THREE
Dixon had not steered Clint wrong.
He’d given him directions to a small café a couple of blocks away, where he got a piece of the best peach pie he’d had in a while. If only the coffee had been as good. It needed to be stronger, but it was okay to wash down the pie.
“Anythin’ else?” the waiter asked.
“Nope,” Clint said. “That was what I needed.”
He paid the waiter, who told him to come back when he was hungry again.
“I’ll do that,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
Clint left the café, still having better than two hours to kill before meeting with Dixon. He decided he might as well spend some of it finding out who the law in Adobe Walls was.
 
He found the sheriff’s office and went inside. It was typical of sheriffs’ and marshals’ offices in smaller towns in the West. Larger Western cities were setting up more modern police departments, but Adobe Walls still depended on a sheriff to keep the peace.
He heard the sound of a broom then saw a man come out of the cell block, wielding the broom and wearing the badge.
“Sheriff?”
The man’s head whipped up, and he looked surprised.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” he grunted.
“Sorry if I startled you.”
The man straightened up, leaned on the broom. He was a thick-bodied man in his forties. The star on his chest was showing wear—dents, and a bit pitted.
“Sheriff Garver. What can I do for you?” the sheriff asked.
“My name’s Clint Adams, just got into town a while ago,” Clint said. “I got a room in the Stetson Hotel.”
“Adams?”
“That’s right.”
The sheriff chewed his mustache for a moment.
“The Gunsmith?”
“Right again.”
“What brings you to town, Mr. Adams?”
“Friend of mine works here,” Clint said. “I came to visit him.”
“And who would that friend be?”
“Billy Dixon,” Clint said, then added, “your postmaster.”
“Dixon, huh?” the sheriff said.
“The hero of Adobe Walls.”
“If you say so.” The man didn’t say so with any kind of feeling.
“I don’t say so,” Clint said. “I was there.”
“That so?”
“That so.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Well, then, you oughtta know, right?”
“Right.”
He started working the broom again.
“You ain’t come to town to cause trouble, have ya?” the sheriff asked.
“I never come to town to cause trouble.”
“But it follows you.”
Clint shrugged. “If you say so,” he commented. “All I know is I came here to see Dixon.”
“Gonna stay long?”
“A few days maybe.”
“Well,” the lawman said, leaning on the broom again, “have a good time.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Clint walked to the door and went out without further word.
 
The lawman leaned on the broom until Clint was gone. When the door closed, he leaned the broom against the wall and went into the cell block. Only one cell was occupied. He unlocked the door and woke the occupant up.
“Come on, Lenny.” He shook the man.
“Hey—wha—that you, Sheriff?”
Lenny Wilson stared owlishly up at Garver.
“It’s me, Lenny. Come up, stand up.”
Wilson had been in the cell since the night before and still smelled like whiskey. He was relatively sober, though.
Garver got him to his feet and walked him into the office. He poured him a cup of coffee and sat him down with it.
“Drink it,” he said. “I want you to understand what I’m sayin’.”
“Okay, okay,” Wilson said. “I’m listenin’.”
“I want you to leave here and go find Al Wycliffe. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Wilson said. “Al.”
Wilson was about six-two and weighed about one-forty when he had a heavy beard stubble, which he had now.
“You know where to find him, right?”
“He could be in two or three places.”
“Well, you check them all, huh?”
“Sure, sure . . .” Wilson put the coffee down.
“How about a drink, Sheriff?”
Garver stared at Wilson, then opened his desk drawer. He took out a bottle of whiskey. Wilson reached for it, but Garver simply poured some into the man’s coffee and then put the bottle away.
“Aw, Sheriff—”
“That’s all you get, and don’t stop for any more until you deliver my message. You sabe?”
“I got you.” He picked up the cup and drank the combination down greedily.
“Now go!” Garver barked. “Tell Al we got to call it off, and he should come and see me. Got it?”
“Got it. Call it off and come see you.”
“Go ahead.”
“How about a little—” Wilson said, extending the cup.
Garver grabbed it from his hand and said, “Go!”
He watched as Wilson went out the door. As it slammed, he was thinking, this was the wrong time for the Gunsmith to show up.