Milo Talon (4 page)

Was her presence in the restaurant accidental? And why had she chosen me to address? Of course, she may have simply been waiting until someone was alone, but the drummer had certainly let her know he was available. Women had seemed to find me interesting, although I never knew why. It might be that I talked of faraway places they had never seen.

Yet why did she wish to stay here, of all places? And why, when it came to that, had Jefferson Henry chosen this place to start his search over again?

And of all things, why me?

G
ERMAN SCHAFER CAME in from the kitchen and began clearing the tables. “Noticed you talkin’ to the young lady. Right pretty, ain’t she?”

“She’s looking for a job, German. If the railroad men find you have a pretty waitress you’ll do twice the business.”

“Don’t I know it? If she’s huntin’ a job she doesn’t have to look no further. Not if she’s willin’ to work.”

A man never knew where he might garner information, so I said, “German? Did you ever run across a man named Newton Henry? Or a girl named Stacy Albro?”

“Never did.” He looked around from the table he was wiping off. “Newton Henry? Any kin to him in the private car?”

“Son.”

“Hmm. Never heard of him, but that other name … Albro. That’s got a familiar ring. Uncommon name, too.”

He started for the kitchen. “You’ll be in for breakfast? I’m open at six and that’s nigh to sun-up this time of year.”

“Count on me. German? When you come back past the window see if there’s anybody in the door yonder or loafing on the street near the hotel.”

He returned and began gathering dishes. Twice he glanced out the window. “No, not a soul.”

When I came out on the street it was dark and empty, only three street lamps in its four-block length and the lights from a few windows. The horses were gone from in front of the saloon, and the rigs were gone also. My boot heels echoed hollowly on the boardwalk. How many towns had I known? How many boardwalks and small hotels? Why was I here when I could be back with my mother on the ranch in Colorado? Maybe by now Barnabas was home again.

Glancing down a narrow alleyway between buildings, I saw a skewbald pony saddled and ready to go, left where it was unlikely to be seen. There was a splash of white on the rump.

Aside from the fact that I was carrying a considerable sum in gold I had no reason to be uneasy, yet I was.

The hotel lobby was empty. The red-mustached clerk dozed behind his desk, a newspaper across his chest. Gathering a newspaper from the leather settee, I went up the stairs to my room. A crack of light showed under a door not far from mine. Molly Fletcher, perhaps?

Pausing at my door I hesitated uneasily. Why was I getting spooky all of a sudden? Standing to one side I leaned over and turned the knob, pushing the door inward. All was dark and silent. Gun in hand, I struck a match with my left hand. The match flared … the room was empty.

Stepping in, I lighted the lamp. On the bed the contents of my saddlebags had been dumped and spread out by a hasty hand, looking for something. My blanket-roll had been unrolled, spread out.

A glance at the stuff on the bed showed nothing missing. A small sack of .44 cartridges, a waterproof matchbox, a razor-sharp knife, two clean shirts which had been carefully folded and rolled in my blanket-roll, clean socks, clean handkerchiefs, and some boot polish. I had a thing about highly polished boots.

There was a sewing kit with a few spare buttons and a small packet of tinder I always carried for starting fires when everything was wet.

Looking down at the scattered stuff on the bed left me feeling naked and exposed. It was damned little to show for the years I’d lived, and there was nothing there of the brutal days and nights of work, the sandstorms, stampedes, the swollen streams I’d swam nor the times I’d gone hungry. What lay on the bed and a few ideas picked up here and there was all I had to show for what would soon be thirty years of living.

At my age Pa had built bridges, helped to build a couple of steamboats, and had come all the way from the Gaspé Peninsula of Quebec. He had built something to mark almost every step. If anything happened to me now, what mark would I leave? No more impression than left by a dustdevil spinning across the prairie on a hot, still day.

Looking down at my gear all spread out like that griped me. A man wants a little privacy, and nobody wants his home entered or his personal things all spread out like that. I began to feel a deep, smoldering anger. Nobody had any right to force his way into a man’s private life that way.

Maybe … maybe if I found this girl it would be something worthwhile. After all, she stood to inherit a
fortune and she might be somewhere alone and in desperate need right now.

Anyway, I started to gather my stuff and replace it, remembering that a man’s life always starts today. Every morning is a beginning, a fresh start, and a man needn’t be hog-tied to the past. Whatever went before, a man’s life can begin now, today.

The irritation returned. What the hell were they looking for? What did I have that anybody wanted? Was somebody looking for money?

Maybe … just maybe for that brown manila envelope? If so, why?

Sitting down on the bed I pulled off my boots, then sat there rubbing the tiredness out of my feet. Did I really think I could find that girl? Or was this just a way to keep eating a little longer? Something a mite easier than punching cows?

An obvious beginning was St. Louis. That had been the last known address of the Henrys. St. Louis had grown since then and such a family as the Henrys were unlikely to have attracted much notice. Finding them would not be easy, yet I had to begin somewhere. I’d taken the man’s money and I never yet had taken a job where I didn’t deliver a day’s work for a day’s pay.

Hanging my gun belt over the chair-back close to the bed, I thought about that expression on Molly Fletcher’s face when she saw that picture. Startled she surely had been, but maybe frightened was a better word.

Why?

Again I returned to the question of Jefferson Henry and why he was here, in this particular place? Why had he chosen this town? And why had he selected me?

Who was Molly Fletcher and how did she happen to be here, a girl who apparently knew the girl in the picture, at the same time Jefferson Henry was in town? Did they know each other? Or about each other?

If she did not know the girl in the picture she might have known one of the others, or even the place itself might have been familiar.

The pictures themselves might be a starting point. Photography was still a relatively new art but already there were a number of itinerant photographers following in the footsteps of Brady and Jackson.

Propping a chair under the doorknob and laying my six-shooter out on the bed, I settled down to digest the material Jefferson Henry had given me. Clipped to the top of the letter was a note:

Deceased? Both at once or separately? The cause of death? The Pinkertons must have considered the questions irrelevant. Or to be more accurate, the agent involved evidently considered it so, and agents were of all kinds. Some were imaginative and perceptive, others mere plodders. Each had his value, but in this case, had enough questions been asked?

The term “deceased” bothered me. I wanted to
know why. How? I wanted to know when and where and if it had anything to do with the matter at hand.

No doubt, that agent had other cases to investigate and I had but one. There was time for me to ask questions, to wonder and consider. I intended to do all of that.

What, I wondered, had become of that unclaimed baggage? Had it been sold at auction, which is often the case? Was Van Schendel still in the employ of the company?

Had these been the only letters? What else might the baggage contain? These were questions only to be answered in St. Louis.

First, there were things to be done here. I must see Molly Fletcher and tell her a job awaited if she was so inclined, a job with a man who was both decent and protective.

Again I studied the photographs. They were among the best I had seen. Could they have been done by Jackson himself? Studying the faces, I decided there was something about that of Newton that I did not like. It was weak, but there was something malicious there, too. Yet I should not be so quick to judge. I knew not the man nor the path he had walked.

A board creaked, ever so faintly. My hand dropped to the gun and rested there.

The faintest creak and then, as I watched, the knob turned slowly and then the door was pushed. The chair under the knob allowed no movement so I waited, giving him the chance to try again, amused at what my unknown visitor must be feeling.

The knob slowly returned to its original position
and the strain on the door ceased. Footsteps retreated down the hall.

Gathering the papers, I stored them in an inner pocket of my saddlebag, a pocket especially made for carrying warrants or other papers of importance. I would read them later, with a clear mind.

Blowing out the light, I got into bed but kept my gun at hand.

A man never knew.

R
ISING AT DAYBREAK is a habit hard to break, so while the first light was turning the sky gray, I was up, taking a sponge bath in cold water, then dressing. Carrying my Winchester and saddlebags, I went down the hall. It was not a time at which to awaken a lady, but on the chance Molly might be awake I paused before what I guessed was her room. There was a subdued rustling within so I tapped on the door.

There was a moment of silence, then a soft voice, “Yes?”

“Talon here. Before you make any plans, talk to German Schafer at the restaurant.”

“Thank you.”

No one was at the desk in the lobby and the street was empty as well. A dog was lying on the boardwalk and he looked up as I stepped out, flopping his tail in greeting.

“Hiya, pup!” I bent to touch him, taking the opportunity to glance up and down the street.

Schafer was mopping the floor. “Coffee’s on,” he said. “I figured you’d be early.”

“Too many cow-camps,” I explained.

“Me, too. I rid with ’em all, or durned near. Ab Blocker, Charlie Goodnight, Driscoll, Slaughter … you
name ’em. Mostly I was a puncher. Got to be a cook when they found out I could. Never aimed for it.”

He brought coffee to the table. “You talk to that girl?”

“Spoke to her. She’ll be coming in to have a word with you.”

“Beats me, a young ’un like her traipsin’ around the country. Ought to be with her folks.”

“Says she hasn’t any.”

“Mebbe, an’ again, mebbe not. The way I figure it, she pulled out of someplace in a hurry. Bought herself those duds right off the rack, first place she come to, an’ then came as far as her money would bring her.”

“She’s got money.”

“Yeah,” he commented dryly, “she has now. I seen you stake her, an’ if I’d had the money I’d have done it. No place for a decent woman to be, her broke an’ all. Ain’t right.”

“You figure she’s straight?”

“I do. I seen a lot of folks one time or another, and I come to know something about ’em. That one’s straight but she’s runnin’ scared. There’s something back of her she wants to get clean away from.”

He brought the coffeepot. “You want some eggs? Fresh this mornin’.”

“There’s chickens here?”

“Woman out east of town. She’s got herself some Rhode Island Reds and a few Wyandots. Doin’ all right, too. In cow country a body finds mighty few chickens.”

Dishes rattled in the kitchen. I filled a cup, took a swallow and nearly burned my mouth. Then I opened
the saddlebag pocket and got out the letters that were addressed to the Magoffins.

The first one had neither heading nor date. It started right off.