Milo Talon Read Free Page A

through the kitchen?”
    “If you’re of a mind to.” The man in the white apron held the door wide. “Somebody out front you ain’t wishful to see?”
    The cook’s face was browned by sun and wind and seamed with time. A cow-camp cook, I’d bet a month’s wages.
    My smile was friendly. “Why, I don’t rightly know. I’ve nobody huntin’ my scalp right now that I recall, but on the other hand there’s a gent across the street in that empty building who seems to have nothing to do but stand there. Are you the cook?”
    “Chief cook an’ bottle-washer. Graduated from some of the best chuck wagons ever went up the trail, an’ never an unhappy rider. I cook an’ I bake.” He was a square-shouldered man of fifty or more, very spare, with a drooping gray mustache. “I just got tired ofsleepin’ on the ground and gettin’ up at three in the morning.”
    As we moved into the kitchen he glanced at me again. “We crossed trails afore, you an’ me. Back up Montana way. I was friendly to some kinfolk of yours. Tennessee folks. Feller rode shotgun out of Pioche later, with a man name of Rountree handlin’ the ribbons. I drove stage opposite to him.”
    “Nice to know you. Know what you mean about sleepin’ on the ground. Get tired of it m’self, time to time.”
    The cook dried his hands on his apron. “Got some roast beef tonight, scramble up a few eggs if you want. Don’t usually do it this time of night, but you bein’ a friend an’ all—”
    “Be a pleasure. I haven’t seen an egg in three months. But I’ll take some of that roast beef, too.”
    “Figured on it.” He paused, taking my measure. “My name is Schafer, German Schafer. The German’s my proper name.”
    “I know you now. Cooked for the Lazy O-Bar, didn’t you? I was reppin’ for the Y-Over-Y.”
    “Know you. That Lazy O-Bar the boys used to call the Biscuit because of that flat kind of O we used. It was a good outfit.”
    Information was where you found it, so I suggested, “Rode in at the call of Jefferson Henry in the car yonder. Said he had a job for me.”
    “Henry? Never comes in here. Eats in that car of his’n, but I seen him. I seen that bodyguard of his’n, too.” Schafer slanted me a look from under his brows. “You seen him? Tall, slope-shouldered man?Heavier’n you, almost as dark. Folks say he’s mighty handy with a gun.”
    “Does he have a name?”
    “John Topp. Southern man, I’d guess. Knows what he’s about but he don’t talk to nobody. Nobody. Least it’s Henry himself.”
    Glancing past him I could see that but three or four tables were occupied. I started that way, then held up. “Henry been around long?”
    “Just pulled in.” German Schafer lowered his voice. “Some of the boys was commentin’ that he had his car sidetracked at a water-tank about twenty miles back. Stayed nearly a week. They done some ridin’ from there. Carried horses in separate cars.”
    Nobody even turned a head when I walked in from the kitchen and sat down, taking a seat in a corner where I could watch both doors and the street outside. The doorway where I’d seen the watcher was a mite too far along to be seen from my seat.
    There were curtains at the window and red-and-white tablecloths and napkins. No tin plates here but actual china, heavy but clean.
    At one table sat a rancher and his wife, fresh off the range for a change of cooking, at another table two railroad men in blue shirts and overalls. A drummer with a flashy imitation diamond stickpin, and at a table near me a girl, quite young, quite pretty, and somewhat overdressed in obviously new clothing.
    Her glance caught mine briefly, seemed to linger, then passed on. It was not an attempt at flirtation but a half-scared, half-curious sort of look.
    Schafer came from the kitchen with a plate of beef,scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes. He went back for a pot of coffee and a cup.
    With my meal and the coffee before me I took my time. There was much to consider.