Robert Strode's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Robert tied his pony to a rail outside the tall hotel and stepped into the lobby. His shirt stuck to his back. Dust coated his boots and sleeves. A clerk behind the desk looked him over, then glanced away. Two men near the window stopped talking. Robert knew the look. He was a stranger here, sweaty and worn, and no one wanted to meet his eyes. He wiped his glasses and walked to the desk anyway. "Afternoon," he said. "I'm looking for a man. He rides a dark horse. Carries a leather pouch, heavy with coins." He described the drifter's smile, his clothes, the way he talked fast and easy. The clerk shook his head. "Don't know him," she said. A second worker shrugged the same. Robert felt the chase slipping. He pressed harder, naming the stolen things one by one. The clerk only stepped back. "We get a lot of folks through," she said. "Can't keep track." Her voice had an edge now. The men by the window watched him like he was trouble. Robert's throat went tight. He reached into his coat and pulled out the matchbook. He set it on the desk, the little hotel printed on its cover. "I came because of this," he said. "I'm not here to start anything. I just want what's mine." An old man rose from a chair in the corner. He had been reading a paper, and he folded it slow. He crossed the lobby with a cane and tapped it once on the floor. "You the one asking about the coin man?" he said. His eyes were sharp under white brows. "Saw him. Two nights back." The room went quiet. The clerk busied herself with papers. Robert turned to face the old man. "You saw him?" "Stayed one night. Had a fat pouch and a nervous way about him." The old man leaned on the cane. "Those things you listed. He had some of them. Spread them on that very table, counting." He nodded toward the window. Robert's heart pounded. "Where did he go?" "Left yesterday morning. Rode north." The old man watched Robert's face. "There's a town that way. Got a pawn shop. A man with goods to sell would go there." Robert gripped the desk. The trail was warm again. Two days behind had become one. "North," he repeated. "Thank you." The old man returned to his chair and shook his paper open. The clerk said nothing. Robert pushed the matchbook back into his coat and walked out into the heat. His pony lifted its head, golden mane bright in the low sun. Robert untied the reins and climbed up, his knees stiff. He looked north, where the road climbed again into hills. A pawn shop meant the drifter was selling. If Robert reached it before the coins were spent, he could still get them back. "One day behind," he told the pony. "We ride at first light."