Milo Talon Read Online Free Page A

place to start his search over again?
    And of all things, why me?

CHAPTER 2

    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