The Devil's Collector (3 page)

SIX

They entered the general store, which was actually called Grenke's Emporium. The inside was very spacious, and they seemed to have everything a person could need, from men and women's clothes to staples to weapons and ammunition.

There was an older man with gray hair, wearing a white body-length apron, stocking shelves in the back, and an attractive girl in her twenties behind the counter, waiting on customers.

Clint stepped up to the counter, with Sonnet close behind. The girl finished waiting on a middle-aged woman, who turned to leave then stopped and stared when she saw Clint standing there.

“Oh!”

“Sorry to startle you, ma'am,” Clint said.

“Hmph,” the woman said, and went around him.

“Can I help you, sir?” the girl asked with a bright smile. She sneaked a look past him at Sonnet.

“Yes, ma'am,” Clint said, “my friend and I are looking for Dixon Williams.”

“Dix?” she asked. “You just missed him.”

“That's too bad,” Clint said. “Can you tell us where he went?”

“I'm not sure,” she said.

“I understand he owns this store?”

“I own this store,” the older man said firmly.

“Dix bought a piece of the business from my father when he came to town a few months ago,” the girl explained.

“Huh,” the older man said. “Sarah, go take care of the women's clothes.”

“There's nothin' wrong with the women's clothes, Pa.”

“Move'em around,” the man growled.

She looked down, then said to Clint, “Excuse me,” and slid from behind the counter.

“My name's Ed Grenke. You friends of his?” the man asked. “Dixon Williams?”

“I wouldn't say that,” Clint replied.

“Well, he forced me to sell him a piece of my business cheap.”

“Forced how?”

“How d'ya think?” the man asked. “He threatened me.”

“You go to the sheriff?”

“The man is useless,” Grenke said. “If you're here for Dix Williams, good luck to you.”

“Do you know where he is, Mr. Grenke?” Sonnet asked.

“If I was you, I'd look in a saloon,” Grenke said. “One of the bigger ones.”

“Thank you,” Clint said.

They started to leave, then Clint stopped and turned back.

“Does he have any friends in town?” he asked.

“Not a one.”

“Thanks.”

“Do us all a favor,” Grenke said as they went out the door. “Kill 'im.”

As they stepped out, Sonnet looked at Clint.

“Don't say it.”

“I don't have to,” Sonnet said. “Come on, let's find him and get this over with.”

• • •

Williams lifted the shot glass to his mouth, drained it, then poured himself a fresh drink. The saloon girl sitting in his lap wriggled in his grasp.

“Sit still, damn it!” he snapped.

“I gotta go to work, Dix,” she complained.

“You are workin', darlin',” he told her.

She looked toward the bartender for help, but he averted his eyes. Nobody wanted to go against Dix Williams's gun.

The rest of the patrons in the Golden Garter Saloon paid attention to their own drinking. They ignored Dix Williams as long as he ignored them.

Williams really liked this town. He had a new business, plenty of money, plenty of women in town—including the daughter of his “partner”—and he had the run of it all.

His life couldn't get any better.

• • •

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.

SEVEN

“Dix Williams!”

The man looked up at the sound of his name, craned his neck to look around the girl.

“You talkin' to me, kid?” he asked.

“I am.”

“I'm a little busy at the moment.”

Sonnet walked forward, grabbed the girl's arm, and pulled her from Williams's grasp.

“Go away,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said and rushed over to the bar.

“You lookin' for trouble, boy?” Williams demanded. He was just drunk enough to be loud and blustery.

“I'm lookin' for you, Dix,” Sonnet said.

“Do I know you?”

“Sort of.”

“Whataya mean, sort of?”

“You knew my brother.”

“I did?” Williams asked. “How well?”

“Well enough to kill him.”

Williams did not look surprised that Sonnet was the brother of a man he'd killed.

“You know,” he said proudly, stretching his legs out, “I know a lot of dead brothers.”

“Well, you're not gonna know any more after today.”

“That's big talk for a kid who's wet behind the ears,” William said. “Is your friend backin' your play?”

Clint raised his hands and said, “I'm out of it.”

“Stand up,” Sonnet said.

“This'll do me just fine,” Williams said, his legs still stretched out ahead of him.

“Fine,” Sonnet said. He drew and fired.

With just a quick tremor of his extended legs, Dix Williams died.

The place grew quiet, and then the girl in the green dress said, “Oh, thank God.”

Before long, men were slapping Sonnet on the back and pumping his hand.

This was not exactly the reaction Clint wanted Sonnet to experience after killing a man.

He turned around and said to the bartender, “Two more beers.”

“Yes,
sir
,” the bartender said. “On the house!”

EIGHT

When the sheriff arrived, he didn't take them to his office. He took them to the mayor's office.

His name was Andy Green, and Clint could see what Ed Grenke meant when he said the man was useless. He was completely unimpressive as physical specimens go, and apparently devoid of good sense. He let them keep their guns as he escorted them to the mayor's office.

“Gentlemen,” the mayor said as they entered, “please, have a seat.”

They both sat in front of his desk.

“That's all, Andy.”

“But sir—”

“Go.”

He went.

The mayor was a tall, slender man in his fifties, wearing a three-piece suit. He sat back in his chair and regarded them.

“I need your names.”

“Clint Adams.”

“Jack Sonnet.”

“I'm Mayor Leon Polk. Which one of you killed Dix Williams?”

“I did,” Sonnet said.

“You're kind of young.”

Sonnet just stared at the man.

“And what did you do?” the mayor asked Clint.

“I just watched.”

“And backed him up.”

“In case Williams had some friends.”

“Not much danger in that,” the mayor said. “I'm quite glad you killed him. We've been looking for a way to get him out of town.”

“You're welcome.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Adams,” Polk said. “I was wondering if you'd entertain taking the position of town marshal?”

“No,” Clint said.

“How about you, son?”

“You want me to be marshal?”

“Why not?”

“I have things to do.”

“More men to kill?” Polk asked.

Again, he asked a question Jack Sonnet was not going to answer.

“All right, well,” Mayor Polk said, “in that case I'll need you both to leave town before you kill someone else.”

“That was our plan, Mayor,” Clint said.

“Good,” Polk said, “then we're on the same page.”

“Definitely,” Clint said.

“Then good day, gentlemen,” Polk said. “And again, my thanks.”

• • •

Outside on the street, Jack Sonnet asked, “Where to now?”

“A hotel,” Clint said.

“I thought you told the mayor we were leavin' town,” Sonnet said.

“We are,” Clint said, “in the morning. I want the horses to have some rest and—oh, by the way—us, too. And since Dix Williams had no friends in town, I don't think we have to worry about reprisals.”

“What about the sheriff?”

“Now, I really don't think we have anything to worry about from him, do you?”

“No,” Sonnet said, “I suppose not.”

“Besides,” Clint said, “do you even know where we're going after this?”

“Not yet. I need to send a telegram.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said, “we'll get a room, something to eat, and then you send your telegram. Tomorrow we'll get going again.”

NINE

D
ELINE
, M
ISSOURI

“Coffee,” the naked Carlotta Carlyle asked, “or me first?”

“You,” Cole Damon said.

He reached out, grabbed her hands, and pulled her down on top of him. Her big breasts were solid cushions between them. They almost smothered him. He extricated his face from between them and chewed avidly on her large nipples.

Damon had been in Deline for a few weeks. He had gone to Carlotta's whorehouse the very first day and—after eyeing the girls in the sitting room—had decided on the madam herself. She was a few years older than he was, but that didn't matter much to him. She was also the richest woman in town.

She slithered down between his legs, fondled his thick cock until it was standing long and straight, and then took it into her expert mouth.

Damon thought this was the only way to wake up.

• • •

“Cole Damon,” Sonnet told Clint as he handed a cup of coffee across the campfire.

He poured himself a cup and hunkered down so that they were on the same level.

“Damon,” Clint said. “I never heard of him.”

“What about Deline, Missouri?”

Clint shook his head.

“Never heard if that either.”

Sonnet nodded and sipped his coffee.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Clint asked.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Where have you been getting your information?”

Sonnet drank his coffee.

“I mean, I know through telegrams,” Clint said, “but telegrams from where? And who?”

“I can't say.”

“Won't, or can't?”

“No,” Sonnet said, “I'd tell you if I could. I really can't, because I don't know who the telegrams come from.”

“Now, wait,” Clint said. “You're killing men based on information you're receiving from . . . you don't know who?”

“But he seems to know who they are, and where they are.”

“But what if he's wrong?”

“He hasn't been,” Sonnet said. “So far neither of them denied killing my brother.”

“If they even remembered,” Clint said.

“They remembered,” Sonnet said. “I wouldn't pull the trigger if I didn't think they remembered.”

“I'd like to believe that.”

“Clint,” Sonnet said, “I'm not just killing to kill. There's a reason.”

“There seems to be a reason for somebody,” Clint agreed.

“I think we should get mounted up,” Sonnet said. “We can make Deline today.”

“Sure,” Clint said, “your call, Jack.”

“I'll douse the fire,” Sonnet said, standing up and dumping the remnants of his coffee into the already dying flames.

“And I'll saddle the horses,” Clint said.

He walked over to where the horses were picketed, hoping that maybe he had given the younger man something to think about.

TEN

They rode into Deline later that night.

At the livery Clint said, “This time I want a steak, some pie and coffee, a beer, and then a room.”

“You askin' or tellin'?” Sonnet asked.

“I'm asking,” Clint said. “This is all your call, Jack.”

“Well, it sounds good to me,” Sonnet said. “Let's do it.”

• • •

Clint was starting to get bored with it.

If all went according to plan, they would get to a town, take care of the horses, get a beer, maybe a meal, then Sonnet would find his target and kill him. Then move on to the next town.

Clint was starting to think a lot about who Sonnet was getting his information from. Could there be somebody out there with a kill list? Somebody who was using Sonnet to get the list cleared? And what if it had nothing to do with who killed his brother? How would the kid feel then?

Well, maybe he wasn't bored. Maybe he was worried about what all this killing, all this vengeance, would do to Jack Sonnet. Could be he thought he owed it to the boy's father and grandpa to save the boy from this life.

“Why are you so quiet?” Sonnet asked, pushing his plate away.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About you,” Clint said.

“Don't tell me you're gonna start tryin' to talk me out of this now.”

“Maybe,” Clint said. “How many more you got, Jack?”

“Three.”

“You know their names?”

“No,” Sonnet said, “just this next one, Cole Damon.”

“What do you say we ask a few more questions this time, Jack?”

“Like what? Why?”

“Like maybe we can find out if Damon really did know your brother.”

Sonnet squinted.

“What are you saying?” Sonnet demanded. “You think somebody's feeding me the wrong names? Making me kill the wrong people?”

“Could be.”

“Why would somebody want to do that?”

Clint shrugged.

“Then why are you thinking that?”

“You're wondering why I would think somebody might steer you wrong,” Clint said. “Maybe I'm wondering why somebody would steer you right.”

“To be helpful.”

“People aren't helpful for no reason, Jack.”

“Then why are you being helpful?”

“Believe me, I always have reasons for what I do,” Clint assured him.

“Because of my pa and grandpa?”

“Yes.”

“You owe it to them?”

“In a way.”

“Well, maybe whoever's been sending me the telegrams owes it to them, too.”

“Who do you think it is?” Clint asked. “Some old friend of your father or grandfather's?”

“You'd know who their friends were more than I would,” Sonnet said.

“When did you first start getting them?”

“Soon after my brother was killed,” Sonnet said. “I was trying to find the men who killed him on my own, with no luck. Then the first telegram caught up with me.”

“So how do they know where you are, to send the telegrams?”

“I don't know.”

Clint looked around. The only way someone could know where the kid was at all times was if they had someone following him, watching him. He looked around the small café they were in. There were a few other tables taken, but nobody seemed to be paying them any special attention.

“So you get these telegrams with the information, and you never questioned how or why?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Sonnet hesitated, then said, “I don't know.”

“I do.”

“Then share it with me,” Sonnet said.

“You need the information,” Clint said. “You needed it so bad that when it came, you jumped at it.”

“The first two men I killed also killed my brother,” Sonnet said. “I'm satisfied of that.”

“It doesn't worry you that somebody might be using you?”

“No,” Sonnet said. “Not as long as I get what I want.” He pushed his chair back.

“Hey,” Clint said, “we've still got to have pie, and then get a room.”

“You have some pie,” Sonnet said. “I'll get my own room and see you later.”

“Yeah, but—” Clint started as Sonnet went out the door. “Which hotel?”

Clint called the waiter over and ordered peach pie.