Clint checked into the Statler, found that Handy was right. Mentioning his name got him a room with no questions, and it was clean. He sat on the mattress for a moment, found it very comfortable.
He walked to the window to check on his view, and access. Satisfied that he could see most of the street, and access to his window would be difficult, he left his rifle and saddlebags and went back to the street.
He walked for a while before coming to the sheriff’s office. It was easily one of the oldest buildings in the town. He’d been finding this true of many Western towns that were growing. He didn’t much care for the towns where East was meeting West in the name of progress, but there was nothing he could do about it.
He entered the office, found a man in his sixties sitting behind the desk with a badge on his chest. He was looking at wanted posters the way most people looked at keepsakes from their past.
“Excuse me?”
The sheriff looked up from his desk, gave Clint a sad look.
“Yeah?”
“My name’s Clint Adams,” he said, figuring he might as well start there.
The sheriff’s face brightened.
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
“Well . . . have a seat, Mr. Adams,” the lawman said. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. My name’s Sheriff Artie Coyle.”
Clint came forward and took a seat across from the man, who suddenly seemed very happy. It must have seemed to him that a shadow of the Old West had entered his office.
“What can I do for you?” Coyle asked.
“I’m looking for a man,” Clint said. “My information is that he came through here.”
“Oh? Who’d that be?”
“His name’s Harlan Banks.”
“I know that name,” Coyle said.
“From where?”
“I don’t know.” The lawman’s gaze fell upon his collection of posters. “Maybe there’s paper on him.”
“I don’t think so,” Clint said. “Not yet anyway.”
“Well, what’d he do?”
“He’s supposed to have killed someone,” Clint said.
“You don’t know for sure?”
“No,” Clint said, “that’s why I want to find him. To ask him.”
“So you ain’t gonna kill ’im on sight?”
“No,” Clint said, “I have to talk to him first.”
“And then kill ’im?”
“If he did kill someone,” Clint said, “I’ll bring him in myself to face trial and watch him swing.”
Coyle screwed up his face in concentration.
“It’ll come to me,” he said finally. “You stayin’ in town?”
“I’m at the Statler.”
“Good,” Coyle said. “I’ll know where to find you when it comes to me.”
“Do you think he might have passed through town?” Clint asked.
“Could be.”
“Maybe I’ll talk to some of the bartenders in town,” Clint said. “One of them might have something to tell me.”
“There ya go,” Coyle said.
Clint got up, started for the door, then turned and asked, “You got a brother in town?”
“No,” Coyle said, “but I got a cousin.”
“Runs the livery. Named Handy?”
“That’s right. How’d you know that?”
“Lucky guess,” Clint said. “I’ll be seeing you, Sheriff.”
“If you’re lookin’ for a good meal,” Coyle said. “try Hannah’s Café, on Second Street. Great steaks.”
“Sounds good,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
* * *
Outside Clint thought about checking the saloons, but his stomach growled. That convinced him to go and find Hannah’s right away instead.
He walked to First Street, then Second, and found the café. As he entered, he saw that only a few tables were taken, as it was after lunch but before supper.
“Help ya?” a young waiter asked. He was tall and thin, maybe twenty, with a clean white apron on, like he’d just donned it.
“Just rode into town and I’ve got a powerful appetite. The sheriff told me to come here.”
“You a friend of the sheriff’s?” the boy asked.
“We just met,” Clint said. “But he told me this place has the best steak in town.”
“Take a table,” the boy said. “I’ll tell Ma to make ya one.”
“Your Ma Hannah?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Um, that’s the name of the place, right?”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” the kid said. “You want some coffee?”
“Yeah, a pot,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
He sat at a table while the boy disappeared through a door, presumably to the kitchen.
There was a middle-aged couple sitting across the room from him. They both nodded and smiled, so he returned the greeting.
The boy came out with a pot and a mug and set them down on the table.
“Steak’ll be out in a coupla minutes, mister,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Clint poured himself a mug of coffee. From the smell he knew it would be strong, the way he liked it. It was also hot. It made him hopeful for the steak.