Frank suspected it wasn’t true at all, but he didn’t say that to Price. It might be better if folks around here continued thinking that Ben Chamberlain had gone to San Francisco after the argument with his father.
Price went on. “You’re asking a lot of questions, mister, considering that you’re working for Rutherford Chamberlain.”
“I just like to know what I’m getting into, that’s all.”
“Whatever you get into, do it somewhere else besides here.”
This time, Frank let the marshal stalk away without stopping him.
As he walked on down the street toward the hash house, Frank thought about all the marshals and sheriffs over the years who had warned him not to start any trouble in their towns. They knew his reputation, and they weren’t really interested in anything he had to say. He had never really understood that attitude until he had worn a badge himself. The time he had spent being responsible for the safety of his friends in Buckskin had taught him to be a little more tolerant of suspicious lawmen.
He spotted the eatery next to the boisterous Bull o’ the Woods Saloon, which took up most of a block and had its entrance on a corner. A number of men in the calked boots, overalls, and flannel shirts of loggers stood on the boardwalk in front of the saloon’s big windows. They wore solemn expressions as they talked among themselves, and several of them cast glances toward Frank as he approached. Elbows nudged into sides, and one by one the rest of the men turned their attention toward him, too.
Frank paused outside the door of the hash house and gave them a friendly nod. “Evening,” he said.
None of the men responded. They just kept looking at him with blank or unfriendly stares.
Frank didn’t know what that was about, but he was too hungry to worry about it. He went on into the hash house.
The place was long and narrow, with a counter on the right and a row of tables along the left-hand wall. Most of the tables were occupied, as were the stools in front of the counter. A swinging door at the end of it probably led into the kitchen.
A man with a round, friendly face worked behind the counter. He was dark-haired, about thirty years old, and wore a white apron. Except for the slight slant of his eyes, he didn’t really look Chinese. He smiled at Frank and waved him onto one of the empty stools.
“What can I do for you, mister?”
Frank glanced at the specials chalked onto a board on the wall behind the counter and said, “I’ll have a bowl of stew and plenty of corn bread. Coffee hot?”
“You can bet that hat of yours that it is,” the man assured him.
“Then fill a cup and keep it coming.”
“Sure thing.”
The man’s voice didn’t have a hint of an accent, but when he turned to a small open window behind the counter and called through it, he spoke in what sounded to Frank’s ears like fluent Mandarin. Not that Frank was an expert in Chinese dialects, but nearly thirty years earlier, he had spent some time in the Sierra Nevadas while hundreds of laborers from China had been building the Central Pacific Railroad through the mountains, and he had picked up a smattering of the lingo, just like he could speak a little of the tongues of several different Indian tribes, as well as a little German and French. Having grown up in Texas, though, he was better with Spanish than any other foreign language.
When the proprietor brought over a cup and saucer and the coffeepot, Frank said, “I’m Frank Morgan.”
The man’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t spill a drop as he poured the hot, black brew. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “I suspect nearly everyone in Eureka has by this time. My name is Peter Lee.”
Frank put out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Peter. You sound like you’ve been in this country for a while.”
“As far back as I can remember,” Lee said as he shook hands. “Although I was born in China. I was two years old when my parents came here to work on the Central Pacific.”
Frank nodded. “You grew up speaking English?”
“I did. You see, one of the supervisors took me in when my father was killed in an accident only a couple of months after we got here. My mother…” Lee shrugged. “Well, I don’t know what happened to her. She was gone by the time I was old enough to remember anything.”
Frank took a sip of the coffee. “Some fellas might be a little bitter about that.”
Lee shrugged and said, “I never knew any difference. The people who raised me were good folks. Taught me how to work hard and take care of myself.”
“Looks like you’re doing a fine job of it,” Frank said with a meaningful nod at their surroundings.
“I do all right.” The door at the end of the counter swung open, and a very attractive young Chinese woman came through it carrying a bowl of stew, which she placed in front of Frank. Peter Lee said, “My wife and our children help me run the place.”
Frank nodded politely to the woman and tugged on the brim of his Stetson. “Mrs. Lee,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
She smiled and didn’t say anything, just retreated back through the door into the kitchen.
Frank picked up the spoon Lee placed on the counter beside the bowl and dug in. The stew smelled good and tasted better. It was full of big chunks of beef, potatoes, carrots, wild onions, and spices. Lee brought over a plate with a big hunk of corn bread on it, and when Frank sampled that, it was equally as good.
“What brings you to Eureka, Mr. Morgan?” Lee asked as he leaned on the counter. “As if I didn’t know.”
“You’ve heard about it, eh?”
