Town of Two Women (9781101612125) (2 page)

THREE

“How is she?” Clint asked when the doctor came out. Once again he was wiping his hands on a towel.

“We'll know more when she wakes up,” Mathis said. “It's gonna depend on how hard that hit on the head was.”

“What about the bruises?” Clint asked. “Looks like somebody gave her a beating.”

“None of them are serious.” Doc Mathis tossed aside his towel, then poured himself a drink. He looked critically at the level of the whiskey in the bottle before setting it down.

“Okay,” Clint said, “you want to tell me what's got you all worked up about this girl?”

“You're wondering who gave her that beating, right?” Mathis asked.

“That's right.”

“Well,” Mathis said, “I can tell you that she got that right here, in town.”

“What?”

“And then they put her on a horse and drove her out of town.”

“You're saying the whole town rode her out?” Clint asked.

“That's right.” Mathis had a drink. “And they ain't gonna be happy that you brought her back here.”

“Well, all I knew was that she needed to be treated by a doctor,” Clint said. “The beating she took must have left her too weak to sit in the saddle. Also, her cinch broke. She must have hit her head when she fell. I couldn't very well leave her there.”

“No,” Mathis said, “but you could have taken her to another town.”

“This was the first town I came to,” Clint said. “How was I supposed to know what had gone before?”

The doctor walked to the window and looked out.

“Maybe nobody saw you come up here.”

“Everybody saw me ride in,” Clint said. “Somebody must have seen me come here.”

“Okay, maybe they didn't realize it was her,” Mathis offered.

“Maybe I should go and see the sheriff.”

“That won't do you any good.”

“The sheriff was in on this?”

“Mister,” the doc said, “the whole town was in on it.”

“That means you?”

Mathis poured himself another drink.

“Let's just say I didn't do anything to stop 'em.” He downed his drink, put the glass down. “I'd offer you a drink, but I'm trying to quit, and I got my intake measured in the bottle.”

Clint didn't feel bad about having taken a drink without asking.

*   *   *

Eric Locksley looked up from his desk as Sheriff Crabtree entered his office.

“Sheriff,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Crabtree was careful to close the door. The office was in City Hall, and he didn't want anyone hearing what he said.

“Um, Mr. Locksley, that girl . . . the one we ran out of town?”

“What about her?”

“Well . . .”

The older man frowned and said, “Come on, man, spit it out.”

“She's back.”

“What?”

Locksley was a pale-faced man with snow-white hair. When he got angry, his face grew pink. It was as pink as Crabtree had ever seen it.

“What the hell is she thinking?”

“She's not thinking anything,” Crabtree said. “According to Harley Trace, she was brought in by a man, unconscious and slung over her horse.”

“Harley Trace?” Locksley asked. “The town drunk?”

“Well, he drinks—”

“Is he sure?”

“He says he is.”

“Maybe she's dead.”

“Harley says the man took her to the doc's office. I sent him back there to keep watch.”

“Okay, good, good,” Locksley said. “Does anyone else know?”

“I don't know,” the sheriff said. “They musta rode in right through the middle of town, but maybe nobody knew who was on the horse.”

“All right,” Locksley said. “Go back to your office and wait. As soon as I decide what should be done, I'll send word to you. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

As the lawman left his office, Locksley, who owned more businesses in town than anyone else, wondered what he was going to tell his wife.

*   *   *

“What did she do?” Clint asked.

Instead of answering, the doctor poured himself another drink.

“Doc!” Clint snapped. “I want to know what she did to get beat up and driven out of town.”

“Why?” Mathis asked. “What do you think you can do?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “Maybe nothing.”

“Maybe you should just mount up and ride out,” Mathis said, “and take her with you.”

“Does she have family in town?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“No.”

Clint shook his head.

“Look, what's your name?” the doc asked. “Why do you want to get involved in this?”

“Why do I want to get involved?” Clint asked. “Because I found her out there. A girl alone who had been badly beaten by . . . by who? The whole town?”

The doctor didn't answer.

“And to answer your other question,” Clint said, “my name's Clint Adams.”

The doctor stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth, then chuckled and said, “Oh. Oh, that's just great. This should really get interesting.”

FOUR

“The Gunsmith, right?”

“That's right.”

The doctor chuckled again, then asked Clint, “You want a drink?”

“I thought you were monitoring the level on the bottle,” Clint said.

“Forget that,” Mathis said. “I'll open a new bottle.”

“I'll have one.”

The doctor left the room, came back with a full bottle of whiskey. He poured two glasses and handed one to Clint.

“So what are you going to do?” the doctor asked.

“About what?”

“The girl,” he said. “Mary. You can't leave her here.”

“Where am I supposed to take her?” I asked. “She's unconscious.”

“I mean, when she wakes up.”

“Do you mean, if she wakes up?”

“Well,” the doctor said, “if she doesn't wake up, it'll be the undertaker's job to take her. But if she does wake up . . . she can't stay here.”

“Are you saying you don't want her here?” Clint asked. “Or are you saying somebody would take her out of here?”

“Either one,” Mathis said. “I can't have her here. I have to live in this town.”

“Look,” Clint said, “all I did was bring a sick girl to a doctor's office. I'd be within my rights to get on my horse and ride out.”

The doctor's eyes widened.

“You can't do that,” he said. “If you leave her here, they'll . . .”

“What? They'll kill her? Or you?”

“Adams,” he said, “I can't be sure what they'd do, but I can tell you it wouldn't be good.”

“This isn't right,” Clint said. “I was just riding around, minding my own business.”

“Maybe you should've just kept on.”

“A man can't do that, Doc,” Clint said. “I wish I could, but I couldn't.”

The doctor filled Clint's glass with two fingers of whiskey again.

“She had better stay here for the night,” he said. “I figure by morning she'll either wake up, or she'll be dead.”

“Then I guess we can make a decision then,” Clint said. “I'll have to get a hotel room.”

“You better stay here,” the doctor said. “Just in case something happens. I got a bed you can sleep on.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said, “but I'll have to take care of the horses.”

“All right, but come right back.”

Clint finished the whiskey and put the glass down.

“Be careful out there,” the doctor said. “Somebody saw you ride in. There's no telling—”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “I'll watch it.” He walked to the door, turned, and said, “I'll come back as soon as I can.” He opened the door, then stopped again. “Which way is the livery?”

*   *   *

Harley Trace watched as the man came down the stairs, went into the alley, came back out leading the two horses. He headed off down the street, in the direction of the livery stable.

Harley ran the other way, in the direction of the sheriff's office.

FIVE

Crabtree looked up as Harley Trace came running into the office.

“What?”

“The fella,” Trace said, “he's takin' the horses over to the livery. I guess they're stayin'.”

“Goddamnit!” Crabtree said. “I ain't heard from Locksley yet. I don't know what he wants me to do.”

“Well,” Trace said, “I figured you'd wanna know.”

“Okay, you did good,” Crabtree said. “Now get on back there.”

“Sheriff,” Trace said, “I need a drink real bad.”

The sheriff frowned, then took a bottle and a mug from his bottom drawer. He poured just one finger into the mug and set it on the edge of the desk. He corked the bottle and put it back.

“You'll have to make do with that.”

Trace rushed to the desk, grabbed the mug, and knocked back the liquor. He closed his eyes, then tipped the mug again, to get the dregs.

“I could use another small—”

“That's it, Harley,” Crabtree said. “Go on back.”

“Yes, sir.”

He put the mug down and headed for the door, but he stopped short and turned around.

“Whataya gonna do?”

“I guess maybe I oughtta go have a talk with this fella,” the lawman said. “Find out who he is anyway.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“Well, thanks, Harley,” Crabtree said. “I'm glad you approve.”

Harley wiped his mouth with his hand, nodded, and left.

*   *   *

Clint reached the livery, didn't have any trouble with the man there. He took the horses willingly, didn't seem to recognize the mare. But when Clint turned to leave, holding his rifle and saddlebags, a man wearing a badge was standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Sheriff,” the liveryman said.

“Take a walk, Larry,” the sheriff said.

“Huh?”

“Go get a drink. Come back in ten minutes.”

“Uh, okay, sure.”

Neither of them spoke until Larry the liveryman was gone.

“Is ten minutes going to do it?”

“It should,” the sheriff said. “In fact, it shouldn't take me that long to find out your name and what you're doin' in town.”

“Well,” Clint said, “I have the feeling you already know what I'm doing in town.”

“Maybe I do,” the sheriff said, “but that don't tell me who you are.”

“The name's Clint Adams.”

“Clint—” the sheriff started, but it stuck in his throat.

“What's your name, Sheriff?”

“Uh, Crabtree,” the man said. “My name's Crabtree.”

“Well, Sheriff Crabtree,” Clint said, “what do we do now?”

“Uh, the girl,” Crabtree asked. “How is she?”

Clint decided to tell the truth. It might save them both some trouble.

“Doc Mathis says by morning she'll either wake up, or die.”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Clint said. “So I guess the rest of this can wait 'til morning, don't you think?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.”

“Then if you'll excuse me?”

The sheriff stepped aside, but as Clint passed him, the man said, “We'll have to talk tomorrow.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Clint said, and walked away.

SIX

On the way back to the doctor's office, Clint passed a café. The smell of cooking meat made his stomach start growling. He decided to go inside and buy two steak dinners, and take them to the doctor's. Since Mathis had opened a fresh bottle of whiskey, Clint thought it would be a good idea to get some food into him.

The middle-aged waitress who took care of him said, “You're a stranger in town.”

“That's right.”

“Two meals?”

“One's for Doc Mathis.”

“Are you a friend of Doc's?”

Clint decided to say, “Yes.”

“Well, good,” she said. “He needs to have someone make him eat.”

She eventually came out with a tray covered by a checkerboard napkin.

“Thank you. I'll bring your plates and utensils back as soon as I can.”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” she said. “What's your name?”

“Clint.”

“I'm Amy.” They shook hands. “It's nice to meet you. Enjoy the steaks.”

“We will.”

Clint carried the steak dinners to the doc's, balancing them with his rifle, his saddlebags tossed over his shoulder. When he reached the door to the office, he kicked it with the toe of his boot. Doc opened it an inch, then wider when he saw Clint.

“What's this?”

“I thought we could use some food.”

Mathis's eyes, slightly blurry, lit up, and he said, “Good idea. I'm starving.”

The doctor made some room on a table for Clint to set the meals down.

“Amy says you should eat.”

“Ah, you went to the café. Good, I eat there often.”

“Not according to Amy.”

“That woman,” he said, “she's like a mother hen.”

Mathis brought two chairs to the table, then fetched the whiskey bottle and two glasses.

“Might as well kill the bottle with the meal.”

“How's Mary?”

“She stirred once or twice,” Mathis said, “but she's still out.”

They each brandished their silverware and cut into their steaks. Clint found his a bit tough, but the doctor seemed to relish his.

“I ran into somebody at the livery,” Clint said.

“Who's that?”

“The sheriff,” Clint said. “Crabtree? Is that his name?”

“Yes, that's him. Did you tell him who you are?”

“We introduced ourselves.”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing,” Clint said. “I think we just agreed to talk at another time.”

Mathis took a swallow of whiskey.

“Well, that's fine. Now he knows you're here.”

“He doesn't know I'm staying here, in your office,” Clint said.

“Oh, he knows,” Mathis said. “I'm sure somebody saw you come here, and told him.”

“Well, if he comes here, I'll handle him.”

Mathis put down his knife and fork and grabbed the whiskey bottle. He poured himself a generous glass.

“Doc, you've got to lay off the whiskey. That girl needs you to be sober.”

“Drunk or sober, I'm a damned good doctor,” Mathis insisted. But he put the glass down and picked up his utensils.

They ate.

*   *   *

Once again Sheriff Crabtree joined Harley Trace across the street from Doc Mathis's office.

“Are they in there?” he asked.

“Yeah, they are,” Trace said. “That fella came back with a tray from the café.”

“That fella,” Crabtree said, “is Clint Adams.”

“What? The Gunsmith?” Trace immediately looked frightened.

“Relax, Harley,” Crabtree said. “I talked to him.”

“And?”

“And we're gonna talk again tomorrow.”

“You gonna tell him to get out of town?”

“I don't know what I'm gonna tell him,” Crabtree said. “I'll have to talk to Locksley again. For now, you just stay here and watch.”

“Sheriff—” Trace started.

“Don't worry, Harley,” Crabtree said, “I'll have somebody relieve you.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“I don't wanna go up against the Gunsmith, Sheriff.”

“Don't worry,” Crabtree said. “You won't have to.”

The lawman left Trace there and went back to his office.