Ralph Compton Slaughter Canyon (9781101559499)
Page 20
The man behind the counter, nearly bald and with a fleshy red face, stood crouched over a large ledger he scratched in with a pencil. He didn’t look up. Teasdale winked at the stranger and shook his head and rang a little brass bell. The melodic chiming sound echoed in the large room, and the man behind the counter looked up. “Teasdale, good to see you today.”
The station agent just nodded. “Harv, this fella here”—he nodded toward the stranger—“needs that room I spoke to you about. Just for the night. I’m guessing you can help him out.”
The hotelier’s smile dropped from his face, and his bottom lip thrust forward. He grunted and licked a finger before turning pages in the big green ledger. As far as the other two men could tell, there was no sequence to the page flipping. He finally turned it back to the page he began with and said, “Well...”
Teasdale stood off to the side, hands in pockets, and smiled.
“What’s wrong? In fact, what’s wrong with everyone in this town?” Middleton shook his head and snatched up his satchel.
“Why, I was about to tell you that you’re in luck, sir. I have—”
“Never mind. I’ll find accommodations elsewhere tonight.”
“I doubt it.”
“What?” said Middleton, turning on Teasdale. The stranger’s shoulders sagged. “Why?”
“Because this is the only place in town with rooms to let, Mr. Middleton.” No one said anything for another few seconds; then Teasdale moved to the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then, Harv.” He nodded at the hotelier, then looked at the stranger and touched a finger to his hat brim. “Mr. Middleton.” He closed the door behind him.
Before either man could address the other, Teasdale poked his head back in. “Almost forgot. You’ll want to talk with Silver Haskell at the livery. He’ll fix you up with a horse in the morning. Good day.” The door rattled closed again, but not before a gust fluttered the lace curtains on the windows beside the door.
“I’d like your best room.”
The hotelier stared at the tall stranger. “God, but you look familiar.”
“A room, please.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Best, you say? They’re all the same. Some better in some ways, others in others.”
“Just give me a quiet one.”
“Well, now,” said Harv, spinning the guest register toward the stranger. “Depends on the time of day. Street’s busier along toward midday and afternoon, whereas the back’s busier in early morning and, of course, nighttime, when the boys are in town. Too much whoopin’ and we put ’em out back on the bench in the alley for a spell. We call it an alley, but it ain’t really. More like a—”
“Any room will do.” The young stranger stared down at the bald hotelier.
“Four could work.”
“Four sounds fine.”
“Four, then?”
The tall man narrowed his eyes and drew in breath through his nose.
“Good. Sign here.” Harv tapped a pudgy, ink-smudged finger at a blank line. The stranger noticed the date of the previous guest’s sign-in was nearly a month old.
“I almost hate to ask ... do you recommend a dining establishment? Preferably not too far. I’ve had a long day and I am tired.”
“Big, young fella like you? My word. I was your age I could go all day in the saddle on Pap’s ranch, scrub off the dust, and ride into town most evenings for a game and a snort.”
“How fortunate for both of us that you are not me.”
Harv grunted and said, “Well, your best bet, not to mention your only one in Turnbull, is Mae’s Dinner House, two doors down. My sister-in-law runs it. She’s a German but she can cook up a storm. Married to my brother. Course, he took up with my wife, though. Been gone, oh, let’s see now—”
Middleton hefted his satchel and walked away while the pudgy bald man spoke.
As he mounted the stairs, he heard the hotelier, say, “Well, I never...”