Lancaster and Crow Bait were becoming fully bonded as horse and rider. He talked to the animal while they rode, and again at night when they camped. Crow Bait was responding to the sound and tone of his voice. The animal could sense when Lancaster was relaxed, or when he was agitated. The horse took on a similar mood.
In each town they stopped in, Lancaster had to listen to disparaging words about his horse. It was starting to grate on him. At some point some big mouth was going to have to pay for the insults of others.
So far he’d been able to hold his temper.
But who knew for how much longer?
Fifty-one
Amarillo was young, but already booming as the old West headed for the twentieth century. The site had been chosen by J. T. Berry along the tracks of the Forth Worth and Denver City Railroad, which extended through the panhandle. The town was already the county seat, and had become a fast-growing cattle market because of its railroad and freight service.
As Lancaster rode down the town’s main street, he saw that they had a Wells Fargo office. He bypassed it, but would stop in later to talk to the agent in charge.
The town had more than one livery stable. He picked one for no particular reason, withstood the eye-rolling of the liveryman when he saw Crow Bait.
“Got some nice horses you could look at before ya leave town,” the man said to him.
“No, thanks, I’m satisfied with my horse.”
“Really?”
“Just keep him well fed and cared for,” Lancaster said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Any other strangers in town in the past few days?” he asked.
“Lots.”
Lancaster gave what little description he had of Sweet.
“That could be a lot of men, mister,” the liveryman said. “Why you lookin’ for this jasper?”
“Friend of mine,” Lancaster said. “Supposed to meet up with him and a couple of other friends.” He described the two men who had fought with Ray, the bartender.
“Again, could be anybody, and they might not have left their horses here.”
“Yeah,” Lancaster said, “thanks.”
“Want I should recommend a hotel?”
“No, thanks,” Lancaster said. “I’ll pick that out myself.”
“Suit yerself.”
“I always do,” Lancaster said. “Take care of that horse.”
“That’s my business, mister,” the man answered. “I’ll take care of ’im like he’s my own.”
“See that you do.”
Lancaster came out of his hotel into the chaos that was Main Street’s traffic. Buckboards, freight wagons, riders and their horses pretty much choked the street. The foot traffic on the boardwalks was also heavy, and several times he had to step aside for ladies who were rushing somewhere. Men probably smelled that he was on the hunt, for they stepped aside for him.
Walking the streets, checking hotels, boardinghouses, and saloons would take forever. He wasn’t sure that talking to the local Wells Fargo agent, or the local law, would be any kind of shortcut, but he had to try something. So far, in his search, he had not run across a lawman who impressed him. A good sheriff or marshal knew when strangers came to his town, and he checked them out. If that was the case in Amarillo, it would solve his problems, but he finally decided to go to the Wells Fargo office first. Maybe the agent there would be able to fill him in on what kind of law the town had.
He had passed the office on the way into town, so he knew where it was and headed over there.
Fifty-two
At the Wells Fargo office he was surprised to find five men there. They were in a heated discussion with the agent, who Lancaster assumed was the man behind the desk. When he entered, all the men paused to look at him. Several of them continued to study him while one of them turned back to the agent and continued to berate him.
“If you think this is acceptable, then you’re sadly mistaken, Turner,” the man said. He was older than the others, about fifty, with steel gray hair and a tree trunk body. “My boys here are ready to take you apart if I give the word.”
“Now, look, Mr. Atkins,” the agent said, “there’s no need for that. You set these boys of yours on me and somebody’s bound to get hurt. That doesn’t get you what you want, does it?”
“If what I want is to see you get hurt, it does,” the man said.
“Don’t do it, Atkins,” the agent, Turner, said.
To Lancaster the man looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but the odds were four-to-one. Since Lancaster was technically working for Wells Fargo, he felt more than entitled to take a hand.
“Excuse me,” he said.
All faces turned to him. The spokesman, Atkins, was scowling.
“Just a second, fella,” he said. “I got business here.”
“Sounds to me like you’re just making threats, mister,” Lancaster said. “Doesn’t sound like business to me.”
“Mister, you oughtta mind your own business,” Atkins said.
“I am minding my business,” Lancaster said. “I work for Wells Fargo. You got a beef with Mr. Turner here, you got a beef with me.”
“Turner?” Atkins asked. “You know this fella?”
“Not by sight,” Turner said, “but I got a feeling his name is Lancaster. That right, friend?”
“That’s right, Mr. Turner. I assume you got a telegram about me?”
“Yes, sir,” Turner said. “Nice to see you—especially right about now.”
“Wells Fargo hirin’ gunmen now?” one of the other men asked.
“Shut up, Wiley.”
“Lemme take ’im, Mr. Atkins,” Wiley said. He was about thirty and anxious to die, apparently.
Atkins studied Lancaster, as if he was considering letting his boy go, but in the end he just shook his head.
“Son,” he said to Wiley, “this man would chew you up. You and the boys wait outside.”
“But, boss—”
“Just do like I say, boy!”
Wiley gave Lancaster a hard look, which Lancaster returned with a languid look of his own. The other two men actually pushed Wiley out the door.
“This ain’t over, Turner,” Atkins said.
“I didn’t think it was, Mr. Atkins.”
Atkins walked up to Lancaster and fronted him. They were eye-to-eye. As thick as the man was, he was taller than he had first looked.
“You just get to town?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“Tryin’ to earn your money already?”
