The cook dried his hands on his apron. “Got some roast beef tonight, scramble up a few eggs if you want. Don’t usually do it this time of night, but you being’ a friend an’ all-”
“Be a pleasure. I haven’t seen an egg in three months. But I’ll take some of that roast beef, too.”
“Figured on it.” He paused, taking my measure. “My name is Schafer, German Schafer.
The German’s my proper name.”
“I know you now. Cooked for the Lazy O-Bar, didn’t you? I was reppin’ for the YOverY.”
“Know you. That Lazy O-Bar the boys used to call the Biscuit because of that flat kind of O we used. It was a good outfit.”
Information was where you found it, so I suggested, “Rode in at the call of Jefferson Henry in the car yonder. Said he had a job for me.”
“Henry? Never comes in here. Eats in that car of his’n, but I seen him. I seen that bodyguard of his’n, too.” Schafer slanted me a look from under his brows. “You seen him? Tall, slope-shouldered man? Heavier’n you, almost as dark. Folks say he’s mighty handy with a gun.”
“Does he have a name?”
“John Topp. Southern man, I’d guess. Knows what he’s about but he don’t talk to nobody.
Nobody. Least it’s Henry himself.”
Glancing past him I could see that but three or four tables were occupied. I started that way, then held up. “Henry been around long?”
“Just pulled in.” German Schafer lowered his voice. “Some of the boys was commentin’ that he had his car side-tracked at a water-tank about twenty miles back. Stayed nearly a week. They done some ridin’ from there. Carried horses in separate cars.”
Nobody even turned a head when I walked in from the kitchen and sat down, taking a seat in a corner where I could watch both doors and the street outside. The doorway where I’d seen the watcher was a mite too far along to be seen from my seat.
There were curtains at the window and red-and-white tablecloths and napkins. No tin plates here but actual china, heavy but clean.
At one table sat a rancher and his wife, fresh off the range for a change of cooking, at another table two railroad men in blue shirts and overalls. A drummer with a flashy imitation diamond stick-pin, and at a table near me a girl, quite young, quite pretty, and somewhat overdressed in obviously new clothing.
Her glance caught mine briefly, seemed to linger, then passed on. It was not an attempt at flirtation but a half-scared, half-curious sort of look.
Schafer came from the kitchen with a plate of beef, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes.
He went back for a pot of coffee and a cup.
With my meal and the coffee before me I took my time. There was much to consider.
I’d taken a man’s money and I meant to do the job he paid me for, but there were questions for which I needed answers.
It was not unlikely that in this country, which some considered wild, that such a man as Jefferson Henry might have a bodyguard. If he was truly looking for land he would need someone who knew the country. More than likely the man in the car was a railroad detective, but that was not necessarily so. Nor was there any reason I should have been informed of his presence. Nobody had said we were alone nor was Jefferson Henry making a secret of his search.
To find a girl missing for twelve years might sound impossible in such an area of fluctuating populations. First, I must find a point of departure.
Her father was supposed to be dead, but was he? And what had become of the mother?
If I knew something of her I might find a lead. If her husband did die, might she not return to relatives? Or to some familiar place?
The west might seem a place to lose oneself but actually such was not the case. People rarely traveled alone, and travelers must deal with others for shelter, for food, clothing, or transportation. People talked, and destinations were commonly discussed in the search for information about conditions, trails, waterholes.
The Pinkertons were shrewd operatives accustomed to inquiries, and some of their operatives had come from the west, but did they know the country and its people as I did?
The ranching couple left the restaurant, and then the drummer arose, tried to catch the girl’s eye and failed, then walked out.
Suddenly, turning toward me ever so slightly, the girl spoke, very softly. “Sir?
Please, will you help me?”
“What can I do?”
The railroad men were leaving and one of them lingered, glancing my way. He hesitated, then walked out. Something in that glance and the hesitation fixed my attention.
He acted as if he wished to speak to me.
Why?
“My supper, sir. I am very sorry but I cannot pay for it. I was very hungry.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Her situation disturbed me. The west was a hard place for a woman alone and without funds. After a moment I asked, “You are passing through?”
“I was, sir, but I have no more money. I must find work.”
“Here?” There was nothing in such a place for a decent girl. There were not sixty people in the town.
“I-I had to get away. I just bought a ticket as far as I could go. I thought surely-”
Being a fool with money would be no fresh experience. Despite the fact she was overdressed for the town, there was a freshness and innocence about her. She had all the skittishness of a deserted fawn who doesn’t know whether to run or stay. And there was something about her that I immediately liked. That she was pretty undoubtedly helped, but there was a firmness about her chin that I admired.
“Have you no family?”
This time I believe she lied. “No, sir.”
“I am going to give you some money. You might find a job in Denver, in Santa Fe, or some larger town. There is nothing here-” An idea came to me as I spoke.
“I wish to stay. I like it here.”
Here?
What was there here to like? It was a mere station on the railroad, a cattle-shipping point for nearby ranchers with side-tracks and loading pens, a few scattered places of business and the homes of their owners. It was a bleak, lonely place, bitter cold in the winter, hot and dry in the summer, windy all the time.
“I will give you one hundred dollars,” I said. As I spoke I was thinking what a fool I was. That was three months’ work for a cowhand.
She flushed. “Sir, I-”
“I said give.
If you wish it can be a loan. This is a dead end. There’s nothing here for anyone unless they have cattle to ship.” The thought of a moment ago returned. “Unless German Schafer can use you. He might need a waitress.”
What of Maggie, the absent owner? What would she have to say about that?
Taking five gold pieces from my pocket, I reached across to her table and placed them before her. “There. Now you have a choice. And if you are careful that will keep you until you have a job and pay your fare to Denver as well.”
She started to speak but I waved it aside. “I’ve been broke. I know how it is, and it’s easier for a man.”
Taking up the brown envelope received from Jefferson Henry, I opened it. There were several camera portraits, the first of a young man elegantly dressed, a hand on the back of a chair, one knee slightly bent. It was an intelligent face but an empty one.
The second picture was of the same young man, this time seated with a young woman.
She had a pert, saucy expression that I found intriguing. The third picture was of the same couple, this time with the man standing, the girl seated and holding a child.
The two latter pictures had been taken outside. There were other things than the faces that caught my attention.
Placing the pictures at one side I refilled my cup and took up the letters. Pinned to the top letter was a short list of names.
Newton Henry m. Stacy Albro (d. Nancy) Associated with: Humphrey Tuttle Wade Hallett.
The names meant nothing to me. The girl I would be seeking would
be Nancy Henry, the daughter. My eyes returned to the mother. A most attractive girl and a smart one if I was any judge, also there was something disturbing about her. Had I known her somewhere? Somehow? Or seen her?
The mother would be older than I, but not by that much. Newton Henry had married Stacy Albro and Nancy was their daughter. Newton or she had somehow been associated with Tuttle and Hallett.
The Pinkerton report was exhaustive. They had spent a lot of time and money to come up with no answer, and for them it was unusual. Almost unbelievable, given the circumstances.
The person to whom the letters had been addressed was deceased, their report stated.
The letters offered no hint as to their origin.
As I was shuffling the papers together to replace them in their envelope, the picture of the man and his bride fell to the floor. The girl at the next table picked it up to return to me. She gasped.
Having bent to retrieve the picture from the floor, I glanced up. She was pale to the lips. “What’s wrong?” I straightened up. “Do you know them?”
“Know them? Oh, no! No! It’s just that-well, she’s so pretty!”
She handed the picture back to me a bit reluctantly, I thought. “Thank you. I was hoping you knew them.”
“Are they relatives?”
“No, just some people I am trying to locate.”
“Oh? Are you an officer?”
“It’s a business matter.” She was rising to leave. “You did not tell me your name.”
“Nor did you tell me yours.” She smiled prettily. “I am Molly Fletcher.”
“Milo Talon here.” A glance toward the kitchen showed me German was hard at work.
“He seems to be busy now, but if you wish to stay in this town I’d suggest talking to German Schafer. He might need some help.”
She thanked me and turned away. I watched her out to the street and glanced after her as she started toward the hotel.
Suppose, just suppose that man across the street was not watching for me, but for her? It made a lot more sense. She was a very pretty girl.
One by one I began reading the letters, yet my attention was not on them.
Molly Fletcher-if that was her name-had recognized one or both of the people in that picture. There was no other way to account for that quick intake of breath.
Who was Molly Fletcher? Why had she come here, and why did she wish to stay?
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?
Chapter Two.
German 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 Gaspe 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 dust-devil 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 was 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:
Letters addressed to Harold Adelaide Magoffin, deceased. The enclosed letters were not in the possession of the deceased at the time of death but in storage with to be claimed baggage. For access to the baggage the sum of $20.00 was paid to Pier Van Schendel, expressman.
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.
Milo Talon (1981) Page 2
