"G'night, Andy. Don't you stay up too long reading that book."
"I won't, Jonesy. You knock 'em dead down at the saloon. G'night."
Jonesy closed the door on the spacious room he and Andy shared in Mrs Edwards' boarding house. As he passed through the front room on his way out, their landlady called to him.
"Is Andy settled for the night, Jonesy?"
"Sure is, Miz Edwards. He's happy with his book. That boy beats all - when he lived in Wyoming, all he wanted was to go someplace else. Now here we are in St Louis and every chance he gets, he's reading those Beadle novels about life in the West."
Mrs Edwards laughed.
"That's human nature, Jonesy. Wherever we are, we think somewhere else must be better. I'll leave a snack for you on the kitchen table, for when you get back," she added.
"You don't need to do that, Miz Edwards," said Jonesy.
"Yes, I do. And I'll keep an eye on Andy."
"I know you will, Miz Edwards, like always. And thank you."
Andy and I were sure lucky to find lodgings at Mrs Edwards' place, thought Jonesy as he walked to the saloon where he played the piano two or three nights a week. Their landlady was a fine cook and a wonderful housekeeper who made their rented living quarters pleasant and comfortable, but she was more than that. In the months that Andy and Jonesy had been in St Louis, Mrs Edwards had become a friend, and took care of the old man and the young boy in a way that made the boarding house more like a home. Jonesy only wished that Slim and Jess had someone like Mrs Edwards at the Sherman Ranch. The stories Andy had told about Jess and Slim's housekeeping when he came back from summer vacation had made Jonesy's hair stand on end. Wrapping bread dough in the Laramie Gazette, for pity's sake. It would be a miracle if those boys didn't poison themselves. Jonesy wished there was something he could do but knew there wasn't. He wouldn't be going back to Wyoming - his sacro-iliac was getting steadily worse, despite the fancy St Louis doctors he'd been going to, and he would only be a burden on a ranch. He wouldn't do that to Slim. And there was nothing a part-time piano player in St Louis could do to get a housekeeper for a ranch in Laramie. He shook his head sadly as he went into the saloon.
*L*A*R*A*M*I*E*
Sorensen Permont sat at a table in the Golden River saloon, the hum of conversation around him and the sound of the piano being played on the other side of the room barely noticed as he planned the final details of a scheme. Not a grand scheme, by any means, but one that would give him the cash he needed to buy into the real game in New York. Permont knew that details were important; carelessness was what could get you caught. The detail he needed now was a place - or at least a place name - somewhere out West. Not a well-known place; it had to be somewhere his target couldn't easily find information on. And he wasn't fool enough to simply invent a name - it was easy to discover that a town didn't exist. No, he needed somewhere to send his target on a wild goose chase so that by the time the trick was discovered he, Permont, would be untraceable, under some other convenient name amidst the crowds of New York.
"To finish off, here's a little song I wrote myself." The piano player's words caught Permont's attention. He listened absently as the old man started to sing,
"Marry me, marry me, way out in Laramie, where the wild sycamores grow."
Laramie... that was out west, wasn't it? Permont tried to recall exactly where the town was.
"Say that you love me some night when above me a Wyoming moon is aglow."
Wyoming, that was it. Hmm, Laramie was too big a town for his purpose but it might be worth talking to this piano player. As the pianist finished the song, Permont joined the scattering of applause, then beckoned the old man over to his table.
"That was splendid singing, my friend. Let me buy you a drink, Mr ... ?"
"Oh, I'm Jonesy to everyone. And thank you but I don't drink, only for medicinal purposes."
"Well, if you only drink for medicinal purposes, then by definition anything you drink must be medicinal," said Permont with a smile as he poured a shot of rye for the old man called Jonesy. "You said you wrote that song yourself. Have you been to Laramie?"
"Been there? Why, I lived there for close on fifteen years," said Jonesy.
"Really? I hear it's wonderful country up there. What sort of town is Laramie?"
"Well, now, I didn't live right in Laramie. I was on a ranch about twelve miles from the town - the Sherman Ranch and Relay Station..."
By the time the old man left twenty minutes later, saying something about a young boy at home, Permont had the information he needed. The Sherman Relay Station - perfect. He would leave for New York tomorrow morning, with a stop in Cincinnati for just long enough to sell that fool Cooper a store in Sherman, Wyoming.