A bell hanging from the door announced Falcon’s entrance into the hardware store. A clerk came to greet him.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want to buy that,” Falcon said, pointing to the object in the window.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, tending to the transaction.
A moment later Falcon went back outside and, taking Frances by the arm, said, “Come with me.”
“Come with you where?”
“Up here, where we can see Gordon,” Falcon said. He led her up a set of stairs that climbed the side of the apothecary. At the top of the stairs was a small porch that was the entrance to the doctor’s office. There, Falcon removed his purchase from the sack. It was a pair of binoculars. He looked through them, then handed them to Frances.
“Can you see him?” he asked.
“Yes!” Frances said, smiling broadly. “Thank you!”
She looked through them for a minute, then said, “Oh, look! Gordon is running very well!”
She handed them to Falcon, who raised them to his eyes to check out the field.
By now, the first three runners had opened up a significant lead on the rest of the pack. In fact, some of the runners had already stopped running and were walking. As the first three reached the fork in the river, they made their turn and started back. Gordon was running number three, but was hanging very close to the first two runners.
The three leaders were coming back now, passing many of the runners who had not yet made it to the fork in the river. As they came closer, they came back into view and the town could see them. Many began cheering for their favorite.
“Oh, Gordon, run, sweetheart, run!” Frances said. Her urging was passionate and genuine, even though she said it so quietly that only Falcon could hear her.
The three reached the edge of town, and were less than two hundred yards from the finish. Then Gordon put on a burst of speed, surprising the two runners in front of him. He took the lead just as they passed the church, then began opening up the lead until he crossed the finish line at least ten yards ahead of the second-place runner.
By now the crowd was cheering loudly for Gordon, impressed not only by his youth, but by his athleticism. Several of the men rushed to him and lifted him onto their shoulders. The laurel wreath of victory was passed up to him and he put it on his head, then waved to the crowd. Finding Falcon and his mother in the crowd, he shouted.
“I won the race, Mr. MacCallister! That means you have to enter the shooting match!”
Falcon laughed. “I didn’t take you up on your bet, Gordon,” he said. “But I’ll enter.”
Eleven
Three wagons, loaded with bales of hay, were maneuvered into position, the drivers of the wagons expertly handling the two-mule teams that were pulling them. The wagons completely blocked off the main road coming into town, and riders were sent at least a mile down the road to prevent anyone from wandering into the line of fire.
Each wagon had four targets attached to the hay bales, so that a total of twelve targets were ready for the shooters in the competition.
Twenty-four shooters were entered, which meant there would be two heats, the top six of each heat selected to move on to the next round.
Deputy Sheriff Seth Joyner was in charge of the shooting match, and when all was ready, he gave the call. “Shooters, into your stalls!”
Falcon was in the first heat, so he picked up his Winchester.
“Good luck,” Frances said.
“Thanks.”
The shooting positions were stalls, exactly as the judge had called them. Each stall was separated from the other by a wall of canvas.
“Present your weapons for inspection now. Remember, they must be empty,” Joyner said.
One of the judges came up to Falcon and held out his hand, asking for the rifle. Falcon put the lever down to open the breach, then presented the weapon to the judge. The judge cycled through a few times, then handed the rifle back to Falcon. He also gave him three. 30-caliber bullets.
“Do not load until Deputy Joyner gives the orders to do so,” the judge explained.
Falcon nodded, and held the three bullets in his hand.
“Shooters,” Deputy Joyner called. “Load your weapons!”
Falcon loaded the three bullets.
“After you receive the order to fire, you will have one minute to shoot all three bullets,” Joyner said.
Falcon waited.
“Commence firing at your discretion,” Joyner called.
Falcon raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. The targets were only seventy-five yards away, an incredibly easy shot for Falcon. He fired all three shots as quickly as he could operate the lever.
Falcon was one of the six selected to go on to the next round, and he left the stall, carrying his weapon with him. He saw Gordon, but he didn’t see Frances.
“Where’s your mom?” Falcon asked.
“She’s around here somewhere,” Gordon said.
Six shooters were chosen from the second round as well so that, once again, twelve shooters moved up to the firing line.
The twelve were cut to six for the third round. All six in the third round tied, so the judges moved the wagons back again. This time only four survived. After another round, only Falcon and one other shooter remained. The other shooter was at the far end of the shooting line, shielded from Falcon’s view by the canvas walls.
With only two shooters left, Joyner changed the rules slightly. Now, instead of shooting only three rounds, they were given seven rounds to shoot.
“Target number one: seven bulls. Target number twelve: seven bulls,” the down-range judge called back up to the shooting line.
The targets were moved, then moved again. They were now three hundred yards away.
“Commence firing!” Deputy Joyner said.
Falcon raised his rifle to his shoulder, fired, jacked a round into the chamber, fired again, then repeated the process until he had fired seven times.
After both shooters were finished, someone went out to check the targets. Again, each shooter had scored seven bull’s-eyes.
“It looks like we might be here all night,” Joyner said. The spectators, and now there were several, laughed.
“Deputy, I have an idea, if the other shooter is agreeable,” Falcon said.
“Let’s hear it,” Joyner replied.
“How about having us fire one at a time?” Falcon suggested. “Time how long it takes us to fire seven shots. Whoever gets the highest score in the least time wins.”
Harper went down to check with the other shooter, then came back to Falcon. “It’s acceptable,” he said.
Falcon nodded, picked up his rifle, then waited for Joyner to shout, “Now.”
Falcon began firing, jacking each additional round in so quickly that he sometimes had two ejected cartridges in the air at the same time. After seven shots he lowered his rifle.
“Five-and-one-half seconds,” the timer said.
A judge down-range checked his hits. Then a rider galloped back with the report.
“Seven bull’s-eyes.”
“Seven bulls in five-and-one-half seconds,” Deputy Joyner said. He shook his head. “Mister, that is some shooting.”
Falcon waited for the other shooter. He tried to keep count of the seconds, and estimated that every round had been fired in about six seconds.
“Six-and-one-half seconds,” the timer said, confirming Falcon’s estimate.
Falcon and the crowd waited for the rider to return from down range with the target report. Joyner looked at it, nodded, then shouted.
“Seven bull’s-eyes! Ladies and gentlemen, based on time, we have a winner!” He pointed to Falcon, and the crowd applauded.
“I would like to congratulate the man I was shooting against,” Falcon said. “That was some very good shooting.”
Frances Martin stepped out from behind the canvas wall, carrying a Winchester.
“What makes you thin
k you were shooting against a man?” she asked, smiling sweetly.
“You?” Falcon asked. “I was shooting against you?”
Gordon laughed. “I should have told you about her, but I wanted to see if you were a better shot than my mom.”
“I’m not a better shot than she is,” Falcon said. “I just got lucky.”
“No,” Frances said. “You beat me by a full second. That isn’t luck, that is skill.”
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Falcon asked.
“From my father,” Frances said. “He was a wonderful shot. He wanted to prove that he could train a woman to shoot as well as a man.”
“I would say that he proved his point,” Falcon said.
“Congratulations, Falcon,” another woman’s voice said, and turning, Falcon saw Kathleen approaching, smiling prettily at him.
“Oh,” Falcon said. “Thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Kathleen asked. “Don’t worry, I’m not jealous.”
“Jealous?” Frances asked, raising her eyebrows. “I assure you, miss, you have no reason to be jealous.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Kathleen said. “It’s just that Falcon and I are old friends. We knew each other back in Miles City.”
“I see,” Frances said. “Well, we had better be getting home. Come along, Gordon.”
“Oh, Mom, can’t I . . . ?”
“Come along,” Frances said again.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, dear,” Kathleen said as Frances and Gordon walked away. “I do hope I didn’t cause any trouble.”
“No trouble,” Falcon said. “She owns the boardinghouse where I am staying.”
“Oh, I see. Well, like I said, I do hope I didn’t cause any trouble.” She smiled brightly. “But I wanted to tell you the good news.”
“What good news?”
“I’m doing a show tonight.”
“Then I shall present myself at the Gold Strike to watch your performance.”
Kathleen shook her head. “No, that’s what’s good about the news. It isn’t at the Gold Strike,” she said. “It’s at the Royale Theater. I’m doing a special show for all the cattle buyers who are in town. Then, afterward, there will be a party at the Gold Strike. You will come, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course I’ll come,” Falcon said.
“You won’t disappoint me now? Because while I’m on stage, I’ll be looking for you. And if I don’t see you, why, I don’t know if I will be able to finish my performance or not.”
“I’ll be there,” Falcon promised.
After Kathleen left, Falcon hurried after Frances, but he didn’t catch up to her until he reached the house.
“Why did you hurry off?” he asked.
“I didn’t want to intrude,” Frances said.
“You weren’t intruding at all.”
“Well, perhaps not. But I don’t like to get into the personal lives of any of my guests. It’s not the best thing to do.”
“Mrs. Martin ... Frances,” Falcon said. “You don’t understand. It’s not like that.”
“So you didn’t know her in Miles City?”
“Well, yes, I knew her in Miles City. That’s where I met her.”
“So your relationship there was ... casual?”
Falcon remembered Kathleen coming into his hotel room on the night of the cattlemen’s ball. As he thought of it, he flushed slightly, and Kathleen noticed.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, holding her hand up. “I had no right to ask such a question. Please, forgive me for that.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Falcon said. “Uh, look, the reason Kathleen came over to speak to me is because she is doing a show tonight at the Royale Theater. She is a very good singer. Maybe you would like to attend the show with me?”
Frances shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’d better not.”
“I think you would enjoy it,” Falcon said.
Frances pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please, Mr. MacCallister . . . Falcon,” she said, softening her tone. She took her hand away from her nose and smiled at him. “Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not upset with you, nor am I reading anything into your relationship with Miss Coyle. But it has been a long and busy day for me. I think I had better stay home. Besides, I should start your supper.”
“No,” Falcon said. Then, when he saw her reaction to his comment, he smiled to put her at ease. “They are going to have a party at the Gold Strike after the show. There will be food there. You needn’t bother tonight.”
“Are you sure? You have paid for it, you know.”
“I’m sure,” Falcon said. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“All right,” Frances said.
* * *
Frances waited until Falcon was gone; then she turned to her son and smiled at him. “Well, my champion runner,” she said, “what can I fix you? What would you like more than anything else?”
“Fried peach pies,” Gordon said.
“For dessert? Very well, fried peach pies it will be.”
Gordon shook his head. “No, not for dessert,” he said. “For supper.”
“Fried peach pies? That’s all you want?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, all right. You did win your race today, and I did promise to fix whatever you liked.”
“Mom?”
“What?” Frances asked as she got down a can of peaches.
“Are you in love with Mr. MacCallister?”
“What?” Frances gasped. “Of course not! Whatever gave you such an idea?”
“It’s just the way you were talkin’ to him,” Gordon said. “It was like you didn’t care much for that pretty woman that come to talk to him. The one he is goin’ to go hear sing.”
“Well, I—I was just surprised that he had known her before, that’s all. I mean, we’re a long way from Miles City. It seemed like an unusual coincidence.”
“That sure would be good, though.”
“What would be good?”
“It would be good if you were in love with Mr. MacCallister and you got married. Then Falcon MacCallister would be my dad.”
“No!” Frances said, looking at her son and shaking her head. “Your father was Loomis Martin. He was a very fine man, and a railroad engineer. You should be very proud of him.”
“I am proud of him,” Gordon said. He was silent for a moment. “But I wish he was here with us right now.”
“I wish that as well,” Frances said. “But just because he isn’t with us in person, doesn’t mean he isn’t with us. I expect he is looking out for us right now.”
Gordon smiled broadly. “Do you think he knows I won the race today?”
Frances chuckled, and nodded her head. “I’m sure he knows,” she said.
Twelve
“Laramie,” the conductor called out. “This is Laramie.”
Cardis looked through the window as the Laramie station came into view. Although not a huge metropolis as Denver had been, Laramie was considerably larger than most of the towns of his experience.
Stepping down from the train, he saw someone standing on the station platform, wearing the hat of a railroad official and looking at his watch.
“Hey,” Cardis said to him. “I’m a’lookin’ for a man named MacCallister. You know whereat I can find him?”
* * *
Cody Martin looked at the man who was inquiring about MacCallister. There was something about him that made Cody feel uneasy . . . too uneasy to tell him that the man he was looking for was staying in his sister-in-law’s house.
Cody shook his head. “You might find him at the Gold Strike.”
“The Gold Strike?”
“It’s a saloon, just up the street,” Cody said. “You can’t miss it. It’s the only one in town.”
“Thanks.”
Cardis followed the stationmaster’s directions to the saloon. He was surprised to see that i
t was practically empty, and the only two people there were stringing bunting around. A big sign on one of the walls read:
CONGRATULATIONS TO KATHLEEN COYLE, OUR SONGBIRD
“Hold that end up, will you, Clyde?” one of the two men said to the other.
Cardis stepped up to the bar and slapped his hand down on it.
“You got yourself a customer, Sylvester,” Clyde said.
“I’ll be right with you,” Sylvester said. He was standing on a chair, tacking up one end of a red, white, and blue bunting, while Clyde was holding his end to the wall.
“I want a beer,” Cardis called back.
“Well, help yourself,” Sylvester said. “Just leave a nickel on the bar.”
Cardis went around behind the bar, picked up a mug, and drew about a quarter of a glass of beer. Then, seeing that neither of the men were looking at him, he swallowed his beer quickly and refilled his mug.
“Where is ever’body?” he asked, coming back around to the front of the bar, carrying his beer. “I ain’t never seen a saloon this empty at this time of night.”
“Why, they are all at the show,” Clyde said. “Sylvester, you’d better put another tack in it; that don’t look like it’s goin’ to hold.”
“This’ll hold it,” Sylvester said.
“Well, you’re the boss, but if it was me, I’d put another tack in it,” Clyde said.
“What show?” Cardis capped his question with a swallow of his beer.
Sylvester pointed to the sign. “The show Miss Coyle is giving,” he said. “This is where she works, but tonight she’s down at the Royale, giving a special show for all the cattle buyers.”
“The cattle buyers? What cattle buyers?”
“Where’ve you been, mister?” Clyde asked. “You don’t know about the big cattle auction we’re about to have?”
“Oh, yeah,” Cardis said. “I think I did hear somethin’ about that.” He recalled the headlines he had read that brought him to Laramie. He didn’t read the story, but the headlines had mentioned something about cattle. “That’s what Falcon MacCallister come here for, ain’t it? To buy cattle?”
Pride of Eagles Page 10
