Which wasn’t saying much, but at least it was a town. Riding down Main Street, he passed everything Harry Dial had told him was there. Two saloons, two hotels—unimaginatively called the Hotel Dexter and the Dexter Hotel—a few cafés, a bank . . . he even rode past the sheriff’s office. Eventually, he found his way to the livery. “That’s some animal,” the old liveryman said. “Yes, he is,” Clint said. “He needs very special handling, though. Might take your finger off.” “I think I can handle him,” the man said. He held up his left hand, which was missing parts of the last two fingers. “I’m already missing some fingers.” “I can see that,” Clint said. “Okay, he’s all yours.” The man accepted the reins and said, “I’ll take good care of him.” Clint handed the man a dollar and said, “See that you do.” “Okay.” “I see this town’s got two hotels,” Clint said. “Which one is the best?” “Try the Hotel Dexter.” “Thanks.” Clint took his rifle and saddlebags and walked to the hotel.
