Sheriff on the Spot Read Free Page A

of that badge, Pat?”
    Pat said, “I’m looking for Sam Sloan.”
    â€œHe’ll probably be around.” Deems put his hand on Pat’s arm and urged him toward the bar. “Have a drink on me—now that you’re not a sheriff any more.”
    Joe Deems was about Pat’s height, with a deceptive slimness of figure that hid a lot of substantial weight. He was about thirty-five, though his thinning sandy hair made him look older. His face and voice had a surface appearance of geniality, though it couldn’t wholly hide the intrinsic hardness of the man underneath. His forehead sloped back sharply from ragged eyebrows, and he had a sharp nose that had at one time been knocked awry. It had grown back almost straight, but enough one-sided to give his face a curious appearance of unevenness. He had long white hands and a way of gesturing nervously with them, and he wore a green-striped shirt with red suspenders holding up tight-legged pants of black broadcloth, and red elastic armbands on the sleeves of his shirt.
    Pat let himself be led to the bar by the proprietor, but said quietly, “I’ll buy my own drink, Deems. An’ drink it alone.”
    Deems let go of his arm with a pained look. “That’s not being very friendly, Stevens.”
    Pat said, “I didn’t mean it to be.” He turned away from Deems and said curtly to the bartender, “Green Valley.”
    Joe Deems stayed by his side. He cleared his throat as the bartender set out a shot-glass and poured bonded bourbon into it. “I thought the reason you’d stayed away from my place was because you were sheriff and felt you shouldn’t do much drinking in public.”
    Pat downed his drink without saying anything.
    Deems laughed uncertainly. “But I thought things would be different after you turned your badge over to Jeth Purdue.”
    Pat set his empty glass down and spun a silver half dollar across the counter. He said, “You do a lot of thinking, don’t you, Deems?” and turned, brushing past the proprietor toward a side door leading into the small hotel lobby.
    There was a leather-covered sofa and four straight chairs in the lobby. A wizened little man leaned on the counter over an open hotel register, blinking rheumy eyes at the brightly lighted saloon. He showed some yellow snags of teeth in a smile when Pat came through the doorway. “Fust time I’ve seed you around here, Pat.”
    Pat said, “Evenin’, Forrey.” He came to the counter and leaned one elbow on it, looked down at the open register while he got out the makings.
    â€œReckon you jest couldn’t make out to stay away no longer.” The aged clerk chuckled gleefully. “That Kitty Lane brings ’em all in sooner or later. But you’ll hafta cut out Sammy Sloan if you git anywheres with Kitty.” His cackle of merriment had an obscene sound.
    Leaning over the counter, Pat was reading the last name written on the register. In heavy, bold letters was written, “F. A. Ralston, Denver, Colo.” The number of the room assigned to Ralston was scratched so thinly that Pat couldn’t make it out. He put the blunt tip of his finger on the name and asked, “What room has he got?”
    Tom Forrest peered down at Pat’s fingertip. “That dude feller from Denver? Number fifteen. I recollect he ast fer it particular.”
    â€œIs he in his room now?”
    â€œI reckon. He went up an’ I never seed him come down.”
    â€œWhat room have Sam and Ezra got?”
    â€œThey got two rooms.” The clerk chuckled happily. “Yes sirree. One room for each of ’em. Livin’ in style since they sold out their ranch an’ moved into town.”
    â€œWhat are their room numbers?” Pat asked sharply.
    â€œEighteen an’ twenty. Right straight back from the head of the stairs. I dunno whether you’ll find ’em there or