“No, I just like clean food,” Smoke replied.
The bartender took a mug down, then held it under the spigot as he drew a glass of beer. “You might try the Parlin Diner. Folks talk high about it.”
“Thanks.” Smoke paid for the beer. Without turning away from the bar, he drank his beer and listened to the conversation going on all around him.
“Hung him, they did.”
“What was it? A lynchin’?”
“Weren’t no such thing. They had a trial and ever’thing.”
“When did it happen?”
“Today. Over in Cyrstal. He was one of ’em that robbed the bank there a few days back. When they was all ridin’ out of town, well, someone shot this fella’s horse. He was left without a ride and the rest of the outlaws just left him behind.”
“One less person for ’em to have to divide up the money with, I reckon.”
“How’d you find out about it?”
“I was down to the newspaper office when they brung in the telegram to Mr. Denton, tellin’ about it. It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”
Smoke listened a little longer, hoping to get some information that would be useful to him, but he heard none. He finished his beer, then walked down the street until he found the Parlin Diner. After a supper of roast beef and homemade noodles, he took Seven to the livery to be put up for the night.
“Fine looking animal,” the liver yman said.
“He is a good horse.”
“You’ll be wantin’ to feed an animal like this oats, I’m sure.”
Smoke chuckled. “And here, I thought you were just telling me how good a horse Seven is. Turns out all you want to do is sell me some oats.”
“Oh, no, sir, no sir, not at all, sir!” the liveryman said. “This truly is a fine horse.”
“Never mind. I would have bought oats for him anyway.”
“I’m sure you would, sir, for an animal like this.”
Smoke laughed again. He knew the liveryman didn’t even realize what he was doing. “I need a hotel for the night. Any suggestions?”
“That depends. You want a hotel for sleepin’? Or for somethin’ else?”
“Sleeping,” Smoke said.
“Then that would be the Homestead Hotel. It’s up toward the depot, on the left-hand side of the street.”
The lobby of the Homestead Hotel was well appointed with overstuffed sofas and chairs, a rose-colored carpet, and several brass spittoons. A few strategically placed lanterns provided light, if not brightness.
The lobby was quiet and empty, except for the desk clerk who sat in a chair behind the sign-in desk, reading a newspaper. The clerk looked up as Smoke stepped up to the desk.
“Do you have a room that overlooks the street?”
“We do indeed, sir.”
“Good.”
Smoke signed the register and the clerk turned it around to read the name before he reached for a key. “Smoke Jensen? My, what an honor, sir, to have you stay in our hotel.”
“Thanks.” The number of newspaper articles and even books that had been written about Smoke Jensen made him one of the best known men in Colorado, if not throughout the entire West. Sometimes being well-known was advantageous, sometimes it was annoying, and sometimes it was just a little embarrassing.
The clerk turned toward a board filled with keys hanging from hooks, and took one down. “Your key, sir. You are in room two-twelve. Go upstairs, turn back toward the street, and it will be the last room on the right.”
Smoke nodded and started toward the stairs.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Jensen!” the clerk called loudly.
Rufus Barlow was sitting in the lobby, reading the newspaper when he heard the desk clerk call out to Smoke Jensen. Barlow watched Smoke go up the stairs, then walked over to the front desk. “Who was that fella that just checked in?”
“Why, that was Mr. Smoke Jensen,” the clerk said proudly. “Staying right here, in our hotel.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. You want to see the register, where he signed in?”
The clerk turned the register toward him, and Barlow read it, then smiled.
“How about that,” Barlow said. “That’s somethin’, ain’t it.”
“Mr. Barlow, may I ask what you are doing here?” The desk clerk suddenly realized who he was talking to. “You never do anything except come into our lobby, read our newspapers, and drink our coffee. I have told you that the lobby and the coffee are for paying guests, not derelict bums. Now if you don’t leave, I will summon the sheriff.”
