“Oh, my, what a handsome man you are,” Mrs. Allen said. “You are going to be a hit among all the ladies of the dining table, I can tell you that right now.”
Falcon chuckled as he signed in. “Are you this flirtatious with all your guests?”
“Only the handsome ones,” Mrs. Allen said. “You wouldn’t know to look at me now, but I’ve turned a few heads in my time.”
“What do you mean, in your time? You can still turn a few heads.”
Mrs. Allen laughed out loud. “Yes, sir, you are going to be a mighty welcome guest here.”
Sheriff Poindexter looked at the map again. It had been drawn by Cooper Winters and Travis Eberwine, and it showed the location of the abandoned line shack where they would meet him and split the money with him.
Poindexter was the one who had informed them of the money shipment. This wasn’t the first arrangement Poindexter and Judge Dawes had done. In addition to the taxes they were extracting from the citizens of the town, they were also in partnership with some selected outlaws, though this was just something that Poindexter and the judge knew about. None of the deputies were even aware this was going on.
It wasn’t just stagecoach holdups. Over the last two years there had been as many as fifteen hundred cattle rustled from the county ranchers. Poindexter, while seemingly looking for the outlaws, was actually making it possible for them to escape, thus earning a share from each of the jobs pulled.
Originally, Poindexter and Dawes were only going to get twenty-five hundred dollars from the coach holdup. But now, with Winters and Eberwine dead, the entire five thousand would be theirs. Unless MacCallister had found the money and kept it for himself.
Poindexter saw the money bag as soon as he stepped into the cabin, and he groaned. It was in plain view; there was no way MacCallister could have missed it. It was sure to be empty.
It wasn’t empty! Poindexter gasped in surprise, then gave a little shout of excitement when he opened the bag and saw the money inside. Counting it, he found that all five thousand dollars were still there.
For a moment he wondered how MacCallister could have possibly let this get by, then he decided that if MacCallister hadn’t known anything about the stagecoach robbery, he wouldn’t have known to look for the money. Poindexter stuffed the loot into his saddlebags, then started back to Sorrento.
When Sheriff Poindexter returned to his office, he saw Deputy Sharp reading the newspaper. Sharp looked up when Poindexter came in.
“Have you read the paper today, Sheriff?”
“No. What has Denham said now?”
“This fella MacCallister? The reason he has come to Sorrento is because Denham asked him to come and deal with the”—Sharp struggled over the words as he read them aloud—“draconian yoke of oppression which now besets us.” He looked up from the paper. “What does that mean?”
Poindexter chuckled. “That means us. We are the draconian oppressors.”
“I’m goin’ over to the Hog Heaven,” Sharp said, putting the paper aside. Not until he left did the judge come in from his own office, which was behind the sheriff’s office.
“Did you get the money?”
Poindexter smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s out in my saddlebag. We got all of it, Judge. They hadn’t spent one cent of it yet. All five thousand dollars.”
“Excellent,” Dawes said. “By the way, Sheriff, what do you know about this meeting that Denham is having?” Judge Dawes asked.
“What meeting? I don’t know anything about it.”
“Apparently there is to be a meeting somewhere, soon, and it will involve some of the citizens from town, as well as ranchers and farmers from out in the county.”
“What is the meeting about?”
“Well now what do you think it would be about, Poindexter? Why would people from town and the county be meeting? You did read the latest issue of Denham’s newspaper, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I read it. Judge, ain’t there some way you can close that paper down?”
“It’s not that easy. I can play with local and state laws. But freedom of the press is a federal thing, and there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“What do you think will come out of this meeting?”
“It depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Sheriff, I will leave that up to you.”
Sheriff Poindexter was sitting at a table in the back of the Long Trail saloon. Pogue Allison, who used to be one of his deputies, was at the table with him, along with Ron Mace, Jack Andrews, and Frank Little.
“We didn’t get as much money for the cows as we thought we would,” Pogue said. “We only got eight dollars a head.”
“And if we give you half, that don’t leave all that much for us,” Mace said.
“That’s not my problem,” Poindexter said. “You boys are buying protection, and protection ain’t cheap.”
“Still, it didn’t seem hardly worth it,” Pogue complained.
“I’ve got another job for you. A little easier, and I’ll give you a hundred dollars apiece when you’ve done it.”
“A hundred dollars?” Pogue asked.
“As soon as the job is done.”
“What is the job?”
“There’s goin’ to be a meetin’ of a bunch of so-called concerned citizens,” Poindexter said, coming down hard on the word “concerned.” “Some sort of vigilante committee if you ask me.”
“Where is this meetin’ goin’ to be?” Allison asked.
“It’s going to be at the Big Star.”
“Same place where we took the cows from,” Pogue said.
“Yes.”
“And you want us to break it up.”
“No, let ’em have their meeting.”
“Then I don’t understand. If you don’t want us to break it up, what is it you want us to do?”
“What do you suppose would happen if while ever’body is meetin’ at the Big Star Ranch, that somethin’ would happen to one of the other ranches? Don’t you think that might cause some folks to think twice before they go to any more meetin’s?” Poindexter asked.
“What kind of somethin’ happenin’?” Allison asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something like a fire.”
“Ha!” Allison said. “Yeah, now I know what you are talkin’ about.”
“Here’s fifty dollars apiece,” Poindexter said. “Take care of that business for me, and there’s another fifty dollars.”
Allison took the money. “This is goin’ to be the easiest and the most fun fifty dollars I ever made.”
“I’ll not be going to the meeting with you,” Falcon said as Denham was getting ready to leave.
“Oh, but I want to introduce you to the others. I want them to know that help is on the way,” Denham said.
“Do you think the sheriff knows about the meeting?”
Denham sighed. “I’m sure he does. We have tried to keep it secret, but by now all the ranchers and farmers know about it, which means all the cowboys and farmhands know as well.”
“With that many knowing about the meeting, do you really expect the secret to be kept?”
“Probably not,” Denham admitted.
“Then that means that there may be someone who will attempt to disrupt the meeting.”
“Yes,” Denham said. “Which is all the more reason why you should be present.”
“Oh, I’ll be there,” Falcon said.
“Good.”
“You just won’t know that I’m there.”
Now Denham looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’m going to be—around—watching.”
“Oh,” Denham replied. “All right, I guess that will be just as good as you being there.”
“It will be better.”
As the nearby hills turned from red to purple in the setting sun, Bowman’s friends and neighbors began arriving for the meeting. Wagons and buggies brought entire families across the range to gather
at the Bowman house. Children, who lived too far apart to play with one another, laughed and squealed and ran from wagon to wagon to greet their friends before dashing off to a twilight game of kick-the-can. The women, who had brought cakes and pies from home, gathered in the kitchen to make coffee, thus turning the business meeting into a great social event. Many of them brought quilts, and they spread them out so that, while the men were meeting, they could work on the elaborate colors and patterns of the quilts they would be displaying at the next fair.
Denham sat in a chair next to an open window. Moths and other bugs beat against the window screen, attracted to the light inside. Outside he heard a mule braying, then as the breeze freshened, the clatter and clank of a responding windmill.
“How old was that young cowboy you buried?” Asa Baker asked. Baker owned one of the neighboring ranches to Big Star. “What was his name?”
“His name was Arnie Jones, and he was only seventeen,” Boardman answered.
“Just a boy.”
“Yes.”
“Did he have any folks?”
“None that we know of. He told us he come from an orphanage in Dallas. Probably some whore’s kid who had to give him up. Fact is, he just took the name Jones ’cause he didn’t know what it really was. But he was a good kid. It’s a shame what happened to him.”
There were at least two dozen men present, and after his brief conversation with Baker, David Bowman stepped up to the front of the room and held his hands up to quiet the many conversations.
“Gentlemen, I thank you all for coming. So if you don’t mind, we’ll get started.”
“Get started doing what, David?” Gerald Kelly asked. “I came to this meeting because I agree that something needs to be done, and I sort of hope we can do it. But for the life of me, I don’t have an idea in hell what it will be.”
“Well now, Gerald, that’s why we’re holdin’ this meeting,” Bowman replied. “To see if we can come up with a plan as to what needs to be done.”
“David, is this the right time to be doing something like this?” Leon Frakes, a neighboring rancher, asked.
“What do you mean, ‘is this the right time’?” Bowman asked.
“I mean, well, yes, we should talk about it, and I reckon that’s what we’ll be doin’ here. But I’m not sure this is the right time, yet.”
“Time? Man, we’re runnin’ out of time! Dawes and Poindexter are bleeding us white with their taxes, and if that isn’t enough, the rustlers are having their way with us!” Bowman said. “I’m sure all of you know by now that I just lost two hundred fifty head, plus had one of my cowboys killed.”
“David is right,” one of the others said. “I’ve lost fifty head this month myself. The way I see it, either Poindexter is the worst sheriff in all of Texas, or else the son of a bitch is in cahoots with the cattle rustlers.”
“That’s quite an accusation, Sam,” Bowman said. “You got anything to back that up?”
“Nothin’ but my gut feelin’,” Sam replied.
“Damn me if I don’t agree with Sam,” one of the others at the meeting said. “I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if the sheriff and all his deputies wasn’t involved. In all the time the son of a bitch has been the sheriff, has he ever found one stolen cow?”
“Harold, didn’t you tell us that you had someone coming, someone who was going to, I believe you said—change the balance for us?” Frakes asked. “Do you really have Falcon MacCallister coming?”
“Yes. Falcon MacCallister. And he isn’t just coming, he is already here.”
“Well, where is he?”
“He’s—around,” Denham said without being any more specific.
“How come he didn’t come to this meeting?”
“He thought it best not to.”
The cowboys and farmhands had also been invited to the meeting because what happened to the ranchers had a direct impact on them. If the ranchers lost their ranches, the cowboys would lose their jobs. However, because the cowboys were working hands and nearly all of them single men, they didn’t feel comfortable around the ranchers and their families, so most of them declined, respectfully.
Silver Spur Ranch was one of the smallest spreads in the valley, with only three full-time cowboys. At the moment they were playing cards for grains of corn, and one of them, Shorty Rogers, was winning. Though the corn had no monetary value, and was only a means of keeping a record, that did not lessen the intensity of the game, and Clyde Barnes and Les Karnes groaned as Shorty won his third successive pot.
“You cheating?” Les asked. “You’ve got to be cheating.”
“I ain’t cheatin’,” Shorty said. “I’m just better ’n you two, that’s all.”
“Yeah? Well let’s see how you do this time,” Clyde said.
The cards were raked in, the deck shuffled, then dealt again.
“You think all them ranchers is goin’ to come up with anythin’ at this meetin’ they got goin’ on over to the Bowman place?” Les asked as he dealt the cards.
“I don’t know. If they don’t, they’re all goin’ to go out of business and me an’ you an’ Shorty is all goin’ to be lookin’ for jobs somewhere else,” Clyde said.
“I don’t want to go nowhere else. I like it here, just fine.”
“Maybe we could wind up workin’ for Sheriff Poindexter,” Shorty suggested. “I hear tell he’s plannin’ on buyin’ a ranch somewhere.”
“Yeah, well, with all the tax money the son of a bitch is collectin’, he can probably afford it,” Clyde said.
“More ’n likely, though, he would hire his own men. I’ve got a feelin’ we’d all be left out in the cold.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Les agreed. “But the truth is, I wouldn’t work for the son of a bitch if he was to pay me double what I’m makin’ here at the Silver Spur.”
“What about this fella, Falcon MacCallister, that’s been brought in?” Shorty asked.
“What about him?” Clyde responded.
“Could be he could take care of the sheriff and the judge,” Shorty suggested.
“First of all, how is he goin’ to take care of ’em? They’re the law. They ain’t no count, but they are the law. Besides which, the sheriff has damn near got hisself a regular army of deputies. What could one man do against all them?”
“This ain’t just one man. This is Falcon MacCallister.”
“So it’s Falcon MacCallister. What’s that supposed to mean? He’s still just one man,” Clyde said.
“You mean you ain’t never heard of Falcon MacCallister?” Shorty asked in surprise.
“No, I can’t say as I have.”
“I ain’t never heard of him, neither,” Les said.
“Wait a minute,” Shorty said. “I want to show you somethin’.”
Shorty laid his cards facedown on the table and started toward his bunk. He looked back just as Les was reaching toward his cards.
“Damn it, Les, I seen that!”
“I didn’t do nothin’. I was just movin’ ’em so they wouldn’t fall off the table, is all.”
“Uh, huh,” Shorty said. He came back, grabbed up his cards, then went over to his bunk. Lifting up his cotton tick mattress, he picked up a paperbound book, then brought it back and dropped it on the table in front of the others. “What do you think of this?” he asked.
The title of the book was: Falcon MacCallister and the Mountain Shooters.
“That’s just a book. That ain’t real,” Clyde said.
“Maybe the book ain’t real, but the man is. And if he wasn’t somethin’ kind of special, they wouldn’t be writin’ no books about him in the first place,” Shorty said.
“Yeah, well it don’t matter how famous he is, he’s still just one man, and I don’t see him goin’ up against the sheriff and all his deputies all by his ownself,” Clyde insisted.
Les started toward the back door.
“Where you goin’?”
“I’m goin’ outside to ta
ke a piss. That is, unless you want me to piss in here.”
“I hope it comes out all right,” Shorty said, then he laughed at his own joke. “Do you get it?” he asked Clyde. “I said I hope it comes out all right.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Clyde said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Outside the bunkhouse, four riders stopped on a little hill overlooking the Silver Spur Ranch.
“Do you think there is anyone here?” Frank asked.
“There may be,” Pogue replied. “From what I heard, there wasn’t many of the cowboys was actually goin’ to go to the meetin’. So it’s more than likely that someone is here.”
Dismounting, the four men moved to the edge of the hill bent over at the waist so they wouldn’t show in silhouette, and looked down toward the bunkhouse.
“See anyone?” Pogue asked.
“Yeah, there’s someone there,” Frank said. “I can see a couple of ’em through the window, sittin’ at a table or somethin’.”
“Only two? Frakes has three men workin’ for him. Wonder where the other one is,” Mace said.
“Maybe he went to that ranchers’ meeting,” Pogue suggested. “No matter. We’ll shoot these two. That ought to be enough to scare the rest of ’em off. Frank, you an’ Mace take the one on the left. Me and Jack will take the one on the right. With two of us shootin’ at each one of ’em, we’re bound to get ’em both.”
“I’m ready,” Jack replied.
“Me, too,” Frank said.
“I’m ready,” Mace said.
All four men raised their rifles and took slow, careful aim. Their targets were well illuminated by the lantern that burned brightly inside the bunkhouse.
“On three,” Pogue said. “One, two, three.” He squeezed the trigger that sent out the first bullet.
Four rifles roared as one.
Shorty died instantly, a bullet coming through the window to crash into the back of his head. Clyde went down with a bullet in his chest. Les, who had just come back into the cabin at that moment, dived quickly to the floor.
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