Butcher's Crossing Read Free Page B

behind him the driver’s curses mingled with the clank of iron and the jingling of harness chain as he detached the rear doubletree from the wagon. The driver called plaintively:
    “Some of you men give me a hand with this freight.”
    The young man who had got off the wagon stood on the rough board sidewalk watching the driver struggle with the reins that had tangled with the harness trace. Two of the men who had been sitting on the bench got up, brushed past him, and went slowly into the street; they contemplated the rope that secured the freight and began unhurriedly to tug at the knots. With a final jerk the driver managed to unsnarl the reins; he led the mules in a long diagonal across the street toward the livery stable, a low open building with a split-log roof supported by unpeeled upright logs.
    After the driver led his team into the stable, another stillness came upon the street. The two men were methodically loosening the ropes that held the covered freight; the sounds from inside the saloon were muffled as if by layers of dust and heat. The young man stepped forward carefully upon the odd lengths of scrap board set directly on the earth. Facing him was a half-dugout with a sharply slanting roof at the near edge of which was a hinged covering, held upright by two diagonal poles, which let down to cover the wide front opening; inside the dugout, on benches and shelves, were scattered a few saddles and a half dozen or more pairs of boots; long strips of raw leather hung from a peg that jutted out of the sod wall near the opening. To the left of this small dugout was a double-storied structure, newly painted white with red trimmings, nearly as long as Jackson’s Saloon and somewhat higher. In the dead center of this building was a wide door, above which was a neatly framed sign that read B UTCHERS H OTEL . It was toward this that the young man slowly walked, watching the street dust pushed forward in quick, dissipating jets by his moving feet.
    He entered the hotel and paused just beyond the open door to let his eyes become accustomed to the dimness. The vague shape of a counter rose in front of him to his right; behind it, unmoving, stood a man in a white shirt. A half dozen straight leather-seated chairs were scattered about the room. Light was given from square windows set regularly in the three walls he could see; the squares were covered with a translucent cloth that billowed slightly inward as if the dimness and comparative coolness were a vacuum. He went across the bare wood floor to the waiting clerk.
    “I would like a room.” His voice echoed hollowly in the silence.
    The clerk pushed forward an opened ledger and handed him a steel-tipped quill. He signed slowly, William Andrews; the ink was thin, a pale blue against the gray page.
    “Two dollars,” the clerk said, pulling the ledger closer to him and peering at the name. “Two bits extra if you want hot water brought up.” He looked up suddenly at Andrews. “Be here long?”
    “I’m not sure,” Andrews said. “Do you know a J. D. McDonald?”
    “McDonald?” The clerk nodded slowly. “The hide man? Sure. Everybody knows McDonald. Friend of yours?”
    “Not exactly,” Andrews said. “Do you know where I can find him?”
    The clerk nodded. “He has an office down by the brining pits. About a ten-minute walk from here.”
    “I’ll see him tomorrow,” Andrews said. “I just got in from Ellsworth a few minutes ago and I’m tired.”
    The clerk closed the ledger, selected a key from a large ring that was attached to his belt, and gave the key to Andrews. “You’ll have to carry your own bag up,” he said. “I’ll bring up the water whenever you want it.”
    “About an hour,” Andrews said.
    “Room fifteen,” the clerk said. “It’s just off the stairs.”
    Andrews nodded. The stairs were unsided treads without headers that pitched sharply up from the far wall and cut into a small rectangular opening in the center level of the