Anatomy of a Lawman (11 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: Anatomy of a Lawman

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“See in the dark?”

“I’m just digging here, Wilkes,” Clint said. “Help me out.”

Wilkes took a deep breath, swallowed what he was chewing.

“Look,” he said, “when Commons and me are workin’ together, I pretty much do what he tells me to do.”

“Anything?” Clint asked.

“Anything.”

“You do anything he tells you to do.”

“That’s what I just said.”

Clint studied the big man for a few moments, then said, “Well, okay. That’s a talent.”

“It is?”

“You have no idea,” Clint said, standing up. “Finish your breakfast and come over to the office.”

“I can do that,” Wilkes said, and went back to eating.

THIRTY-TWO

When Clint got to the office, no one was there. With any luck, the Prescott boys were standing watch, according to the schedule. Buck and Minnesota were recovering from their night watch. Commons was finding the explosives he needed. And Wilkes would be along after he finished his second breakfast, unless he was having a third.

He now knew the talents of Wilkes and Commons he could call on. He had an idea about Buck. He still hadn’t seen Minnesota shoot, but in every other way the young man seemed competent.

That left Harley and James Prescott. He’d talk to them later in the day, find out if they had any particular talents that he could utilize.

He hadn’t given up on finding a few more men, but it seemed unlikely, unless someone rode into town who had been away and didn’t know what was going on. He would have felt a lot more confident if he’d had a dozen men instead of seven.

He had sent telegrams out to Bat Masterson and Luke Short, and also to his detective friend in Denver, Talbot Roper. There had been no reply from any of them. The only reason that would happen was if they were each off on their own adventure.

He could have sent telegrams to others, but decided against it. It would take time to track them down, and even more time for them to get to Guardian. No, he was going to have to make due with the men he had, and whatever other men he could pick up along the way.

Buck walked in only moments after he did.

“ ’ Mornin’, Sheriff.”

“’Mornin’, Buck,” Clint said. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

“I had enough sleep,” Buck said. “When the Graves boys hit us, I don’t want to miss it because I was asleep.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Clint said. “I want you and me to walk through town today, see if we can’t scare up another volunteer or two.”

“Anybody in mind?”

“I still don’t know many people in this town,” Clint said. “I thought we’d hit some stores, saloons, and just ask.”

Buck shrugged and said, “Suits me.”

“Have you had breakfast?” Clint asked.

“No.”

“Come on,” Clint said. “You can grab something on the way.”

As Clint and Buck left the office, they almost ran into Wilkes and Commons.

“Where you off to?” Commons asked.

“Going to look for more volunteers,” Clint said. “You’re going to relieve the Prescotts, right?”

“Soon,” Commons said.

“You might as well stay in the office until then,” Clint said. “We’ll be back as soon as we can, hopefully with more bodies.”

“Bodies that can shoot, I hope,” Commons said.

“That’s the general idea,” Clint said. “See you in a while.”

Clint and Buck walked down the street as Commons and Wilkes entered the office.

Once they were in the office, Commons made a pot of coffee. When he turned around, he saw Wilkes sitting at the sheriff’s desk, looking through the drawers.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m just curious,” Wilkes said. “I ain’t never looked in a lawman’s desk before.”

“Don’t make a mess.”

“It’s already a mess,” Wilkes said. “Hey, here’s the wanted posters.”

He started to leaf through them.

“Looking for me, or you?” Commons asked.

“Just familiar faces,” the big man said. “ ’ Sides, I tol’ you there’s no paper on me.”

“And I told you there’s none on me,” Commons said.

Wilkes looked at Commons.

“Then there won’t be any surprises in here, will there?” he asked.

“No,” Commons said, “there won’t.”

Wilkes continued leafing through the posters. Commons walked over to take a look.

“I know him,” he said.

“So do I,” Wilkes said. “Nasty. Where was it we saw him last?”

“Sante Fe, I think.”

He went to the next one.

“Whoa, I know him, too.”

“So do I,” Commons said. “I don’t think I want to look anymore.”

He went back to the stove to wait for the coffee. Wilkes kept going through the posters.

THIRTY-THREE

Clint noticed that Buck was walking with a spring in his step.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked.

“Whataya mean?”

“You seem . . . different,” Clint said. “What did you do yesterday?”

Buck’s face turned red and he said, “Nothin’.”

Obviously, it was something embarrassing, but something good. Clint could only think of one thing, and he decided to leave Buck alone about it.

“Let’s try over there,” Clint said. “The hardware store.”

“That’s owned by Mr. Murchison,” Buck said as they crossed the street. “He’s a storekeeper through and through. I don’t even know if he can sit a horse.”

They mounted the boardwalk and stood in front of the store.

“I guess we’ll just go in and find out.”

Murchison was not willing to join the acting sheriff’s home guard. Clint had decided to use the words “home guard” thinking they’d have an effect on the men in town. He was wrong.

He and Buck talked to several more storekeepers, and some of their customers, then went into the saloons as they opened for the day, spoke to the bartenders and the owners. It was useless. The men in town were just not willing to risk their lives and go up against the Graves gang. Especially after Clint told them how many men he had so far.

“Wait a minute,” Clint said, stopping Buck.

“What?”

They had almost worked their way through the whole town when Clint saw the gunsmith’s shop across the street.

“There,” he said, pointing.

“I guess that’s a possibility,” Buck said. “That’s run by Ned Dillon. He not only fixes guns, and builds ’em, but he knows how to use ’em.”

“Then why didn’t you recommend him before?” Clint asked.

“Well . . . he’s about sixty.”

“So?”

Buck shrugged.

“I thought he was too old.”

“I never gave you an age limit, Buck,” Clint said. “Come on, let’s go talk to him.”

As they entered the gunsmith’s shop, Clint saw a whitehaired man sitting at a workbench. He was bent over an old Navy Colt.

“Be right with ya,” the man said. He put down the gun and the brush he’d been using to clean the barrel. “Hey, Buck,” he said when he recognized the deputy.

“Mr. Dillon,” Buck said. “This here’s our new temporary sheriff, Clint Adams.”

“Clint Adams?” Dillon said in surprise. “The Gunsmith himself? Well, this is a real honor.”

He shook Clint’s hand enthusiastically.

“I heard Sheriff Harper got himself hurt, but I didn’t hear you were replacing him. Welcome to Guardian. Whataya think of our town?”

“Not much,” Clint said.

“Why’s that?”

Clint explained to Dillon about the Graves gang, and how nobody in town was willing to step up.

“So you here lookin’ for guns?” Dillon asked.

“I’m here looking for men who can use guns, Mr. Dillon,” Clint said. “Buck tells me you fit that description.”

“I’m not in your league, Mr. Adams, but I can hit what I shoot at with a rifle or a handgun,” Dillon said. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to be ready, Mr. Dillon,” Clint said. “I’m going to need men with guns when the Graves gang comes riding in.”

“You need me to do anything else in the meantime,” Dillon asked. “Got any more deputy badges?”

“I don’t, and that’s the truth,” Clint said. “I’ve got some men working for me, standing watch and such, but all I need for you is to shoot when the time comes.”

“I’ll be ready,” Dillon said. “You need to see me shoot. I got a range I set up in the back. Got all kinds of targets.”

“You know,” Clint said, “I think I’ll bring the men in here and use that range, if it’s all right with you, Mr. Dillon. I still have to see how they shoot. I can watch you at the same time.”

“Hell, bring ’em on in,” Dillon said. “And stop calling me Mr. Dillon. The name’s Ned.”

“And I’m Clint.”

The two men shook hands again.

“I’ll get the targets ready for you,” Dillon promised.

THIRTY-FOUR

When Clint and Buck walked into the office, Commons and Wilkes were lounging around, drinking coffee. In fact, Wilkes had just finished putting things back in the desk. Commons had just made a fresh pot of coffee.

“Coffee’s on, Sheriff,” he said.

“Thanks, Commons. Buck?”

“Yes, sir, thanks.”

Clint walked to the stove, poured two mugs, and handed one to the deputy. He sat in his desk chair, which was warm. Somebody had been sitting there.

“Find anybody?” Commons asked.

“One man. He’s the town gunsmith.”

“I thought that was you,” Wilkes said.

“This man is a real gunsmith,” Clint said, not bothering to add that he was also a real gunsmith.

“Can he shoot?” Commons asked.

“We’re going find out,” Clint said. “He’s got a range in the back of his shop, and we’re all going over there to try it out. It’ll give me an idea of who can shoot, and who can’t.”

“I already told ya I can’t,” Wilkes said.

“You said you don’t, not you can’t.”

“Well, the truth is I’m pretty bad.”

Clint looked at Commons.

“It’s true,” the man said. “He’s terrible. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere around him if you give him a gun.”

“That’s fine,” Clint said. “We’re going to try you out with a shotgun.”

“When do we do this?” Commons asked.

“In a couple of hours. I want everyone there, so Buck, you and Wilkes go out and find the others. I want everybody at the gunsmith shop in two hours.”

“I’ll go with Wilkes,” Commons said.

Clint was going to object to Commons changing his orders, but the look on the man’s face convinced him not to. Commons new Wilkes best.

“Okay,” Clint said. “Buck, you go and tell Ned that seven of us will be there in two hours.”

“Right, Sheriff.”

Buck left, putting his coffee mug down on the desk.

“Come on, Wilkes,” Commons said. “Let’s go and find the others.”

“The Prescotts should be on watch,” Clint said. “Minnesota is probably asleep. Wake him up if you have to.”

“You got it, boss,” Commons said.

Wilkes moved slowly, walking lazily to the door and going out ahead of Commons, who gave Clint a knowing look. Clint decided to allow Commons to handle Wilkes as much as he wanted.

When the office was empty, he went to the gun rack. There were three rifles and a shotgun. He took them down to clean them. He wanted them in proper working order on the range.

The shotgun was a twelve-gauge double-barreled weapon with twenty-inch barrels, the type carried by most stagecoach guards. The rifles were two Winchesters and a Henry.

He settled down to clean them all and check their action, making sure none of them would be disappointing when pressed into service. If one of them was disappointing, it would be because of the man firing it.

When he’d finished with the office guns, he worked on his own weapons, getting them ready for Ned Dillon’s range. He didn’t shoot targets much anymore. In fact, he rarely fired his weapons anymore unless he was threatened, but this was different. He didn’t want to show off for these men, but he wanted them to know what he expected of them.

The last to arrive at Ned Dillon’s gunsmith shop was Minnesota.

“Thanks for joining us,” Clint said.

“Fell back asleep after those two woke me,” the young man said. “Sorry. What’s goin’ on?”

“Time to show me what you got,” Clint said. “Ned here has got a range in the back. You’re all going to shoot so I can see what I’m working with.”

“What about you?” Minnesota asked. “You gonna shoot, too?”

“We’re all going to shoot,” Clint said. “Including Ned. He’s joining us, which gives us eight men.”

“Let’s get to it,” Wilkes said. “I’ll show you how bad I really am.”

“Don’t sound so proud of it,” Clint said.

“I ain’t proud,” Wilkes said. “I’m just sayin’.”

“Let him shoot first if he wants to,” Minnesota said. “We can all use a laugh.”