Crow Bait

Thirty-six

Lancaster used the time it took to ride from Henderson to Peach Springs to bond further with Crow Bait. He spoke to him each night as he rubbed him down and fed him, and then made sure to give him some green apples for a treat. To his eye the horse did not seem to be putting on weight, but each day the animal seemed to be getting stronger. He still looked like a bag of bones, but he felt stronger.

And he swore the horse could understand him when he spoke to him. This was the most serene animal he’d ever ridden. Nothing seemed to faze him, whether they were on the trail or camped. They encountered a rattler at one point, and Crow Bait couldn’t have cared less while Lancaster shot the reptile. And nothing in the darkness ever rattled the horse. Although Lancaster felt certain that, if there were any danger approaching, the animal would have sounded the alarm.

Lancaster swore that, for the rest of his life, he’d never judge anything by the way it looked—man or beast.

Peach Springs was a small town—what some people would call a “one horse” town. As he rode in he saw only three buildings—one was a hotel, one a saloon, and one a livery. He reined in Crow Bait in front of the hotel. As he walked in he smelled food cooking. He wondered if this was the one place in town to eat.

“Afternoon, friend,” the clerk said. He was a man in his fifties with a smile that looked plastered on. Lancaster wondered if he smiled all night, while he was asleep.

“Good afternoon.”

“Do you need a room?” the clerk asked. “We’ve got plenty. We don’t get many visitors.”

“Who’s your kitchen cooking for, then?” Lancaster asked.

“Anyone who wants to eat,” the man said. “Folks around here don’t have any place else to go.”

“I see. Well, I’ll take a room, and then I’ll come down to eat.”

“Excellent,” the man said. He turned, took a key from the wall, and handed it to Lancaster.

“Do you want me to check in?” he asked.

“It’s not necessary,” the clerk said. “If you don’t like the room, you can try another one. We have plenty.”

“Thank you.”

“The rooms are upstairs.”

As Lancaster started for the stairs the clerk called, “What would you like to eat?”

“What are my choices?”

“Beef stew.”

Lancaster waited, but when the clerk offered no alternative he said, “Beef stew will be great. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Is your horse out front?” the man asked. “I can have it taken to the stable.”

“That’d be helpful. Thanks.”

“What does it look like?”

“You won’t be able to miss it,” Lancaster said, and went upstairs.

The man who brought him his bowl of beef stew looked just like the clerk, only a few years younger.

“My brother said you wanted stew.”

“He didn’t say I had another choice.”

“He likes the stew,” the waiter said. He put it down next to the basket of rolls he had brought earlier. It looked delicious and smelled the same.

“This will do nicely,” Lancaster said.

“Enjoy.”

The man walked away and Lancaster broke a roll, dunked it in the stew, and tasted. It was just as good as it looked. For the next twenty minutes, all he concentrated on was eating that, and a second bowl.

“You were pretty hungry,” the waiter said, collecting the second bowl.

“I didn’t realize how hungry until I tasted your food,” Lancaster said. “Tell me, does everyone in this area eat here?”

“Unless they eat at home,” the waiter said.

“Who lives in the area?”

“There are quite a few ranches around us.”

“Why isn’t the town larger, then?” Lancaster asked. “Why don’t you have a general store? Or a trading post?”

“The ranchers usually go to Audley or Seligman for their supplies,” the waiter said.

“How far are they?”

“Thirty, and thirty-seven miles, thereabouts.”

“But they come here to eat?”

“Unless they stay home.”

“Yes, you said that.”

“Would you like anything else?”

“Some more coffee.”

“Comin’ up.”

A town this size didn’t have much to offer. It didn’t offer much cover, either. If he started asking questions about Chet Adderly, word would get around. He was going to have to figure out a way to get answers without asking too many questions.

Certain questions were harmless, though.

“What’s your name?” he asked the waiter when he brought the coffee.

“George.”

“And your brother?”

“Which one?”

“How many do you have?”

“Well,” he said, “Harry is the cook, Fred is the desk clerk, and Sam runs the livery.”

“Four brothers? And you pretty much run the town?”

George laughed and said, “We are the town.”

“What about the saloon?”

“Our cousin Dan owns it, and he’s the bartender.”

“One big happy family, huh?”

“Except for our sister,” George said. “She’s not so happy.”

“Why?”

“She hates it here. Wants to leave.”

“Why doesn’t she?”

“She doesn’t have a man.”

“She needs a man to leave here?”

George looked shocked. “A young lady can’t travel alone.”

“Oh, right,” Lancaster said. “Uh, how old is your sister?”

“Hermione is forty.”

“Hermione,” Lancaster repeated. “Forty.”

George nodded. “Is that all you want?”

“Yes,” Lancaster said. “Everything was great. How much do I owe you?”

“Two bits.”

Lancaster passed it over and said, “And worth every penny.”