Clint was leaning over a beer in the half empty saloon when the sheriff walked in with his deputy.
“Sheriff,” he said. “Join me?”
“No, Mr. Adams,” Moreland said, “I need you to join me.”
“Where?”
Both star packers drew their guns, Billy doing so very nervously. Clint let them, because he instinctively knew they weren’t about to shoot him.
“What’s going on, sheriff?”
“Just stand still,” Moreland said. He looked at the bartender. “Louie, get his gun.”
“What the—” the bartender started.
“Just do it!”
The barman reached over the bar and plucked Clint’s gun from his holster, sayin’ “Sorry, Mr. Adams.”
“Don’t worry about it, Louie.”
“Now let’s take a walk to the jail,” Moreland said.
“No explanation?” Clint asked.
“You’ll get your explanation once we get there.” He waggled his gun barrel. “Move!”
When they got to the jail, Clint was surprised to be put right into a cell.
“What’s going on, sheriff?” he demanded.
“Well, right now you’re in a cell,” Moreland said. “That means I gotta feed ya.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Clint said, “just tell me—” but the sheriff was gone, closing the door of the cell block behind him. Clint was alone to ponder the three walls and bars of his cell.
Sheriff Moreland went over to the Drinkwater Saloon, which was where Vance Restin did his drinking when he was in town – mostly because he owned the place. It was small, expensively put together, and most of the townspeople didn’t like it much, so they didn’t patronize it. That suited Restin just fine. He didn’t even let his own men go into the Drinkwater.
Moreland found him sitting at his usual table near the front window. The bartender, a tall, dour looking man in his forties named Buck, was wiping down the bar with a dry rag – dry because the bar never got wet, because nobody ever went inside.
“Buck,” Restin said, “bring the sheriff a beer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sit down, Moreland.”
The sheriff sat and Buck set a beer in front of him. Restin had a bottle of whiskey and a glass, poured himself a shot.
“You get him?”
“I did.”
“Any problem?”
“No,” Moreland said, “he came peaceful.”
“So he’s in a cell?”
“Yep.”
“Well, let him stew for a while,” Restin said, “and then tell him what he’s being charged with.”
“Can I feed him?”
“Sure.”
“And after I charge him?”
“Tell me how he reacts?”
“And then what?”
Restin drank his drink and poured himself another glass. The sheriff took the opportunity to drink some beer.
“And then we’ll move onto the next step.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll offer him a job again,” Restin said. “I think he’ll take it, then, don’t you?”