When Clint got to Crapface’s room, his friend was just finishing up his second steal dinner. The plate looked like it had been full of meat and potatoes.
“Guess I took care of you,” Clint said.
“You sure did,” Crapface said. “These was some good steaks.”
“They were cooked for you by the colonel’s personal chef,” Clint said.
“What the hell is a chef?” Crapface asked.
“It’s a cook.”
“He got his own cook?”
“That’s right.”
“Well,” Crapface said, pushing the second plate to the foot of the bed, where it joined the first one, “he sure got a good one.”
Clint took the empties from the bed and put them on a nearby table.
“What’d that colonel want with you, Clint?” Crapface said, trying to settle back comfortably against the bed rail.
“He wants to hire me.”
“For what?”
“Not sure,” Clint said. “He wants my name, or my gun, or both, to back some kind of play he’s making.”
“What play?”
“Political, I think.”
“You don’t wanna get messed up in politics,” Crapface said. “I’d rather have somebody come at me with a gun than with some politics.”
“I agree,” Clint said. “I hate politicians.”
“Besides,” Crapface said, “what’s he need you for, he’s got that sheriff of his.”
“His future sheriff, you mean.”
“He sure of that?”
“He’s positive.”
Crapface shook his head.
“Politics.”
“I’m going to my room for some rest,” Clint said. “I’ll look in on you later.”
“Okay,” Crapface said. “I’ll be ready to ride tomorrow after some sleep.”
“We’ll see, Crapface,” Clint said. “We’ll see.”
Clint was reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein when there was a knock on his door.
He slipped his gun from the holster hanging on the bedpost and made his way to the door. He cracked it, saw a man standing in the hall, unarmed. He was tall, about forty-five, wearing a clean suit.
“Mr. Adams?” he said. “Mind if I talk to you?”
“That depends,” Clint said. “Who are you?”
“I own this hotel,” the man said. “My name’s Sam Robinson.”
“Mr. Robinson,” Clint said. “I’ve heard of you.”
“I’m flattered,” Robinson said. “Fact is, I’ve heard of you, too.”
Clint swung the door open and said, “Come on in.”
He moved away from the door to let the man enter, put his gun back in its holster.
“Are you happy with your room?” Robinson asked.
“It’s a room,” Clint said. “A nice room.”
“I can get you something bigger.”
“Not that I need a bigger room,” Clint said, “but why would you do that?”
“To make sure you’re comfortable,” Robinson said. “You and your friend, that is. Is he all right?”
“He’s comfortable.”
“That’s good.”
“And I’m comfortable,” Clint said, “but why would you want to make me more comfortable?”
“I understand you had dinner with Colonel Woods tonight,” Robinson said. “And Mr. Cross.”
“Actually,” Clint said, “Mr. Cross only came in for dessert. Along with Miss Woods.”
“Ah,” Robinson said. “Did you have time to talk business with the colonel?”
“Some.”
“I suppose he told you I’m opposing Cross for the job of sheriff?”
“He did,” Clint said, “and personally—even though I’ve only known you a short time—you’d get my vote—if I lived here.”
“Well,” Robinson said, “maybe we can do something about that.”
“I’m afraid not,” Clint said. “We’ll be leaving very soon.”
“At least we can talk tonight.”
“About what?”
Robinson looked around.
“How about a drink?” he asked. “I have some wonderful brandy in my office, and we can be comfortable there.”
“I’ll put on my boots and you can lead the way.”