Before he could think to say anything in protest, she had turned, shut the screen door with a smack and left him alone; his fancy felt hat, toothbrush and saddle at his buckaroo-booted feet.

CHAPTER 10

A little bell attached to a spring jingled as Henry went through the front door of the Teamster Café, and it jingled again as the door closed behind him. He hadn’t had a decent meal since he left the Rafter Seven, and now with the cash he had gotten from Sam Mitchell he figured he might just go ahead and treat himself to a plate of steak and eggs for his breakfast. He had hoped it might help him feel better about his situation, although he doubted he could feel any worse.

In front of him was a long wooden counter built from stained knotty pine boards that had darkened over the years, and line of stools with red vinyl seats and chrome legs squatting in front of it. Two of the stools on the left end of the counter were occupied by men, one heavyset, one thin, both dressed in well-worn jeans, cowboy boots with spurs strapped to them, dusty shirts and even dustier cowboy hats. They were both locals by the sound of them. They were discussing the weather, which had been hot, and the apple pie they had just finished, which had been good.

The walls of the place were constructed of the same knotty pine boards as the counter, and were also aged to the same smoky light brown hue. All the walls were dotted with numerous framed black-and-white photos of men driving teams of draft horses. A dusty, stuffed black bear hung on the wall to the left, just above three of the photos, looking as though he was attacking an imaginary prey with his mouth opened, teeth bared and front claws exposed. On the wall to the right hung the head and shoulders of a small bull moose with old Christmas lights, the big screw-in ones, wrapped around his antlers. He also wore an old pair of sunglasses and a well used green-and-white baseball cap that read Fairbanks Construction on the front. Henry didn’t like it when people did that. He understood killing for meat. He didn’t understand killing for sport. As far as he was concerned, it was bad enough to have a dead animal hanging on the wall. It was even worse to take its dignity by hanging crap all over it.

There was a row of four booths along the wall to Henry’s right, next to the front windows on that side of the door, and another set of four to his left, also next to the front windows on the other side of the door—all with the same red vinyl seat covers, matching salt and pepper shakers, an upright napkin dispenser, and a bottle each of ketchup and mustard. The tabletops were also of wood, and nearly the same color as the walls and counter. An old window-mounted air conditioner hummed loudly, and two ceiling fans with little chains hanging from them wobbled as they spun overhead. The place smelled of coffee, bacon grease and old leather, and from the kitchen, a radio playing country music could barely be heard.