Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02] Read Online Free

thoughtfully for a moment, sizing him up. "Sure, people've got suspicions. Lots of 'em, all going in different directions and not worth a damn. I got a couple myself. Both of which are probably wrong."
        "I'd like to hear them, anyway."
        The marshal shook his head. "Suspicions aren't proof. Making accusing statements without proofs against the law."
        The stage driver spoke up. "Can I go now, marshal? I ain't needed a drink so bad in a long time."
        Marshal Kavanaugh nodded. The driver unbuckled his gunbelt and left it on the desk. As he hurried out, the marshal turned to Clayburn.
        "I'll take yours, too. Only lawmen are allowed to carry weapons in Parrish."
        "You must have a real peaceful town."
        Kavanaugh grunted. "Ain't had a quiet night in Parrish since I came here. Men got a right to let off steam, long as they do it in the right part of town. I don't care what they do to each other with their fists, boots or anything else they can get hold of-long as it doesn't start a riot or break up too much property. But weapons mean killing. And killing usually means the city has to pay for burial. Taxpayers don't like that."
        Clayburn took off his gun belt, put it with his carbine on the marshal's desk.
        Kavanaugh went on eying him. "The rule includes concealed knives, Clayburn."
        His tone was deliberately quiet and not intended to give offense. His past ten years testified to his readiness to stand up against all kinds of men. But it also testified to his ability to judge men. He'd already decided that Clayburn was not the kind of man he'd care to tangle with, unless forced to it.
        "Those men that were after Farnell thought they'd disarmed you," he went on quietly. "But you came up with a knife from someplace."
        "I hope," Clayburn said just as quietly, "that you're this careful about everybody that comes into your city."
        Marshal Kavanaugh nodded. "I got a collection of derringers and knives in that closet to prove it. Nobody fancies thirty days in the quarry digging rock for the new town hall. And that's the penalty for carrying any concealed weapon inside city limits. Penalty for using one is hanging."
        "Hung many?"
        "Some. None lately, though."
        A suggestion of a smile touched the corners of Clayburn's mouth. He pulled up the left sleeve of his frock coat, unbuttoned and rolled up his shirt sleeve.
        The marshal looked at the knife strapped in its sheath to the inside of Clayburn's forearm, hilt toward his wrist, "So that's where you had it."
        Clayburn unstrapped the knife and put it down beside his holstered Colt. "I may be back for the guns. If I find somebody that'll pay me enough for them to last me through a few hands of poker. That redhead just about cleaned me out."
        "You want to eat meanwhile," Marshal Kavanaugh said, "you can get a meal at Henry's Diner, around the corner. Tell 'em I said to put it on my bill. I figure you earned it, out there at the stage station."
        "Thanks. Where can I find Cora Sorel?"
        "Princess Hotel. Up the street." Marshal Kavanaugh indicated the direction with his thumb. He asked no questions about why Clayburn wanted to know. But his eyes were thoughtful again as they followed him out of the jail-house and up the street.
        The Princess Hotel was the best in prosperous Parrish, and its carpeted lobby showed it. Learning that Cora Sorel had just gone into the hotel dining room, Clayburn went in and spotted her alone at one of the corner tables, studying the menu.
        She was exactly as he remembered her. Though he'd only seen her once before, and that time briefly, Cora Sorel was not a woman a man could forget easily. She was dark-haired, with bold, beautiful lips and a knowing, sensuous kind of loveliness. There was slim strength in the assured way in which she held herself and moved. Only her dress was different from the