Milo Talon Read Free

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 severalcowhide 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?”
    “Three doors down. Maggie’s Place. She won’t be in this time of night but the cook’s one of the best.”
    Whether it was the fact that I paid fifty cents for a room or his conversation about the cook that warmed him up, I didn’t know, but the clerk was suddenly talkative.
    He glanced at the register. “Talon? Ain’t that some kind of a claw?”
    “It is. An ancestor of mine taken it for a name because he had a claw where his right hand should have been. Scratched a lot of folks here and there. Or so I’ve heard.”
    He thought I was joking but I was not. Every Talon knew the story of that hard, bitter old man who started the family. It was a long time back and to most of us a few stories were all that remained, although there was rumor of property still in Talon hands and treasure buried here and there.
    “Be around long?” he asked.
    “Day or two.” I paused. It was always better to provide a reason so they wouldn’t worry about it. “I’ve been workin’ all summer. Figured it was time to rest up a bit.” They might, of course, have seen me leave the private car, so I added, “Not that I’d turn down a good job if it showed itself. I’ve been askin’ around. Like to get me a job guidin’ hunters or such-like. Seemed like the folks in that car yonder might want a guide but they don’t. They don’t want nothing. Even visitors.”
    The clerk shook his head. “Been settin’ there two, three days. Interested in land, or so I hear. They’ve their own guide or whatever. Sleeps here.”
    The room was a good one as such rooms went, a double bed, a washstand with a white bowl and pitcher, two chairs, one of which was a rocker, and a knit rug on the floor. On another small stand beside the bed was a kerosene lamp which I made no move to light. My eyes were already accustomed to the dim light but I’d no wish to advertise which room I was in. Glancing down into the street without disturbing the curtain, I seemed to see that same figure lurking in the doorway.
    Of course, it could be some cowhand with nowhere to go or money to spend, or some lad waiting for his girl, but a man lived longer by being cautious.
    He would see me when I left the hotel unless—at the bottom of the stairs I turned abruptly and went down the hall to the back of the hotel and out the back door.
    Outside the door I sidestepped quickly into the shadows and paused, staring around into the half-dark and remaining in deep shadow. A light showed from a back door and window three buildings down which I guessed was the restaurant. Following a dim path along the backs of the buildings, I almost stepped into the path of a pan of water a man was about to throw from the back door.
    “Howdy,” I spoke softly. “All right to come in