Showdown at Dead End Canyon

by Robert Vaughan

  “No reward is necessary,” Hawke replied. “I just happened to discover your daughter’s predicament. Anyone else in the same situation would have done the same thing I did.”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t anyone else. It was you,” Dorchester said. “And I truly would like some tangible way of expressing my appreciation for what you did. Tell me what you want.”

  Hawke smiled and stroked his chin. “Well, if you happen to have any influence with one of the local saloon owners, I could use a job playing a piano.”

  “In a saloon? You would play a piano in a saloon?”

  Hawke nodded. “It’s how I’ve been making my living for the last several years.”

  “But, God in heaven, man, you could play in any concert hall in America. In the world. Why would you lower yourself to playing in a saloon?”

  “It’s a long story,” Hawke said.

  Dorchester stared at Hawke for a long moment, as if stupefied by what he had just heard. Then, shaking his head as if to clear it of such distressful information, he sighed.

  “Very well, sir. I will respect your privacy.” Abruptly he smiled. “Wait a minute. You want a job playing the piano, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me look around a bit. I may be able to come up with something for you. In the meantime, I would like to invite you to my home on Saturday next. I should have the piano in place by then. You would honor me, greatly, by attending?”

  “And playing the piano for you?”

  Dorchester chuckled. “Of course I would be thrilled if you would play for us.” He held up his hand. “But the invitation is for you, personally, not for someone to entertain me. Whether you choose to play or not will be up to you.”

  “I’m sorry, it was rude of me to suggest that you had that in mind,” Hawke said. “Please forgive me for that insolence. I would be glad to come.”

  Dorchester smiled happily. “Good, good. And maybe by then I will have something for you.”

  Hawke took a room in the Morning Star Hotel. When he awoke the next morning, he heard the ringing sound of a blacksmith’s hammer. Because the blacksmith’s shop was at the far end of the street, the hammering, though audible, was not particularly intrusive. He could also hear the scrape of a broom as the storekeeper next door swept his front porch.

  The blacksmith’s hammer fell in measured blows, so that after each ring of the hammer, he could hear the scratch of the broom. Ring, scratch, scratch. Ring, scratch, scratch.

  As a counter melody, the hotel sign, which was suspended from the overhanging porch roof just below Hawke’s window, was squeaking in the morning breeze, while across the street in the wagon yard, someone was using a sledgehammer to set a wheel. The result, in Hawke’s musical mind, was a symphony of sound. Ring, scratch, scratch, sqeak, thump. Ring, scratch, scratch, squeak, thump.

  Hawke lay in bed for a full minute until the storekeeper stopped sweeping, thus breaking up the composition. Then he finally got up, stretched, and walked to the window to look out over the street of the town he had thus far seen only at night.

  Directly across the street from the hotel was the saloon, advertised by a huge wooden sign. On the left side of the sign was a painted mug of golden beer, over which was a large 5¢. Across the center of the sign, in large red letters, was the name: ROYAL FLUSH SALOON. On the right side of the sign was a painted hand of cards, a royal flush in spades.

  A single-story office building was next to the saloon. The sign in front read: MCPHERSON ENTERPRISES. Next to that was the wagon yard. The wheel, now set, was being packed with grease. Beyond the wagon yard he saw an apothecary, a hardware store, and, finally, a Chinese laundry. The depot and railroad were at one end of the street, a church at the other end. On his own side of the street, he couldn’t see all the buildings.

  When he’d taken the room last night, he paid an extra quarter to be able to take a bath. Now, he decided to avail himself of that luxury.

  Across the street in the McPherson Enterprises’ office, as Hawke was taking his bath, Bailey McPherson was standing in the front room with Addison Ford. In the back room, Ethan Dancer and Jason White were sitting at a large conference table.

  “Must Ethan Dancer attend this meeting?” Addison asked quietly.

  “Mr. Dancer is my personal bodyguard,” Bailey replied. “He goes everywhere I go.”

  “But the way he looks, that terrible scar. He makes me feel uneasy.”

  “Good! That is what makes him so effective as a bodyguard.” She laughed. “That, and his skill with a pistol.”

  “But surely you don’t think you need a bodyguard with me?”

  “He goes where I go, Mr. Ford. If you are going to do business with me, I suggest you get used to that.”

  The front door opened then and two men came in. One of them was carrying a bag, and as far as Addison was concerned, that was about the only way to differentiate the two. Both men needed a shave, and the clothes they wore looked as if they had come from an odds and ends charity barrel. The fact that they also needed a bath was immediately apparent to Addison, who had to turn away from the smell. Amazingly, neither their appearance nor the odor they exuded seemed to bother Bailey.

  “Ah, Luke, Percy, come in,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” She led them back into the conference room, where she took a seat next to Dancer. Addison sat next to Jason White.

  There were no chairs around the table for Luke and Percy, and Bailey made no offer to provide any. Instead, she got right into the purpose of the meeting.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, by inference addressing only those who were seated, “this is Luke Rawlings and Percy Sheridan. These two men have been doing some…prospecting of late, and I invited them here this morning to give us their report. Suppose we begin, Luke, by you telling us what you have in the bag?”

  Luke, who had blotchy red skin, reached down into the bag and pulled out a fist-sized, irregular-shaped rock. He handed it to Bailey.

  “Take a gander at that,” he said, revealing that he had no upper teeth.

  Bailey examined the rock for a moment, then looked up. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Turn it around and look up in the crevice. Hold it up to the light and you’ll see it.”

  Bailey did so, and saw a glitter just where she was told it would be.

  “Oh, yes, I see it now,” she said.

  “That’s gold,” Luke said, a broad smile spreading across his face.

  “Where did this rock come from?”

  “The Little Sandy River in the Sweetwater Mountains,” he answered.

  “How many rocks like this are there?”

  “They’s quite a few of ’em around, ain’t they, Percy?”

  His partner, who had been quiet so far, now said, “Yeah. They’s a lot of these here rocks up there.”

  “Just lying around on the ground to be picked up?” Bailey asked.

  “Oh, no ma’am, they ain’t like that,” Percy said. “You can’t just go up there ’n’ start pickin’ up rocks thinkin’ ever’ one of ’em is goin’ to show color. A fella is goin’ to have to hunt around some.”

  Bailey turned her attention back to the rock. “Did you get an assay report?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Luke said. “It will prove out at eighty dollars per ton.”

  “Well, now, gentlemen, what do you think of those numbers?” Bailey asked.

  “Eighty dollars a ton is going to start a rush like the one they had in California,” Jason White said.

  “Is that good enough for you, Mr. Ford?” Bailey asked.

  “It’s more than good enough,” Addison said. “I will telegraph the Secretary of Interior tomorrow that I have approved your application for operational status under the provisions of the Railroad Land Grant Act of 1862.”

  “Mr. White, how soon can you start the survey?”

  “Right away,” he replied.

  “Gentleman,” Bailey said, “the Sweetwater Railroad is in business.


  The piano player in the Royal Flush saloon was bad. The only thing worse was the piano he was playing. Though in a way, Hawke thought, the fact that the piano was so badly out of tune might be a blessing in disguise. It made it difficult for the average person to be able to differentiate from a discordant note badly played and the harsh dissonance of the soundboard.

  Hawke stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “Ain’t seen you around,” the bartender said as he held a mug under the beer spigot.

  “I haven’t been around.”

  “Well, welcome to the Royal Flush.” The bartender set the beer in front of Hawke. “My name is Jake.”

  “Good to meet you, Jake. My name is Hawke.” Hawke put a nickel on the bar, but the bartender slid it back and shook his head.

  “No sir, the first beer is on the house. That’s the owner’s rule.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. The reason is, Mr. Peabody won this-here saloon in a game of cards. Fact is, he was holdin’ this very hand,” he said, pointing to a glass-encased box. There, fanned out for display, was a royal flush, exactly like the one depicted on the sign out front. “That’s how come he came to change the name of the saloon from Red’s Place to the Royal Flush. And to show his gratitude, well, first time anyone comes into the saloon, their first drink is on the house.”

  “That’s very generous of Mr. Peabody.”

  At that moment the piano player hit a note that was so discordant it raised the hackles on the back of Hawke’s neck, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.

  “Where did you get your piano player?” he asked, nodding toward the bald, sweating man who was pounding away at the keyboard.

  “That there is Aaron Peabody,” the barkeep replied.

  “Peabody? The owner?”

  The barkeep shook his head. “The owner lives back in Cheyenne. Aaron is his younger brother.”

  That was all the information Hawke needed. The guy could be playing with his elbows, but if he was the owner’s brother, his position was secure.

  In the mirror behind the bar Hawke saw someone come into the saloon. The man moved quickly away from the door, then backed up against the wall, standing there for a long moment while he surveyed the room.

  Hawke noticed this because he had made the same kind of entrance a few moments earlier. It was the entrance of a man who lived by his wits, and often by his guns. It was the move of a man who had made enemies, some of whom he didn’t even know.

  Hawke had never met Ethan Dancer, but he had heard him described, and from the way this man looked and acted, he would bet that this was the gunfighter. Even as he was thinking about it, Jake bore out his musings.

  “Donnie,” Jake said to a young man who was sweeping the floor. “Mr. Dancer is here. Go into the back room and get his special bottle.”

  “All right,” Donnie said. He bent down to pick up the little pile of trash he had swept up.

  “Quickly, man, quickly,” Jake said. “Never mind that.”

  Dancer walked over to an empty table. By the time he sat down, Donnie had returned with the special bottle, and he handed it to Jake. The barkeeper poured a glass, then took it and the bottle to the table.

  “Here you go, Mr. Dancer,” he said obsequiously.

  Dancer said nothing. He just nodded and took the glass as Jake set the bottle in front of him.

  “Call me if you need me, Mr. Dancer,” Jake said, wiping his hands on his apron.

  Again Dancer just nodded.

  Jake returned to the bar, then, seeing that Hawke’s beer was nearly empty, slid down the bar to talk to him.

  “Do you know who that is?”

  “I heard you say his name was Dancer.”

  “Yes. Ethan Dancer. I reckon you have heard of him, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “They say he’s kilt hisself more’n fourteen men,” Jake said, not to be denied the opportunity to impart the information.

  “Fourteen, huh?” Hawke replied.

  “Yes, sir, at least that many. And truth to tell, they don’t nobody really know just how many he’s kilt. He mighta kilt a lot more’n that.”

  “You don’t say,” Hawke said. “That’s quite a reputation to be carrying around.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon it is,” Jake said.

  For the next few minutes Hawke just stared at Dancer’s reflection in the mirror. After a while Dancer sensed that he was being stared at and glanced up. The two men’s eyes caught and locked in the mirror.

  Dancer stared back at the man in the mirror, and was surprised to see his stare returned with a similar unblinking gaze. There were very few men who could meet his gaze without turning away, whether in revulsion from his looks or out of fear of his reputation.

  Dancer continued to glare at the image in the mirror, giving him his “killing” expression. It was a glare had made men soil their pants, but it looked to him as if the man at the bar actually found the moment amusing.

  “Hey, you,” Dancer called, his words challenging.

  All conversation in the saloon stopped and everyone looked at Dancer.

  Hawke did not turn around.

  “You, at the bar,” Dancer said. “Quit looking at me in that mirror.”

  This time Hawke did turn, still with a bemused expression on his face.

  “Do you know who I am?” Dancer asked.

  “I heard the bartender say your name was Ethan Dancer,” Hawke replied.

  “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Hawke said easily.

  “If you’ve heard of me, then you know I’m not a man to be riled.”

  Hawke smiled and lifted his beer. “I’ll try to remember not to rile you,” he said.

  This wasn’t going the way it should, Dancer thought, finding the situation disquieting. Clearly, this man knew who he was…and clearly, he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t used to that.

  “Ya hoo!” someone shouted, coming into the saloon then. He was holding a rock in one hand and his pistol in the other. He fired the pistol into the ceiling.

  The others in the saloon were startled by the unexpected pistol shot.

  “Luke! What the hell are you doin’, coming in here shootin’ up the place?” Jake scolded.

  “Gold!” Luke replied. “Me ’n’ Percy’s done discovered gold!”

  “What? Did you say gold?” one of the other customers asked.

  “That’s what I said all right. Gold, and a lot of it too. Why, they’s enough gold up there to make ever’ man in Green River rich as a king!”

  “Up where?” Jake asked. “Where is this gold?”

  “Yeah, where is it?” another asked.

  “Up in the Sweetwater,” Luke said. He waved the rock around. “I done had this assayed. Eighty dollars a ton, boys! Eighty dollars a ton!”

  By now everyone in the saloon, including Jake, was crowding around Luke, trying to get more information from him. Where, exactly, in the Sweetwater Range was the gold? How did he find it? Did anyone else know about it yet?

  As the discussion of gold was taking place, Hawke continued to stare at Dancer, who had quit returning the gaze and was now staring pointedly into his glass of whiskey.

  One of the patrons slipped out of the saloon, and a second later those inside could hear the clatter of hoofbeats as he rode away.

  “Hey, boys, some have already started. If we don’t get up there now, we’re goin’ to be left suckin’ hind tit!” someone shouted, which started a rush for the door. Within moments nobody was left in the saloon but Jake, the piano player, Hawke, and Dancer.

  Hawke picked up his beer and turned his back to the bar. He lifted his mug to his lips as he studied Dancer.

  “You ain’t goin’ after the gold?” Jake asked Hawke.

  “No.”

  “I’d be out there with them right now if I didn’t have this here job,” Jake said.

  “The man who discovered gold…I think y
ou called him Luke?”

  “Yes sir. Luke Rawlings is his name.”

  “Why do you think Luke came in here like that?”

  “Well, wouldn’t you be excited if you’d discovered gold?”

  “Yes,” Hawke said. “But I don’t think I’d be telling everyone exactly where I found it.”

  “I’ll be damned. I never thought about that. Why do you reckon he did tell?”

  “I don’t know,” Hawke replied. “It is puzzling.”

  Chapter 8

  ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON HAWKE PICKED UP HIS clothes from the Chinese laundry. For his dinner engagement with the Dorchesters, he changed from the jeans and plaid shirt into something he considered more appropriate.

  For many men such a drastic change in apparel would make them uncomfortable. Hawke felt at ease in his formal attire, having donned such clothes many times for his piano performances. He told himself it was his last connection with the genteel life that he had so long ago abandoned.

  Shortly before he left his hotel room there was a knock. Hawke pulled his gun and stepped up to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Hawke, my name is Joey,” a young-sounding voice said from the other side. “I work down at the livery stable.”

  Curious as to why someone from the livery would be calling on him, Hawke opened the door. The boy in the hall looked to be about fourteen.

  “Are you Mr. Hawke?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Your horse is tied up in front of the hotel.”

  “My horse? I don’t have a horse.”

  “Yes, sir, you do. Mr. Dorchester come down to see me, and asked me to come out to his place to pick out the finest horse I could find and bring him in to you. You want to see him?”

  “Yes,” Hawke said.

  Hawke followed the boy downstairs, then out the front door. There, tied to the hitching rail in front of the hotel, was one of the best-looking horses Hawke had ever seen. It was a buckskin stallion standing about seventeen hands high with a long neck, a sloping shoulder, a short strong back, a deep heart girth, and a long sloping hip. His musculature was smooth and well-defined. Hawke noticed that his saddle was on the horse.

  “How’d my saddle get there?” he asked.