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

help.”
    â€œPay?” the boy asked.
    Clint nodded and said, “Pay.”

TWENTY-ONE
    They went back to their hotel, figuring they were done for the night.
    â€œTomorrow we’ll start with the sheriff,” Clint said. “See what he’s got to say for himself.”
    â€œYou think he’ll remember?”
    â€œA lawman doesn’t forget that kind of shooting in his town,” Clint said. “He’ll remember it, and he’ll remember you. What I’m interested in is whether or not his story is the same.”
    â€œWell,” Sonnet said, “I remember every word he told me.”
    â€œI knew you would,” Clint said. “You don’t forget when somebody tells you someone you loved died.”
    â€œYou’ve lost love ones?” Sonnet asked.
    â€œNot family members,” Clint said, “but lots and lots of friends.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    They stopped in the saloon for a beer before going to their own rooms.
    â€œWhat about somebody watchin’ us?” Sonnet asked.
    â€œI still haven’t seen anybody,” Clint said. “On the other hand, you haven’t gotten a telegram since Deline, have you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen whoever was sending them must know that you’ve changed your plans.”
    â€œHow?”
    Clint shook his head, then thought of something.
    â€œJack, you haven’t been keeping in touch with anyone, have you? Sending telegrams yourself?”
    Sonnet didn’t answer right away.
    â€œJack . . .”
    â€œJust Betty.”
    â€œWho’s Betty?”
    â€œShe’s the daughter of the farmer who took me in,” he said. “She’s the one nursed me back to health.”
    â€œOh yeah?” Clint smiled.
    â€œWe got . . . you know, friendly.”
    â€œAnd you’ve been sending her telegrams?”
    â€œJust to tell her where I am,” he said, “and that I’m all right.”
    Clint stood there and studied what was left of his beer.
    â€œYou don’t think she’d tell anybody, do you?” Jack asked.
    â€œI don’t know the girl, Jack,” Clint said. “But she wouldn’t have to tell anybody.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œSomebody could just be watching her, reading her telegrams.”
    â€œYou mean . . . like her father?”
    â€œFather, brother—”
    â€œShe doesn’t have any brothers.”
    â€œUncles?”
    â€œThere’s an uncle.”
    â€œOkay, so maybe the father, maybe an uncle, maybe somebody in town. We’ll find out when we get there. Meanwhile, don’t send any more telegrams.”
    â€œWhat? You mean . . . to Betty?”
    â€œThat’s what I mean,” Clint said. “Have you sent one yet from here?”
    â€œUh, no,” Sonnet said. “I haven’t had the time.”
    â€œOkay, don’t,” Clint said.
    â€œBut . . . she’ll worry.”
    â€œAfter we talk to the sheriff,” Clint said, “we’ll take a ride out to that farm and see Betty and her family.”
    â€œThe Rayfields.”
    â€œOkay,” Clint said, “we’ll go and see the Rayfields.”
    â€œYeah, okay,” Sonnet said. “I’m gonna turn in.”
    â€œI’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have breakfast right here in the hotel.”
    â€œSure.”
    Sonnet left the saloon and went to his room, and Clint ordered a second beer . . .
    He was halfway through the second beer when a man wearing a badge entered, not from the hotel lobby but from the street. He was young, obviously a deputy.
    â€œHey, Will,” the bartender greeted him. “Does the sheriff know you’re here?”
    â€œI’ve gotta do my rounds, don’t I?” the deputy said. “Let me have a beer.”
    â€œI’ll give you a short one, just to keep you out of