“Then they’re keeping their horses here?”
“Sí, señor. Over there.” Garralaga pointed to a pair of stalls near the front of the barn.
Sam strolled over and looked at the horses in apparently idle curiosity. One was a buckskin, the other a wiry paint.
Actually, he was looking at the hoofprints they had left in the dust of their stalls, checking to see if either track was similar to the ones he had found out at the ambush site.
Neither hoofprint looked familiar, so to excuse his actions he just nodded and commented, “Nice-looking horses,” as he came back over to Garralaga.
“These hombres are friends of yours, señor?” the stableman asked.
“Not really. New acquaintances, I guess you’d say.”
Garralaga shrugged and nodded, looking as if he didn’t really understand but didn’t care, either. As long as his customers paid their bills, whatever else they did was none of his business, his expression seemed to say.
“Can you recommend a good place in town to stay?” Sam went on.
“The Territorial Hotel is the only one in Flat Rock, but ...” Garralaga hesitated.
“They might not want anybody with Indian blood staying there, is that it?” Sam guessed.
“I am sad to say that is true, señor. Myself, I don’t care. All men’s money spends the same.”
“I understand.”
“But there is a boardinghouse where you would be welcome, if there is room. A woman named Señora McCormick runs it. If you go there, tell her that Pablo at the livery stable sent you. Her late husband and I were amigos, before he passed away last year.”
Sam nodded.
“I’ll do that. I’m obliged, Señor Garralaga.”
The stableman smiled and waved a hand.
“De nada.”
He told Sam how to find the boardinghouse, and once again Sam postponed his trip to the saloon. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and walked toward the boardinghouse, carrying his Winchester.
Along the way he came to a general store, so he went inside to buy a new hat to replace the one that had been shot up the night before.
Bespectacled Noah Reilly smiled at him from behind the counter.
“Mr. Two Wolves!” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again this soon. What can I do for you?”
“I’m in the market for a new hat,” Sam explained.
“Right over here,” Reilly said, gesturing toward a set of shelves where a number of hats sat, gathering dust.
Sam found one that he liked. The new hat didn’t have silver conchos on the band like his old one, but other than that it was very similar. Sam figured he could switch the bands if he wanted to.
He paid Reilly for the hat and settled it on his head. It would be good to have something to shade his head from the sun again.
The boardinghouse was a frame building, one of the few in town. In this part of the country, nearly everything was built of adobe.
The gray-haired woman who answered Sam’s knock on the boardinghouse door asked, “Yes? Can I help you?” Her face wore a rather severe expression, but Sam thought her brown eyes looked kind.
Politely, he removed his new hat and said, “Señor Garralaga down at the livery stable recommended your place to me and said you might have a room for rent. That is, if you’re Mrs. McCormick.”
“I am,” the woman said. “Eloise McCormick.”
“My name is Sam Two Wolves.” He waited to see if that was going to make any difference.
Apparently it didn’t. Mrs. McCormick said, “I have a couple of vacant rooms. Would you like to take a look at them?”
“Ma’am, Señor Garralaga spoke so highly of you and your house, I’m sure that’s not necessary. I’ll take one of them.”
She smiled, and that made her look younger.
“Well, then, come on. I’ll show you the rooms anyway, and you can take your pick.”
Sam choose a front room that looked out at the street. He liked to be able to see what was going on. The room was simply furnished but looked clean and comfortable.
“What brings you to Flat Rock, if you don’t mind my asking?” Mrs. McCormick said. “Are you a scout for the army?”
“No, ma’am. You get many army scouts passing through here?”
“The cavalry sends out patrols from Fort Defiance every now and then. The Navajo behave themselves for the most part, but it doesn’t hurt to remind them of what happened back in ’63. My late husband was already out here then and served under Kit Carson.” Mrs. McCormick gave Sam a keen look. “You’re not a Navajo, are you, Mr. Two Wolves?”
“No. Half Cheyenne.” Sam wondered how many times he was going to have to answer that question.
“I see. Clean linens once a week,” she went on briskly, “breakfast is at six in the morning, supper at six in the evening. I serve Sunday dinner at one, but not the rest of the week.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Sam said with a nod.
“Your next-door neighbor is Mr. Reilly from the general store, and he likes peace and quiet, so I hope you’ll cooperate in that respect.”
Sam smiled.
“Noah Reilly?”
“Oh, you know him?”
“We’ve met,” Sam said.
“Well, good. You won’t feel as much like you’re in a strange place, then. How long do you think you’ll be staying?”
Until someone tries to kill me again and I can find out why, Sam thought.
“I don’t really know,” he said. “I’ll pay you for a week. Is that all right?”
“That’ll be fine.”
They concluded the arrangement, and Mrs. McCormick left the room. Sam put his saddlebags on the bed and leaned his rifle in the corner. He went to the window and pushed back the gauzy yellow curtain that hung over it.
The boardinghouse was on Flat Rock’s only street, and from here Sam could see part of the front of the Buckingham Palace Saloon.
A couple of benches were on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, and on one of them sat the two cowboys he had met earlier, evidently just watching the world go by.
The tall, skinny one had his knife out again and was using it to whittle something. The shorter one’s head drooped forward every now and then, as if he were having a hard time staying awake.
There was something about those two, Sam thought, something that bothered him.
Mrs. McCormick must have been elsewhere in the house, because he didn’t see her in the parlor or foyer as he left the house. The saloon was only a short distance away, and it was finally time he paid that visit to the place.
Sam had to walk right past the two cowboys to reach the batwinged door, and just as he expected, they grinned at him in recognition.
The tall one continued whittling without missing a beat as he asked, “How was the food at the café? Best you ever et, right?”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Sam said, “but it was good.”
“Wait’ll you taste ol’ Harve’s Irish stew. It’s even better.”
“Pie ain’t bad, either,” the shorter cowboy put in.
“Goin’ to have a drink?” the tall one asked.
“More like a look around,” Sam said. “I’m not much for drinking.”
“Oh, yeah, because of the Injun blood, I reckon. The firewater don’t agree with you.” The man folded his knife and put it away. He held up what he’d been working on. It was a little whistle. “What do you think?”
“Looks good,” Sam said. “Can you play it?”
“Not worth a lick,” the tall cowboy said with a grin. He tossed it to a boy passing by in the street and added, “Here you go, son. Enjoy yourself.”
The boy caught the whistle and said, “Gee, thanks, mister!”
He went on his way, tooting tunelessly on it.
The cowboy put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet in a loose-jointed fashion.
“Come on, Wilbur,” he said to his shorter companion. “We’ll join this here fella.”
Sam didn’t recall inviting them along, but that didn’t seem to matter. As the three of them walked toward the saloon’s entrance, the tall cowboy went on, “They call me Stovepipe Stewart.”