PRESCOTT, ARIZONA
EARLIER
Clint and Hannah found Ben at the house, waiting for them.
“Hey,” he said when they walked in, “I was lookin’ for you two.”
“I was looking for you,” Clint said, “ran into your mother along the way. She offered to bring me here to see if you were here.”
“I went to the café, Ma,” he said. “You left the lights burning when you locked the door.”
“I realized it later, dear,” she said. “I went back and doused them.”
“Why were you looking for me?” Clint asked.
“I found somebody you can talk to about Harlan Banks,” Ben said.
“Who?”
“A desk clerk,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine. Banks stayed at his father’s hotel, where he works.”
“Well, let’s go and talk to him,” Clint said. “Maybe he can save me the bother of having to go to this meeting tonight.”
Ben looked at his mother.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I have to get myself washed up. When you’re done, you can both come back here. I’ll have a pot of coffee on.”
“Sounds good to me,” Clint said. “Lead the way, Ben.”
* * *
Ben took Clint to Kellogg’s hotel, found his friend Larry still behind the desk.
“Is your Dad around, Larry?” Ben asked.
“Naw, not tonight.” Larry was staring at Clint with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Larry, this is my friend Clint Adams,” Ben said. “Clint, this is Larry Kellogg.”
“Hello, Larry.”
“Muh—Muh—Mr. Adams.”
“Relax, Larry,” Clint said. “There’s no need to be nervous. Understand?”
“Yuh-yuh-yes.”
“Good,” Clint said. “Ben tells me you know something about Harlan Banks.”
“Um . . .” Larry said.
“Come on, Larry,” Ben said. “Tell him what you told me.”
“Uh, well, Mr. Banks did have a room here, but then he disappeared, and a page was torn out of our register.”
“Who tore it out?”
“I don’t know,” Larry said, “but I figured it was my pa.”
“And why would he do that?”
“My pa does what he’s told.”
“By who?”
“By the town council,” Larry said, “or by the mayor.”
“And the chief of police?”
“Him, too.”
“And what about you? You don’t do what you’re told?” Clint asked.
“I do what my pa tells me to do,” Larry said. “To the others, I’m nobody.”
“Where’s your pa now?”
“I dunno.”
“Would he talk to me?”
“No,” Larry said, “he’d be too scared.”
“Okay, Larry,” Clint said, “thanks for your help.”
They turned to leave, but then Clint thought of another question.
“When Banks disappeared, did he leave anything behind in his room?”
“Nope,” Larry said. “The room was clean.”
“Who cleaned it?”
“I figured Mr. Banks took his stuff with him.”
“What happens to stuff people leave in their rooms?”
“We got a room in the back,” Larry said. “Pa keeps it for a while, then sells what he can.”
“Can I see that room?”
Larry looked at Ben, who nodded.
“Okay,” Larry said. “This way.”
He led them down a long hallway to a back room, which was cluttered.
“Where would the newer stuff be?” Clint asked.
“Against that wall,” Larry said, pointing.
Clint walked to the wall, looked at the saddlebags, weapons, books, clothes, carpetbags, and other things piled there.
“Nothing is marked with the room number they came out of?”
“No,” Larry said.
Clint bent down, started to go through the saddlebags. There were clean and dirty shirts, bandannas, letters, and receipts. There were rifles laid against the wall but no pistols. The rifles looked as if they’d need to be cleaned after being there for so long, but one—a Winchester—looked newer, cleaner. He picked it up. There were two initials scrawled into the stock—small letters, but legible. “H.B.”
“I’m going to take this,” he said to Larry.
“Uh, okay.”
“If your pa notices and wants to know where it is, tell him you don’t know.”
“Okay.”
They left the room, walked back to the desk.
“Thanks, Larry.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben nodded to his friend, and he and Clint walked outside.
“Is that Harlan Banks’s rifle?” Ben asked.
“I think so,” Clint said. “His initials are carved into the stock. Too much of a coincidence for it to be anyone else’s.”
“So now what?”
“Now I’ll keep my appointment,” Clint said. “See what else I can find out.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll have to come to a decision,” Clint said. “Do I leave town, or do I press on?”
“If you stay, the mayor and the chief won’t like it.”
“Yes,” Clint said. “I know.”