me as a favor, Clint, and I woulda paid ya wages. Now I'll pay you to be my segundo.”

“It's been years since I've been on a drive, Hank—” Clint started, but Flood cut him off.

“Clint, I need to replace Trevor with somebody the men will respect,” he said. “I get that with you. In fact, they might even be afraid of you, which would also work.”

“Hank, it isn't about the money—”

“I'll cut you in on the end,” Flood said.

“I don't want your money.”

“Then help, me, Clint,” Flood said. “Help me. This is my last chance to feel alive again!”

 

Roy Sobel left the whorehouse feeling more than satisfied. It had been a memorable afternoon for him, which was what he wanted, because he didn't know if he was ever going to get back this way again. Not if—like Flood kept saying—this was going to be the last trail drive.

Sobel walked toward town, wondering what Andy Dirker had been doing for the past few hours. They had ridden into town together, and later today they'd be riding out to the herd. Dirker hadn't wanted a whore, so maybe he'd gone looking for a good saloon.

Sobel came across the Crystal, walked up to the bat-wings, and looked inside. He didn't see his friend. In fact, he didn't see much of anybody, but then his eyes fell on Henry Flood sitting at a table with another man. He decided not to go in. He didn't want to run into Flood in a saloon.

He backed away, thinking that the man with Flood wasn't Jack Trevor. Maybe Trevor hadn't come into town, but if he had that was somebody else Sobel didn't want to run into.

He continued his search for Andy Dirker, but kept to doorways and alleys so as not to run into a wandering Jack Trevor. He didn't know of many other saloons in town, but there were probably one or two. He'd check them out, and if he could find Dirker he'd just ride out to the herd on his own.

 

“What's your crew like?” Clint asked.

“Good men—experienced,” Flood said. “I didn't want any beginners on this drive. Didn't wanna have to look after anybody.”

“There probably aren't that many youngsters around looking to go on a trail drive anyway,” Clint said.

“You got that right. There ain't nobody on my crew under thirty-five.”