Message on the Wind (9 page)

Callum banged on the door for the guard. Hickey sat down in his chair as the guard let Callum out.

What was he worried about? There was no way Mike Callum could gun down the Gunsmith. No way.

Unless he did it from behind.

Clint went to the livery to check on Eclipse and to tell the liveryman to have the horse ready first thing in the morning.

“Mister,” the man said, “my first thing in the morning is nine because I drink a lot. What's yours?”

“You know, I'll have breakfast first and meet you here at nine,” Clint said. “That's fine.”

“I'll have him ready, mister,” the man said, “but you're gonna bring him back, right? I mean, I ain't never had a horse like that in my house before.”

“Your house?”

“This is my house,” the man said. “Okay? I sleep in a damn shack, but this is my house.”

“Okay, fine,” Clint said. “Yeah, we'll be back in about a week.”

“Okay,” the man said. “You take good care of him now, all right?”

Clint didn't know how Eclipse turned men into nursemaids.

“I always take care of him,” Clint said. “Don't worry.”

As Clint left, the liveryman went back to Eclipse's stall to rub the big horse's neck and brush him—again.

 

Clint thought about leaving immediately, since there were hours of daylight left, but decided to leave it till morning. There was no emergency that he could see. Surely, whoever had written that note didn't still need help. If Joe Hickey was telling the truth, nobody from Organ Pipe needed help anymore.

Clint went to the Wagon Wheel and ordered a cold beer. He wondered if there were any survivors from Organ Pipe. He wondered what kind of disease had wiped the town out, and how long after the town burned down the site would hold the infection.

If Joe Hickey was telling the truth, Clint needed to talk to a doctor.

 

Dr. Frank Wheeler listened to Clint's question and then asked, “Are you talking about bubonic plague? Anthrax?”

“Actually, Doctor,” Clint said, “I don't know what I'm talking about.”

The white-haired older man studied him for a moment.

“Well,” the doctor said, “if the site has been burned and some years have gone by, I don't think you'd be in any danger. But . . . why would you want to go there?”

“Let's just say once my curiosity is raised, I have to do something to satisfy it.” Plus, somebody had written a note asking for help. “Doc, have you ever heard of a town called Organ Pipe?”

“Organ Pipe?” the doctor repeated. “No, I don't think so.”

“You know,” Clint said, “you're one of the only people I've asked who's told me no who I believe.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” the old sawbones asked.

“I don't know why anyone would lie,” Clint said. “But I'm going to find out what's true, and what isn't. Thanks, Doc.”

“Sure.”

“Do I owe you anything?”

“For asking a question?” the doc asked. “Nothing.”

 

Clint left the doctor's office feeling slightly better about finding the town of Organ Pipe. At least he wasn't riding into an infected site.

Still, why take the risk? All he had to do was get close enough to see if there was any rubble left, then turn around and ride away. If there was no town left, there was nobody needing help, and the note was just something that had been blowing in the wind for a couple of years.

Why was it that the older he got, the harder it seemed to get to turn his back on a cry for help, whether it came from a friend, a stranger, or a message on the wind?

Who appointed him savior of the world?

He had three beers at the Wagon Wheel and then went back to his hotel. In his room he read the note again, which was easy since it was only three words.

Tear it up, he thought, throw it away and forget the whole thing.

Instead he put it back in his saddlebag, pulled off his boots, and reclined on the bed. He put his hands behind his neck and stared at the ceiling. When he woke the next morning, the ceiling looked exactly the same.

Clint was having breakfast when Deputy Fellows walked into the hotel dining room. He saw Clint and walked over to his table.

“Coffee?” Clint asked.

“Why not?”

Fellows pulled up a chair. There was another cup on the table, so Clint picked up the pot and poured.

“Thanks.”

“Breakfast?”

“Already had it,” Fellows said. “At eight.”

“What brings you here?”

“I don't know, exactly,” Fellows said. “I guess I still don't have it straight in my mind why you want to look for this town that may have been burned to the ground because of some disease.”

“Well,” Clint said, “when you say it out loud like that, it just sounds like a stupid idea.”

“That's what I thought.”

“And I've been trying to figure that out for myself,” Clint said. “Then I thought, maybe I'll never find it. Maybe I'm just giving it too much thought right now. I mean, if I don't find the town, there's no decision to make, is there?”

“I guess not.”

“So I'll go looking for it, and if I find it, then I'll decide what I want to do about it.”

“Probably a wiser decision,” Fellows said. “I have a suggestion though.”

“What's that?”

“We have a doctor in town named Wheeler,” Fellows said. “Have a talk with him about diseases.”

“I already did,” Clint said, “but thanks.”

Fellows gulped down his coffee and stood up.

“Then I guess I'm done here,” he said. “Good luck, Mr. Adams. If you do come back here, let me know what happened, will you?”

“I will,” Clint said, “if you'll call me Clint.”

“Sure,” Fellows said, “and my name is Fred.”

“Maybe your sheriff will be here when I get back,” Clint said.

“He's a good man,” Fellows said. “And smart. He probably would've had something smarter to say to you than I have.”

“You've done fine, Fred,” Clint said, “just fine.”

 

Fellows left Clint's hotel and walked over to the office of the
Yuma Daily Sun
. He walked in, ignored the noise of the press, and entered Steve Wynn's office. Before they spoke, Wynn pulled the shades down on all the windows.

“He's leaving today,” Fellows said to him.

“I'm curious,” the editor said. “Why didn't you take him to Joe Hickey yourself?”

“Because he didn't tell me that's why he was here,” Fellows said. “And besides, you needed something for your paper, right? That interview?”

“It's going to run tomorrow.”

“That's fine.”

“Fred, what do you think he's going to find out there?”

“I don't know,” Fellows said. “We won't know until he goes.”

“Or until he comes back,” Wynn said. “Maybe he'll come back with another story for me.”

“Maybe,” Fellows said. “I'll talk to you later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I've got one more person to talk to.”

 

Fellows found Mike Callum in the Red Bear Saloon. He was nursing a beer, rather than his usual bottle of whiskey. The deputy sat down opposite him.

“Callum.”

Callum looked up at Fellows from his beer.

“What do you want, Deputy?”

“I've got a message for you from Joe Hickey.” Callum sat back so quickly his chair scooted across the floor. He put his hand on his gun.

“Relax, Callum,” Fellows said. “I'm not gonna throw down on you. Just a warning.”

“Yeah? What's the warning?”

“Lay off Clint Adams until he comes back to Yuma,” Fellows said. “Once he comes back, you can do whatever you want.”

“Or else?”

“I didn't say that, did I?”

“Does the sheriff know you're deliverin' messages for Joe Hickey?”

“That doesn't matter,” Fellows said, standing up. “What matters is that it got delivered.”

Fellows left the saloon. Callum sat at his table quietly for a few moments, then looked over at the bartender and yelled, “Whiskey!”

Clint collected Eclipse from the liveryman, whose face revealed how sad he was to see the big Darley Arabian go.

“Remember,” he said, more to the horse than the man, “you promised to come back.”

Clint rode out of Yuma and headed south, mindful of his back trail. After ten miles he decided he either was not being followed or was being followed by someone who was too good to be spotted.

Since he'd left Yuma after nine a.m., the general store had been open, and he had outfitted himself as he usually did, lightly. Coffee and beef jerky. He camped the first night, built a fire, and dined on his meager stores. He figured he'd eaten well enough in Yuma to be able to keep himself going on the coffee and jerky for a few days. He remembered the days he'd travel around with his gunsmithing wagon, which could be filled with more supplies than he ever would have needed. He ate well during those days, but covered a lot less ground.

He rolled himself into his bedroll eventually, secure in the knowledge that Eclipse would react if anyone came near the camp.

 

The next morning he finished the coffee that was left in the pot from the night before, then started following Joe Hickey's map again. Hickey had made sure to mark the map clearly, so Clint would not be as surprised by the appearance of Organ Pipe in front of him—or the site where Organ Pipe had once stood.

Continuing southwest, Clint checked the map to see if Hickey had indicated how far from Mexico Organ Pipe actually was. He had. It was almost on the border. He wondered if there were any Mexican towns nearby that might have been affected—or actually infected.

Had the sickness started with livestock and moved on to people?

He wondered if there'd be a dearth of animals as he got closer, but that didn't seem to happen. He saw bugs, birds, and mammals in abundance. If there was any remnant of disease present, he was sure that wouldn't have been the case.

Clint was surprised to find himself approaching the end of the trip—according to the map—before nightfall. If he pushed it, he could get there without having to make camp, but he decided he didn't want to do that. He would rather ride into the site in daylight.

He reined Eclipse in and made camp.

It took one day for Mike Callum to change his mind. One day, and several bottles of whiskey, and he decided he wasn't afraid of Joe Hickey, or Fred Fellows for that matter.

Early the morning after Clint Adams left, Callum saddled his horse and rode out of Yuma, heading southwest. Or as near to southwest as he could figure while being drunk.

By the time he camped that night, he had fallen off his horse several times, and when he sobered up sitting at his fire, he realized he hadn't brought any supplies with him. Except for one thing he had in his saddlebags at all times.

A bottle of whiskey.

He went to sleep in his bedroll with a smile on his face.

 

Eclipse woke Clint in the morning. Clint was instantly on his feet and alert.

“What is it, big boy?” he asked. “Somebody coming?”

Eclipse pawed the ground.

Clint turned, lifted his chin, and listened. He could hear it—hooves hitting the ground, and something else.