The Devil's Collector

An Unwanted Guest . . .

Clint and Sonnet had checked two large saloons before they came to the Golden Garter. They entered and went to the bar, ordered two beers.

“Don't look around,” Clint said as the bartender set the beers down. “Just tell me if Dix Williams is in the place.”

“He sure is.”

“Where?” Sonnet asked.

“Behind you,” the bartender said. “The girl with the green dress is in his lap, only she don't wanna be.”

“He a friend of yours?” Clint asked.

“Hell, no,” the man said. “He's been ridin' roughshod over this town since he got here. You'd be doin' us all a favor if you killed him.”

Sonnet looked at Clint, who avoided his gaze.

“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

“Are you gonna?” the man asked.

“What?” Clint asked.

“Kill 'im?”

“No . . .” Clint said.

“But I am,” Jack Sonnet said, and turned.

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THE DEVIL'S COLLECTOR

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-61041-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / July 2013

Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

ONE

D
ANEHILL
, A
RIZONA

Clint Adams was not usually on this side of the gunfight.

That is to say, on the sidelines, watching.

When he rode into Danehill, Arizona, he had no idea what he was getting into. He reined in his horse in front of the first saloon he came to. There were already a few horses there. He'd been thinking the last few miles of only one thing—a cold beer.

He entered the saloon, which at first looked like a small, sleepy place. There was only one table that had more than one man at it. Four cowboys were sitting together, and three were obviously subservient to one, a man with a flat-brimmed black hat and feral eyes.

“Help ya?” the bartender asked.

“I'd like to start with a cold beer,” Clint said, “and then find someplace that cooks up a good steak.”

“You can get both right here,” the man told him.

“That right? Why don't we start with the beer, and if it's cold enough, I'll stay here for the steak.”

“Comin' up,” the bartender said.

He brought Clint a sweaty mug of cold beer with an impressive head. Clint took one sip and said, “Toss that steak on the stove.”

“Take a seat,” the man told him. “I'll bring it out.”

• • •

At the table Del Colbert watched the man walk in and approach the bar.

“Anybody know that feller who just walked in?” he asked.

“Where?” Saul Tackett asked.

“At the bar, stupid,” Colbert said.

The other three men all looked, then turned back to Colbert.

“Don't know 'im,” Adam Kennedy said.

“Me neither,” Cal Griffin said.

Tackett looked at Colbert and shook his head.

“Ah, what the hell,” Colbert said. “Just some stranger gettin' a beer.”

He went back to his own drink.

• • •

Jack Sonnet rode into town slowly, carefully. He scanned both sides of the street, as well as the rooftops. Satisfied nobody with a rifle had a bead on him, he directed his attention straight ahead.

His eyes were attracted to the horses tethered in front of the saloon. He reined in and studied the animals for a few moments, then dismounted and tied his own horse off next to the big black gelding, who turned his head to stare at him balefully.

Sonnet stepped up on to the boardwalk, took a look in the front window. He spotted the man he thought he was looking for, but he had to be sure.

He walked up to the batwing doors and went in.

• • •

As the batwings opened, Clint saw the young man enter. He looked too young to shave, but Clint noticed something about his eyes. They were alert, didn't miss a thing. The Colt tied down on his thigh also told him something. It was very well cared for.

Clint had a feeling things were going to get interesting. This boy was looking for somebody.

• • •

This time, when Colbert said, “Anybody know this kid?” he got a positive answer.

“Oh yeah,” Kennedy said.

“Who is he?”

“Just some kid fancies himself a gunhand,” Kennedy said.

“Why would he be here?” Colbert asked.

Kennedy shrugged.

“Would he be lookin' for you, Kennedy?” Colbert asked.

“Maybe,” the man said.

“What did you do?”

“I mighta killed somebody,” Kennedy said.

“Somebody?”

Kennedy shrugged again. “His older brother maybe.”

“Shit,” Colbert said. “When was that?”

“About three months ago, when I was in—”

“I don't care where you were,” Colbert hissed. “Why didn't you tell me this?”

“You wouldn'ta let me come along if you knew,” Kennedy said.

“You got that right!” Colbert said. “If this kid is here lookin' for you, Kennedy, you're on your own.”

“Ah,” Kennedy said, “I can take him . . .”

TWO

Clint expected the kid to walk to the bar. Instead, he walked directly to the table with the four men. They looked up at him curiously.

“You know any of these people?” Clint asked the bartender.

“Not a one,” the man said, “including you.”

Clint turned with his beer in his hand to watch . . .

• • •

“Can we help you?” Colbert asked.

“I'm lookin' for a man named Kennedy,” the kid said. “Adam Kennedy.”

“That's me,” Kennedy said. He was across the table from the kid. “Who are you?”

“My name's Sonnet,” the kid said, “Jack Sonnet.”

“And what do you want with me?”

“You remember my brother?” Sonnet asked. “Carl Sonnet?”

“I remember.”

“You killed him.”

“I remember that, too,” Kennedy said. “In a fair fight. He deserved it. Thought he was a fast gun. Well, he wasn't fast enough, was he?”

“No, he wasn't,” Sonnet said, “but I am.”

“Oh, you think so?” Kennedy asked with a loud belly laugh.

“I know so,” Sonnet said. “No brag, just fact.”

“So I suppose you want me to step outside?”

“Nope,” Sonnet said, “right here'll do.”

• • •

Clint knew what was coming. He could see it in Sonnet's face and demeanor that he meant to draw. The other man—Kennedy—started to get up, but then the other three did the same.

He couldn't just stand by.

“Hold it!” he snapped.

The four men turned and looked at him. Sonnet did not.

“What?” Colbert asked.

“What's your name?” Clint asked.

“Colbert.”

“You're the leader here,” Clint said. “At least, that's the way it looks to me.”

“That's right. So?”

“So I think you and your other two boys should sit back down and keep your hands on the table.”

“And why should we do that?”

“Because it sounds to me like this boy has a legitimate beef with your friend there. I think he should be allowed to settle it, man-to-man. Don't you?”

Sonnet still had not looked over at Clint. He was staring intently at the man called Kennedy.

“What's it to you?” Colbert said.

“Simple,” Clint said. “I'll kill the first man who tries to interfere.”

“Why?”

“Because he shouldn't have to face four men to get his satisfaction,” Clint said. “One will do.”

While Sonnet and Kennedy eyed each other, the other three men looked at Clint.

“You think you can take the three of us?” Colbert asked.

“I know I can,” Clint said, then added, “No brag, just fact.”

At that the kid sneaked a look at Clint, then gave him a nod.

“It's okay, Del,” Kennedy said. “I can take him without help.”

“You think so?” Colbert asked.

“Sure.”

“All right, then,” Colbert said, sitting back down. He looked at Clint. “But only 'cause you said so, Adam, not because he said so.”

Kennedy stood up all the way and faced the kid.

“You called it, kid,” he said. “The first move's yours.”

Sonnet didn't say another word. He drew and fired. Kennedy never got a chance to put his hand on his gun. His body flew backward as if jerked by a chain. The kid was using a .44.

Colbert and the other two looked startled, looked at the kid, then looked at Clint.

Sonnet holstered his gun.

“Nobody move,” Clint said to the men at the table.

“He killed our friend.”

“In a fair fight.”

“The kid's a gunny,” Colbert said. “You saw him.”

“Yeah, I saw him.”

Clint could see how badly Colbert wanted to pull his gun.

“Okay, then go ahead,” Clint said. “All of you. Throw down, but it'll be on the two of us, not just the kid.”

“I ain't a kid,” Sonnet said.

“All right,” Clint said, “sorry. My mistake. The young man.”

“He's a killer!” Colbert said.

“
He
was the killer,” Sonnet said, pointing to the dead man. “I did the world a favor by killin' him.”

The other three men stood up, but didn't make a move for their guns.

The batwings opened and a man with a badge on his chest and a gun in his hand entered.

“Everybody hold it!” he said.

“He did it!” Colbert yelled, pointing at Sonnet. “He killed Kennedy.”

The sheriff looked at Sonnet.

“It was a fair fight,” the young man said. “That man and the bartender were witnesses.”

“Eddie?” the sheriff said to the bartender.

“That fella,” Eddie said, indicating Sonnet, “came in and called that guy”—pointing to the dead man—“out. Those three”—pointing—“tried to back that one's play, but this one”—pointing at Clint—“stopped them. Then those two threw down. The kid outdrew him clean. The other fella never got a chance to touch his gun.”

“So,” the sheriff said, “six involved and one dead?”

“That's the way it looked to me,” Eddie said.

“I wasn't involved,” Clint said. “I just made sure it stayed a fair fight.”

“And what's your name?” the sheriff asked.

Clint thought about lying. He wasn't going to walk away from this once he gave the lawman his name. In the end, though, he told the truth.

“Clint Adams.”

All the men in the room turned and looked at him. Colbert and his two companions suddenly drew their hands as far away from their guns as they could.

“Okay,” the sheriff said, “Eddie, go around and collect all their guns.”

“Sure, Sheriff.”

The bartender went to the three men at the table and got their guns. Next he bent over and picked up the dead man's gun, and then confronted Sonnet, who handed his weapon over. Finally he walked over to Clint and stood in front of him, waiting.

“Here you go,” Clint said, handing the man his gun. He could see the man release the breath he'd been holding.

“All right,” the sheriff said, “everybody over to my office so we can sort this out. Eddie, get some men to carry the body over to the undertaker's.”

“Sure, Sheriff.”

The lawman waved his gun and said, “Let's go.”