Longarm shook his head as if to clear it of a sudden fog, and hurried to catch up with her.
Chapter 8
It was mid-afternoon—a little past mid-afternoon, actually—before the narrow-gauge puffer dragged into Glory with a wood car, four flatcars, and one passenger coach in tow.
Late enough, Longarm decided, that it would be foolish to start off again immediately on the final leg of his trip to Snowshoe. Better, he thought, to wait until morning so he could be sure of finding the way.
As the few passengers were disembarking onto the Glory depot’s small platform, he noticed that the railroad boss was being met by a delegation of men wearing starched collars and long faces. Their expressions seemed even stiffer than their batwing collars, Longarm thought. He had the impression that these people were waiting for news that would be vitally important to them. And that the idiot railroad man was the one who was bringing that information, perhaps even was responsible for it, judging from the way everyone fawned over him once he stepped onto the platform.
Whatever that was about, though, it wasn’t something a deputy marshal had to worry about. Longarm helped the lady down the portable steps to the firm planking, then directed a porter with a hand truck to collect her luggage and his own few things. They would, after all, be stopping at the same hotel.
“Ah, yes,” the clerk at the Grand said after poring over his ledger. “I have it here, reservation in the name of L. K. Skelde.” He gave the veiled woman a questioning
look. But then it wasn’t really common for a woman to be traveling alone on business. The man transferred his attention to Longarm. “And you, sir, would be wanting an, um, adjoining accommodation?”
“I’ll be wantin’ an accommodation,” Longarm said coldly. “I don’t recollect saying nothing about where in the hotel it oughta be.”
“My mistake, sir, ma’am.” The clerk hurriedly bent to his ledger once again. He called a bellboy to carry Leah’s luggage to Room 27 and handed Longarm the key to Room 14. “I hope you both enjoy your stay.”
Longarm waited downstairs a few minutes to enjoy a cheroot and a glass of a middling-fair rye—he didn’t want to seem in too great a hurry to get up those stairs—then wandered up to his room. Number 14 was on the second floor of the narrow, boxy hotel building; 27 was on the top floor one flight up.
