“All right,” Falcon said, taking the envelope. “I’ll read it tonight.”
“I must say,” Kathleen said after Kohrs walked away from the table, “he is a very impressive man.”
“Yes, and persuasive,” Falcon said. He sighed. “I had no intention of going to Laramie, but he has talked me into it.”
“Is it true, what I read about him? Does he really have a hundred thousand cows.”
“I imagine he does,” Falcon said.
“Then it was true.”
“As far as you read. But let me tell you about the real Conrad Kohrs,” Falcon said.
“The real Conrad Kohrs? And who is the real Conrad Kohrs?”
“He has lived a life that most men can only drean about,” Falcon began. “He was born in Germany, but at the age of fifteen he went to sea as a cabin boy, and for the next seventeen years led the life of a seaman, sailing all over the world.”
“My, how exciting that all sounds,” Kathleen said. “But how did he wind up in America?”
“He just got tired of the sea,” Falcon said. “So he jumped ship in New York, where he did some work as a butcher, while also working occasionally for relatives in New York and Iowa. Then he began traveling around the country, selling sausages in New Orleans, running logs down the Mississippi, and working in a distillery. But in 1857 he became a United States citizen, followed by his trek to the West. If you ask him what he owed his good fortune to, he would say it was just luck. But anyone who knows him knows better. He is successful because of his intelligence, experience, and most of all his hard work.”
“He sounds like quite a man,” Kathleen said. She put her hand across the table and rested it on top of his hand. “But then, I have heard the same things about you.”
“Impossible. You just met me today.”
“It is true that I just met you today,” Kathleen said. “But I’ve known about you for a long time.”
“Please don’t tell me you have read those awful dime novels,” Falcon said with a groan.
Kathleen laughed. “I’m innocent,” she said. “I’ve never read one.”
“Well, I’m thankful for that,” he said.
The music began playing, and Kathleen reached across the table to put her hand on Falcon’s arm. “Aren’t you going to invite me to dance?” she asked.
* * *
It was very warm in the hotel room, and Falcon lay on top of the bedcovers, reading the report that Kohrs had given him. It was written in longhand, but the penmanship was sharp and very legible, making it easy to read.
A New Breed of Cows
Only a few copies of this report are being prepared, and it should be circulated with the greatest of care.
A changeover to the Hereford breed is going to require a rather significant investment on the part of the participating cattlemen. It is anticipated that the bidding for the seed bulls and blooded heifers with which to start the new herds will be quite brisk. It is suggested that those who wish to bid have at their disposal at least fifteen thousand dollars.
This information should not be shared with the general public, for fear of making the cost of participation much higher.
Falcon had just finished reading the report, and he put it on the table beside the bed when he heard a light knock on the door. Not expecting anyone at this late hour, he reached up to his holster belt, which was looped across the headboard of the bed, then eased the pistol from its holster.
“Who’s there?” he called.
As soon as he called out, he moved quickly to one side of the room in case someone on the other side of the door decided to shoot toward the sound of the voice.
“It’s Kathleen,” a woman’s voice answered.
“Kathleen? Is something wrong?” Falcon asked. He stepped over to the door and unlocked it, then pulled it open while at the same time stepping back out of the way. A pie-shaped wedge of golden light spilled into the room from the kerosene lamps that lit the hallway. Kathleen stepped into the wedge of light. She didn’t see Falcon, but Falcon could see her. She was wearing a silk nightgown that clung to her curves in a way that hid nothing of her charms. And since he had seen her earlier in the bath, he knew exactly what those charms were.
“Falcon?” she called in confusion. “Mr. MacCallister, are you here?”
“Yes,” Falcon said quietly while remaining in the shadows alongside the door.
“Why are you hiding?”
“I’m not exactly hiding,” Falcon replied. “I’m just being cautious.”
Kathleen’s laugh was low and throaty. “Why, Mr. MacCallister, are you afraid of me?”
“Why do you ask? Should I be afraid?” Falcon asked. He stepped out of the shadows.
“I would hope that you aren’t afraid,” Kathleen said. “After all, I’m just a woman.” She punctuated her comment by thrusting her hip to one side and smiling up at him.
Kathleen had put on some perfume and Falcon could smell its scent: a touch of lilac, a hint of coriander and something else; a womanly musk that came not from the perfume, but from her own excitement.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Kathleen said. “I thought maybe, that is, if you couldn’t sleep either, we might . . .” She paused for a moment, as if thinking of the right word, then, with a seductive smile said, “Visit.”
“Do come in,” Falcon invited.
Six
One week later, Johnny Purvis was sitting on the bunk when Sheriff Foster opened the door.
“Out of the cell,” the sheriff ordered.
“What do you want?”
“I want you out of the cell,” Foster said again.
Johnny stroked his scar nervously. “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I ain’t even had a trial yet.”
“You aren’t getting a trial.”
“What do you mean, I ain’t gettin’ a trial? Ever’one gets a trial.”
“The woman whose room you broke into?” Foster said. “She never came by to file a complaint. Without her complaint and statement, we can’t hold you.”
Johnny smiled broadly, then grabbed his hat. “So what you’re sayin’ is, you’re lettin’ me go?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Ha!” Johnny said. “I know’d you couldn’t hold me. I told you, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong. I was just in the wrong room.”
“Yeah, so you said.”
“Wait a minute. What you lettin’ me go now for? It’s about lunchtime, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I thought so. I’m hungry. Why don’t you wait and let me go after lunch?”
“Huh-uh,” Foster said, shaking his head. “You aren’t the county’s problem anymore,” he said. “You want lunch, you’re goin’ to have to pay for it yourself.”
“I ain’t got enough money for lunch,” Johnny said.
Foster sighed, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Here,” he said, handing the coin to Johnny. “This’ll get you a plate lunch down at Little Man Lambert’s.”
* * *
“That was a really good meal, Little Man,” one of the diners at the café said as he stopped by the counter to pay for his dinner.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Ferrell,” the restaurant owner replied.
Ferrell pulled out a roll of money and Little Man whistled.
“That’s an awful lot of money to be flashing around, isn’t it?” he asked.
“I know,” Ferrell said. “But it’s payday for all my hands. Like as not you’ll be getting a few of ’em in here tonight. That is, the ones that are still sober come supper time. Whenever they get paid, they like to spend their money in town.”
“I’ll get some of it,” Little Man agreed. “But more’n likely, most of it will wind up with the girls over at the Turner Theater.”
Ferrell laughed. “I don’t doubt that,” he said. “Well, you’re only young once,” he added. “I can’t hold it against ’em.”
Johnny was sitting at a
table very near the counter, and he overheard the conversation between Ferrell and Little Man. Then, finishing his meal, he went up to the counter.
“Was your meal satisfactory, sir?”
“Yeah, it was fine,” Johnny grunted, slapping the quarter down on the counter.
“We have cherry pie today,” Little Man said.
“I ain’t got no more money.”
“Oh, the pie comes with the meal. You’ve already paid for it.”
“No, thanks.”
All the time Johnny was talking to Little Man, he was looking through the window, keeping an eye on Ferrell. He saw Ferrell walk across the street and step into the livery.
Little Man chuckled. “I don’t know as I’ve ever seen anyone turn down a piece of cherry pie.”
“I ain’t got time for no more palaverin’,” Johnny growled.
The smile left Little Man’s face. “Then go on,” he said. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Leaving the café, Johnny hurried down the street, crossed over to the other side, then went between two buildings in order to emerge in the alley. Moving quickly up the alley, he came up to the back end of the livery stable. The corral of the stable was enclosed by a fence, and Johnny climbed over the fence, then darted across the corral to the big, wide, double doors. He pushed them open just enough to get through, then closed them behind him.
It was dark in the stable, the only light being the irregular, glistening mote-filled bars of sun that speared through the cracks between the wide, unpainted boards. Johnny stood still for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the dark. Then he saw Ferrell standing at one of the stalls, feeding an apple to a horse. Seeing a pitchfork leaning against the wall, Johnny picked it up, then started toward Ferrell.
“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Ferrell was saying to his horse.
The horse whickered, and Ferrell patted it on the nose. He was so engrossed with his horse that he did not notice the man moving quietly through the shadows behind him.
Johnny raised the pitchfork.
Ferrell heard, or sensed something behind him. Turning, he didn’t even have time to cry out before Johnny plunged the pitchfork into his chest.
Ferrell made a gurgling noise and blood oozed from his mouth as he went down. Johnny reached over and took the wad of money from him, even as Ferrell’s eyes were growing opaque. Sticking the money into his pocket, he left the livery stable by the same way he had entered, out the back doors, across the corral past the boarded horses, then over the fence and back down the alley.
A train was pulling into the station just as he reached the depot. Johnny barely had time enough to by a ticket to Boise, Idaho Territory, before the train pulled out. As the train left, Johnny looked up the street toward the livery stable. He saw a dozen or more people gathered around the front, and he saw Sheriff Foster coming quickly to the scene.
Johnny smiled. Ferrell’s body had been discovered, but he was safely on the train, leaving town. He felt a tremendous sense of elation, almost as if he were drunk. It wasn’t until then that he took the time to count his money. It was two hundred and forty dollars.
* * *
Gabe Harland and Pete Ward reached the little town of Carriso at about ten o’clock in the evening. Carriso was divided into two sections, the American section and the Mexican section. The two sections of town were separated by the Union Pacific Railroad and though they were within walking distance of each other, so little interchange existed between the two elements that it could have been two different towns.
The American section, on the north side of the tracks, had false-fronted buildings made of lumber flanking straight, well-defined streets. The saloon served beer and American whiskey, and the cooking smells from the residential area were of fried pork chops or chicken. Potatoes and biscuits were the staple.
The Mexican section on the south side was made up of adobe structures, and the smells from here were spicy, with beans and tortillas being the staple. The streets were crooked and irregular, and the cantina served tequila.
Tired and frustrated over a bank robbery that netted very little, Gabe and Pete decided there would be less chance of anyone recognizing them if they stayed on the Mexican side. Gabe could speak the lingo, but Pete couldn’t, which put him at a disadvantage.
There were two men standing in front of the cantina. Both were wearing large sombreros, and one was wearing a serape.
“Por que ha venido aquí un gringo?” the Mexican with the serape asked.
The other shrugged. “No se. Tal vez estan perdidos.”
“We are not lost,” Gabe answered in English. “And we came here to get a bottle of tequila and a whore.”
“The gringos don’t have putas?” the one with the serape asked.
“Yes, but all American whores are ugly,” Gabe said.
The two Mexicans laughed.
“Enjoy your tequila and your puta, señor.”
Nodding, Gabe and Pete pushed through the hanging beads, causing them to clack loudly as the two men went inside.
“Sí, señor?” the bartender asked.
“Tequila,” Gabe said. “Two bottles.”
“Pick out a whore,” Gabe said to Pete.
“I heard what you said to them Mexes out front,” Pete said. “But to tell the truth, I don’t like Mexican whores as much as I like American whores.”
“It don’t matter, you’re gettin’ ’em as much for the bed as for anything else,” Gabe said.
* * *
Gabe woke up the next morning with a ravenous hunger and a raging need to urinate. The puta was still asleep beside him. She had the bedcover askew, exposing one enormous, pillow-sized, heavily blue-veined breast. One fat leg dangled over the edge of the bed. She was snoring loudly and a bit of spittle drooled from her vibrating lips. She didn’t wake up when Gabe crawled over her to get out of bed and get dressed.
There was an outhouse just behind the cantina, no more than twenty feet from the door of this very room, but Gabe made no attempt to go outside. Instead, he urinated against the wall.
“Pete!” he called as he stood there, relieving himself. “Pete, are you still in there?”
Pete had gone with the puta into the room next door. Gabe heard someone walking up the hall; then Pete appeared in the doorway. Pete was wearing his boots and a hat, but nothing more. He joined Gabe, urinating on the wall.
“What are we doin’ here, Gabe?” Pete asked.
Gabe chuckled. “Well, I’m takin’ a pee,” he said. “And it’s a good thing you’re naked, ’cause you’re takin’ a pee too.”
“I know that,” Pete said. “What I want to know is, why did we come to this town? There’s lots of Mex towns we could’a gone to.”
“Yeah, but Eddie Jordan lives in this town. You remember Eddie Jordan, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I remember Eddie Jordan. What are you lookin’ for him for?”
Gabe shook himself, then turned away from the wall. “We need some money, don’t we?”
“Yeah, I reckon we do.”
“Well, if there’s somethin’ goin’ on anywhere, Eddie’s the one who will know about it.”
“You mean like another robbery?”
“Yeah,” Gabe said. “Only this time, maybe we can pick us a bank that has more than sixty-five dollars in it.”
“Are we goin’ over into the American side to look for him?”
“Nah, we ain’t. She is,” Gabe said, nodding toward the sleeping whore. “Get dressed. I’ll send her after Eddie while we have breakfast.”
“All right,” Pete said.
“Puta. Puta. Wake up,” Gabe called.
The woman in the bed groaned irritably and turned over.
“Puta. Wake up, puta.”
“Qué quiere usted, señor?”
“What do I want? I want you to go find someone for me. That’s what I want.”
“Qué?”
“Quiero que usted go conseguir alguien para mí,” Gabe said, repeati
ng the request mostly in Spanish this time.
* * *
Gabe and Pete were halfway through their breakfast when Gabe’s whore came into the café followed by a tall, gangly American. The expression on the American’s face was one of curiosity, since it was obvious he had no idea as to why she had come north of the tracks to summon him.
“He is there, señor,” the whore said, pointing toward Gabe and Pete.
When Eddie saw the two men, he smiled, then came over to join them, taking a chair from a nearby table.
“Well, I’ll be damn,” Eddie said. Without being invited, he picked up a tortilla, rolled it around some beans, then took a bite. “If it ain’t Gabe Harland and Pete Ward. What are you two doing here?”
“Ever’one has to be somewhere,” Gabe answered.
Eddie chuckled. “Well, you got that right,” he said. “But as long as you’re going to be in Carriso, what are you doin’ on the Mexican side?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear about it,” Gabe said. “But me’n Pete robbed a bank down in Erastus.”
“Really? Then I’ll ask the question again. If you’ve got all that money, what the hell are you doing in a flyspeck like Carriso?”
“We didn’t get all that much money,” Gabe said.
“Oh? How much did you get?”
“Sixty-five dollars,” Pete said, mumbling around a burrito. His words were so mumbled as to be unintelligible.
“How much?” Eddie asked.
“Sixty-five dollars,” Pete said. Again, he mumbled the words so quietly that Eddie couldn’t hear them.
“I still didn’t hear.”
“We got sixty-five dollars,” Gabe said, clearly and distinctly.
Eddie looked at the two men for a moment; then he burst out into loud laughter, spraying bits of chewed food onto the table.
“Sixty-five dollars?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You robbed a bank, and all you got was sixty-five dollars?”
“That’s all the money they had in the damn thing,” Gabe said with disgust. He sighed. “But the point is, we did rob the bank, and it don’t make no difference how much was took, the law will be after us just the same. So, we figured we’d better stay on this side of town.”
Pride of Eagles Page 6
