PRESCOTT, ARIZONA
EARLIER
He still had hours before the meeting at the Tin Pot Saloon. He decided to find the place while it was still light out and take a look it.
It turned out the Tin Pot was a small saloon on the side street, in an area of town that appeared to need some rehabilitation. There were empty storefronts on either side, and just a few stores across the street that were still open.
When Clint entered the Tin Pot, the first thing that hit him was the smell, the second the cramped quarters. This certainly did not seem the kind of place a woman would come to.
The place smelled like a bunch of ranch hands had just come in off the range without cleaning up first. Clint looked around, expecting to see cow manure on the floor.
“Beer?” the bartender called.
Clint waved his hand at the man and backed out of the place. The smell was too much for him. There was no way he could have stood in there and had a beer. He decided to walk around the building, see how many other doors there were.
Several minutes later he had determined there was only one other door to the saloon, in the back. He’d return later for the meeting.
* * *
Clint decided to go and see the sheriff, fill him in on his meetings with the chief and the mayor. He felt that the sheriff was a kindred spirit. Maybe if he spent more time with him, the man might come forward with the truth, because as much as the man might be a remnant of the Old West, he was still lying, too.
Clint entered the sheriff’s office, found the man seated behind his desk.
“Hey, Adams,” Coyle said. “Pot of coffee on top of that stove. How about fillin’ two cups?”
“Sure.”
Clint found two tin cups next to the stove, filled them with coffee, carried them to the desk. He handed the lawman one, then sat down with the other one.
“In case you’re wonderin’,” Coyle said, “I was just waitin’ for somebody to come in so they could get me a cup of coffee. You’re the lucky one.”
“No problem.”
“What’s on yer mind?”
Clint decided to be frank.
“I talked with the mayor and the chief.”
“And?”
“They each lied to me.”
“So? That’s what politicians do. Was that a surprise to you?”
”No,” Clint said, “I figure everybody in this town has lied to me about Harlan Banks.”
“Why do you think they done that?”
“They’re hiding something.”
“The whole town?”
“The people I’ve talked to.”
“Then,” Sheriff Coyle said, “why don’t you talk to some more? Maybe you’ll find somebody who won’t lie to ya.”
“What about you?”
“Whataya mean?”
“Well, you’ve been lying to me.”
“What makes you say that?” He seemed totally unconcerned about having been called a liar.
“Come on, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I know Harlan Banks was here in town. He sent me a telegram from here. Obviously he got himself into trouble and something happened to him. That couldn’t have all happened without you knowing it.”
“Why not?”
“You’re the law.”
“I used to be the law,” Coyle said. “Now the police department is the law. If you think somebody knows something they’re not telling you, go to the chief.”
“As I said, I already talked to the chief. He told me to leave town tomorrow.”
“And the mayor?”
“Him, too.”
“So you’ll be leavin’ tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
“I thought you said—”
“Never mind,” Clint said. He leaned forward, set the coffee cup on the desk, and stood up. “I’ve got things to do the rest of the day.”
“Adams,” Coyle said, “why don’t you just do what you’re told and leave?”
“I can’t do that,” Clint said.
“I can’t help you, you know,” Coyle said. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.”
“Actually,” Clint said, “I believe that if it comes right down to it, you’ll do your job.”
Coyle put his own cup on the desk and said, “Don’t bet your life on that, Adams.”