“What’s this about Sweet?”
“He and a couple of partners were hired to kill me,” Lancaster said. “They almost succeeded.”
“So you’re hunting them.”
“Him,” Lancaster said. “Sweet.”
“What about the others?”
“They’re dead.”
“Killed by you?”
“No,” Lancaster said. “They got killed before I could find them.”
“So you need Sweet to find the man who hired him.”
“Right.”
“Any leads yet?”
“There’s a bartender in here who’s real observant,” Lancaster said. “I’m gonna ask him what he knows.”
“What about Maisie’s?”
“I went there. Sweet was only with one girl, and she left town.”
“Oh yeah,” Manning said. “Hurtin’ that girl was the last straw. That’s when I ran him out.”
“What was the first straw?”
“He started some trouble here,” Manning said. “Got into a fight.”
“With who?”
“Another stranger,” Manning said. “He left town the next day.”
“Damn.”
“But your bartender might be able to tell you more,” the lawman said. “Which one are you talkin’ about?”
“I don’t know his name, but he looks real experienced.”
“Probably Ray,” Manning said. “Tell him I said he should help you any way he can.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“I’ve got to finish my rounds,” Manning said. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Right.”
Lancaster watched the sheriff walk off, then went through the batwings into the Broken Branch Saloon.
Lancaster got himself a spot at the end of the bar this time. It was away from a lot of the action, probably the quietest place in the saloon. The bartender brought him his beer and said, “On the house.”
“I only had half comin’,” he reminded the man.
“That’s okay,” the bartender said. “Drink however much of it you want.”
“Are you Ray?” Lancaster asked.
The bartender had been in the act of turning away. He stopped short and looked at Lancaster.
“That’s right,” he said. “How’d you know?”
“The sheriff told me,” Lancaster said.
“Why would he do that?”
“He said you could help me.”
“With what?”
“I’m looking for somebody.”
“Bounty hunter?”
“No,” Lancaster said, “this is personal.”
“Anythin’ to do with that scar over your eye?”
“Yes.”
“So, who you lookin’ for?”
“A man named Sweet,” Lancaster said. “The sheriff told me he caused some trouble in here a couple of weeks ago.”
“Well,” Ray said, “we did have some trouble, but we always have some trouble. What makes you think I can tell one troublemaker from another?”
“Because you’ve been at this job a long time,” Lancaster said. “You notice things—like me only drinking half a beer.”
“Well,” Ray said with a grin, “when a fella orders a beer and doesn’t drink it all, that’s kinda obvious.”
“Still,” Lancaster said, “I think you notice things that aren’t so obvious.”
“Like what?”
“Like a man like Sweet looking for trouble,” Lancaster said. “Talkin’ too loud at the bar? Maybe sayin’ somethin’ about where he’s headed.”
Ray leaned on the bar and pulled on his lower lip. “Sweet, Sweet…Sheriff ran him out of town, right? Damaged one of Maisie’s girls?”
“That was the story,” Lancaster said.
“Whataya mean?”
“The girl may not have been so damaged,” he said. “Looks like she might have followed him.”
“To where?”
“That’s the question,” Lancaster said. He didn’t want to put any ideas into the bartender’s head by mentioning Texas.
“Well, gimme some time to think about it and maybe somethin’ will come to me.”
“I can give you some incentive—” Lancaster said, reaching into his pocket.
“No, no,” Ray said, “I ain’t tryin’ to squeeze ya. If the sheriff said I can help ya, then I will—if I can.”
“Okay,” Lancaster said. “Then I’ll check back in with you tomorrow.”
“When do you wanna leave town?” Ray asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“So no pressure, huh?”
“Just whatever you can do for me, Ray.”
Ray gave Lancaster a salute and went back to work. Lancaster finished off his beer and turned in.
Forty-nine
In the morning Lancaster went to the livery to make sure Crow Bait would be ready to travel.
“Hey, mister,” the liveryman said, “your horse just about ate me outta oats.”
“He’s got a good appetite.”
“I know! And it don’t show on ’im. But don’t you worry, I’ll have him ready to travel.”
“Much obliged. Maybe about midday.”
He left the livery and went back to Bessie’s for breakfast. The young waitress served him but didn’t make any conversation.
After breakfast he figured he had two stops to make. He had to talk to Ray and to Sheriff Manning. He had to talk to Manning first, because the Broken Branch wasn’t open yet.
As he entered the sheriff’s office, he was struck by how cramped it was.
“I know,” Manning said, when he saw the look on Lancaster’s face. “They’re supposed to be building a new jail. That’s why I was goin’ to a meeting yesterday.”
“How’d it come out?”
“Not good,” the lawman said. “Half the town council thinks they need a church. Another church.”
“Too bad. What’s the other half say?”
“That’s what the mayor is workin’ on. You come to say good-bye?”
“Almost,” Lancaster said. “I still have to talk to Ray this morning. What time’s the Broken Branch open?”
“Ten, but hell, go over and bang on the door. He’s usually in earlier to clean the place up and get it set up for the day.”
“Thanks,” Lancaster said. “The quicker I talk to him, the sooner I can be on my way.”
“I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for,” the lawman said.
“I will,” Lancaster said.
“You sound sure.”
“I am,” Lancaster said, “because I won’t stop until I do find them.”
He left the sheriff’s office, crossed over to the Broken Branch, and banged on the locked door.
Ray opened the door and peered out at Lancaster through one good eye. The other one was swollen shut.
“Hey, come in,” he said, backing away. “You want some breakfast?”
“I ate,” Lancaster said. “What happened to your eye?”
“I ran into two friends of Sweet’s last night,” he said.
Lancaster followed him to a table in the back, where he was eating ham and eggs.
“Coffee?” Ray offered.
“Yeah, I’ll take a cup.”
Ray got up, went behind the bar, and came back with another cup, which he filled from the pot already on the table.
“Anyway, I was askin’ some questions about your man Sweet—”
“I didn’t want you to get in trouble, Ray,” Lancaster said. “I just wanted you to see what you could remember.”
“Well, I was askin’ anyway, and apparently your boy Sweet’s got friends all over the place. These boys heard I was askin’ and they paid me a visit. Jumped me outside when I left for home. Said I better stop askin’ questions if I knew what was good for me.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, I gave as good as I got, and they ran off. Guess they figured me for an easier mark.”
“K
now who they were?”
“Strangers passin’ through,” Ray said. “Not even here for a day. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think they’re on their way to meet Sweet,” Ray said.
“And you don’t know their names?”
“Sorry.”
“What’d they look like?”
Ray described two men who could have been outlaws or cowpokes. There was nothing unusual about them except for one thing.
“One of them was wearing a big silver ring on his right hand,” Ray said, pointing to his eye. “That’s how I got this.”
“Silver ring,” Lancaster said. “That’s better than nothing. Thanks, Ray.”
“I figure they stayed the night and left this mornin’,” Ray said. “You can check at the livery when you pick up your horse.”
“I’ll do that. Hey, let me give you something for that eye.”
“Give me enough to buy a steak.”
“To put on your eye?”
“No, for supper tonight,” Ray said. “I love a good steak smothered in onions.”
Lancaster passed over some money and said, “Here, have two.”
Lancaster picked up Crow Bait and asked the liveryman about two men leaving earlier that morning.
“Sure thing,” he said. “Looked like they been in a dustup, too. All bruised and such.”
“Did they say anything about where they were going?” Lancaster said. “Maybe something they didn’t know you could hear?”
“All I heard them say was that they better get their asses goin’,” the liveryman said. “They had to meet some other fella.”
“Did they say where?”
“No,” he said, “but they rode west.”
“West? You sure?”
“I know which way is west, young feller.”
“I’m sure you do,” Lancaster said. “Can you tell me anything about their horses?”
“Like what?”
Lancaster took a few dollars from his pocket and handed them over to the startled man. “Like anything that might help me track them?”
“Well, now that you mention it,” the liveryman said, “their horses coulda used some new shoes…”
Fifty
Lancaster rode out of Flagstaff, heading west. There was no guarantee that these two men were on their way to meet with Sweet, but he wasn’t losing anything by riding after them.
There were any number of towns in the Texas panhandle, but heading there usually meant Amarillo. Lancaster had been through Amarillo before, but he hadn’t been there long enough to make any lasting friendships. Actually, he didn’t make lasting friendships most places he went, but neither had he left behind any lasting acquaintances. He was going to be on his own when he got there, unless he once again tried to bring in the local law. So far, though, the local lawmen he’d encountered had not filled him with any sort of confidence.
It was also too much of a coincidence to think he’d find both Sweet and Gerry Beck in Amarillo at the same time.
So he figured to follow the tracks described to him by the liveryman as long as they kept heading west. In the event they veered off, he’d have to make a decision.
He found their sign not far out of Flagstaff. He could see what the liveryman meant about their horses needing new shoes. It made them easy to track. He took up a leisurely pace with Crow Bait, not wanting to catch up to the two men.
He camped each night, not bothering with a cold camp. He made sure he wasn’t close enough for the two men to smell his coffee. And even if they did, what would they care? As far as he knew, they weren’t running from anyone; they were simply riding, possibly to join up with Sweet. Besides, they’d be making their own coffee, so they probably wouldn’t smell his. He had some dried meat with him, and some canned goods, all in his saddlebags. In the old days he had traveled light, and old habits die hard. He usually restocked whenever he came to a large town, bypassed the smaller towns. By their tracks, the two men were doing the same.
He restocked after three days, and then four. Each time he discovered that the two men had come before him, purchased supplies, and caused no trouble. After the dustup in Flagstaff, maybe they were keeping their noses clean.
Amarillo was about six hundred miles from Flagstaff. He and the three men were keeping a sensible pace. They’d probably get there three full days ahead of him, according to the temperature of their camps when he reached them. But the entire trip would take a few weeks—perhaps a little less—unless they increased their pace toward the end.
Lancaster and Crow Bait were becoming fully bonded as horse and rider. He talked to the animal while they rode, and again at night when they camped. Crow Bait was responding to the sound and tone of his voice. The animal could sense when Lancaster was relaxed, or when he was agitated. The horse took on a similar mood.
In each town they stopped in, Lancaster had to listen to disparaging words about his horse. It was starting to grate on him. At some point some big mouth was going to have to pay for the insults of others.
So far he’d been able to hold his temper.
But who knew for how much longer?
Fifty-one
Amarillo, Texas
Amarillo was young, but already booming as the old West headed for the twentieth century. The site had been chosen by J. T. Berry along the tracks of the Forth Worth and Denver City Railroad, which extended through the panhandle. The town was already the county seat, and had become a fast-growing cattle market because of its railroad and freight service.
As Lancaster rode down the town’s main street, he saw that they had a Wells Fargo office. He bypassed it, but would stop in later to talk to the agent in charge.
The town had more than one livery stable. He picked one for no particular reason, withstood the eye-rolling of the liveryman when he saw Crow Bait.
“Got some nice horses you could look at before ya leave town,” the man said to him.
“No, thanks, I’m satisfied with my horse.”
“Really?”
“Just keep him well fed and cared for,” Lancaster said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Any other strangers in town in the past few days?” he asked.
“Lots.”
Lancaster gave what little description he had of Sweet.
“That could be a lot of men, mister,” the liveryman said. “Why you lookin’ for this jasper?”
“Friend of mine,” Lancaster said. “Supposed to meet up with him and a couple of other friends.” He described the two men who had fought with Ray, the bartender.
“Again, could be anybody, and they might not have left their horses here.”
“Yeah,” Lancaster said, “thanks.”
“Want I should recommend a hotel?”
“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. “I’ll pick that out myself.”
“Suit yerself.”
“I always do,” Lancaster said. “Take care of that horse.”
“That’s my business, mister,” the man answered. “I’ll take care of ’im like he’s my own.”
“See that you do.”
Lancaster came out of his hotel into the chaos that was Main Street’s traffic. Buckboards, freight wagons, riders and their horses pretty much choked the street. The foot traffic on the boardwalks was also heavy, and several times he had to step aside for ladies who were rushing somewhere. Men probably smelled that he was on the hunt, for they stepped aside for him.
Walking the streets, checking hotels, boardinghouses, and saloons would take forever. He wasn’t sure that talking to the local Wells Fargo agent, or the local law, would be any kind of shortcut, but he had to try something. So far, in his search, he had not run across a lawman who impressed him. A good sheriff or marshal knew when strangers came to his town, and he checked them out. If that was the case in Amarillo, it would solve his problems, but he finally decided to go to the Wells Fargo office first. Maybe the agent there would be able to fill him in on what kind
of law the town had.
He had passed the office on the way into town, so he knew where it was and headed over there.
Fifty-two
At the Wells Fargo office he was surprised to find five men there. They were in a heated discussion with the agent, who Lancaster assumed was the man behind the desk. When he entered, all the men paused to look at him. Several of them continued to study him while one of them turned back to the agent and continued to berate him.
“If you think this is acceptable, then you’re sadly mistaken, Turner,” the man said. He was older than the others, about fifty, with steel gray hair and a tree trunk body. “My boys here are ready to take you apart if I give the word.”
“Now, look, Mr. Atkins,” the agent said, “there’s no need for that. You set these boys of yours on me and somebody’s bound to get hurt. That doesn’t get you what you want, does it?”
“If what I want is to see you get hurt, it does,” the man said.
“Don’t do it, Atkins,” the agent, Turner, said.
To Lancaster the man looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but the odds were four-to-one. Since Lancaster was technically working for Wells Fargo, he felt more than entitled to take a hand.
“Excuse me,” he said.
All faces turned to him. The spokesman, Atkins, was scowling.
“Just a second, fella,” he said. “I got business here.”
“Sounds to me like you’re just making threats, mister,” Lancaster said. “Doesn’t sound like business to me.”
“Mister, you oughtta mind your own business,” Atkins said.
“I am minding my business,” Lancaster said. “I work for Wells Fargo. You got a beef with Mr. Turner here, you got a beef with me.”
“Turner?” Atkins asked. “You know this fella?”
“Not by sight,” Turner said, “but I got a feeling his name is Lancaster. That right, friend?”
“That’s right, Mr. Turner. I assume you got a telegram about me?”
“Yes, sir,” Turner said. “Nice to see you—especially right about now.”
“Wells Fargo hirin’ gunmen now?” one of the other men asked.
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