Crow Bait

Fifty-six

Bodeen led Lancaster to a rooming house down the street from the South Street Livery.

“They left their horses there,” he said when they passed the livery.

“Same place as Sweet,” Lancaster observed.

“That could be a coincidence,” Bodeen said. “Most people use that one, or—where’d you leave your horse?”

Lancaster told him.

“Yeah, or that one.”

When they got to the rooming house, Bodeen stopped across the street.

“Two men rode in three days ago, got a room there,” he said.

“If we go to the livery and I look at their horses, I’ll know,” Lancaster said. “The liveryman in Flagstaff told me their horses need new shoes.”

“Oh, they’re the ones, all right.”

“What makes you think they’re the ones I followed?” Lancaster asked.

“Because when they got here, the first thing they did was start askin’ around for Sweet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

Bodeen shrugged. “I wanted to talk for a while.”

“They in there now?”

Bodeen shrugged again. “I doubt it,” he said. “They’re usually out during the day.”

“They go to one saloon over another?”

“They hit them all,” Bodeen said.

“They must still be looking for Sweet,” Lancaster said. “That means if Sweet did leave a message for them, they haven’t gotten it yet.”

“We could go lookin’ for them.”

“Or wait here for them to come back.”

“That sounds boring,” Bodeen said. “’Sides, I got rounds to make.”

“Okay,” Lancaster said, “you have a point. It might be better for me to come back at night, when they’re in their rooms. Who owns this place?”

“Feller named Winston.”

Lancaster looked at him.

“I know, these places are usually run by women, widows.”

“Older man?”

“Yeah, in his sixties. In fact…”

“What?”

“He’s friends with the sheriff.”

The two men who had tried to beat up Ray the bartender were in the Whiskey River Saloon, sulking over a couple of beers.

“The man tells us to meet him here, and then when we get here he ain’t nowhere,” Rafe Fielding complained.

“He probably had to leave,” Lou Williams said. “I’m sure he woulda left us a message.”

“Like where? With who?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Williams asked. “He didn’t know where we was gonna stay. Hell, we didn’t know that till we got here. We just gotta keep lookin’, otherwise we came all this way for nothin’, didn’t we?”

Fielding made a noise with his mouth.

“Get us two fresh beers,” Williams said. “Then we’ll check some of the other saloons.”

“What about the whorehouses?” Fielding asked.

“Yeah,” Williams said, “let’s do that.”

Sheriff Jacobs knocked on the door of the rooming house.

“I appreciate this, Sheriff,” Lancaster said.

“Don’t mention it,” Jacobs said. “I’m just glad you and Bodeen talked about it.”

“He doesn’t check in with you about strangers?” Lancaster asked.

“I told you,” Jacobs said, “he’s ambitious. Keeps things to himself, hoping they’ll do him some good.”

“What’s the story on this fella?” Lancaster asked.

“Frank Witt,” Jacobs said. “Lost his wife, Ella, a few years ago, and she always wanted to run a rooming house. So he bought this one and runs it in her name.”

When the door opened, a man Lancaster assumed was Witt looked out at them.

“Jimmy, what the hell? I didn’t know you was droppin’ by.”

“Got some time, Frank?” Jacobs asked. “We’d like to talk about somethin’.”

Witt looked at Lancaster, then back at Sheriff Jacobs.

“This fella is Lancaster,” Jacobs said. “He needs some help.”

“From me?”

“You and me,” Jacobs said.

“Well, hell, sure, come on in,” Witt said. “I got some good whiskey around here somewhere.”

They followed Witt into a sitting room, where he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.

“Not for me, thanks,” Lancaster said.

“It’s good stuff,” Witt assured him.

“Probably too good,” Lancaster said. “I used to be a drunk.”

“Oh well…Jimmy?”

“Naw, I guess not, Frank,” Jacobs said.

Witt reluctantly put the bottle away.

“Well,” he said, “then just what is it I can do for you fellas?”

“You’ve got two boarders…” Jacobs started.