“You’re out of here!”
Sheriff Moreland came walking into the cell block, keys jangling. He inserted the key into the lock of Clint’s cell and swung the door open.
“Just like that?”
“Come outside.”
The sheriff left the cell block. Clint picked up his hat and followed. Moreland had put his gunbelt on top of his desk.
“I gave Mr. Restin your message,” he said. “He wants to see you.”
“Out at his ranch?”
“No,” Moreland said. “A saloon called the Drinkwater, here in town.”
“When?”
“Today,” the lawman said. “Right away, if you can.”
“I can’t,” Clint said. “I need a hot bath and a shave, first.”
“You’re gonna keep him waitin’?”
“Sure,” Clint said, strapping on his gun, “why not?”
Clint went to his hotel, where he still had his room. He arranged with the clerk for a hot bath, then got some fresh clothes from his saddlebags.
After the bath he felt almost human again. Even one night behind bars was enough to make a man feel like an animal. He crossed the street to a barber shop and got himself a shave and a trim. When he stepped back out on the street, he felt like himself, again.
He headed for the Drinkwater Saloon.
Vance Restin sat opposite his man, Peterson.
“You think I didn’t know you and your men followed me to town yesterday?”
“Just lookin’ out for you, boss.”
“That’s what I pay you for. That’s why I brought you to town with me, today.”
Stan Rhodes came running over from the batwing doors.
“He’s comin’ down the street!”
“All right,” Restin told them, “get out. Go out the back way.”
“But boss—”
“Go!” Restin said. “He’s not going to kill me.”
Peterson stood and jerked his head at Rhodes to follow him. The other two gunnies were somewhere else, probably a whorehouse.
“Buck!”
“Yeah, boss?”
“When Adams sits down bring him a beer.”
“Sure, boss.”
“You still got that shotgun behind the bar?”
“Yep.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Restin said. “If I’m wrong and he kills me, you kill him.”
“Sure, boss.”
Restin sat back and poured himself a drink from the bottle on the table. He picked it up, and waited.
Clint approached the little saloon, looked around. People were walking by, but nobody went in or came out of the saloon.
When he stepped inside he saw that the place was empty except for Restin, and the bartender. He walked to Restin’s table.
“Have a seat,” the rancher said. “I’m sure you could use a beer.”
Clint sat. The bartender came over with a cold mug of beer.
“You got a shotgun behind that bar?” he asked the man.
The barman looked at Restin.
“He does,” Restin said.
“He won’t need it.”
Restin waved the man back to the bar.
“That’s good to hear,” he said. “The sheriff tells me you’ve decided to accept my offer.”
“How could I refuse?”
“Exactly.”
“What do we do first?”
“First, you have to meet my daughter.”
“And how do we do that?”
“You’ll come to my house for supper tonight,” Restin said. “I’ll introduce you.”
“Why does she need to be taken to Sacramento?” Clint asked. “Isn’t she old enough to go on her own?”
“She is,” Restin said, “but she won’t. She doesn’t want to go. You’re going to have to make her.”
“Great,” Clint said. “Will she be kicking and screaming the whole way?”
“I guess that’ll be up to you,” Restin said. “I will say this. She’s not an easy girl to handle.”
Clint picked up his beer and drank down half of it morosely.
“Relax,” Restin said. “Maybe she’ll like you.”