Fifteen
“Is that what we’re buying?” Shanghai Pierce asked. Falcon MacCallister, Alexander Swan, Shanghai Pierce, George Littlefield, Conrad Kohrs, and several other cattlemen were down at the holding pens to get a look at the Herefords.
“That’s what we are buying, gentlemen,” Kohrs replied. “Purebred Hereford cattle.”
“I’ll say this for them, they are a lot bigger than a longhorn,” Pierce said. “What do you think about them, George?”
“Gentlemen,” Littlefield replied. “The only practical knowledge I have gained in my ranching experience is to be able to say, with certainty, that a cow will have a calf.”
The others laughed.
“Are they going to cost us a lot more to raise?” Swan asked.
“No,” Kohrs said, shaking his head. “That is the great beauty of raising Herefords. Gentlemen, it will cost us about the same amount of money to raise a Hereford as it does to raise a longhorn, but we will get at least three times as much money per animal. Think about it. You can increase your profit by three hundred percent just by changing breeds.”
As the cattlemen continued to examine the Herefords, Kohrs came over to talk to Falcon. Falcon was leaning on the fence, looking just over the top at the cows.
“What do you think of them?” Kohrs asked.
“You had me convinced back in Miles City,” Falcon said. “When the auction starts, I’ll be bidding.”
Kohrs chuckled. “I may have done too good a job in selling the concept,” he said. “So many people are going to be bidding on the cows now that it’s going to run the price up.”
“I’m sure you can afford it,” Falcon said.
Kohrs laughed, then took in the other cattlemen with a sweep of his hand. “So can they,” he said. “And that’s the problem. We can all afford it.”
“Yes, and here I am, a lamb come to the slaughter,” Falcon said. “I feel out of place with all the big boys here.”
“Ha!” Kohrs said. “You probably take more money out of one of your gold or silver mines than we generate with all our ranches combined.”
“Well, I am coming to the auction,” Falcon said.
“A lamb to the slaughter?” Kohrs teased.
“Maybe not quite that bad,” Falcon admitted.
“If I haven’t said it before, Falcon, I’m glad you are participating,” Kohrs said. “A lot of people respect you. When it gets out that you are running Herefords, it will do a lot for the cattle industry.”
“I’m keeping some of my longhorns, though,” Falcon said.
“Oh, I’m sure we all are,” Kohrs said. “I confess to having some affection for the creatures.”
“Mr. MacCallister?” someone said, and Falcon turned to see a balding man of small stature standing nearby. It was easy to see that he was balding because he was holding his hat in his hand.
“Yes?” Falcon asked.
“My name is Reavis. Glen Reavis,” the balding man said.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Reavis?”
“I was wondering if you would sign this for me,” Reavis. “Sort of an autograph, so to speak.”
Reavis held something out toward Falcon. Taking it, Falcon saw that it was a photograph of the corpse of Gilly Cardis.
“What the hell is this?” Falcon asked sharply, handing the picture back.
“It’s a photo of the man you kilt yesterday,” Reavis said.
“Where did you get such a thing?”
“From Dysart’s photo shop,” Reavis said. “He took a picture of the corpse and he’s sellin’ photographs for fifty cents the picture.”
“And people are actually buying them?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, sir. They’re goin’ like hotcakes,” Reavis said. “Uh . . . will you sign my picture?”
Falcon shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to autograph the picture of a man I killed.”
“It’d make a fine keepsake,” Reavis said.
“Go away, Mr. Reavis,” Kohrs said. “You heard the man. He’s not going to sign it.”
Reavis stood for a moment longer, then nodded and left.
“Anything like that ever happened to you before?” Kohrs asked.
“You mean has anyone ever asked me to sign the photograph of someone I killed? No, it hasn’t. And I hope it never happens again.”
Suddenly Kohrs chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I bet I know something else that’s never happened to you before, and that you hope doesn’t happen again.”
“What’s that?”
“You losin’ a shootin’ match to a woman,” Kohrs said. “Or at least, almost losing to a woman.”
Falcon smiled and nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “She matched me shot for shot. In the end, I only beat her on time, not on shooting.”
“Who is she? I know you people who are really good with a gun keep up on each other. Had you ever heard of her before? Do you know her?”
“No, I’d never heard of her. And I didn’t know her until I came to Laramie,” Falcon said. “But I know her now. Her name is Frances Martin, and she runs a boardinghouse.”
“A boardinghouse, you say?”
“A small boardinghouse,” Falcon said. “In fact, I’m staying there while I’m in town.”
“You don’t say?” Kohrs replied. “I didn’t see the shooting match, but I heard she was quite a looker. Anything to that?”
“She is a very pretty woman,” Falcon agreed.
“A pretty woman and a good shot. I”ll bet you have some interesting conversations around the dinner table.”
* * *
“Would you like another serving of pot roast, Mr. MacCallister?” Frances asked.
Falcon smiled. Frances was going out of her way to be formal and precise today, probably because Gordon was at the table. Falcon could understand her reasoning, but he found it humorous, when contrasting it with the passionate woman she was last night.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Martin,” he said, rubbing his stomach. “Everything is so delicious that I’m afraid I ate too much. If I eat any more I might just pop open.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Frances said. “I should have told you to save some room for some sweet-potato pie.
“Sweet-potato pie?” Falcon said, brightening. “Well, I suppose I can find room for that.”
Frances laughed. “I was hoping you could,” she said.
“Mr. MacCallister, would you tell me what it is like?” Gordon asked.
“What what is like?”
“Yesterday, when you killed that bad man. What was it like?”
“Gordon!” Frances said sharply. “How could you ask such a thing?”
“I just want to know what it’s like, Mom, that’s all,” Gordon said. “I’ve read about him in the stories. In the stories he always says, ‘Get ready to eat your supper in hell.’ Did you say that to him?”
“Gordon, apologize to Mr. MacCallister,” Frances said. “You apologize right now, young man.”
“No, wait,” Falcon said, lifting his hand. He looked at Gordon for a long moment, then sighed, and ran his hand across his mouth. “It’s not like that, Gordon,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“In the first place, I have never told anyone to get ready to eat supper in hell.”
“But all the stories I’ve read . . .”
“Are wrong,” Falcon said before Gordon could finish. “You want to know what it’s like to kill a man?”
“Yes!” Gordon said excitedly.
“It’s like sticking your fingers so far down your throat that you want to throw up,” Falcon said.
“What?”
“The man I shot yesterday woke up just like I did, just like everyone else did. He thought this would just be another day like every other day in his life. But it wasn’t. It was the last day of his life, because I took his life away from him.
“He may have been an evil man yesterday, when I
shot him. But you know that he wasn’t always evil. He was a kid once, playing games like other kids. All those memories he had, of the games he played, the friends he had, the family he knew, are gone now, and I took them away from him.
“No, Gordon, it’s not glorious, it’s not thrilling. It’s not a good feeling at all. It’s sort of a sick feeling.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“It’s not something I do by choice,” Falcon said. “And believe me, if I could walk away from this and never do it again, I would.”
“I . . . I guess I never thought about it like that,” Gordon said. “Mom?”
Inexplicably, there were tears in Frances’s eyes.
“Mom, why are you crying?”
Frances wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “I was moved by Mr. MacCallister’s words,” she said. She forced a smile. “Well, are you ready for your pie?”
“Can I have my pie later?” Gordon asked. “I don’t really feel like eating it right now. I think I’ll go to my room.”
“All right,” Frances said. “Whenever you feel ready for your pie, you can just come get a piece.”
“Thanks. And Mr. MacCallister, if I don’t see you again today, good night.”
“Good night, Gordon.”
Frances cut a generous piece of pie and put it on Falcon’s plate.
“Thanks,” Falcon said.
“And thank you for talking to Gordon like that,” Frances said. “I wasn’t sure where that conversation was leading, but I see now, and I think you did a good thing.”
“Don’t be hard on him, Frances,” Falcon said, using her first name now that Gordon was out of earshot. “Kids his age have a fascination with such things.”
“I know. That’s why I have held off teaching him to shoot.”
Falcon shook his head. “No, don’t do that,” he said. “He needs to know how to shoot, as much for his confidence and self-esteem as anything else.” He smiled. “And it would be a shame for you not to pass on to him the skills you learned from your father.”
“I guess you’re right,” Frances said.
“Uhmm,” Falcon said as he took his first bite. “This has to be about the best pie I have ever tasted. Frances, you not only shoot well, you are a culinary genius.”
Frances smiled coquettishly. “Falcon MacCallister, if you ever think about me in the future, I hope that you remember more than my shooting and cooking skills.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Falcon said in a low, husky voice. “You’ve given me ample reason to remember you for far more than that.”
Frances sighed, and looked toward Gordon’s room. “Unfortunately, memory is all we will have,” she said.
Sixteen
Johnny Purvis held up his hand to signal a stop, and the nine riders who were with him hauled back on their reins.
A few of the others spoke to their animals as they stopped them.
“Whoa!”
“Hold it.”
“Come back.”
Johnny took his canteen from the saddle pommel and took a drink, then offered it to his brother.
Carney took a swallow, then spit it out. “Damn!” he said. “That’s water.”
“Yes.”
“What the hell did you offer me a drink of water for? If I wanted water, I’d drink from my own canteen.”
“Would you now?” Johnny asked. He held his hand out. “Let me have a drink.”
“What do you mean? You’ve got your own water,” Carney said.
“Let me have a drink,” Johnny said again.
Reluctantly, Carney handed his canteen over to Johnny. Johnny pulled the cork, sniffed it, then took a drink. He spit it out immediately.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “Whiskey.” Johnny turned the canteen upside down and began pouring out the whiskey.
“Johnny, what are you doing?” Carney asked with a pained expression in his voice.
“I’m pouring out your whiskey,” he said. He turned in his saddle to address the other riders. “All of you,” he said. “If any of you have whiskey, pour it out now.”
Nobody moved.
“Get your canteens up, and pull the cork,” he said. “I’m going to check every one. If you’ve got whiskey, I’m going to pour it out.”
“You got no right to pour out my whiskey,” one of the riders said.
“You can keep your whiskey if you want to, Snyder,” Johnny said.
“All right,” Synder said with a broad smile.
“But if you keep it, you have to go back.”
“What?” Snyder asked.
Johnny pointed back down the trail. “If your whiskey is more important than the money you’ll be getting from this job, go on back,” he said. “I don’t intend to have any drunks with me when we pull this off.”
Snyder glared at Johnny for a moment; then he began emptying his canteen. The others emptied their canteens as well. Only Eddie Jordan, Gabe Harland, and Pete Ward did not.
“You boys have only water?” Johnny asked.
“Yeah, Johnny, I told ’em you wouldn’t want no drinkin’,” Eddie said.
Johnny nodded. “Good man,” he said.
“How much farther is it?” Carney asked.
Johnny pulled out his watch and looked at it. “It’s eleven o’clock now,” he said. “We’ll be there about two.”
“What about eatin’?” Poke asked. “Are we goin’ to eat?”
“You got jerky, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Eat in your saddle.”
“Jerky ain’t no good if you don’t have somethin’ to wash it down with.”
“It’s not my fault you don’t have water,” Johnny said. “Let’s get goin’.”
* * *
Falcon was standing at the bar in the Gold Strike Saloon. There were only four others in the saloon at the moment, and Falcon looked at the Regulator Clock sitting near the piano at the back of the room. It was nearly two.
“Sort of quiet, isn’t it?” Falcon asked.
“Always is this time of day,” Sylvester said. Sylvester was busy behind the bar, counting money.
“Looks like you had a good day yesterday,” Falcon said.
“I wish this was from one day,” Sylvester said with a dry chuckle. “But I only make a deposit once a week and this is it.”
Sylvester put the last of the money in a cloth bag, then called to Kathleen, who was sitting at a table near the piano, looking at sheet music.
“Kathleen, would you run this down to the bank for me?”
“Sure thing, Sylvester,” Kathleen said, coming over to the bar.
“I’ll go with you,” Falcon offered.
“You don’t need to,” Kathleen said. “I can handle it by myself.”
Falcon smiled. “The way you talk, you’d think you don’t want my company.”
“No, it’s not that,” Kathleen said.
“I’m going to the bank anyway,” he said. “I’m going to make arrangements to make a wire transfer of some more money. This auction might cost more than I thought and I want to make certain I have enough cash on hand to participate.”
“All right,” Kathleen said. “And of course I welcome your company, anytime . . . anywhere,” she added, making the last word an invitation.
Falcon tossed down the last swallow of his beer, then walked to the batwing doors and held one of them open for her.
“Fire!” someone called. He was running up the middle of the street, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Fire! The feed store is on fire!”
Even as he was shouting the news, the blacksmith was ringing the fire alarm by banging his hammer against an iron ring. The church bell was ringing as well.
The fire had already gotten a good start in the feed store and a heavy column of smoke was climbing into the sky, while fingers of fire licked up along the side of the building.
Falcon and Kathleen stood beside the street for a minute, watching all the activity.
“Do you want to go down and watch it?” Kathleen said. “I can make the deposit myself.” She smiled. “I know how all little boys enjoy a fire, and I believe that all men are little boys at heart.”
Falcon chuckled. “No,” he said. “I’d just get in the way.”
“Make way! Make way!” someone was shouting through a megaphone. Falcon looked around to see the fire engine being drawn at a gallop by a matched pair of white horses. Smoke was coming from the steam-powered pump, and one of the firemen was riding alongside the pumper, alternately shouting through a megaphone and blowing a bugle to warn people out of the way.
When they reached the bank, Falcon held the door open for Kathleen, and they stepped inside. There were no customers, but two men were standing at the front window of the bank, looking down toward the fire. Falcon had been in town long enough to have met both men, when he opened an account to use for the upcoming auction. One was Gene Frazier, the owner of the bank, and the other was Claude Mitchum, the teller.
“That’s Mr. Dunnaway’s place that’s on fire,” Mitchum said. “He and his family live in the back. I hope his wife and children got out safely.”
“Even if they did, it is going to be difficult for them,” Frazier said. “Dunnaway put everything he had into that store. I know because he had to borrow money from the bank to do it.”
The two men looked around when they heard Falcon and Kathleen come into the bank.
“Good morning,” Falcon said.
“Good morning, Mr. MacCallister, Miss Coyle,” Frazier said.
“That’s quite a fire going on down there,” Falcon said.
“Indeed it is. It seems to have drawn the entire town down to watch it. I didn’t expect we would have any customers with the fire going on. What can we do for you?”
“Well, Miss Coyle has come to make a deposit for the Gold Strike,” Falcon said. “And I want to arrange for a wire transfer of additional funds from my bank back in Colorado.”
“Yes, sir,” Frazier replied, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to do business with one of our visiting cattle barons. Mr. Mitchum, would you take care of Miss Coyle, while I deal with Mr. MacCallister?”
“Yes, sir,” Mitchum said.
Falcon chuckled. “I’ve never really thought of myself as a cattle baron.”
Pride of Eagles Page 14
