Free Ragtime Cowboys by Loren D. Estleman Page A

come out from under it after three days.
    Hatted again, they passed a Fordson tractor idling by a silo built of concrete blocks and then an extensive series of pens where Siringo’s nose told him, well before he saw the animals rooting around inside, hogs were raised. Beyond that was a stable. He became alert as Charmian stepped down to hand her reins to a boy who came out from inside.
    â€œRub down these gentlemen’s mounts first, please, Abner. They’ve ridden all the way from San Francisco.”
    The men dismounted. Hammett put his coat back on with the weapons in the pockets. The boy who took their reins was a sullen-faced youth of about nineteen, with a mop of brown hair that needed soap and shears, in filthy bib overalls and rubber boots crusted with manure: Abner Butterfield, who had presided over Wyatt Earp’s stables the day his prize racehorse had disappeared. Siringo noticed the young detective appraising him as he led the animals into the stable.
    The first drops of rain were plunking their hats when Charmian London led them up a flagged path to the porch of a whitewashed cottage. She was shorter than Siringo, a surprise; she had a long torso and the kind of bone structure that usually belonged to a woman of stature, all loose-limbed, with long narrow hands and feet to match. She pulled open a screen door against the pressure of a noisy spring, hung her hat on a peg, and ran her fingers through her boyishly short hair. Her guests took up two more pegs, Siringo adding his sourdough coat, and scrubbed their feet on a sisal mat after her lead.
    They entered a room that took up most of the ground floor, which served as both dining room and parlor, with a plain table under a ship’s helm hung with chains from the ceiling, oil lamps mounted on the varnished handles, and rockers for relaxing.
    â€œEliza’s gone to the village for supplies,” said their hostess. “That’s good luck for you. She’s guileless, as I said, but she can be a fierce old dragon when she realizes she’s been taken in. She’d have had a hand throw you both out, and no mistake.”
    â€œAnd you, Mrs. London?” The cozy domesticity of the arrangement, with the rain hissing now on the roof—a roof without holes—brought out Siringo’s soft-talking side; but he was rusty and groped his way.
    Her face became homely when it wasn’t wearing a smile. “I’m not sure yet. If it turns out you’ve come to pick my brain for stories you can sell, I’ll do the ejecting myself. I was Jack’s favorite sparring partner in the ring he built, and he taught me to shoot and fence.” She inclined her head toward a pair of foils with basket hilts crossed on one wall. “I could run you through before you raised either of your weapons.”

 
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    He had to smile at that. The woman had sharp eyes. The Colt was plain in its worn chamois holster, but even Hammett had missed the Forehand & Wadsworth under Siringo’s shirt. “We’re not here for ideas.”
    â€œWe’ll see. Are you hungry? We have sandwiches and beer. Becky can’t abide turning away even a plagiarist on an empty stomach.”
    â€œBecky?”
    â€œJack’s youngest, by his first wife. She’s here on a visit.” She raised her voice. “Becky?” No answer. “She’s probably upstairs, reading.”
    â€œOne of her father’s books?” asked Hammett.
    â€œOne of Dickens’. David Copperfield, I believe. She’s on the second volume. She started the first in January. She makes it a point to read Dickens every winter. A determined child, Mr. Hammett. And no longer a child, as I must keep reminding myself. Sandwiches, gentlemen? Beer? Something stronger? Jack left us well-stocked.”
    â€œThank you,” Siringo said. “I could eat a horse, and as you can see, Hammett plumb disappears when he turns sideways. And a beer would go