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Authors: J. R. Roberts

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“That's a possibility,” Abernathy said, “but by all accounts I've heard, Billy was in love with Miss Archer.”

“And did his wife know that?”

“If I heard it, I'm sure she heard it, too.”

“Then she could've had Anne killed.”

Abernathy spread his hands.

“You see? All my suspects come from that family, but they are untouchable.”

“By whose order?”

“By the mere fact that they are the Cameron family,” the lieutenant said. “Louis Cameron is the most powerful man in the state, Mr. Adams. As much as I, or my chief, would like to solve this case, there are people who won't allow it.”

“Legally.”

“Yes,” Abernathy agreed, “legally.”

“And that's why you're here with me,” Clint said. “Because I can do things you can't.”

“Mr. Adams,” Abernathy said, “Cameron is a rich and powerful man, but in your own way you are Old West royalty. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I'm afraid I do.”

Abernathy told him anyway.

“The stories of the Gunsmith, of Billy the Kid, of Jesse Jamesâ”

“You're lumping me in with a bunch of dead men,” Clint pointed out.

“Very well thenâWyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Bill Tilghmanâyou have all been immortalized in dime novels written by Ned Buntline and his kind.”

“That makes us legends back East,” Clint said, “where people know nothing of what it takes to live out here. Where they all believe what they read.”

“Don't be so quick to dismiss your standing here in the West, Mr. Adams,” the man said. “Even out here you are held in high regard.”

“Yeah, so high that every punk with a gun wants to take a shot at immortality.”

“But we are discussing what you may be able to do here in Kansas City,” Abernathy said, “perhaps making use of your reputation.”

“So what you're saying,” Clint said, “is that Louis Cameron and Clint Adams are above the law.”

“That is not something I would ever say too loud,” Abernathy said, “but in this instance I'm afraid it might apply.”

“So are you saying that if I find out that Cameron had Anne killed, and I kill him . . . I'll get away with it?”

Abernathy regarded Clint above the rim of his beer mug and said, “I would never say that . . . very loud.”

Billy Cameron lifted his head from the table and stared up at Franklin Walters.

“Hello, Wally.”

He was the only person who called Walters “Wally.” “Billy, your father wants to see you,” Walters said. “We have to get you clean and sober.”

“Wally, Wally, Wally,” Cameron said, “my buddy.”

He tried to put his head back down in the puddle of beer he'd been sleeping in, but Walters stopped him. With his hand wrapped in a white handkerchief he grabbed Billy by the elbow and pulled.

“Up, Billy,” he said. “Come on, I'm going to take you home and you're going to sober up.”

“Why?” Billy asked, staring at Walters myopically. “I'm just gon' get drunk again.”

“You're free to do that,” Walters said, “after you talk to your father.”

“Aw, what's he want?” Billy demanded as Walters steered him to the door of the little saloon.

“I don't know,” Walters said. “I suppose when you get there you'll have to ask him.”

Outside, Cameron asked, “Why you doin' this, Wally? 'Cuz you like me?”

“Because it's my job, Billy,” Walters said. “Because it's my job.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Clint and Abernathy left the small side street saloon and stopped right outside.

“Chief Fortune send you to me, Lieutenant?” Clint asked.

“The chief does not know I am talking to you,” Abernathy said.

“When you said today that they put you in that closet office to try to get you to quit, were you talking about him?”

“I was just talking,” Abernathy said. “Complaining. Don't all civil servants complain about their jobs, their salaries?”

“All the ones I've known have.”

“Well, there you go . . .”

“Do you still want me to come to you with what I find out?” Clint asked. “Or shall I just . . . act on it?”

“I am conducting an active investigation, Mr. Adams,” Abernathy said officially. “I expect you to come to me with anything that you find out.”

“Fair enough,” Clint said.

When Franklin Walters walked Billy Cameron into his father's office, he was far from sober. Walters guided Billy to a chair and into it, then looked at his boss.

“That's fine, Walters,” Cameron said, waving. “You can go.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Walters closed the door, the old man stared at his son in disgust.

“What are you doing to yourself, Billy?”

He was wearing fresh clothing and had washed up, but there was still whiskey leaking from his pores.

“Whataya think, Pop?”

“You're trying to kill yourself?” Cameron asked.

“Over that woman? Is that it?”

“You made me marry Lorna, pop,” Billy Cameron said. “I never loved her.”

“I know that, and so does she,” Cameron said. “It made good sense, is all. But that . . . woman?”

“Be careful what you say about herâ”

“Fine, fine,” Cameron said. “Get drunk if you want toâstay drunk, too, but do it at home, huh? Don't do it in public.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy said, “I wouldn't want to embarrass the family.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Cameron said. “Just remember that. Now go home, crawl into a bottle. Get it out of your system.”

Billy got to his feet, stumbled, regained his balance and made his way to the door. Cameron watched, both disgusted and dismayed. This was the man who was going to take over the empire. He was going to have to talk to Lorna. The woman was lovely. Surely, she could use her considerable talents to make her husband forget the dead woman.

Clint had decided to make a bold move after leaving Lieutenant Abernathy. Why not beard the lion in his own den?

He entered Louis G. Cameron's office, located in another of Kansas City's more modern brick structures. The slender man seated at the desk looked up and frowned.

“Mr. Cameron sees no one without an appointment,” he said.

“How do you know I don't have an appointment?” Clint asked.

The man smiled.

“Because I make all his appointments.”

At that point the door to Cameron's office opened and a young man came staggering out. He almost bumped into Clint and kept going out the door.

“Did he have an appointment?”

“That was Mr. Cameron's son.”

“Ah,” Clint said, “the famous Billy I've been hearing so much about.”

“And who would you be?”

“You first,” Clint said.

“I am Franklin Walters, Mr. Cameron's assistant,” the man said.

“Well, my name is Clint Adams,” Clint said. “I think Mr. Cameron will see me . . . don't you?”

The man stared at Clint with his mouth open, then got up and said, “I-I'll see.”

“You do that.”

He stumbled to the office door and through it in a good impersonation of drunk Billy Cameron. As Clint waited, he sniffed the air. The whiskey smell coming off of Billy was still there. He had a feeling father and son were not getting along well.

“What is it, Walters?” Cameron asked, annoyed. “Billy staggers out and now you come stumbling in?”

“Um, Clint Adams is outside to see you.”

“What? Are you sure it's him?”

“Well, he said he waâ”

“Never mind,” Cameron said. He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a gun, checked to make sure it was loaded, then replaced it. He left the drawer ajar. “All right, show him in.”

“Are you sureâ”

“Oh, show him in, Walters!”

“Yes, sir.”

Clint waited patiently until the door finally opened and the assistant came out.

“You can go in, sir.”

“Why, thank you, Walters,” Clint said, moving past the man.

He closed the door firmly in Walter's face.

“Mr. Cameron?” he asked the old man behind the desk.

“I'm Cameron,” the man said in a raspy voice. “You're supposed to be Clint Adams?”

“I am,” Clint said. “I'm the man you sent a boy named Joe Bravo to kill.”

“I did nothing of the kind,” Cameron said. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Clint approached the desk, noticed the man's right hand twitch near a partially open desk drawer.

“I doubt that very much, Mr. Cameron,” Clint said.

“From what I've heard about you, you always know what's going on.”

“That may be, but you're talking crazy,” Cameron said. “Why would I send a boy to kill you?”

“You're right,” Clint said. “You wouldn't. You sent him to test me. When you do send someone to kill me, it'll be a man, won't it?”

“Still taking crazy, sir.”

“That was your son leaving here, wasn't it?” Clint asked. “Actually, I need to talk to him as well.”

“I would stay away from my son if I were you, sir,” Cameron said warningly.

“Is that right? Why's that? You and he have a fight? Are you afraid of what he might say?”

He could tell Louis Cameron did not like being braced in his own office. His right hand was twitching. He had a feeling if the old man had been just a few years younger he would have gone for that gun in the drawer.

“You want to grab that gun in your drawer, I'll give you a head start, old man,” Clint said.

Cameron pulled his hand back as if he had been suddenly burned.

“Good choice,” Clint said. “Live a little longer.”

“I'm not sure you have anything to say to me, Mr. Adams, so get out of my office.”

“Let me make this clear before I leave,” Clint said. “I know you had something to do with the death of Anne Archer. I'm going to find out who pulled the trigger on her, and after I take care of that I'll trace the killer back to you. And then I'll be back and we'll see if you have the nerve to go for that gun in the drawer.”

Cameron glared at him with hatred.

“I'm going to turn my back now and walk out,” Clint said. “You'll have a chance to try to shoot me in the back.”

Clint turned, walked to the door, then looked around and stared hard at Cameron, who hadn't moved.

“Good choice.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

While Clint Adams was in with Louis Cameron, Olivia Cameron entered the outer office.

“Is he in?” she asked Walters. “What am I saying? Of course he's in. Where else would he be, darling?”

“Don't call me that here,” Walters hissed. “He's inside with Clint Adams.”

“Clint Adams?” she asked. “Really?” She had only ever heard of the man, but she was thrilled.

Suddenly, the door opened and a tall man stepped out.

“Hey, Walters,” Clint said, “better get your boss some water. I think his mouth's a little dry.”

“What did you doâ”

“Mr. Adams?”

Clint turned and saw an absolutely lovely woman standing there with a blue dress that hugged every curve of her.

“Yes?”

“I justâwell, it's just a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said. “My name is Olivia Cameron. The man with the dry mouth is my husband.”

“Really?” Clint asked. “You and him?”

Walters wanted to stay and listen to their conversation, but he also felt he should go into the office and check on his boss.

“I know,” she said, “it's hard to believe, but . . .” She shrugged.

“Mrs. Cameronâ”

“Oh, Olivia, please.”

“Olivia,” he said, “I was just going to go try to find a good cup of coffee and a piece of peach pie. Would you be able to recommend someplace?”

“Why, yes, there's a perfectly niceâ”

“And would you join me?”

Her eyes widened and her breathing deepened, which did nice things to her chest.

“I would love to join you.”

“Well, then let's go,” he said, extending his arm.

She slid her arm into his and they left right away. Walters came rushing out of the office just in time to see them go. He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it quickly.

After all, what could he have said?

“What was your business with my husband?” Olivia asked when they got outside.

“Why should we talk about that?” he asked. “Which way to the peach pie?”

She giggled and said, “This way,” tugging on his arm.

Walters didn't know what to do so he went back into the office, where Cameron had just kicked him out.

“What the hell do you want?” the old man demanded. He was holding a tumbler of whiskey and his hand was shaking. “I told you I don't want any damn water.”

“I . . . Olivia just walked in the door, andâ”

“I don't want to see her.”

“Uh, no, I mean . . . she left.”

“So?”

“With him.”

“With who?”

“With the Gunsmith.”

“You're telling me my wife just left with Clint Adams?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you let her go?”

“H-how could I have stopped them?”