Western Omelette

If It Isn't One Thing

Hoke sagged inside as he saw Harold come into the hotel dining room. He kept his head down, concentrating on his breakfast – seemingly to no avail. A chair scraped, and an annoyed Harold plopped down opposite him.

"What the hell's going on, Easterly? What did you tell Alicia?"

Hoke looked up, chewing slowly. He saw the bandaged fingers and tweaked an amused frown.

"Stickin' those where they shouldn't belong?" He pointed with his fork. "Would've expected the bandage to be on your nose."

Harold looked at some of the other tables and leaned closer.

"There's nothing funny about any of this, Easterly. We had a deal."

"No, Harold, you had a deal – with your newspaper. You deceived Alicia, and used me – or tried to."

"That's rubbish. You agreed! You agreed to go along with this."

"I didn't agree to trickin' that young woman to come down here as bait."

"Of course she was bait! That was the whole point of her coming."

Hoke kept his eyes on his plate, using his bread to wipe up some egg yolk. He really didn't need this right now. Harold was only concerned with Harold, and how he could get a story. Bigger problems faced him at the moment. He washed down the food with a gulp of coffee, and moved his plate aside. Fingers laced, he matched Harold's intimate posture, and told him everything that had happened to date.

Harold's attempted interruptions were halted with a warning finger, and when Hoke was finished, he stood up and started out.

"Hey! Wait a minute. Where are you going? What about our deal?"

Hoke paused, looking at the reporter. "Your deal, Harold. Not mine."

"What if I had information about your other problem?" Harold pushed his chair back and cursed, as he bent his sore hand.

"What information?"

Standing, Harold held his one good finger to his lips, the little one, and with his head, gestured outside.

"What information, Harold? I got plans to make and no time for any more of your schemes."

Harold pulled him reluctantly away from the entrance. "You ever heard of Cody Duart?"

"Nope."

"He's a gunfighter! Wears boots with silver toes. I thought Pinkerton knew all the gunfighters."

"Well, we don't. And for your information there are only a few on the A list, but several dozen on the B list."

"Then one of your A list is right here, now, in this hotel."

"This Dewheart fella?"

"Not Dewheart, Duart, and yes. I saw him check in last night."

"What makes you think it has anything to do with me?"

"You said your neighbour hired Houseman to- to see to you? Well, Houseman uses guns like Duart when he doesn't want the attention himself."

Hoke scanned Harold's face for some kind of trick, an angle he could use for a story. The abrupt chirp from the hotel door made them both turn.

"The clerk Edward said I'd find you two out here. Are you plotting another way to exploit me?" Hands on comely hips.

"Alicia! Alicia, you didn't let me explain." Harold rushed to her side, arms out for a hug, hands inadvertently connecting with her elbows.