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or had it just slipped his mind? Or not occurred to him to mention?
    He walked to the north end of town and located the two-story boardinghouse owned and operated by Mrs. Nunally. It stood alone, with no other houses around it. It certainly would have been his choice as a place to stay in town if he wanted to go unnoticed. Then again, he wouldn’t have gone to a saloon and run off at the mouth after a few drinks.
    He considered his options. He could go to the front door, knock, and ask if anyone had taken a room over the past two days. Or he could wait and watch as boarders came and went. Maybe he’d recognize someone. And maybe not. The only one of the three men who bushwhacked him he’d seen was the one he’d killed. The other men he’d have to recognize from somewhere else, like maybe Wells.
    He decided to knock on the door.

TWELVE
    â€œI don’t have any rooms,” the severe-looking woman who answered the door said.
    â€œI’m not looking for a room.”
    â€œThen why are you bothering me?” she asked. “I have work to do.”
    â€œI just have a few questions.”
    She folded her chubby arm beneath her formidable bosom.
    â€œWhy should I answer questions?”
    â€œBecause you may have a killer in your house.”
    She dropped her hands.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAnswer my questions and maybe I can tell you.”
    She hesitated, then said, “All right, ask. But you can’t come in.”
    â€œI don’t want to come in,” Clint said. “Have you had a new boarder in the past two days?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    â€œSands, Derrick Sands.”
    â€œDo you know where he’s from?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you know where he is now?”
    â€œI do not.”
    â€œHe’s not in his room?”
    â€œHe doesn’t have a room here.”
    â€œI thought you said he was a boarder.”
    â€œHe was. He is not anymore.”
    â€œWhen did he leave?”
    â€œThis morning.”
    â€œDid he say where he was going?”
    â€œHe didn’t say, and I don’t care,” she said. “He was an unpleasant man. Now that you intimate he was a killer, I can see why.”
    â€œWhere was he keeping his horse?”
    â€œI don’t know, the livery stable, I suppose.”
    Clint frowned. He had never gotten round to checking the livery stables. Maybe if he had, he would have found Derrick Sands.
    Damn it.
    â€œOkay, Mrs. Nunally,” he said. “Thank you.”
    â€œHmph,” she said, and started to close the door.
    â€œOh, wait.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou said you had no rooms available,” he said, “but that Sands left this morning.”
    â€œWell, I’ve still got to clean the room,” she said. “I can’t rent it the way it is.”
    â€œYou mind if I take a look before you clean it?”
    â€œMister,” she said, “I don’t have all day to wait—”
    â€œI’ll give you five dollars.”
    She opened the door wide and said, “In advance.”
    She told him he could have five minutes for his five dollars. It was a high price, but five minutes were all he’d need.
    He entered the room and saw what she meant. If the man had been in the room for two days—or even one—he was a slob. The sheets were soiled and all over the place. The drawers in the chest were hanging open, but they were empty.
    He walked around, picked the sheets up off the floor, and a slip of paper fluttered out. He picked it up. It was a telegraph slip, the kind you filled out when you wanted to send a telegram. It said: Orwell, Texas. Nothing else.
    Maybe it was enough.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Clint headed for the telegraph office, then remembered the clerk said he’d left some telegrams at the front desk of his hotel. He stopped there first and picked them up. One from Roper, one from