TWENTY-EIGHT
Little Jim went into his saloon and moved around behind the bar. He took the saddlebags off his shoulder and placed them on top of the bar.
Clint came out of the little office, and Kelly walked through the front door.
“Hey,” Jim said to Kelly, “want a drink?”
“No drinks, Jim,” Clint said.
Jim turned quickly and looked at Clint. Then he looked at Kelly and noticed the badge. Then looked at Clint again.
“What the hell—” he said. “What the hell were you doin’ in my office?”
“Where’ve you been, Jim?” Clint said.
“What’s it to you?”
“I got a better question,” Kelly said. “What’s in the saddlebags?”
Jim looked at Kelly.
“None of your business.”
“I think we’re going to make it our business, Little Jim,” Clint said.
“Big Jim,” the small man said. “I’m changin’ my name to Big Jim.”
Clint studied the man. He wasn’t wearing a gun, and he wasn’t carrying a rifle, yet he had been described as a killer.
“Little J—Big Jim,” Clint said, “have you seen your friend Garver?”
Jim looked at Kelly.
“Why are you wearin’ the sheriff’s badge?” Jim asked.
“I’m the new sheriff.”
“Since when?”
“Since you and Garver robbed the bank, and killed the bank manager.”
“We’re gonna have to take a look inside those saddlebags, Jim,” Kelly said.
“Like hell,” the little man said.
Kelly took one step toward him, and Jim reached under the bar. Clint knew he had a split second to make a decision. If he was too slow to act, Kelly would be dead.
Jim was coming out from under the bar with a shotgun when Clint drew. As if he sensed his danger was from Clint, the little killer turned toward him, ignoring Kelly. As Clint fired, Jim pulled both triggers on the shotgun. Both barrels discharged into the bar, splintering it. Clint’s bullet went into Jim’s chest, and he went down behind the bar.
Clint walked to the bar, checked Jim to determine that he was dead.
“He was pretty quick with that shotgun,” Kelly said. “I didn’t have time to react.”
“Forget it,” Clint said. He replaced the spent shell and holstered his gun. “Check the saddlebags.”
Kelly opened the bags and found the cash.
“Jeez,” he said. “I never seen this much money.”
Clint spread the bank bundles out on top of the bar.
“Looks like thirty thousand,” he said. “We should find out how much was taken from the bank.”
“We’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow, then,” Clint said. “We’ll have to talk to somebody at the bank before we go—or maybe the mayor will have the numbers.”
“The mayor . . .” Kelly said, shaking his head. “What a waste.”
“That’s the way he seemed to me, but right now we have to deal with him.”
“Okay. What do we do with the money for now?”
“I’ll keep it in my room,” Clint said. “And we should get you a room.”
“What about him?” Kelly asked.
“Let’s lock the front door and go out the back. Forget about him for now.”
“As the law, I should do something about the body,” Kelly said.
“Tomorrow we can have it taken over to the undertaker’s.”
“Okay.”
“So let’s get out of here now, before somebody comes to see what the shooting was all about.”
Kelly moved quickly, slammed the front doors, and locked them. Then they walked through the back room and out the back door, Clint with the saddlebags. Little Jim’s horse was still there, and they decided to just leave it there.
They went to the hotel and got Kelly a room right across from Clint’s. On the second floor they stopped in front of their rooms.
“If either of us hears shots, we’ll come running,” Clint said.
“Okay.”
Kelly’s eyes went to the saddlebags.
“Something on your mind?” Clint asked.
“I just wondered . . . you ever think about keepin’ that money?”
“No,” Clint said.
Kelly hesitated, then said, “Me neither.”
