"Milo Talon" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

If I'd learned one thing during my knockabout years it was that a man lives only
through awareness, and it irritated me that I had not known of the man's presence.
Who was this other man? What was he? Had he been listening?
Why, after so many years, was Henry only now trying to locate his son's daughter?
Pinkertons, he said, had failed. Why hire me, of all people?
Was it because they knew I had friends along the Outlaw Trail? Or did they believe,
because of that, that I was an outlaw? Or did he have some reason to suspect that
I already knew something about the girl? Suppose some of the clues the Pinkertons
had found led to me?
But how could they? Certainly, I knew a few girls here and there, and of some of
them I knew next to nothing of their history.
That the Pinkertons knew me I was fully aware, for they had a line on all who followed
the Outlaw Trail and I'd been approached some time back as a possible agent.
Mounting, I turned my horse toward the town's one street. The railroad station, which
was about a hundred yards from where the private car stood on its siding, was a two-story
structure standing a few yards back of the street. The station had an overhanging
roof-on each story shading the windows from the glare of the sun.
From the private car a good view might be had of most of the street. On that side
of the street which lay closest to the depot there were but three buildings, one
of them a store, another a saloon. The third was empty.
On the facing street there were a dozen buildings including the hotel, restaurant,
another general store, a livery stable, blacksmith shop, and an assortment of small
shops and offices.
Leaving the hostler with two bits to give my horse a bail of oats and a rubdown,
I took my Winchester and saddlebags and started up the street to the hotel.
It was suppertime in town and few people were about. A stray dog lying in the dusty
street wagged his tail a few times,
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asking not to be disturbed, and several horses stood three-legged at the hitching
rail. A cigarette glowed momentarily from a dark doorway of the empty building and
I felt the weight of the gold I now carried. Winchester in my right hand, I pushed
open the door and stepped into the lobby. It was a spacious, high-ceilinged room
with a pillar in the center surrounded by a leather cushioned settee. There were
several cowhide chairs and another settee against the far wall. Several large brass
cuspidors offered themselves at strategic spots. Behind the counter was a man with
a green eyeshade and sleeve garters. He was a pinch-faced man with a mustache too
big for his face.
"A room," I suggested.
Red mustache glanced at me with sour distaste. He had seen a lot of cowhands. "Got
one bed left in a room for three. Cost you a quarter."
"A room," I repeated, "a single room . . . alone."
"Cost you fifty cents," he spoke carelessly, expecting me to refuse.
My palm left a half-dollar on the counter. "Just give me the key," I said.
"No key. Folks just pack them off." He indicated the stairway. "Up and to your right.
Corner room. You can put a chair under the doorknob if you figure it's needed."
"I sleep light," I said, "and I'm skittish. Too much time in Indian country. If you
hear a shot in the night you come up and pack somebody away."
He gave me a bored look and started to resume his newspaper.
"Where's the best place to eat?"