CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Dan Caine rested on top of his bed most of the night and come morning got up and rubbed his stubbled chin, wishful for a razor. He looked in the mirror, didn’t like what he saw, and moved to the window. Thunder Creek was busy with the dawn. Three matrons with shopping baskets over their arms headed toward Doan’s store, and Estella Sweet and Jenny Calthrop, the Estella-adoring Holt Peters in tow, were just leaving on a morning ride. Timothy Bean, dressed in a gray ditto suit and plug hat, left the boardinghouse and stepped rapidly in the direction of the general store, no doubt hunting coffee and breakfast. He was the only man in town who looked nervous just walking.
Someone rapped sharply on the hotel room door.
Dan drew his gun and then said, “Come in. Slow.”
“I can’t. My hands are full.”
Clint Cooley’s voice.
“Full of what?” Dan said.
“Hell, man, I brought you breakfast,” Cooley said. “Open up before it all gets cold.”
Dan opened the door and Cooley stepped inside. “Bacon, eggs, sourdough bread, and coffee,” he said. “I’ve been slaving all morning in the kitchen. Where do you want the tray?”
“On the bed. What kitchen?”
“Ma’s boardinghouse kitchen. She ain’t around to cook breakfast anymore, remember?”
Dan eyed the tray. “I’m hungry.”
“Three fried eggs and about a pound of bacon. Dig in. How are you feeling?”
“Death warmed over and in some pain.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Cooley said. “Now eat. I always took you for an over easy man. I hope you really do like your eggs that way.”
“Where did you learn to cook?” Dan said, picking up his fork.
“At my first mistress’s naked knee,” Cooley said.
* * *
Dan Caine sopped up egg yolk with the last of his bread and said, chewing, “You cook good, Clint.” Then, “How is Hurd?”
Cooley shrugged. “I don’t know. Still in the hoosegow, I guess.”
“I’ve got to ask Pete Doan how we get a circuit judge here,” Dan said.
Cooley said, “In the meantime I don’t suppose Hurd is going anywhere.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You look like hell,” Cooley said.
“Thank you.”
“When I come back, I’ll bring you a razor and maybe some lavender water. You’ll still feel bad but you’ll smell better.”
“What day is this?” Dan said.
“Friday.”
“The cowboys come into Doan’s tonight.”
“You stay away from there,” Cooley said. “You’re not fit to handle a bunch of punchers if things get rowdy.”
“Pete Doan can manage,” Dan said. “He always has.”
“Tonight, I’ll bring my checkerboard over,” Cooley said. “A few games will keep you from being bored.”
“I don’t play checkers,” Dan said. “Bring a pack of cards and we’ll play poker.”
“Do you know how to play poker?”
“Of course.”
Cooley shook his head. “It will be like taking candy from a baby.”
* * *
Chance Hurd sat on the uncomfortable iron cot in his cell, an untouched plate of bacon and beans on the floor at his feet. He scowled as he searched his brain, trying to remember if any of the outlaws with whom he’d done business in the past were still in the area . . . men who’d shoot up this hick town and bust him out.
Lucas Sunday . . . no, he’d been running with Tom Warner and them east of the Colorado for the past couple of years.
John Lorne . . . hung.
Ben Koch . . . hung.
Eli Chaney . . . shot by Texas Rangers.
Benny Home . . . doing twenty in Huntsville.
John Shivers . . . present location unknown, maybe hung.
Hurd gave it up. Even if any of them were still around, how could he get word to them? And there was the time factor, depending on when the circuit judge got to Thunder Creek.
Angry, frustrated, Hurd rose from the cot and grabbed the bars of his cell. “Let me out of here!” he yelled. “You hicks have locked up an innocent man.” He paused for breath and shouted, “Put Dan Caine in here! He murdered Ma Lester, not me.”
No one in Thunder Creek heard Chance Hurd that morning, and if they had they would’ve ignored him. In people’s minds, the big, blustering sheriff was as guilty as hell, and there was an end to it.