Louis L'Amour by The Cherokee Trail Page A

Crossing the room, she looked critically at her hair. She’d have to do something with it and make a list of things to do, things to get.
    At the head of the list, a pistol.
    Chapter 9
----
    L APORTE LAY QUIET in the morning sun. At the hitching rail in front of a saloon were two horses, at the hardware store, a wagon and team.
    Wilbur, glancing along the street, helped her from the stage. “Now you be careful, ma’am.” He paused. “You going to eat in town? If you are, try the boardin’ house yonder. They’ve got a private room for such as you an’ Peg. Might be better. Sometimes those boys forget theirselves and talk rough. They’d be ashamed, ma’am.”
    “Are you protecting them or me?” She smiled.
    “Both.” He held out a hand. “You want me to take that list in to Stacy?”
    “No, I’ll see him myself. There may be some items that call for explanation. In fact, I’ll just go in now.”
    With Peg by the hand, she pushed open the office door and stepped inside.
    Mark Stacy was seated in a swivel chair at a roll-top desk. Seeing her, he got quickly to his feet and reached for his coat.
    “You needn’t, Mr. Stacy. I am not a guest, only an employee!”
    He bowed. “Ma’am, here you are always a guest! Out at the station, I’m the guest”—he grinned—“and you
are
an employee!”
    “This is the list—”
    “Won’t you sit down? Please?”
    “Well—only for a minute. We have some shopping to do, and I want to get back to the station.”
    When she was seated, he shuffled some papers on his desk. “Never heard so many nice things said about the grub—the food, I mean. You’re making a name for yourself, ma’am.”
    “I hope Mr. Holladay will approve.”
    “Let me tell you something, Mrs. Breydon. Ben Holladay doesn’t care whether you are man, woman, red, black, or yellow as long as the stages run on time and folks don’t complain. But you can bet on one thing. He’ll come along one of these days when you least expect it.”
    He glanced at her. “Ma’am? What happened? With your husband, I mean.”
    She hesitated, then said quietly, “Major Breydon was wearing a gun in a button-down holster. He was not a gunfighter. He was not used to western ways. He met a man on the street in Julesburg who had reason not to like him. That man simply drew his gun and fired. My husband was killed instantly.”
    “You know who killed him?”
    “It was Jason Flandrau.”
    “
Jason Flandrau!
Ma’am, you must be mistaken. Mr. Flandrau is not a gunfighter. He’s a very respectable and respected gentleman!”
    He frowned. “Come to think of it, I recall some talk of Major Breydon being killed, but his killer wasn’t named. Fact is, I doubt if anybody knew who he was.”
    “I knew, Mr. Stacy.”
    “Was it some old quarrel? Something that happened back East?”
    “It was no quarrel. My husband only quarreled with gentlemen, Mr. Stacy, when he quarreled at all, which was rare, indeed. Mr. Flandrau killed my husband because the major recognized him.”
    Stacy hesitated. There was something here he did not understand. Jason Flandrau was a very popular man in Denver. Friendly, easygoing, and a free spender who associated only with the most respectable people. Killed because the major
recognized
him?
    “I am afraid I don’t follow you, Mrs. Breydon.”
    She arose. “There is no reason why you should. My troubles are my own. One thing I might ask. Do not mention me to Mr. Flandrau and, please, do not repeat this conversation.”
    “I certainly will not mention it, but I must warn you, ma’am. Mr. Flandrau has many friends. He is a great favorite. More than that—”
    “Yes?”
    “He has an office right down the street. Over the bank. I believe he is there now.”
    Taking Peg by the hand, she went out. For a moment, she hesitated. If there had been a way, she would have turned right around and gone back to Cherokee, but there was no way. Not until late in the afternoon. There was nothing to do