Later Clint stopped into a saloon called The Red Garter. It was doing a good business for that time of day, considering the gaming tables were still covered and there was only one girl working the floor.
Clint went to the bar and ordered a beer from a bored-looking bartender. He wondered how soon he’d be hearing from the sheriff, or maybe even the chief of police.
* * *
Sheriff Coyle watched from his window as Clint entered The Red Garter Saloon. Satisfied that Clint wasn’t on the street, he grabbed his hat, strapped on his gun, and left the office.
He walked a few blocks away to the new police department building and entered.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the uniformed policeman on the front desk said. “What can I do for you?”
“Please tell the chief I’m here to see him.”
“I think he’s busy—”
“Tell him it’s about Harlan Banks,” Coyle said. “I think he’ll see me.”
“Wait just a minute.”
The desk man disappeared down a hallway, then reappeared moments later and said, “You know where his office is, don’t you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Coyle said.
He walked down the hall to the man’s office and knocked on the open door.
“Arthur,” Chief of Police Henry Blake said. “Come on in.”
Coyle entered, looked at the chief’s proffered hand a moment before shaking it. Henry Blake had actually not been a store clerk before he became the chief of police in Prescott, Arizona. He’d been the headmaster of a school back East. But he came to Prescott with an impressive education and the town council hurriedly hired him before he could change his mind.
“Have a seat, Arthur.”
Even though the chief was about fifteen years younger than the sheriff, Coyle always felt like a boy in the headmaster’s office when he came to see him. On the other hand, Chief Blake never came to see the sheriff in his office.
“What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”
Whenever anyone in uniform—or the chief, who wore expensive three-piece suits—said “Sheriff,” it was always with a smirk in their tone.
“I had a visitor today,” the old-time lawman said.
“Yes? A stranger to our fair city?”
City. To Coyle, Prescott was still a town, but the chief of police always referred to it as a city.
“Yes, a stranger to Prescott,” Coyle said, “but not really an unknown.”
“This sounds very mysterious,” Blake said. “Who was it?”
“Clint Adams.”
Blake stared at the sheriff for several seconds without comment.
“The Gunsmith,” Coyle said.
“Yes, yes, I know who Clint Adams is, Sheriff,” Blake said. “I was waiting to hear why I should be concerned with this development.”
“Because,” Sheriff Coyle explained, “he said he’s here lookin’ for Harlan Banks.”
That made the chief frown, giving Coyle some small feeling of satisfaction.
“Did he say why?”
“Claims he heard that Banks killed someone,” Coyle said. “Says he wants to find out if it’s true.”
“Not kill him?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that odd for a gunman like him?” the chief asked.
“You can’t always believe what you hear, Chief,” Coyle said. “Especially what you hear back East. Wild West stories just seem to grow between here and there.”
“So he’s not a gunman and a killer?”
“He has a reputation for being good with a gun,” Coyle said. “Possibly the best ever. He does not have a reputation for being a killer.”
“But he has killed people, right?” Baker asked.
“Uh, well, sure, I suppose so,” Coyle said.
“All right, then,” Baker said. “In my book, that makes him a killer. And in my city, it’s my book that counts.”
“So what do you intend to do?” Coyle asked.
“I’ll meet with the mayor and the town council,” Baker said. “Among us we can come up with a course of action. Meanwhile, how long is he staying?”
“He didn’t say,” Coyle answered.
“Well,” the chief said, “maybe you should find out.”
“Me?” Coyle asked. “I’m not part of your department. Why wouldn’t you have your own man do it? Or do it yourself?”
“Because you and Adams have something in common,” Blake said. “You are both remnants of a bygone time.”
“You think he’ll talk to me, but not to you,” Coyle said.
“Exactly.”
Coyle thought Clint would probably react to the chief the same way he did. He wanted to throw the man through the window behind him.
The sheriff stood up.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll find Adams and talk to him for a while, see what I can find out.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Blake said.
The sheriff made his way back to the front of the building, where the policeman behind the front desk now ignored him.
He was perfectly willing to talk to Clint Adams, but anything beyond that would be up to the chief and his men. Coyle was too old to start bracing legends now. And he had no deputies to back a play. So talking was as far as he was willing to go.
Maybe it really was time for him to get out of this job.