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

"I wish to stay. I like it here."
Here?
What was there here to like? It was a mere station on the railroad, a cattle-shipping
point for nearby ranchers with side-tracks and loading pens, a few scattered places
of business and the homes of their owners. It was a bleak, lonely place, bitter cold
in the winter, hot and dry in the summer, windy all the time.
"I will give you one hundred dollars," I said. As I spoke I was thinking what a fool
I was. That was three months' work for a cowhand.
She flushed. "Sir, I-"
"I said give.
If you wish it can be a loan. This is a dead end. There's nothing here for anyone
unless they have cattle to ship." The thought of a moment ago returned. "Unless German
Schafer can use you. He might need a waitress."
What of Maggie, the absent owner? What would she have to say about that?
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Taking five gold pieces from my pocket, I reached across to her table and placed
them before her. "There. Now you have a choice. And if you are careful that will
keep you until you have a job and pay your fare to Denver as well."
She started to speak but I waved it aside. "I've been broke. I know how it is, and
it's easier for a man."
Taking up the brown envelope received from Jefferson Henry, I opened it. There were
several camera portraits, the first of a young man elegantly dressed, a hand on the
back of a chair, one knee slightly bent. It was an intelligent face but an empty
one.
The second picture was of the same young man, this time seated with a young woman.
She had a pert, saucy expression that I found intriguing. The third picture was of
the same couple, this time with the man standing, the girl seated and holding a child.
The two latter pictures had been taken outside. There were other things than the
faces that caught my attention.
Placing the pictures at one side I refilled my cup and took up the letters. Pinned
to the top letter was a short list of names.
Newton Henry m. Stacy Albro (d. Nancy) Associated with: Humphrey Tuttle Wade Hallett.
The names meant nothing to me. The girl I would be seeking would be Nancy Henry,
the daughter. My eyes returned to the mother. A most attractive girl and a smart
one if I was any judge, also there was something disturbing about her. Had I known
her somewhere? Somehow? Or seen her?
The mother would be older than I, but not by that much. Newton Henry had married
Stacy Albro and Nancy was their daughter. Newton or she had somehow been associated
with Tuttle and Hallett.
The Pinkerton report was exhaustive. They had spent a lot of time and money to come
up with no answer, and for them it was unusual. Almost unbelievable, given the circumstances.
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The person to whom the letters had been addressed was deceased, their report stated.
The letters offered no hint as to their origin.
As I was shuffling the papers together to replace them in their envelope, the picture
of the man and his bride fell to the floor. The girl at the next table picked it
up to return to me. She gasped.
Having bent to retrieve the picture from the floor, I glanced up. She was pale to