The Devil's Collector by J. R. Roberts

the back. He knocked and entered.
    â€œHave a seat, Sheriff,” Albert said.
    Koster sat down across the desk from Albert.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind?”
    â€œThat Sonnet kid rode back into town today,” Koster said.
    â€œI thought we dealt with that,” Koster said, frowning. “What does he want?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou intend to find out?”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    â€œI say so,” Albert said. “I want to know why the hell he’s back here.”
    â€œOkay,” Koster said, “I’ll ask him.”
    When the sheriff didn’t move, Albert asked, “Is there something else?”
    â€œUh, well, he’s got another man with him.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œIt’s Clint Adams.”
    Albert stared at Koster for a few moments.
    â€œThe Gunsmith?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYou couldn’t lead with that?” Albert asked. “I mean, the news here is that the Sonnet kid rode back into town with the Gunsmith, right?”
    â€œWell, yeah, I guess . . .”
    â€œYou guess?” Albert put his head back and stared at the ceiling for a few moments.
    â€œYou still want me to ask Sonnet what he’s doin’ here?”
    â€œYou better wait,” Albert said. “If they’re here for trouble, they’ll come to you.”
    â€œThat’s what I told my deputy.”
    â€œIs it?” Albert asked. “Well, you must be getting smarter in your old age, huh, Sheriff?”
    â€œMr. Albert—”
    â€œJust get out,” Albert said. “Keep an eye on them and let me know when they come to you. Or if they do not come to you.”
    â€œYeah, okay.”
    The sheriff stood up and left the office. The bartender watched him intently as he went out the batwings. Then he stole a look at his boss’s door, which was closed.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Albert pushed his chair back from his desk, pressed his fingertips together in front of him, and stared at them. He should have had the Sonnet kid killed the last time he was here, but who thought he’d actually come back? And with the Gunsmith in tow? What was that all about?
    Whatever was going on, he was sure that the sheriff wasn’t going to be able to handle it.
    He stood up and walked to the door of his office. He stood there until the bartender sensed him and turned to look, then he waved the man over.
    â€œYeah, boss?”
    â€œFind me Benny Nickles.”
    â€œNickles?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œBad news, boss?” the man asked.
    â€œIt is for somebody, Andy,” Michael Albert said. “It is for somebody.”

TWENTY
    On the way back to their hotel, Jack Sonnet took Clint to the spot where his brother had died. It was a street outside Toth’s Feed & Grain, across the street from the livery stable.
    â€œWhere was he going?” Clint asked. “Or coming from?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Sonnet said. “All I was told was that he was shot right here. Apparently, five men braced him and shot him down on the street.”
    â€œAnd—if your information has been correct—three of those men are dead.”
    â€œYes,” Sonnet said, “if my information has been right.”
    Clint looked around, studied the buildings.
    â€œSomebody could have seen this happen,” he said. “Somebody outside the feed and grain, or the livery.”
    â€œThe sheriff told me he checked for witnesses and didn’t find any.”
    â€œThen how did he know five men shot and killed your brother?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œSomebody told him that,” Clint said, “and that somebody was a witness.”
    â€œSeems like that should be right.”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “that’s one of the questions we’re going to ask the sheriff tomorrow.”
    â€œSo what do we do