“Yeah, I am. How did you know?”
“I’ve heard of you.”
“Have you now? Well, I want you to come on over to my office. I’ve got a few questions for you.”
“I imagined you would,” Falcon replied. “Just let me pay for my breakfast.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Who are you about to hang?” Falcon asked, pointing toward the gallows as he followed the sheriff down to the sheriff’s office.
“We don’t have anybody waitin’ to hang right now,” Sheriff Poindexter replied.
“Oh? But you have a gallows there, as well as a hangman’s rope.”
He chuckled. “Oh, we keep us a permanent gallows in Sorrento ’cause once Judge Dawes sentences a man to hang, why we don’t like to mess around. Most of ’em gets hung the same day, and never no later than by the next day. We keep the rope and hangman’s noose ready, too.”
“Judge Dawes sounds like somebody you wouldn’t want to cross.”
“You got that right,” the sheriff said.
As they approached the sheriff’s office, Falcon saw that there were several people hanging around, and when he got closer he saw why they were there. They were all looking at the two bodies that were lying on the porch. The two horses he had brought in were gone.
The sheriff opened the door, then indicated that Falcon should go inside. Falcon did, and the sheriff followed.
“Have a seat there,” the sheriff said. It was more of an order than an invitation.
“What’s your name?”
“MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”
“MacCallister? You any kin to the coward that ran from the Alamo?”
Falcon bristled. “Sheriff, that was my father, Jamie. He was with Colonel Bowie’s volunteers, and he was ordered to leave the Alamo to take out the last letters and dispatches. And if you knew your history, you would know that he was honored for his service by Sam Houston himself.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that told, too,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “I’ve also heard of you. You’re supposed to be some kind of hero, I’m told.”
The sheriff’s words were baiting, so Falcon didn’t reply.
“Are you a bounty hunter, MacCallister?”
“No.”
“Did you know that Cooper Winters and Travis Eberwine were wanted men? That there was a reward of two hundred fifty dollars for each of them?”
“No, I didn’t know that. I’ve never heard of them.”
“Then why in Sam Hill did you kill them?”
“Because they were trying to kill me,” Falcon replied.
Falcon related the story of how he had been caught in the thunderstorm, had seen a cabin, and was just going to use it to provide shelter.
“They started shooting at me. I shot back.”
“And killed both of them,” the sheriff said.
“Yes.”
“Mister, you must be one hell of a shot.”
Again, Falcon didn’t reply, though if he had, he could have told the sheriff he didn’t have to be that good of a shot since they were right on him when he shot them.
“Now, Mr. MacCallister, here is the big question. Where is the money?”
“What money?”
“The money them two men stole when they held up the stagecoach yesterday. Five thousand dollars. Where is it?”
“I didn’t know anything about the stagecoach holdup, and I don’t know anything about the money,” Falcon said.
“Judge?” Sheriff Poindexter called.
From the back of the office, another man appeared. Wearing all black, the judge was a large man with a porcine face, white hair, blue eyes, and a protruding lower lip.
“This here is Judge Dawes,” Sheriff Poindexter said.
Falcon nodded toward the judge, but didn’t speak.
“Judge, I’m goin’ to ask you to issue me a warrant, so’s I can search this fella. He said he didn’t know nothin’ about Travis and Coop bein’ wanted men. He also says he don’t have none of the money them two boys stole. So I aim to search him.”
“Consider the warrant issued,” the judge said.
“No,” Falcon replied. “If you are going to issue a warrant, Judge, I’m going to have to be served. That means you have to write it out.”
“The hell you say,” Sheriff Poindexter said.
Judge Dawes held up his hand. “The man knows his law. Give me a minute, and I’ll write it out.”
Judge Dawes sat at the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a pre-printed paper. He began filling out the blanks, and a moment later, handed it to the sheriff.
“The warrant has been issued,” he said. “Sheriff, do your duty.”
Sheriff Poindexter handed the warrant to Falcon, who studied it for a moment, then nodded his head.
“It seems to be in order,” he said.
“You’re damn right it’s in order. I’m the one that issued it,” Judge Dawes replied.
“Hold your arms out like this. Straight out by your side, and parallel with the floor,” the sheriff ordered.
Falcon complied, and the sheriff began searching him. He stuck his hand down in the shirt pocket, both front pockets and both back pockets of his pants. From Falcon’s front pocket, the sheriff took out a pocket knife, two keys, and a few coins. From his left rear pocket he took out a billfold.
Opening the billfold, Sheriff Poindexter whistled.
“Damn, me, look at all this money here?” he said. “Now, this is interestin’. This is awful interestin’.”
“How much is there?”
“One thousand and eleven dollars,” Falcon said.
“What are you doing with so much money?” Judge Dawes asked.
“I took one thousand dollars from my bank account before I left MacCallister, Colorado,” Falcon said. “That would be very easy for you to check. All you need to do is send a telegram to my bank there.”
“You’ve got more than a thousand dollars,” Sheriff Poindexter said.
“I got into a game of cards in Glen Rose and won thirty dollars.”
“What do you think, Judge?” the sheriff asked.
“Mister MacCallister, what are you doing in Sorrento?” Judge Dawes asked.
“I’ve come to visit a friend.”
“Who is this friend? Will he vouch for you?”
“I expect he will,” Falcon said. “It’s Harold Denham.”
“The newspaper man?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes, I knew him in Colorado.”
“Mister, sayin’ you are a friend of the newspaper man don’t buy you a lot of credit with me. As far as I’m concerned, he’s about the biggest troublemaker there is in this town,” Poindexter said.
“I wouldn’t know about that. As I said, I knew him in Colorado.”
“All right, Mr. MacCallister, you can go,” Judge Dawes said.
“Thank you.”
“And, don’t think I ain’t goin’ to be a’ keepin’ my eye on you,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “Because I damn sure am.”
When Falcon walked back out front, he saw that the number of people gathered around the two bodies had grown considerably. The corpses were still lying on the wooden porch and were now gathering flies.
“That there is Cooper Winters,” someone said. “I’ve seen him before.”
“The other’n must be Travis Eberwine,” another suggested.
“How come they’re still layin’ here? I heard that they been here all night long. How come Nunnelee ain’t come down to pick ’em up yet?”
“I think the sheriff is wantin’ ever’one to see ’em so that he can brag about what a good job he’s doin’.”
“Say, ain’t them the two men that held up the stagecoach and kilt that girl?”
“Yeah, but wasn’t no white girl they kilt. Was just a Injun girl is all.”
“Plus, they stole more’n five thousand dollars is what I heard.”
“They may be layin’ here dead on the sheriff’s front porch, but
I’ll bet you anything that the sheriff didn’t go out an’ hunt ’em down.”
“Well, somebody did, ’cause they’re both a’ layin’ here, ’n’ they’s both of ’em dead.”
“I wonder who it was that kilt ’em.”
“It was a feller named Falcon MacCallister.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You ain’t? Well I’ve damn sure heard of him. Never met him, wouldn’t know what he looks like, but I’ve sure heard of him.”
Falcon was glad he wasn’t recognized by any of the people as he left the sheriff’s office, because he didn’t want to get into any conversations about the incident. He continued down the boardwalk until he reached the newspaper office. A small bell, attached to the door of the newspaper office, jangled as he pushed it open to walk inside.
“I’m back in the composing room; I’ll be with you in a minute!” an unseen voice called.
Falcon glanced around the newspaper office. The first thing he saw was a brick on the floor, surrounded by bits of shattered glass. There was a counter that separated the front of the office from the back, and on the other side of the counter, a steam-powered printing press. There were several signs posted on the wall, advertising the paper and the printing business.
QUALITY PRINTING
BILLS, POSTERS, CARDS
Inquire for prices.
There was a calendar on the wall with a Currier and Ives print of a train running at night, its headlight stabbing ahead, every window of every car glowing yellow.
There was a distinctive smell to a newspaper office, the smell of processed paper and ink, and this office was no different.
Denham came into the front then. He was wearing an apron that had been white at one time but now was so stained with ink that it looked gray. He was wiping his hands with a cloth on which Falcon could smell kerosene.
“Now, what can I do for . . .” Denham stopped in mid-conversation, then with a broad smile extended his hand. “Well, I’ll be damned! Falcon MacCallister. I knew you would come,” he said.
“Hello, Harold,” Falcon replied, taking Denham’s hand. He glanced toward the brick and glass on the floor. “I see you’ve made friends,” he added with a little chuckle.
“If you are talking about the brick, I’m leaving it there because I want everyone in town to know the kind of bastards I have to deal with,” Denham said. He pointed to the broken and boarded over window. “Not that they couldn’t tell by looking at that.”
“Well, if a newspaper doesn’t piss somebody off, it simply isn’t doing its job,” Falcon said.
“I’m glad you see it like that because I’ve sure as hell pissed off a bunch of folks around here. By the way, I knew you were here. The word has already gotten out that you were the one who brought in the two stagecoach robbers. I wasn’t surprised any, because I was damn sure that neither our sheriff nor any of his no account deputies had done it.”
“It was me, all right,” Falcon said. “But they came after me first, and I had no choice. I didn’t know they had robbed a stagecoach, though. I didn’t know anything about it.”
“They not only robbed the coach, they shot and killed a young Indian girl who was just coming back home from going to school in the East. Beautiful girl, she was, and a fine one, too. Her father is as good a man as you’ll meet, Comanche or white.”
“Tell me what you’ve got going on here, Harold,” Falcon said.
“We’ve got a judge and a sheriff who have turned Scott County into their own private fiefdom. They are extorting money from every businessman in town, and from every farmer and rancher in the county. And if it isn’t bad enough that they are bleeding us dry, they have let every railroad in the state know that it is going to cost them to come into the county—and that’s not only preventing us from growing, it is also killing what little business we have left.”
“Has anyone tried to do anything about it?” Falcon asked. “By that I mean, have you contacted the governor?”
“We’ve tried, but the governor is not someone who acts with dispatch. While he is examining all the legal ramifications of what is going on here, the noose around our neck just grows tighter. Eb Smalley, who runs the store here, had a friend who was with the Texas Rangers. Eb contacted him, and he came to town. A good man he was too, but . . .”
“‘A good man he was’?”
“Sheriff Poindexter killed him.”
“Surely, killing a Texas Ranger would get the governor’s attention.”
Denham shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Judge Small charged Poindexter with murder, tried and acquitted him the same day.”
“Double indemnity,” Falcon said.
“Exactly.”
“What about organizing?”
“We have tried that a few times as well. But that isn’t without its problems. For one thing, we aren’t always sure of who we can trust, and for another many of those who we could trust are too frightened to do anything about it. One of the reasons I contacted you is I think you might be just the man who can put a little starch in their backbones.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Falcon said. “But courage has to come from within a person.”
“I know. And the thing is, most of these people are veterans of the war. They’ve shown that they have courage when needed. Now it is just a matter of having them reach down inside them so they can find it again. That’s why we are planning to have a meeting to discuss this. And we want you to come.”
Falcon held up his hand. “I’m not all that good at speaking at meetings,” he said.
“You don’t have to speak. You won’t have to say a word. All I want is for you to be there.”
“All right, when is this meeting? And where is it?”
“It’s Sunday afternoon. We’re doing it on a Sunday because all the businesses are closed anyway, so nobody who comes will be sending a signal by closing up his store.”
“Sounds good.”
“And we are going to have the meeting out at David Bowman’s ranch, the Big Star. The ranchers are being hurt as much as the people in town are, so they are equally anxious to get something done. Also, having it out of town means it is less likely to catch Poindexter’s attention.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Falcon said. “If Poindexter is the kind of man you say he is, he is going to have his spies out everywhere. I’ve no doubt but that he already knows about it.”
“He probably does know that we are planning a meeting, but he doesn’t know when, and he can’t know where, because so far, only Bowman and I know that it is going to be at his ranch on Sunday. Neither of us have discussed it with anyone else.”
“He may not know yet, but you are going to have to put the word out to the ones you want to attend, and that means he is going to find out.”
“Well, let him find out,” Harold said defiantly. “It might not hurt for him to know that. Oh, by the way, come back here and I’ll give you the first look at the story I wrote about the two you brought in last night. Though why I bothered to write it, I don’t know. As fast as news gets around in this town, we don’t need a newspaper.”
“Sure you do,” Falcon said. “Newspapers not only report the news, they also help shape opinion.”
“As our Jewish friends say, ‘From your lips to God’s ear,’ ” Harold replied. He pointed to the palate. “There it is.”
“It’s backward; how am I supposed to read that?”
Harold chuckled. “Oh, yeah, I forget sometimes that ordinary people have to have the letters forward. Just a minute, I’ll print a page for you.”
Harold found a sheet of newsprint, laid it over the palate, and then rolled over it to make a single impression. Pulling the page away, he handed it to Falcon.
Falcon grasped the page at the corners so not to get the still wet ink on him, then moved over to hold it under the light so he could read the story. Harold stood by, smiling and observing Falcon’s reaction.
Murderers Caught !
&n
bsp; COOPER WINTERS AND TRAVIS EBERWINE
BROUGHT TO JUSTICE
Last week two brigands held up the Fort Worth Stagecoach as it was making its journey to Sorrento. They stole five thousand dollars in money that was being transferred to the local bank, and they killed Mary Little Horse, an innocent young Indian girl who was returning home after two years of attending school in the East.
But the two robbers, Cooper Winters and Travis Eberwine, did not have an opportunity to enjoy their ill-gotten gains, for it was their misfortune to encounter Mr. Falcon MacCallister. Although Mr. MacCallister is a visitor to our area, he is a man well known throughout the West, having won his reputation not only by deeds of derring-do, but because he is a man of unquestioned integrity, honesty, and a willingness to come to the aid of others when they are in distress.
I am happy to say that Mr. MacCallister was invited to visit Sorrento by the publisher of this newspaper, for if ever there was a need for a hero to come to the aid of others, it is here, and now. It is my belief that Mr. MacCallister, working hand in hand with the good, God-fearing and law-abiding citizens of this town and county, will help us to free ourselves from the draconian yoke of oppression which now besets us.
“What do you think?” Denham asked.
“You’ve sort of thrown down the gauntlet, haven’t you?”
Denham chuckled. “You noticed that, did you? I hope Poindexter isn’t so damn dumb that he doesn’t pick up on it. By the way, where are you going to stay while you’re in town?”
“I have a room at the hotel.”
“You could stay there, I suppose. But if you want my recommendation, I’d suggest that you check out Mrs. Allen’s boardinghouse. Her place is clean and she has a nice stable for your horse. It’s just a couple of blocks from here, over on North Ranney Street.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The boardinghouse was quite substantial; made of brick, it was two stories high and had a wide, covered veranda out front. Obviously a fine private home at one time, what had been the drawing room was now the lobby and check-in counter. Mrs. Margaret Allen was a small, thin woman, whose gray hair was pulled back and tied in a little bun behind her head. She was wearing wire-rimmed glasses.
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