“Have to take the afternoon train then?”
“I reckon.” He punched a ticket and shoved it through the window toward Curly. “Sixty-five cents, please.”
Flandrau paid for and pocketed the ticket he did not intend to use. He had found out what he wanted to know. The express did not stop at Tin Cup. Why, then, had Soapy marked the time of its arrival there? He was beginning to guess the reason. But he would have to do more than guess.
Curly walked back to the business section from the depot. Already the town was gay with banners in preparation for the Fourth. On the program were broncho-busting, roping, Indian dances, races, and other frontier events. Already visitors were gathering for the festivities. Saguache, wide open for the occasion, was already brisk with an assorted population of many races. Mexicans, Chinese, Indians of various tribes brushed shoulders with miners, tourists and cattlemen. Inside the saloons faro, chuckaluck and roulette attracted each its devotees.
Flandrau sauntered back to the hotel on the lookout for Sam. He was not there, but waiting for him was a boy with a note for the gentleman in Number 311.
“Kid looking for you,” the clerk called to the cowpuncher.
“Are you Mr. Soapy Stone’s friend, the one just down from Dead Cow creek?” asked the boy.
Taken as a whole, the answer was open to debate. But Curly nodded and took the note.
This was what he read:
Sam, come to Chalkeye’s place soon as you get this. There we will talk over the business.