Sheriff Coyle checked a few of the saloons, finally found Clint Adams standing at the bar in The Red Garter.
“Sheriff,” Clint said as the man sidled up alongside him. “Hey, I tried that café you told me about.”
“How was it?”
“It was great.”
“Yeah,” Coyle said. “Hannah’s the best damn cook in town.”
“Then it looks like I found the best place to eat the first time around. Can I buy you a beer?”
“Sure. Why not?”
The bartender brought the lawman a beer with the same bored look on his face.
“You ask Roscoe about your man, Banks?” Coyle asked.
“Roscoe?”
“The bartender.”
“No, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Just as well,” the sheriff said. “Roscoe’s an odd one.”
“In what way?”
“He’s a bartender who minds his own business.”
“Then I guess I wouldn’t have gotten much out of him,” Clint said. He looked around. “Maybe when the covers come off the tables, I’ll find somebody who knows something.”
“How long are you willin’ to stay in town and look for Banks?” Coyle asked.
“Until I get some answers, I guess,” Clint said. “Or until I’m convinced he was never here. Then I’ll just have to move on.”
“Few days, then.”
“Probably,” Clint said. “How about the chief of police?”
“I told you,” Coyle said. “He’s a schoolmaster.”
“You said store clerk.”
“Same thing,” Coyle said. “What I mean is, he’s an Easterner. You can go and talk to him if you want, but I gotta warn you. He might not even know who you are.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Clint said. “I don’t care if he knows who I am, as long as he knows who Banks is.”
Coyle finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar.
“Good luck to you, then,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you around town.”
“Sure, Sheriff.”
The lawman walked out, watched by Clint and the bartender, Roscoe.
“Another one?” Roscoe asked when Clint looked at him.
“You ever heard of a man named Harlan Banks?” Clint asked.
“Nope.”
“Then no,” Clint said, “I don’t need another one. Thanks.”
He decided, instead of waiting for the gaming tables to be opened for business, to move on, try a couple of other saloons, maybe some of the businesses like the mercantile and the hardware stores, places a man might go when he got to town.
He stepped outside the saloon, looked up and down the street. Still busy, with men and women walking back and forth, wagons going up and down the street, as well as horses. In about two hours some of the business would start to close, and the saloons would start to fill up. As dusk came, cowboys from the surrounding ranches would ride in and it would start to get very busy. Clint could have gone to see the chief of police, but he decided to put that off until the next day.
A little saloon hopping first.