The sheriff poured a couple of drinks from a bottle he kept in a bottom drawer, and they sat on either side of the desk, facing each other.
“Her name was Agnes Kimball—everybody called her Aggie.”
“Everybody knew her?”
“A lot of people did,” Sheriff Gaines said. “She was a saloon girl and a whore. Men liked her, women hated her.”
“So it was the women who lynched her?”
“No,” Gaines said, “it was a group of men who took her out there.”
“Why?”
“I said she was a saloon girl,” Gaines said. “That was back when we had saloons.”
“Yeah, I noticed some boarded up as I came into town,” Clint said. “What’s that about?”
“Feller came to town last year, started preachin’.”
“But not Deacon.”
“No,” Gaines said, “this feller’s name was Stoll, Albert Stoll. It took him eight months to get this town under his thumb. He had all the saloons closed.”
“How could he do that?” Clint asked. “What about the saloon owners? The mayor? The town council?”
Gaines raised his right thumb and said, “All under his spell.”
“Spell?”
“I don’t know what else to call it,” Gaines said. “They all believe everythin’ he says.”
“And what about you?”
“I wanna keep my job,” Gaines said, with a shrug. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“So what about Aggie?”
“Aggie,” Gaines said, with the ghost of a smile. “She didn’t buy into what Stoll was sellin’. Never did. She was always talkin’ against him.”
“That’s why he had her lynched?”
“That was pretty much the reason,” Gaines said, “but not exactly. See, a feller named Bob Adelson got himself killed. Stoll said Aggie did it, and that was all the town needed.”
“and they dragged her out there and lynched her?”
Gaines nodded.
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
“I tried. I rode out there to do just that, but I was too late.”
“Not too late to cut her down, though.”
Gaines sat back in his chair and took a deep breath.
“I’m not a brave man, mister—say, I never got your name.”
“Adams, Clint Adams.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right. What’s this about not being brave?”
“Stoll has men workin’ for him,” Gaines said. “They enforce his word.”
“Gunmen?”
“Some of them.”
“What’s he supposed to be, this Stoll?” Clint asked.
“Some sort of religious leader,” Gaines said.
“Don’t you have a preacher, or priest, in town?”
“We did,” Gaines said. “but Stoll had the church boarded up, just like the saloons.”
“I don’t like the way this sounds,” Clint said.
“Me, neither, but there ain’t much I can do about it,” Gaines said.
“What about Aggie’s body?” Clint asked. “Can we take it to the undertaker?”
“You can try,” Gaines said. “I don’t know about gettin’ her buried, here. That’ll be up to Mr. Stoll.”
Clint studied the sheriff for a few moments, wondering if the man was also completely under the mysterious Mr. Stoll’s thumb?
“Well,” Clint said, getting to his feet, “I’m going to give it a try.”
“The undertaker is one street North,” Gaines said, “then turn left. You’ll see it.”
“Thanks. And the nearest livery?”
“Two streets North, and to the right, at the end of Oak Street.”
“All right,” Clint said. “I hope Mr. Stoll hasn’t had all the hotels boarded up, as well.”
“You gonna stay?” Gaines asked.
“For a while.”
“Are you gonna go up against Mr. Stoll?”
“I guess that’ll be up to Mr. Stoll,” Clint said.