To someone riding in from any direction, the overall impression of Sleepy Eye was that its name sure fit it, even though it must have been named for the watercourse way off to the southwest on its own tanglewood flood plain. The just as aptly named town was mostly sun-silvered frame, dozing like a big dried-out buffalo chip in the late morning sun as Longarm rode in.
That clerk back in New Ulm had been on the money about the tedious ride, and jam on toast would only carry a man so far. So first things coming first, Longarm asked directions from a couple of kids shooting marbles in a dooryard, and dismounted out front of the only livery in town.
An old geezer wearing overalls and a Swedish accent came out to see if Longarm really wanted anything. Longarm told the hostler he didn't know how long he'd be in town, but that his buckskin pal could doubtless do with a rubdown and some fodder and water while she waited for him to finish his business in town. The old Swede said nobody had ever stolen anything from their tack room. But Longarm held on to his Winchester just the same.
So he was carrying it, muzzle aimed down as peaceably as he knew how, when he strode into the restaurant the old-timer at the livery had recommended. It stood handy to the Western Union and across from the open platform and stock loading ramps of the railroad. Longarm figured he'd fill up on stronger coffee and more solid grub than he'd managed for breakfast.
The drably pretty young waitress who seated him at a round table with a checkered red, white, and gravy- stained cloth didn't seem upset by his faded denims and Winchester '73. But he sure was getting dirty looks from the only other patron at that hour.
That small brunette he suspected of being the hot-tempered Helga Runeberg was seated at another table in a far corner, spitting venom at him with her big blue eyes from under the brim of her dark gray Stetson Carlsbad. Longarm had no call to nod at a lady he'd never been introduced to. He wasn't ready to question her about her Uncle Chief before he found out a bit more about the dead rascal. He'd come in here to settle his gut before he enjoyed the usual duel of wits with a small-town telegraph operator. So he didn't want to argue with the dead Indian's boss before he had a better line on whether Youngwolf had been taking advantage of an old pal's kin or the mean-eyed little gal had been aiding and abetting a cuss she'd known to be a charter member of a serious outlaw gang.
The drably pretty and dishwater-blond waitress said they didn't go by printed menus, but suggested the special for the day might be better for his health than anything their cook would ever whip up as a special order for some fussy eater.
When she added their special, as usual, offered him his choice between fried or mashed potatoes with his roast beef and succotash, he said he'd go with fried and asked if he could have his coffee with his grub.
She looked surprised, and asked how else anyone might ever drink their coffee. So he knew he was in a place that catered mostly to his own sort of country folk. The small brunette in the corner looked a tad stuck up for the place, and likely sipped her damned demitasse with a whiff of creme liquor, with some bittersweet dessert. She looked as if she could smell the crotch of his jeans clean across the room, and thought it unseemly to sweat in the saddle like a human being.
The air was still damp from all that rain as it started to warm up. So Longarm could smell that waitress pretty good as she returned in no time with his order. But he could tell she'd had a bath the night before, if not that morning, and it wasn't her fault she had to sweat a tad at honest work. He decided he liked her far better than the snooty sass in the corner, although the brunette would likely win in a beauty contest, where each feature got measured on its own.
Neither gal was a raving beauty, or even pretty enough to win the third prize, when you got down to brass tacks. But neither the pallid young waitress nor the somewhat older brunette cattle queen would have been thrown back in the sea if they'd washed up on Robinson Crusoe's beach.
Longarm figured he'd rather lay the waitress, although it wasn't going to bust his heart if he never laid either. The waitress seemed just a good old country gal who'd give a man a tolerable ride he might recall for as long as another payday in another trail town. The more finely featured but bitchy-looking brunette would likely scratch and bite, or just lay there like a slab of beef from the icehouse, depending on which way might make a man feel worse. He wondered idly who she kept reminding him of. She didn't look like any gal he'd even considered kissing lately. Yet he was almost certain he'd seen that almost pretty face and that elfin turned-up nose before. Meanwhile, the grub the much sweeter-natured gal had served was good, and the coffee was even better. Arbuckle Brand, if he was any judge, and percolated in one of those high-toned pots as well to taste this good!
Arbuckle Brand was roasted and ground to be sold in the Far West with such complications as high altitudes and primitive brewing in mind. So a mountain man or cow camp cook could make a tolerable mug of Arbuckle Brand in a tin can, over an open fire, a mile or more above sea level with alkali water. The stuff turned to strong black ambrosia that would wake a man up grinning when you made it in a percolator on a real stove. So Longarm put away his first cup pronto, and asked for a second before he'd finished half his grub.
The friendly dishwater blonde got even prettier in Longarm's eyes when she allowed he could have all the coffee he wanted at no extra charge. For she was surely used to serving cowhands, and it was only natural to wonder how fine she might be able to serve them in other country ways.
But he never came right out and flirted with the good old gal. He hadn't ridden all this way to spark a waitress, and even if he had, that other gal was watching and he could tell she thought all men were beasts. Or leastways, he was. But he resisted the temptation to get up and go over to assure he didn't mean to mess with their waitress, and hadn't set out to murder her Uncle Chief back in New Ulm.
Longarm had just finished the last of his special, and was fixing to ask what they had for dessert when he heard considerable galloping out front and glanced through the glass to his right to watch a dozen and a half riders reining in and dismounting by the railroad platform across the way. When he recognized one as Gus Hansson, Longarm smiled thinly and nodded in satisfaction. For now he had a better handle on just how long it took to ride out to the Rocking R and back. It was obvious the snip at that other table had sent the kid to fetch her other riders as she'd ridden on into town.
So he wasn't surprised when Helga Runeberg suddenly rose to her not-too-imposing height and swept grandly past him on her way out the front door. Longarm figured she had an account with the best beanery in town. So he was more surprised when that waitress scurried after her, waving a riding crop.
Then he realized the distracted cattle queen had left her crop at that other table. He'd thought that dishwater blonde looked honest.
He watched her chase the shorter but more imperious gal across the street and hand over the crop. On the way back, the waitress seemed to be in at least as much of a hurry, and her dishwater-gray eyes were wide and worried as they met his own through the glass.
As she came back in, Longarm asked what they had that day for dessert. The waitress asked if anyone had
