Clint let himself into the sheriff’s office without knocking, even though he really had no intention of going back there.
“Adams,” Moreland said, looking up in surprise. “What’s on your mind? You look … agitated.”
“That’s a good word for it.”
“What is it?”
“I heard that the word has gone out around town about my little job for Restin.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that. Do you know who opened their big mouth about it? I assume it wasn’t you.”
Sheriff Moreland put his hands up and said, “I didn’t say a word.”
“Then who?”
“You got me,” Moreland said. “Maybe you should just ask Restin.”
“Restin! Why would he say a word?”
“I don’t know,” the lawman said. “Weren’t you wonderin’ why he hired you in the first place? So, why not ask another question?”
Clint shook his head. Restin would be crazy to say anything, but Clint still didn’t know the whole story.
On the other hand, it could have been Terry Restin, herself, looking to make things difficult from the very beginning.
“But you know,” Moreland said, “a ranch hand, a bartender, one of Restin’s gunnies … all it would take is one.”
“You’re right about that.”
“So calm down,” the lawman suggested. “Just do the job and get it over with.”
“Believe me,” Clint said, “that’s what I intend to do.”
“Do you want me to ask around town and try to find out who talked?”
“No, just forget it.” Clint replied. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
“Well, just do me a favor,” the lawman said.
“What’s that?”
“If you find out who did it, don’t shoot anybody,” Moreland said, “at least, not in town.”
“Agreed,” Clint said.
Clint left the sheriff’s office, stopping just outside. The only thing left to do was buy some supplies for his trip with Terry Restin. Vance Restin’s expense money was burning a hole in his pocket.
He went to the General Store, bought some things that would fit easily into a burlap bag, which he would then hang from his saddle. He didn’t want a take a pack animal along. It would only slow them down.
By the time he was done he had bought enough beef jerky, beans, bacon, cans of peaches, coffee, ammunition for both his weapons, as well as two new blankets that he knew he’d be hanging from Terry’s saddle, as well.
“Will you be takin’ any of this with you now, sir?” the clerk asked.
“No,” Clint said, “I’d like to pick it all up early tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, sir,” the man said. “And shall I put this on Mr. Restin’s tab?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Uh, well, I just assumed, after what I’ve been hearin’ around town—”
“And just exactly where did you hear what you heard?” Clint asked, cutting him off.
“Um, I don’t rightly know, sir, just … around.” The clerk looked nervous.
Clint said, “You know what? Go ahead and put this all on Mr. Restin’s tab.”
“All right, sir.”
“And add some more of this … and this … and this …”
Rhodes, Banks and Spenser were in town, drinking in a saloon called the Black Queen.
“No matter what we told Dave Peterson,” Rhodes said, “or what Dave told Restin, I ain’t okay with this.”
“I don’t got a problem with it,” Spenser said, “as long as we’re gettin’ paid as much money as Peterson said we was gonna.”
“Oh, hey,” Stan Rhodes said, “don’t get me wrong. I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna go through with it, I just said I didn’t like it.”
“Hey!” Banks said. He was standing at the bat wing doors, looking out over them. “Look who’s here.”
Rhodes and Spenser joined him at the door and looked out at Clint Adams, who was crossing the street. They watched as he strode on past.
“This would be real easy, now,” Banks said. “All we gotta do is step out--”
Rhodes put his hand on Banks’ shoulder to stop him from saying more.
“I wanna kill him as much as you do,” Rhodes said. “But not enough to mess up our chance at a lot of money first.” He slapped Banks on the back. “Come back to the bar and drink your beer.”
Rhodes walked back to the bar.
“He’s right,” Spenser said. “Come on.”
He followed Rhodes back to the bar and, reluctantly, so did Banks.
He left the General Store after spending much more of Vance Restin’s money than he’d intended to. As he crossed the street he pretended not to see three of Vance Restin’s hired guns watching him from the doorway of the Black Queen saloon.
He briefly considered going into the saloon and playing with the three men, because they must have been ordered not to brace him at any time—at least, until the job was over. But in the end he decided to stay away from them. After all, he’d promised the sheriff he wouldn’t shoot anybody.
Not in town, anyway.