Santa Fe was one of the bigger towns in the New Mexico territory, but that wasn't saying much. Train workers flocked to the only hotel, the café, and the two saloons with gambling and booze on their minds. Trail herds often passed through, filling the street with lowing cattle, drunken hollers, raucous fights, and occasional gunshots—on the hour, every hour, and at any point in between. Drifters had a tendency to drift right on by. That was the spirit of the town: just passing through. And always at home in the town, always there to welcome any weary traveler, were the regulars: the smiling girls at Madam Carson's, the conniving card sharks in the saloons, the greedy hotel clerk, and the mum bartenders who kept to themselves, mostly. Santa Fe was not a nice town; but then again, it didn't pretend to be.
Leading north from the train station—a plank shack sitting alongside the tracks where they ran out into the sun-scorched earth—the only street in town (more of a wide, dusty path than the cobblestoned variety Clarence was accustomed to) lay flanked by clapboard buildings built from fresh timber, once upon a time. Now they stood bleached by the sun and, in spots, infested with termites. The Santa Fe Royale, a two-story hotel, sat on the west side of the street. Across from it stood the café; one could only hope its rundown appearance was no reflection on the food served inside. Next to the Royale, a crowded saloon opened its doors to the general public from dawn until way after dusk, and across from it lay a popular house of ill-repute where young women lounged about with plenty of flesh exposed, winking at any fellow who passed their way. From there, zigzagging side to side across the street, one found a livery stable, a small mercantile, a dilapidated and empty jailhouse, another saloon, a bank that looked more like a fortress, and, at the far end of town, a makeshift firing range.
Clarence and Guthrie made their way through the busy street to the Royale and set their luggage on the plank sidewalk outside. Giving the town a cursory glance, Clarence retrieved his handkerchief and wiped at the grime on his face—a natural consequence of their dusty environment meeting his own perspiration.
"Quite warm here, eh?" Clarence squinted up at the scorching sun as dribbles of perspiration trembled down the back of his collar.
Guthrie nodded. Then he turned and entered the hotel, leaving their baggage on the front stoop for now.
"I say, wait for me, old boy!" Hugging his valise, Clarence jogged after him.
The inside of the place looked no better than its outside. The floor creaked beneath their shoes, cobwebs adorned most of the dim corners, and the staircase leading upstairs looked as if it could very well endanger their lives. As for the foyer, it reeked of stale sweat—not surprising, considering the temperature.
"Pardon me, sir." Guthrie approached the clerk's desk. "I should like to inquire concerning the availability of a room in your fine establishment."
The clerk—a short, obese fellow with flabby arms and a belly protruding through his stained undershirt—chewed a wad of tobacco that filled his left cheek and dribbled brownish juice into his scraggly white beard.
"What'd you say?" he drawled, scratching at a fly on his mostly hairless head. By all appearances, he was unsure what to make of the two gentlemen standing before him.
"A room, sir. We would like a room," Guthrie rephrased his request.
"Heh, who wouldn't? I've got a dozen fellers hot off that train that'll be needin' rooms 'til their rattler gets hitched back eastwards. You'll hafta make it worth my while iffin you want me to give you a room instead of them—seein' how they're the ones who make this town tick and all!"
Guthrie seemed to understand the clerk, while Clarence felt as though he were hearing a foreign language spoken for the very first time.
"Two days," Guthrie said. "How much?"
"A buck each should about cover it." The clerk licked his chapped lips with a hungry flick of his tongue and grinned, baring obscenely yellow teeth.
"A what?" Clarence asked.
"A buck," the clerk repeated.
"Similar to a pound, sir," Guthrie explained.
"A pound?" Clarence cried, appalled. "To stay in this hovel? It's highway robbery!"
"I've got my livin' to make, same as anybody else. Gimme the money or git!"
Clarence scowled but said nothing more. He'd made his point.
"Here you are," Guthrie said as he handed over two English pounds.
The clerk chuckled greedily—then frowned all of a sudden. "Hey now, wait a minute. What the hell is this?"
"English currency, sir," Guthrie said.
"Bah! Take it back," the clerk snarled, shoving it into Guthrie's hand.
"But according to the current exchange rate, it is worth more than—"
"Not to me, it ain't!" With a vengeance, the clerk spat a stream of tobacco juice into a nearby canister. Some of the residue clung to his beard. "Now you gimme some real American currency, or no room fer you!"
"Very well," Guthrie said coolly. "If you would direct us to the nearest financial institution—"
"Huh?"
"Where is your bank?" Clarence tried a more direct approach.
"That's right, speak English." The clerk snorted, glaring up at the butler. "Down the street, just past the whorehouse. But don't expect me to hold no room with yer name on it!"
"We shall return." Guthrie stepped outside.
"Dumb Englishters," the clerk spat, and more tobacco juice spilled into his beard.