Showdown at Dead End Canyon by Robert Vaughan Page A

asked.
    “Your friend is rather small,” Hawke said. He could think of nothing else to say.
    Pamela laughed out loud. “She is small. But I would hardly call her my friend. She is a scheming opportunist who doesn’t let a little thing like ethics stand in the way of her goal.”
    “Oh,” Hawke said. “Well, you can understand my confusion, I’m sure, but you two were carrying on like best friends.”
    “Women aren’t like men, Mr. Hawke, anxious to settle differences with fisticuffs. We can hide our most bitter disagreements behind disingenuous smiles.”
    “So I see,” Hawke said.

Chapter 7
    HAWKE WAS ASLEEP WHEN PAMELA SHOOK HIM gently by the shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw her smiling down at him.
    “Have you always been able to fall asleep so quickly?” she asked.
    “Yes,” Hawke said. He yawned, then rubbed his eyes. Feeling the train’s speed diminishing, he asked, “Where are we?”
    “We are coming into Green River,” she said. “This is where I get off.”
    “I guess I’ll get off here as well.”
    “You needn’t detrain unless you wish to. I’ve made arrangements with the conductor. You can travel all the way through to California if you want.”
    “Thank you, but this is good enough.”
    Hawke looked out the window. There was nothing to see but a black, seemingly empty maw, interspersed with low-lying brush that grew alongside the track, illuminated for a brief moment by light cast from the windows of the train, then disappearing back into the darkness. Not until the train had slowed considerably did he see any indication of life, afew low-slung unpainted wooden buildings of such mean construction that, had he not seen dim lights shining from within, he would have thought unoccupied.
    With a rattling of couplings and a squeal of brakes, the train gradually began to slow. Still looking through the window, Hawke saw a brick building with a small black-on-white sign that read: GREEN RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY .
    “So this is Green River,” he said.
    “Yes. It doesn’t look like much at night, but it’s really quite a growing little town,” Pamela said. She laughed. “Listen to me, English born and bred, extolling the virtues of a tiny town in the American West. But it has become my home and I feel a sense of proprietorship toward it now.”
    “I’m sure the town has no better advocate than you,” Hawke said. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Dorchester.”
    Nodding good-bye to Pamela, he went out to the car platform to pick up his saddle, then stepped down even before the train had come to a complete halt.
    The depot was crowded with scores of people. Trains connected the three thousand citizens of Green River with family, friends, and memories. They also brought visitors, returning citizens, mail, and the latest goods and services. It was no mystery, then, that at the arrival of each train the depot was the liveliest place in town.
    Hawke picked his way through the crowd, went into the depot, then stepped up to the freight window. A sign on it read: SHIPPING CLERK . In the little office behind the window, the shipping clerk himself, a thin man wearing a striped shirt with garters around each sleeve, was sitting at a desk. Under the light of a kerosene lantern, he was busily making entries into an open ledger book. Sensing Hawke’s presence, he looked up.
    “Yes, sir, somethin’ I can do for you?” he asked.
    “I wonder if I could store my saddle here for a while,” Hawke said.
    “You sure can, but it’ll cost you ten cents a day.”
    Hawke pulled out a dollar and handed it to the clerk. “Here’s ten days worth,” he said.
    The clerk took the dollar then nodded toward a door with his head. “You can stash it in there,” he said. “Go on in and find a place for it.”
    “Thanks.”
    Hawke went into the room the clerk had pointed out. It was dimly lit by a wall-mounted lantern, but there was enough light to allow him to walk around without stumbling over