The Devil's Collector by J. R. Roberts Page A

tonight?”
    â€œWhile we’re here,” Clint said, “let’s talk to people at these two businesses.”
    â€œYou want to split up?”
    â€œNo,” Clint said, “I want to stay together. After what happened to your brother, I want everything we do in this town to be done together. Agreed?”
    â€œAgreed.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    They started with the feed and grain, talking to a man named Emmett Toth who claimed he never saw a thing. There were two other employees in the building, and they made the same claim. They didn’t see—or hear—anything.
    Clint and Sonnet left the building.
    â€œHow could five men shoot your brother down in the street, and yet nobody even heard a shot?”
    â€œThey’re lying,” Sonnet said.
    â€œHell yes, they’re lying,” Clint said, “but before we call anyone a liar to their face, let’s go and see who was in the livery when it happened.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    They entered the livery, found a kid about sixteen or seventeen mucking out stalls with a pitchfork. This was not the same livery where they had left their horses when they’d ridden in earlier. That one was in another part of town.
    â€œHelp you fellas?” the kid asked. “I don’t see no horses with ya.”
    â€œWe just want to ask you a few questions,” Clint said.
    The boy stuck his pitchfork in the ground and leaned on it.
    â€œWhat’s it about?”
    â€œA few months ago a man was shot down right outside your door,” Clint said. “You remember that?”
    â€œSure do,” the kid said. “I ain’t ever seen nothin’ like that happen before.”
    â€œSo you saw it?” Sonnet asked.
    â€œUh, no, I didn’t,” he said. “I mean, I ain’t never been around when somethin’ like that happened.”
    â€œSo you weren’t here when it happened?” Clint asked.
    â€œI was workin’ here,” the kid said, “but I was in the back. In the corral.”
    â€œSo you didn’t see anything.”
    â€œNossir.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t hear shots?”
    â€œOh, nossir.”
    â€œBut you said you were outside,” Sonnet said.
    â€œI was, but I was out back.”
    Clint decided to let that go for the moment.
    â€œWhat about your boss?”
    â€œWhat about ’im?”
    â€œWas he here that day?”
    â€œUm, I think he was around here . . . somewhere,” the kid said.
    â€œWhat’s your name, son?” Clint asked.
    â€œEddie.”
    â€œEddie, this fellow here is Jack Sonnet. It was his brother who was killed.”
    â€œAw, gee,” Eddie said. “I’m sure sorry.”
    â€œWe really need to find witnesses to the shooting,” Clint said.
    â€œAre you a lawman?” Eddie asked.
    â€œNo,” Clint said, “I’m just a friend. My name is Clint Adams.”
    The boy took a step backward.
    â€œFor real?” he asked. “The Gunsmith?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œOh, gee . . .”
    â€œYou got something you want to tell me now, Eddie?” Clint asked.
    â€œI, uh, no . . .” Eddie said, but he couldn’t look Clint in the eyes. “What, uh, what would you do if you found out who done it?”
    â€œI’ll kill anybody who killed my brother,” Sonnet said. “What would you do, Eddie?”
    â€œUm, the same, I guess.”
    â€œLook, Eddie,” Clint said, “we’re going to be in town for a while. We’re staying at the Merchant Hotel. If you think of anything—or remember anything—let us know, will you?”
    â€œI sure will, Mr. Adams,” Eddie said. “I mean, I’d like to help, I really would.”
    â€œThat’s good, Eddie,” Clint said. “That’s really good, because we’d be willing to pay for the right kind of