Read Online The Savage Trail by Jory Sherman - Free Book Online

Then he strode toward the hotel with Rosa in his wake.
    After he checked Rosa in and asked if someone could rub down their horses and give them grain and water, he watched her walk back to the room with her key.
    â€œI want the horses saddled and back at that hitchrail out front in two hours,” he told the clerk. “Think you can manage that?”
    â€œYes, sir, we have a reliable stable boy who can take care of all that.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œThree dollars ought to do it.”
    He gave the clerk three dollars, knowing most of it would go in his pocket. The stable boy would be lucky to get fifty cents of that money.
    He walked out of the hotel and next door to the Frontier Saloon. There were no boardwalks on that street, but swampers, store owners, urchins, maybe, kept the dirt swept down. He stomped his boots to shake off some of the dust and entered the saloon, pushing aside the bat-wings, then stepping to one side until his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
    Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight pouring through the entryway. Ollie’s eyes narrowed and his right hand fell within reach of his pistol.
    You just never know, he thought as he scanned the bar, the tables, watching for any odd movement or change of expressionon any of the faces. Hardly anyone noticed him except the barkeep, who, while he had seen his share of hard cases over the years, recognized Hobart the moment he stepped through the swinging doors. Ollie’s gaze swept the room twice, then settled on Sam Rafer, who nodded to him from behindthe bar.
    Ollie strode over to the very end of the dogleg and stood next to the wall. From there he could see the front door and the back hallways that led to Roscoe’s office and out to the back alley.
    â€œOllie,” Rafer said, striding to the end of the bar.
    â€œSam. Roscoe here?”
    â€œYeah, he’s smokin’ cigars and countin’ his money back in the office. He’ll be out directly.”
    There were three men and an older woman at the other end of the bar. Two men flanked the woman, who looked as if she had opened the saloon early that morning. Her eyes were bleary; she had too much rouge on her cheeks and too much red lipstick on her lips. She wore a tattered hat that had seen better days and her facial wrinkles were covered with a whitish powder that almost matched her hair. The two men on either side of her were nearly as old, and both looked worn out. The rouge on their cheeks was painted there by hard rotgut liquor and the veins in their noses looked like baby-bluerunners frozen in putty.
    Basque and Mexican sheepherders sat at the tables drinkingcheap tequila and beer, their voices liquid with rapid Spanish, their gesticulating hands carving arabesques in the air like fluttering birds attached to brawny, brown-skinned arms.
    â€œYou got a lot of road on you, Ollie,” Rafer said, looking at Hobart and the dust on his forehead and shirt.
    â€œI got a lot of road in my throat, too, Sam. Need to wash some of it down.”
    â€œI got some Old Taylor. You want some water with it?”
    â€œNaw, just a shot of Old Taylor. I’ve tasted your water before.”
    Rafer laughed and took a bottle from the well. He snatched a shot glass from the back counter on his way over, set it in front of Hobart. He poured the glass full.
    â€œWant me to leave the bottle, Ollie?”
    â€œNope. This’ll do me.”
    â€œTwo bits.”
    Ollie put a quarter on the counter. He watched Sam put the bottle back in the well, then drank half of his whiskey, sucking it into his mouth, wallowing it over his teeth before swallowing.Rafer returned and stood opposite Ollie.
    â€œSeen any of my boys around, Sam?”
    â€œNary. That bad?”
    â€œNo, that’s good.”
    â€œYou got something cooking?”
    â€œNope. But I’m gatherin’ firewood.”
    Sam laughed. Just then they heard a door open, then the clump of boots on