In his office, Chief of Police Henry Blake stared out the window at the street below. He stood there, waiting for the Gunsmith to show up. He knew what the mayor wanted him to do, and he intended to do it. He was not intimidated by some Old West legend who was past his prime. These were modern times, and Henry Blake was a modern man. He knew his superior intelligence would serve him well if he came out West, and that eventually he’d be able to work his way back East—to Washington, D.C.
* * *
Clint finished eating, paid his bill, and left the café. Ben, busy with other tables, simply waved at him as he went out the door.
From his walks around town the day before, Clint knew where the police station was. He walked that way, taking his time negotiating the busy streets. When he came within view of the place, he saw a man standing in a large window on the second floor, looking out. Instinctively, he knew this was the chief of police.
Clint stood across the street for several minutes, just watching, making the man wait. Then he realized the man didn’t know what he looked like, so he stepped from the doorway he was in and walked across the street to the front door of the police station.
Inside he presented himself to a uniformed policeman standing behind an oversized desk.
“Clint Adams to see the chief, please.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“I think he’ll see me,” Clint said.
“So he’s expectin’ you?”
Clint decided to just say, “Yes,” and leave it at that.
“Wait here, sir.”
The man disappeared into the bowels of the building, then returned and waved at Clint.
“Come with me, sir.”
The policeman led him down a hallway to an open door, which the man knocked on.
“Chief?” he said. “This here is Clint Adams.”
“Thank you, Officer,” the chief said. “You can go back to your desk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come in, Mr. Adams,” Chief Blake said. “Have a seat.”
Clint approached the desk and sat down. Neither man offered his hand. The chief sat also.
“What can I do for you Mr. Adams?”
“I think you know why I’m here, Chief.”
“And how would I know that?”
“I’m sure the sheriff has been to see you since yesterday. Told you I came to see him.”
Chief Blake smiled. Clint noticed he had very white teeth.
“Let’s pretend he didn’t come to me,” the chief said. “Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?”
“I’m looking for a man named Harlan Banks. I was given to understand that he had passed through Prescott. Do you know anything about him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then I’ll have to ride on,” Clint said. “To Yuma. Maybe I’ll find him there.”
“Maybe,” the chief said.
“So you’ve never heard of him?”
“I said no.”
“Perhaps the mayor—”
“I doubt it,” Blake said. “No one passes through this town without me knowing it.”
“So you knew exactly when I arrived?”
“I did.”
Clint stood.
“I think I should speak with your mayor.”
“Why?”
“I think there might be something you’re not telling me.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m saying maybe you’re . . . mistaken.”
“And you think the mayor might know something I don’t?”
Clint shrugged.
“Who knows?”
“Then be my guest,” the chief said. “Go and talk to the mayor. See what he tells you. But after that, you have to ride out.”
“Are you running me out of town?”
“Yes,” Chief Blake said. “You’ve called me a liar. I want you gone, Mr. Adams.”
Clint smiled at the chief.
“What’s so funny?” the man demanded.
“Driving me out of town,” Clint said. “How very Old West of you, Chief.”