The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Read Free Book Online Page B

turned away in disgust and told Ezra, “Let’s get a drink.”
    They went to the bar and were joined by a general movement of men in that direction. The sheriff and Rosa disappeared between a pair of curtains into an inner room.
    Dusty Morgan came up to them at the bar while they were drinking. His eyes were cold and slaty, and his lean young face was bitter and hard.
    â€œHereafter,” he told Pat grimly, “I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business.”
    Pat said, “Sure,” but Ezra muttered angrily, “You danged young whelp. He saved you from bein’ murdered.”
    Dusty’s eyes blazed savagely. He took a backward step and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelts. “Empty yore holster, One-eye. No man can talk to me that-away.”
    Ezra snorted contemptuously and turned his back on young fire-eater.
    Pat said mildly, “A man’d think you were just honin’ to eat lead.”
    A man standing beside him interjected, “An’ he’s plenty liable to eat a big hunk of it if he’s still in Marfa by midnight. Sheriff Davis shore means to kill you, fellah.”
    â€œIf I don’t kill him first.” Dusty Morgan’s voice was like a whiplash. He turned to look around the saloon for the sheriff.
    At the rear of the bar, a voice snickered. “Rosa took him off with some sweet talk but don’t worry none about him bein’ back. He’ll back up his talk with lead.”
    The muscles in Dusty’s jaw tightened. His eyes were sultry as he turned back to the bar and ordered a drink.
    Pat took Ezra’s arm and drew him toward the front door, saying quietly, “Time we was gettin’ a little shut-eye.”

5
    The proprietor of the Lone Star Hotel was a portly man with a bald head and glossy black mustaches. He was dozing in the otherwise empty lobby when the two men from Powder Valley walked in. He sat up and yawned and blinked at them, mechanically brushing spilled cigar ashes from the front of his broadcloth vest.
    â€œCome right on in, gents.” The heartiness of his greeting was marred by another yawn. He got up an waddled to the desk, shoved a register around toward them. “Sign right there if you want a room.”
    â€œHave we got to sign out right names?” Pat asked, taking a stubby pen and dipping it in the inkwell.
    The proprietor stroked his mustaches, looking them over carefully. Then he sighed and admitted, “Not many do, I’m afraid. But it isn’t any of my business.”
    â€œThat bein’ the case,” said Pat gravely, “I’ll just sign her … u-m-m … how does Pat Stevens sound?” he asked Ezra with a weighty frown.
    â€œSounds right familiar. I don’t see …”
    â€œYeh. It’s a good soundin’ name,” Pat interrupted quickly. “I’ll just put down from Dutch Springs, Colorado, to round it off, sorta.” He boldly signed his correct name and residence and asked the proprietor, “You got a double room somewheres around number seventeen?”
    â€œHow long will you be here?”
    â€œJust for tonight. We’ll have to be ridin’ south in the mornin’.”
    The proprietor nodded his bald head sadly. “Most fellows are heading south when they stop by in Marfa.
    I’ll give you gents number nineteen … right across from seventeen upstairs. That’ll be ten dollars for the two of you. Cash.”
    Pat said, “It don’t seem like nobody don’t trust nobody in Marfa.” He put three silver dollars on the counter. “There’s my price for the room, Mister.”
    The fat man looked down at the three dollars. “I said ten.”
    â€œAn three’s what yo’re gettin.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t believe you’d want word to get around that you’re just stoppin overnight on your way to the border. Sheriff might be