FIVE
Clint and Westin rode back to town in silence. The lawyer was the first to speak when they arrived.
“I suppose you want to go right to your room?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Clint said. “Let’s put the horses up and go to the nearest saloon. I want to talk to you.”
“As you wish,” Westin said dubiously.
They hit the saloon nearest the livery, a small place with a short bar, just a few tables and only a couple of patrons. A good place to have a quiet, private talk.
They each got a beer from the bar and carried them to a table.
“What can I do for you?” Westin asked.
“You can tell me about Joe Bags,” Clint said.
“What do you want to know?”
“What the hell was he doing here selling his gun?” Clint demanded.
“I don’t know,” Westin said. “Mr. Powell wanted me to put out the word for guns for hire, and Mr. Bags answered the call. It was through him that we found the other men.”
“But he mentioned me?” Clint asked.
“He said you and he were friends,” Westin replied. “When I asked if he could get you for this job, he said perhaps later, if things didn’t work out.”
“So they didn’t work out and he ended up dead, with all the rest of them.”
“Yes.”
“How many men were there altogether?”
“Five.”
“Do you know how many men they were going against?” Clint asked.
“Easily five times that many,” Westin said.
“Somebody’s got the money to hire that many men?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why would Bags go with only five?” Clint wondered aloud.
“He seemed to think that was enough,” Westin said. “I, uh, also think he only wanted to split the money five ways.”
“Were you paying per man, or one lump sum?”
“One lump sum.”
If Bags had hired out his gun, and then underhired because he wanted his cut to be bigger, he must have been in bad money trouble.
Clint had not heard from Joe Bags in many years, but that didn’t mean the man couldn’t have come to him for help.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Westin said. “Did you know the other men?”
“Powell mentioned some names,” Clint said. “I knew them, but we weren’t friends.”
Clint got the names of the other two dead men from Westin, but he didn’t know them at all.
“So what are you going to do?” the lawyer asked.
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “I’ll have to think about it overnight, like I said. And I want to do some checking on Joe Bags. Where’s he buried, by the way?”
“We gave all five of them a nice burial, outside of town.”
“Were they paid in advance?” Clint asked.
“Half.”
“Did you bother trying to find family to pay the other half to?”
“Uh, well, no.”
“I can probably help with that,” Clint said. “Powell will pay the families the other half of the money, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“He’d better.”
“You, uh, could make that a condition of your own employment.”
“Yeah, I could,” Clint said, “but I shouldn’t have to.”
Westin finished his beer and started to get to his feet. “All right, then. I better go back to my office and do some paperwork before I go home.”
“Sit down,” Clint said. “We still have some talking to do.”
Westin sat back down.
“About what?”
“I think it’s time you answered the main questions for me.”
“And what are they?”
“What’s going on?” Clint asked. “That’s one.”
“And the other?”
“Who’s heading up this group of men that killed Bags and the other four?” Clint asked. “Who’s got it in for your boss that he needs gun help?”
“Uh, I think that’s for Mr. Powell to tell you.”
“Well, I didn’t ask him,” Clint said. “I asked you.”
“Um, well . . .”
“Come on, Westin,” Clint said. “You represent Powell. Tell me who you guys want me to go up against.”
“His name’s Ben Randolph,” Westin finally said.
“Ben Randolph?”
“Yes,” the lawyer said. “Do you know him?”
“No,” Clint said, “as a matter of fact, I’ve never heard of him.”
Clint let Westin go back to his office while he sat and had another beer. There was no way for him to be sure that Joe Bags was, indeed, dead. He couldn’t see the body because it had already been buried. All he could do was send a couple of telegrams the next morning to see what he could find out.
If he became convinced that Joe Bags had been killed by Ben Randolph and his men, then he’d have to decide if he wanted to do something about it. And if he did, did he want to take Andrew Powell’s money to do the job?
None of these questions were going to be answered until morning, so he finished off his beer, stood up, and headed for his hotel.