I had a problem. I had to do some investigating. Figuring why the Dutchman had shot Clay wasn’t that hard – the reward – but figuring why Clay had tried to rob the bank in the first place was still eating away at me. Clay was dead, and most would say that ended things. But there were two other men lying over at Doc’s place, and I wanted to know why.
But I was tied to my office, at least until Chester got back. Not only was I responsible for the kid, I also had to make sure that I was present when Adam Richards came back, and make sure Ziegler didn’t get lynched.
“Son?” I said.
He was sitting next to me, watching me reloading my pistol. His head snapped up. “You say somethin’, Mr. Dillon?”
“Yeah, open that drawer in front of you there. You’ll find a small bottle of oil in there – no, no, the one to the right. Yeah, that’s right. Now, bring the little brush too.”
He handed them over. “Here ya go.”
“Thanks, bub.”
He only had eyes for the gun. “It’s a right nice gun you got there,” he said.
“Yeah,” I chuckled, “it’s not bad. But it’s a little stiff, just a little stiff.”
“Don’t it have a trigger? I never seen a gun without a trigger.”
“You remove the trigger, or tie it back against the guard, and all you have to do is thumb the hammer.” I dropped out the cartridges and showed him. “There, like that. It’s faster.” I ran the oiled brush up the barrel and through each of the chambers, then reloaded. There’s a good ritual to reloading a gun. Someone once told me never to check a gun once you’ve loaded it. If you loaded it once, it stays loaded, he said. But I like to see them there, all in that small circle. “Yeah, that’s better now.”
“Remove the trigger,” murmured the kid. “I’ll remember that.”
“What in the world for?” I asked.
“I remember everything you told me – ‘bout the Texas holster and the spring holster and the double-roll and filin’ off the sight –“
He was cut off by the door opening. I stood up and put myself between the boy and the door.
Chester came in. “It’s just me, Mr. Dillon.”
I sat back down. “Close that door behind you, Chester. Any luck?”
Chester already had the door shut, and he crossed to the window beside it. “No, sir, not any. I went to the store first and asked Mr. Denton what kind of ammunition Mr. Richards used to buy, and he told me Clay had a double-action 44. I scoured the riverbank a half-mile each way from the ford and not a sign of it.”
I nodded. I’d half-hoped it would turn up with three shots fired – two for the dead men and one aimed at Ziegler. But wishes aren’t horses.
“I got those telegrams off,” Chester said.
“Good,” I said.
We sat there, me by my desk, Chester by the window, the boy sitting close to me, and Ziegler sulking in the cell. I was wondering if I could leave Ziegler and the boy with Chester while I went out and asked a few questions. I suppose I could’ve taken the boy with me – there was something about him that I liked. There are a lot of folks who think kids ought to be seen and not heard, but I’m not one of them. I like kids who ask questions. Not that I always have the answers.
So I could take the kid with me and go off hunting for answers. But I got to wondering if, when Adam came at the jail, could Chester hold the place all by himself? Would he? He didn’t seem like the type to run. But there was something about him. It wasn’t steel. It was fluid, like water. Chester was an unknown quality. He could shoot, but shooting a tincan off a fence doesn’t mean he had the – whatever it was, to kill a man. No. I’d have to wait. Wait and see.
After awhile I heard a bell ringing. “Is there a fire in town?” I asked.
Chester peered out the window at an angle. “Funeral services for Mr. Grinnell.”
The dead cashier. “So soon?”
Chester shrugged. “It’s awful hot weather.” He went back to looking down the street towards the saloons.
“Yeah,” I said. “Any of your guns need oiling, Chester?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You sure? Adam Richards said he’d be coming back – with some friends.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Chester. “I stopped at the Allafreganza just now to – rinse out m’mouth. Adam was there, talkin’ mighty ugly and mighty big. He’s got a sizable followin’.”
“Mm. When do you think?”
“Any minute now, Mr. Dillon. Do you want me to take the boy outta here. To one of the hotels, maybe?”
“I wanna see it!” the kid protested.
“No,” I said. “I think he’ll be safer here, behind stone walls, than ducking about the streets rubber-necking.”
Chester nodded. “You keep your head down now, sonny, y’hear?”
“Yessir, Mr. Proudfoot.”
