“He loves women, whores or not,” Lancaster said, “and they like him.”
“Well,” Carver said, “even if Beck was in town long enough to go to the whorehouse, I didn’t cross paths with him, either.”
Lancaster didn’t like the sound of that. Beck had to have been in town long enough to case the Wells Fargo office. And since he was working alone, he’d have taken his time. If the sheriff never came across either Beck or one of the other three, then he was the kind of lawman who ignored strangers in his town.
He was either a bad lawman or, after so many years at it in the same town, he’d become a lazy one.
Thirty
The sheriff had been right about one thing. The steak at Bessie’s was so good it must have been the best in town.
He’d stopped first at the livery to get Crow Bait taken care of. He’d gotten the expected reaction from the liveryman, paid the man to take good care of the horse, and left him scratching his head.
After finishing his steak and topping it off with a slice of pie, Lancaster started hitting the hotels and checking registers. He started with the hotel he was staying in, the Shamrock. They didn’t show any guests named Sweet, Adderly, Cardiff, or Beck in the past month.
He’d arrived in town midday, so he had time to check the hotels and boardinghouses. It was dusk by the time he finished and he decided the saloons would be next, to see if any of the bartenders could help.
Henderson was a decent-sized town, with more saloons than hotels. It took longer to get a bartender to give up information about one of his customers than the desk clerk at a hotel. Desk clerks could be bought cheaper.
In the saloons he had to order a beer, and drink at least half of it. He had to stop after four saloons, or end up drunk. The four bartenders he’d spoken to had never heard of any of the four men. Or so they claimed. He decided to leave the rest of the search for the morning.
He left the Hi-Lo Saloon and headed back to his hotel.
The bartender at the Hi-Lo took two beers to a table in the back. The two men stared up at him.
“We didn’t order no beers,” one of them said.
“Beck did,” the bartender said.
“Beck?” the other asked.
“He told me if anybody was in askin’ about him I should bring you some beers.”
The bartender put them down.
“Who was askin’?”
“Tall guy with the flat-brimmed black hat who was just in here,” the bartender said. “He’s been askin’ about four men.”
“Four?”
“One of them is Beck.”
“Who were the others?”
“Never heard of them.”
“Was it us?” one of them asked.
The bartender looked at them and said, “I ain’t never heard of you, either.”
He walked away.
The two men looked at each other.
“Whataya think?” Bill Kent said.
“I think if this hadn’t happened we’d be leavin’ town tomorrow, and all we did was sit around and drink beer to earn our money,” Wes Tyler said. “Now we gotta kill a guy.”
“That’s what Beck paid us for, Wes,” Kent said. “Stay here one week, kill anybody who was lookin’ for him.”
“You know I’d rather earn my money sittin’ around drinkin’ beer, right?”
“I know it, but we can’t do it.”
“Why not?” Kent asked. “We can just pretend like we never heard what the bartender said.”
“Beck will find out.”
“We can blame the bartender.”
“Beck will find out.”
“Pretend like we left town without ever hearin’ about it—”
“Beck will find—”
“I know, I know!” Kent said. “Beck will find out and he’ll kill us. I get it.”
They sat there for a few moments in silence, and then Kent said, “Let’s finish these fresh beers and then go get it done.”
It took them a couple of hours to track down the man who’d been asking questions about Beck. They didn’t mind that, because by now the fella would be in his bed, sound asleep.
“Always easier to kill a sleepin’ man,” Kent said to his partner.
“I know.”
They were standing outside the hotel, getting themselves ready to go in.
“We’re gonna have to kill the clerk, too,” Kent said, “because he’s gonna see us.”
“Course he’s gonna see us, because we have to ask him what room this Lancaster’s in.”
“Lancaster,” Kent said. “Damn, but that name’s familiar. I just can’t place it.”
“Never mind,” Tyler said. “You can think about it later, after he’s dead.”
“Yeah, okay,” Kent said. “Look, after the clerk gives us the room number, lemme kill ’im, okay? I hate hotel clerks. Snotty little bastards.”
“Sure,” Tyler said, “the clerk’s yours. Are you ready to do this?”
“I’m ready,” Kent said. “Let’s go in.”
They started in and Kent put his hand on Tyler’s arm. “Wait, we gotta kill the bartender, too?”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
“Okay, but if we gotta kill the bartender, lemme do it,” Kent begged. “I hate bartenders. Snotty little bastards!”
Thirty-one
Kent and Tyler decided the best course of action was the direct one. They’d kick in the door of Lancaster’s room and gun him down while he was in bed. What could be easier?
They crept down the hall, guns in their hands, after leaving the clerk behind the desk with a fatal knife wound in his chest. They had flipped a coin to see who would kick the door in. Tyler had won, so Kent was upset, even though he’d gotten to kill the clerk, like he wanted.
The floor creaked slightly beneath their combined weight, but neither of them noticed it. They were intent on what they had to do.
They came to the door and positioned themselves. Tyler was in front, Kent just behind him, ready to fire. He could hardly stand still, he enjoyed killing so much.
Tyler slammed his heel into the door just beneath the doorknob. The door opened with a loud, splintering sound, but to the surprise of both men the first shot came from inside the room…
Lancaster was ready for the two men. Because he knew Gerry Beck’s methods, he figured the man had left one or two men behind to take care of anyone asking questions about him. It was the main reason he’d decided to retire to his room early. He hadn’t expected them to take so long to find him, though, and had almost fallen asleep. When the floor creaked beneath their weight, he heard it, because he had noticed it when it creaked beneath him
