“That depends. You want a hotel for sleepin’? Or for somethin’ else?”
“Sleeping,” Smoke said.
“Then that would be the Homestead Hotel. It’s up toward the depot, on the left-hand side of the street.”
The lobby of the Homestead Hotel was well appointed with overstuffed sofas and chairs, a rose-colored carpet, and several brass spittoons. A few strategically placed lanterns provided light, if not brightness.
The lobby was quiet and empty, except for the desk clerk who sat in a chair behind the sign-in desk, reading a newspaper. The clerk looked up as Smoke stepped up to the desk.
“Do you have a room that overlooks the street?”
“We do indeed, sir.”
“Good.”
Smoke signed the register and the clerk turned it around to read the name before he reached for a key. “Smoke Jensen? My, what an honor, sir, to have you stay in our hotel.”
“Thanks.” The number of newspaper articles and even books that had been written about Smoke Jensen made him one of the best known men in Colorado, if not throughout the entire West. Sometimes being well-known was advantageous, sometimes it was annoying, and sometimes it was just a little embarrassing.
The clerk turned toward a board filled with keys hanging from hooks, and took one down. “Your key, sir. You are in room two-twelve. Go upstairs, turn back toward the street, and it will be the last room on the right.”
Smoke nodded and started toward the stairs.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Jensen!” the clerk called loudly.
Rufus Barlow was sitting in the lobby, reading the newspaper when he heard the desk clerk call out to Smoke Jensen. Barlow watched Smoke go up the stairs, then walked over to the front desk. “Who was that fella that just checked in?”
“Why, that was Mr. Smoke Jensen,” the clerk said proudly. “Staying right here, in our hotel.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. You want to see the register, where he signed in?”
The clerk turned the register toward him, and Barlow read it, then smiled.
“How about that,” Barlow said. “That’s somethin’, ain’t it.”
“Mr. Barlow, may I ask what you are doing here?” The desk clerk suddenly realized who he was talking to. “You never do anything except come into our lobby, read our newspapers, and drink our coffee. I have told you that the lobby and the coffee are for paying guests, not derelict bums. Now if you don’t leave, I will summon the sheriff.”
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Barlow said, hurrying out of the hotel.
Like the lobby, the hotel room was nicely furnished. More spacious than most hotel rooms, it had a bed, a settee, a chest of drawers, and a chif-ferobe. A porcelain pitcher and bowl sat on a dry sink. Smoke poured water into the bowl, took off his shirt, washed, then turned the covers down to crawl into bed. Since starting on his quest to find the people who shot Sally, it would be the first time he had slept in a real bed and this one felt particularly comfortable.
In Blakely’s Saloon, which was halfway up Earl Avenue on the east side of the street, Rufus Barlow sat nursing his beer as he discussed a plan with his partner, a plan that both knew could either make a lot of money for them, or get them killed. Barlow’s partner was a man named Murdock Felton, but he had been called Slim for so long that even he had almost forgotten his real name. He fingered his mustache fitfully.
“Are you sure that the fella stayin’ in the Homestead is really Smoke Jensen?” Felton asked. “Or is it just Waycox shootin’ off his mouth?”
Waycox was Jeremy Waycox, the desk clerk at the hotel.
“It’s Smoke Jensen all right. I seen the register where he signed in.”
“Might have been someone just sayin’ that’s who he is,” Felton suggested.
“No, I seen him go up the stairs. It’s Jensen all right. I seen him one time in Colorado Springs. I didn’t recognize him right off, ’cause it’s been a long time, but he’s damn near big as a bear, so it ain’t like you could miss him.”
“That don’t sound to me like the kind of fella you would get into a fight with,” Felton said. “Yet that’s exactly what you’re wantin’ us to do.”
“It ain’t goin’ to be no fistfight,” Barlow said. “This here fight is goin’ to be fought with guns.”
“That’s even worse. They say he’s as quick as lightnin’ with ’is gun.”
Barlow smiled. “Yeah, he is, and that’s somethin’ I’d be worr yin’ about iffen this was goin’ to be a fair fight. Only it ain’t goin’ to be what you would call a fair fight. The plan I got laid out is foolproof.”
“There ain’t nothin’ foolproof,” Slim replied. “Most especial when it comes to dealin’ with someone like Smoke Jensen. That man ain’t even human.”
“What do you mean, he ain’t human? He’s human just like ever’body else is, and if you shoot him, he’ll die, just like ever’one,” Barlow insisted.
“Then how come he ain’t already dead? You got ’ny idea how many folks have tried to kill ’im?”
“Yeah, well, they just didn’t go about it right, is all. We’ll do it right.”
Slim drummed his fingers on the table for a moment as he thought about what Barlow was saying. “How much money is it again?”
“There’s a thousand dollars in it, Slim. Five hundred for each of us.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“You’re damn right, that’s a lot of money.”
“All right.” Slim finally agreed. “I’ll go along with your plan.”
The next morning a slight breeze filled the muslin curtains and lifted them out over the wide-planked floor of Smoke’s hotel room. Smoke moved to the window and looked out over the town, which was just beginning to awaken. Water was being heated behind the laundry and boxes were being stacked behind the grocery store. A team of four big horses pulled a heavily loaded freight wagon down the main street.
From the restaurant, and maybe even from half a dozen private homes, Smoke could smell bacon frying. His stomach growled, reminding him that he was hungry. He splashed some water in the basin, washed his face and hands, then put on his shirt and hat and went downstairs. There were a couple people in the lobby, one napping in a chair, the other reading a newspaper. Neither paid any attention to Smoke as he left the hotel.
The morning sun was bright, but not yet hot. The sky was clear and the air was crisp. As he walked toward the café he heard sounds of commerce ; the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer, a carpenter’s saw, and the rattle of working wagons. That was quite different from the night sounds of clanking liquor bottles, off-key piano, laughter, and boisterous conversations. How different the tone and tent of a town at work in the morning was from the same town in the play of evening.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sugarloaf Ranch
As the ramrod of Sugarloaf, Pearlie’s duties were greatly increased during Smoke’s absence. He had to supervise all the hands, including the extras who had been put on for the spring roundup. Cattle that had wandered away during the winter had to be found and brought back into the herd, and calves produced during that time had to be branded.
He was laying out the irons with the slash SJ brand, when Cal came into the barn with a worried look on his face.
“What is it, Cal?” Pearlie asked.
“She ain’t got up.”
“Who ain’t got up? What are you talkin’ about?”
“Miss Sally. She ain’t got up yet this mornin’.”
“Maybe she’s just tired and is sleepin’ in,” Pearlie suggested.
“No, it ain’t that,” Cal said. “It’s somethin’ bad. I just know it is.”
“What makes you think that?”
“’Cause, I stood outside her bedroom door and I called out to her. I called loud too, loud enough to wake her up if all she is doin’ is sleepin’. But she didn’t answer me. I’m worried, Pearlie. I’m awful worried.”