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Adams.”
    Wilkes looked at Clint, who put the beer in front of him.
    “Your friend’s got a name I recognize, but he’s wearin’ a badge.”
    “He’s not here lookin’ for you behind a badge,” Minnesota said. “Well, yeah, he is, but he wants your help.”
    “My help,” Wilkes said. “With what?”
    “Can we sit?” Clint asked.
    “Sure,” Wilkes said. “Why not?”
    Clint and Minnesota pulled out chairs, sat down, and put their beers on the table.
    Clint explained the situation—Harper getting shot stopping a bank robbery and the Graves gang planning to come back and finish the job.
    “Graves,” Wilkes said. “I heard of them. Family, right? Brothers? Cousins?”
    “That’s them.”
    “And you want my help stoppin’ them?”
    “That’s right.”
    “What’s in it for me?”
    “I’ll get you paid,” Clint said. “I don’t know how much yet.”
    “More than Minnesota’s makin’ as a deputy?” Wilkes asked.
    “Probably.”
    “I tell you what,” Wilkes said. “You talk to Commons over there. If he agrees to go, I’ll agree to go.”
    “Okay,” Clint said, “we’ll talk to your friend—”
    “He ain’t no friend of mine!” Wilkes snapped.
    “Sorry.”
    “We just work together,” Wilkes said, “and if he says it’s okay, I’ll do it.”
    “All right,” Clint said, standing up. “We’ll talk to him.”
    Wilkes sipped his beer, then looked up at Clint.
    “Gonna take more than a beer to get him to talk to you.”
    “Like what?” Clint asked.
    “Like a bottle.”
    “Okay,” Clint said, “a bottle it is.”
    “Good luck,” Wilkes said. “He ain’t in as good a mood as I am.”
    “I guess we’ll have to see how persuasive I can be,” Clint said.
    He and Minnesota walked to the bar and collected a bottle of whiskey from the bartender.
    “You ain’t gonna bust up my place, are ya?” the barman asked.
    “Why would we do that?” Clint asked.
    “I don’t know,” he said. “Those two do it almost every night.”
    “How?”
    “Fightin’.”
    “With who?”
    The bartender shrugged.
    “With each other,” he said, “or whoever tries to get between ’em.”
    “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “We’re not here to fight with them, or get between them.”
    “Yeah,” Minnesota said, “we’re just here to drink with ’em.”
    Clint started away from the bar, then turned back.
    “You got law here?”
    “No,” the bartender said. “We only got about twenty-two people living’ here. Don’t need no law. We take care of ourselves.”
    “Okay,” Clint said, “whatever works for you, I guess.”
    “If you was to take those two out of here,” the bartender said, “it’d be a lot quieter, though. A lot quieter.”
    “They seem pretty quiet,” Clint said.
    “Yeah,” the bartender said, “now.”

TWENTY-TWO
    Minnesota and Clint carried their beers and the bottle over to the other table. The man called Commons had his head down on his crossed arms.
    “Commons,” Minnesota said.
    The man didn’t stir.
    “Commons,” Minnesota said, again, “we got whiskey.”
    Commons lifted his head. His eyes surprised Clint. They were bright blue, and clear. He hadn’t been sleeping, and he wasn’t drunk.
    Clint put the bottle on the table, with a shot glass over the top.
    “Hello, Minnesota,” Commons said. “What the hell is that thing on your chest?”
    “A badge,” Minnesota said. “I’m a deputy.”
    “And who’s your friend?”
    “He’s the sheriff of a town called Guardian.”
    “Stupid name for a town.”
    “That from a man sitting in a town called Sensible?” Clint asked.
    Commons looked at him.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Clint Adams.”
    “The Gunsmith?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Hell,” Commons said, grabbing the bottle and removing the glass. “Siddown. I’ll drink with the Gunsmith.”
    Clint and Minnesota sat down while Commons poured himself a drink.
    “What can I do for you, Sheriff Clint Adams, the