The Devil's Collector by J. R. Roberts

you,” Koster said, “I didn’t hear a thing.”
    â€œNot sure I believe that, Sheriff,” Clint said, “not sure at all.”

THIRTY-THREE
    â€œYou’re callin’ me a liar?”
    â€œOh yeah,” Clint said, “and so’s my friend here. Only he’s not as patient as I am. He won’t wait for me to prove you’re a liar.”
    â€œReally?” Koster asked. “So you’re threatenin’ me?”
    â€œNo threat,” Sonnet said. “If I find out—no, if I think you had something to do with my brother’s death, I’ll kill you.”
    â€œA lawman?” Koster asked. “You’ll kill a lawman?”
    â€œI’ll kill you,” Sonnet said. “Whether or not you’re wearin’ a badge won’t matter to me.”
    â€œThat is,” Clint said, “unless you want to tell us that somebody else was involved?”
    â€œLike who?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Clint said. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
    â€œI think you fellas better get out of my office,” Koster said.
    â€œSure, Sheriff,” Clint said.
    â€œBut I’ll be seein’ you again,” Sonnet said. “Soon.”
    They turned and went outside.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Outside, Clint said, “You caught on pretty quick.”
    â€œIt seemed to me you wanted to press him,” Sonnet said.
    â€œI did,” Clint said. “Let’s see what he does now.”
    â€œYou think he’s workin’ for someone here in town?” Sonnet said.
    â€œDefinitely,” Clint said. “Somebody with money. Those people always think they can buy the law.”
    â€œMust be quite a few people in town who match that description.”
    â€œMmm,” Clint said. “We could look into that.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œThere are two kinds of people with that information,” Clint said. “Bartenders, and newspapermen.”
    â€œI can check with the bartenders,” Sonnet said.
    â€œAnd I’ll check the newspaper,” Clint said. “I’ll meet you in the saloon in our hotel in about two hours.”
    â€œFine,” Sonnet said, “I’ll hit that one last.”
    â€œSee you then.”
    They separated from there.

THIRTY-FOUR
    Clint found there was only one town newspaper, the
Monroe City Chronicle
.
The office was about three blocks from the sheriff’s office. As he stood out front, he thought it would have been pretty hard not to have heard those shots from here.
    The name of the newspaper was etched on all the windows, and the glass was frosted, so he was unable to see inside. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and went inside.
    It was quiet, the printing press sitting unattended. He looked around, didn’t see anyone, but there was an inner office behind a frosted glass door, again with a name etched in the glass. This time, however, instead of the newspaper, it bore the name of the editor: J. ABBOTT, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF .
    He knocked on that door before opening it and entering.
    A woman turned and stared at him, her eyes wide.
    â€œYou startled me,” she said.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “I was looking for J. Abbott, the editor.”
    â€œThat would be me,” she said.
    â€œYou’re J. Abbott?”
    â€œJennifer,” she said.
    Her honey-colored hair was piled high on top of her head. She was wearing a purple, high-collar blouse underneath a brown jacket, and a matching brown skirt and boots. She looked to be in her late thirties, maybe forty, but she was lovely nevertheless.
    â€œAnd you are?”
    â€œOh, my name is Clint Adams.”
    â€œClint . . . Adams?” she said. “You mean . . . the Gunsmith?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWell . . . wow,” she said. “What is the Gunsmith doing in Monroe City?” She grabbed up a pad of paper.