Crow Bait

Fifty-one

Amarillo, Texas

Amarillo was young, but already booming as the old West headed for the twentieth century. The site had been chosen by J. T. Berry along the tracks of the Forth Worth and Denver City Railroad, which extended through the panhandle. The town was already the county seat, and had become a fast-growing cattle market because of its railroad and freight service.

As Lancaster rode down the town’s main street, he saw that they had a Wells Fargo office. He bypassed it, but would stop in later to talk to the agent in charge.

The town had more than one livery stable. He picked one for no particular reason, withstood the eye-rolling of the liveryman when he saw Crow Bait.

“Got some nice horses you could look at before ya leave town,” the man said to him.

“No, thanks, I’m satisfied with my horse.”

“Really?”

“Just keep him well fed and cared for,” Lancaster said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any other strangers in town in the past few days?” he asked.

“Lots.”

Lancaster gave what little description he had of Sweet.

“That could be a lot of men, mister,” the liveryman said. “Why you lookin’ for this jasper?”

“Friend of mine,” Lancaster said. “Supposed to meet up with him and a couple of other friends.” He described the two men who had fought with Ray, the bartender.

“Again, could be anybody, and they might not have left their horses here.”

“Yeah,” Lancaster said, “thanks.”

“Want I should recommend a hotel?”

“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. “I’ll pick that out myself.”

“Suit yerself.”

“I always do,” Lancaster said. “Take care of that horse.”

“That’s my business, mister,” the man answered. “I’ll take care of ’im like he’s my own.”

“See that you do.”

Lancaster came out of his hotel into the chaos that was Main Street’s traffic. Buckboards, freight wagons, riders and their horses pretty much choked the street. The foot traffic on the boardwalks was also heavy, and several times he had to step aside for ladies who were rushing somewhere. Men probably smelled that he was on the hunt, for they stepped aside for him.

Walking the streets, checking hotels, boardinghouses, and saloons would take forever. He wasn’t sure that talking to the local Wells Fargo agent, or the local law, would be any kind of shortcut, but he had to try something. So far, in his search, he had not run across a lawman who impressed him. A good sheriff or marshal knew when strangers came to his town, and he checked them out. If that was the case in Amarillo, it would solve his problems, but he finally decided to go to the Wells Fargo office first. Maybe the agent there would be able to fill him in on what kind of law the town had.

He had passed the office on the way into town, so he knew where it was and headed over there.