Free Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388) by J. R. Roberts Page A

doin’ that,” Reeves said. “No, there’s no need.”
    “What if one of his deputies never comes back?” Clint asked.
    “He assumes they are dead.”
    “Without proof?”
    “The fact that they didn’t come back is all the proof he needs.”
    “I guess…”
    After a few minutes Reeves said, “Can I ask you a question?”
    “Sure.”
    “How many times has the Judge asked you to wear a badge?”
    “Too many to count.”
    “And you always say no.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Why?”
    “Haven’t we talked about this before?” Clint asked.
    “About why you don’t wear a badge anymore,” Reeves said. “But why do you keep turning down the Judge?”
    “Oh, that’s easy,” Clint said. “I don’t like him.”
    “Why not?”
    “I’m not sure,” Clint said. “Maybe it’s because hedoesn’t require proof before assuming one of his men is dead.”
    Washington and his men rode into Kilkenny just before dark. They stopped in front of the hotel. Washington gave his horse to Gordon, told them both to take care of the mounts.
    “Both of us?” Franklin asked.
    “Yeah, both of you.”
    They rode off toward the livery.
    Washington went into the hotel. Jefferson was sitting in the lobby, waiting.
    “Where are the others?” Washington asked.
    “In their rooms, or in a whorehouse, one of the two,” Jefferson said.
    “Do I have a room?”
    Jefferson nodded and handed him a key. Gordon and Franklin would get their own room when they came in.
    “Are you sure Reeves will come?” Jefferson asked.
    “I’m sure,” Washington said. “Ain’t you?”
    “I think so,” Jefferson said, “and I hope so, but—”
    “Don’t worry,” Washington said, putting his hand on the other man’s arm, “I’m sure.”

TWENTY-SIX
    Clint woke Reeves in the morning and said, “Let’s go to Kilkenny for breakfast.”
    “Suits me,” Reeves said.
    They saddled up, and within two hours, they were riding into Kilkenny, Kansas. It was a small town, and Clint wondered what could possibly interest the Buffalo Soldier Bandits—as he had come to think of them—in this town.
    “They got a bank,” Reeves said as they rode past it.
    “Kind of small, though.”
    Reeves nodded.
    They rode a little farther and Reeves said, “Two hotels, two saloons.”
    “We’ll pick one of each later,” Clint said, “but maybe we should talk to the local law first.”
    “Right.”
    They found the sheriff’s office and reined in.
    “You better do the talking,” Clint said as they dismounted. “You’ve got the badge.”
    “Yeah, you keep remindin’ me,” Reeves said. “You sure you don’t want me to hide it?”
    “No,” Clint said, “I think it’s important the sheriff sees it—oh, yeah, you were joking. You do it so rarely I didn’t notice.”
    Reeves gave him a look, and they mounted the boardwalk in front of the office.
    Across the street a black man stood in the shadows, watched Clint and Reeves enter the sheriff’s office. Then he came out of the shadows and hurried down the street.
    Sergeant Lemuel Washington nursed his beer, sitting across from Corporal Jefferson. Three of the other four—Franklin, Weatherby, and Webster—were elsewhere. Their only instructions were to stay out of sight.
    The batwings opened and Private Gordon entered, walking fast. He hurriedly joined Washington and Jefferson at the table.
    “They’re here,” he said.
    “Are you sure?” Jefferson asked.
    “Yeah,” Gordon said, “one of them was a great big black man.”
    “Reeves,” Washington said.
    “And the other man was white.”
    “Don’t know who that is,” Washington said, “but it don’t matter. As long as Bass Reeves is here.”
    “So what are we gon’ do now?” Jefferson asked.
    After Private Edwards—who Washington was surewas dead—Jefferson was the oldest of the men, and the sergeant often looked to him for advice.
    “Gordon,” Washington said, “get yourself a beer.”
    “Yessir. Don’t got to tell me