"THE BROKEN GUN" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

knowing I had been a
friend to Pio, had come to me for aid in getting Pio out of trouble.
We had shared much together in the past, but he had chosen to live outside the law,
and I had taken another route that lay well within the lines of public responsibility.
My morning's work at the Historical Society came to nothing. The files of the earliest
newspapers held no mention of either Clyde or John Toomey, nor was there a brand
registered in either name.
Cattle ranching in Arizona had only just begun when the Toomey brothers arrived.
In 1864, a man named Stevens held a few cattle in a valley close to Prescott, and
Osborn and Ehle had driven a few hundred head into Yavapai County a year or two later.
Stevens managed to hold his cattle by guarding them night and day, but Osborn and
Ehle had theirs stampeded by Indians, and lost them all. Henry C. Hooker had been
the first real cattleman in the Territory, driving in several herds for sale to the
army, and finally had settled with one of them in the Sulphur Springs Valley. That
was in 1872.
There was a good deal of information in the old records and newspapers, as well as
in Hinton, Lockwood, and others, but no mention of the Toomeys.
At the land office I drew another blank. There was no record of any claims or deeds
in the Toomey name, but it was there I saw the fat man for the third time.
He had been reading a newspaper in the lobby of the motel when I picked up my mail,
and he had been standing on the curb when I left the Historical Society. Now he was
here, chatting with a man in the land office.
It could be coincidence, but I was not prepared to
8
believe that. He could also be a police detective, but I found that hard to believe
too.
The only clue Riley had seemed to have in the investigation of the Alvarez killing
was the clipping about me and the note Alvarez had left, so it was possible Riley
might be having me followed. However, this man had the appearance of a successful
businessman, or perhaps a cattleman.
Was he actually following me? For a moment I had an impulse to walk over and ask
him, but he had only to deny it to make me look the fool. So I chose the better course,
called a cab, and went to a popular cocktail lounge and ordered a drink. Within five
minutes he was seated at a table not far from me with a drink of his own.
The hell with it. This looked like trouble, and the last thing I wanted was to get
mixed up in something that was no concern of mine. I would buy a ticket for Los Angeles
on the evening plane... or the next one out.
But by the time my drink was finished the fat man had visited a phone booth, and
had also spoken to several people who came into the bar or passed through, and he
seemed to be well known to them all.
As I was about to get up from the table a tall man wearing a white western-style
hat came into the bar, glanced my way, and came over. He pulled out a chair and sat
down.
"Dan Sheridan? I'm Colin Wells... own the Strawb'ry outfit over east of here. One
of the biggest in the state. When I heard you, a western writer, were in town I decided
the least I could do was show some western hospitality. Figured I'd hunt you up an'
invite you out to the place. Give you a chance to see what western ranch life is
like these days."
He was a big, genial man, and the offer was not
unusual. We talked for several minutes about ranching, modern style. Leading him