Milo Talon (3 page)

He gave me a bored look and started to resume his newspaper.

“Where’s the best place to eat?”

“Three doors down. Maggie’s Place. She won’t be in this time of night but the cook’s one of the best.”

Whether it was the fact that I paid fifty cents for a room or his conversation about the cook that warmed him up, I didn’t know, but the clerk was suddenly talkative.

He glanced at the register. “Talon? Ain’t that some kind of a claw?”

“It is. An ancestor of mine taken it for a name because he had a claw where his right hand should have been. Scratched a lot of folks here and there. Or so I’ve heard.”

He thought I was joking but I was not. Every Talon knew the story of that hard, bitter old man who started the family. It was a long time back and to most of us a few stories were all that remained, although there was rumor of property still in Talon hands and treasure buried here and there.

“Be around long?” he asked.

“Day or two.” I paused. It was always better to provide a reason so they wouldn’t worry about it. “I’ve been workin’ all summer. Figured it was time to rest up a bit.” They might, of course, have seen me leave the private car, so I added, “Not that I’d turn down a good job if it showed itself. I’ve been askin’ around. Like to get me a job guidin’ hunters or such-like. Seemed like the folks in that car yonder might want a guide but they don’t. They don’t want nothing. Even visitors.”

The clerk shook his head. “Been settin’ there two, three days. Interested in land, or so I hear. They’ve their own guide or whatever. Sleeps here.”

The room was a good one as such rooms went, a double bed, a washstand with a white bowl and pitcher, two chairs, one of which was a rocker, and a knit rug on the floor. On another small stand beside the bed was a kerosene lamp which I made no move to light. My eyes were already accustomed to the dim light but I’d no wish to advertise which room I was in. Glancing down into the street without disturbing the curtain, I seemed to see that same figure lurking in the doorway.

Of course, it could be some cowhand with nowhere to go or money to spend, or some lad waiting for his girl, but a man lived longer by being cautious.

He would see me when I left the hotel unless—at the bottom of the stairs I turned abruptly and went down the hall to the back of the hotel and out the back door.

Outside the door I sidestepped quickly into the shadows and paused, staring around into the half-dark and remaining in deep shadow. A light showed from a back door and window three buildings down which I guessed was the restaurant. Following a dim path along the backs of the buildings, I almost stepped into the path of a pan of water a man was about to throw from the back door.

“Howdy,” I spoke softly. “All right to come in through the kitchen?”

“If you’re of a mind to.” The man in the white apron held the door wide. “Somebody out front you ain’t wishful to see?”

The cook’s face was browned by sun and wind and seamed with time. A cow-camp cook, I’d bet a month’s wages.

My smile was friendly. “Why, I don’t rightly know. I’ve nobody huntin’ my scalp right now that I recall, but on the other hand there’s a gent across the street in that empty building who seems to have nothing to do but stand there. Are you the cook?”

“Chief cook an’ bottle-washer. Graduated from some of the best chuck wagons ever went up the trail, an’ never an unhappy rider. I cook an’ I bake.” He was a square-shouldered man of fifty or more, very spare, with a drooping gray mustache. “I just got tired of
sleepin’ on the ground and gettin’ up at three in the morning.”

As we moved into the kitchen he glanced at me again. “We crossed trails afore, you an’ me. Back up Montana way. I was friendly to some kinfolk of yours. Tennessee folks. Feller rode shotgun out of Pioche later, with a man name of Rountree handlin’ the ribbons. I drove stage opposite to him.”

“Nice to know you. Know what you mean about sleepin’ on the ground. Get tired of it m’self, time to time.”

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 bein’ 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 Y-Over-Y.”

“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 sidetracked 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 stickpin, 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 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 sidetracks 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.

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?