As they walked away from the café, Clint asked, “Tell me about the man who was eating.”
“That’s Randy. He’s broke, so we feed him when we can.”
“The town drunk?”
“Oh, no,” Ben said, “he’s just fallen on bad times, is all. He does odd jobs around town, but he hasn’t had one in a while.”
“Why not give him a job?”
Ben laughed.
“Mom won’t have him around the café for any longer than it takes him to eat,” he said. “And only if there are no other customers.”
“I see. Tell me about your friend Bobby.”
“Well, he had the job as a key operator for a few months, then suddenly got fired. He won’t tell me why. Now he does odd jobs.”
“Like Randy?”
“Not quite like Randy,” Ben said. “Bobby has a house, he pays his bills, he’s a hard worker.”
“Then what happened with the key operator job?”
Ben shrugged and said, “Maybe he’ll tell you.”
* * *
The house was a small shack just outside town. Ben led Clint to the front door, which he knocked on loudly.
“He might be out back workin’,” Ben said, but at that moment the door opened and a slender young man, Ben’s age or a little older, appeared.
“Yeah? Hey, Ben. What brings ya out here?”
“I got a friend here wants to ask you some questions, Bobby,” Ben said. “This is Clint Adams.”
Bobby looked at Clint for a moment before recognition dawned in his eyes.
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
Bobby looked at Ben. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“Sure is. You mind if we come in?”
“Huh? Oh, uh, no, come on in.”
They entered, closing the door behind them. It was one room with a cot, a table, a potbellied stove. There was a pot on top of it with something crusted inside.
“I, uh, ain’t got nothin’ to drink,” Bobby said.
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “We won’t be here long.”
“So . . . what’s the Gunsmith doin’ in Prescott?” the young man asked. “And whataya want with me?”
“It’s very simple,” Clint said. “A few weeks ago I got a telegram from this town. It was sent by a friend of mine. I believe you sent it to me. And then you got fired.”
Bobby looked down, stuck his hands in his back pockets.
“I—I ain’t supposed ta talk about that.”
“I understand,” Clint said, “and I’m not going to tell anyone. Neither is Ben.”
“Well . . . okay.”
“My friend’s name in Harlan Banks. That name mean anything to you?”
“Banks?” Bobby thought, furrowing his brow. “I don’t remember that name.”
“Maybe you’ll remember this,” Clint said, taking the telegram from his pocket. “Go ahead, read it. See if it jogs your memory.”
Bobby took the telegram, read it quickly, then handed it back. He immediately stuck his hands beneath his arms.
“I don’t remember.”
“I think you do, Bobby,” Clint said. “Why’d you get fired?”
The boy shrugged and said, “They said they didn’t need me no more.”
“Who told you that?”
“Lenny.”
“It was the other operator who fired you?”
“Yeah.”
“And he didn’t tell you why?”
“H-He didn’t really know,” Bobby said. “He said he was sorry, but he was told ta fire me.”
“Told by who?”
“The mayor.”
“The mayor himself?”
“I dunno,” Bobby said. “Maybe he sent a message, but it came from the mayor.”
“Okay, Bobby,” Clint said. “You know why you were fired. Tell me.”
Bobby bit his lip.
Clint took out some money and showed it to the boy. It was more than he’d earn from odd jobs in a week.
“Come on,” Clint said, “answer the question, and then you can go and get a good meal.”
“Go on, Bobby,” Ben said. “Nobody’s gonna know.”
Grudgingly, Bobby reached out and accepted the money.
“I got fired for sendin’ that telegram,” he said.
“And my friend sent it himself?” Clint asked. “Tall man, blue eyes, with a scar here?”
“That was him.”
“Was he in trouble?”
“I dunno.”
“What did he say?”
“Just that he wanted to send that telegram.”
“Then what?”
“He left.”
“Did you ever see him again?’
“No.”
“When did you get fired?”
“’Bout an hour later.”
Clint handed Bobby the money.
“Has anybody talked to you since then?”
“When Lenny fired me, he said he was sorry, but I shoulda asked somebody before I sent that telegram.” He screwed up his face and whined, “How was I to know?”
“You couldn’t.”
“I really liked that job.”
Clint felt sorry for the boy, took out some more money, and handed it to him.
“Get yourself cleaned up, buy some food,” Clint said. “You’ll get another job.”
“Maybe I don’t want another job in this town.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Clint replied.