“I beg your pardon?”
“This place,” Duff said, lifting the beer mug and moving it by way of encompassing the saloon. “It has the same name as the pub I frequented back in Scotland. ’Twas owned by the father of my fiancée and ’twas there that my Skye worked.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come in here,” Falcon suggested. “I would not want to be causing you any discomfort from unpleasant memories.”
Duff waved his free hand dismissively. “’Tis only the name that is alike and nothing more,” he said. “And any memory of Skye is a pleasant one.”
Falcon set his beer down on the bar. “I need to step out back to the privy for a moment,” Falcon said. “I’ll be right back.”
Duff nodded, then turned his back to the bar and perused the place as he took his first swallow.
“Hey, you!” a man yelled toward Duff and Falcon. “What’s that ugly-lookin’ thing you got a’ layin’ on the floor beside you?”
Duff looked over toward the loud-mouthed man. He was sitting at a table near the cold stove, and he had long hair and a beard. He was the perfect example of the cowboy figures Duff had read about in The Williams Pacific Tourist Guide.
“Tell me now, sir, and would it be me ye are addressing?” Duff asked.
The man saw Duff looking at him. “Yeah, I’m addressin’ you. You see anyone else standin’ up there with what looks like an ugly pile of horse apples layin’ on the floor beside him?” He laughed at his own joke.
“Och, then ’tis me you are addressing. And would you be for tellin’ me, what is the nature of your query?”
“What the . . .” the bearded man replied. He looked at the man sharing the table with him. Like his questioner, the man was gruff looking, but with shorter hair and no beard. “Billy Ray, you want to tell me what the hell this feller just said to me?”
“Well, Roy, it sounds to me like he wants to know what you are askin’ him.”
Roy turned back to Duff. “What I’m a’ wantin’ to know is, what the hell is that thing that’s a’ layin’ there on the floor beside you?”
“Pipes.”
“Pipes? What do you mean pipes? It don’t look like no pipe I ever have seed.”
“I suppose I should have said bagpipes.”
“A bag of pipes? So, what you are sayin’ is, you have come in here carryin’ a bag full of pipes.”
Duff turned back to the bar.
“Hey, Mister, don’t you be a’ turnin’ your back on me when we’re havin’ a conversation,” Roy said.
This time he shouted the words in anger, and that caused everyone in the saloon to stop their own conversations and to look on in curiosity at the discourse between the two men. Even the piano player stopped and the last discordant notes hung in the air.
Duff turned to face him again. “I’m sorry, but when I engage someone in conversation, I have to assume they are possessed with a modicum of intelligence, or at the very least that they are sentient. You don’t seem to enjoy either of those qualities.”
Roy’s face drew up in an expression of total confusion. He looked at Billy Ray.
“What the hell did he just say?”
“I believe he is funning you,” Billy Ray replied.
“Are you funnin’ me, boy?” Roy asked, turning back toward Duff.
“By funning, I take it you want to know if I am teasing you?”
“Yeah. You tryin’ to tease me? ’Cause I don’t take too kindly to folks that try and tease me.”
“Then, Roy, ye may put your mind at ease. I don’t tease people that I don’t like. And though I have just met you, you have made reproachful comments about my pipes. I have heard the call of the pipes when engaged in deadly combat, so I dinnae take kindly to those who pass disparaging remarks about something that is so dear to my heart. So, for that reason, if for no other, I don’t like you.”
“You’re a foreigner, ain’t ya?” Roy asked.
“Aye. I am Scot.”
“I didn’t ask you your name. I asked you iffen you was a foreigner.”
“When I say I am Scot, I’m not telling you my name. I’m telling you my nationality. I am from Scotland. You do seem to have some difficulty in speaking English, don’t you?”
“I know’d you wasn’t American,” Roy said. “What are you doin’ here? You’re a long way from home, ain’t you?”
“On the contrary, I am quite close to home. I’ve just arranged for a parcel of land near here,” Duff said. “So, Roy, it looks as if you and I are going to be neighbors. And because of the inauspicious meeting, I do not think we could ever be friends, but I think we should at least make an effort to get on with each other.”
“You think that, do you? Well, you know what I think? I think you should go back to Scotland.”
“I’ve no plans to go back to Scotland.”
“You ain’t goin’ to like it here,” Roy said. “You’re goin’ to find a lot more people like me, who don’t cotton to strangers. Especially strangers who come from some foreign country.”
“I appreciate your concern, Roy, I really do, but I fully intend to stay here,” Duff said. He took another swallow of his beer, but he didn’t take his eyes off Roy.
“I see you’re wearin’ a gun. Are you very fast with it?” Roy asked.
“I cannot answer that question with certainty, as I have never had to make a rapid extraction of my pistol. So if you are asking if I would be very proficient in that particular act, I think I would have to say that, in all probability, I am not.”
“Mister, I don’t even know what the hell you are talking about,” Roy said. “Why don’t you talk in plain English?”
“He says he ain’t very good,” Billy Ray said.
“Ain’t very good, huh?” A humorless smile spread across Roy’s lips. Roy stood up, stepped away from the table, and let his arms hang loosely by his sides. That was when Duff saw that Roy was not only wearing a pistol, he was wearing it low, as Falcon had instructed him to do.
“Well, Mister, you’re goin’ to have to get good just real fast, ’cause I’m callin’ you out,” he said.
“Now I must confess that it is I who am confused. I have no idea what calling me out means.”
“It means I’m goin’ to give you a chance to draw your pistol ag’in me. Me’n you’s goin’ to settle this little disagreement we got.”
“I have no desire to engage you in a gunfight,” Duff said.
“What if I put a bullet in that bag of pipes you got there? Would that give you a desire to draw?”
“Oh, I don’t think I would like that very much,” Duff said.
“Well, that’s what I’m a’ goin’ to do,” Roy said. “I’m goin’ to put a bullet right through that bag of pipes, and then I’m a’ goin’ to put a bullet right through you.”
As Roy’s hand dipped toward the pistol in his holster, Duff threw the beer mug at him, hitting him in the nose.
With a cry of pain, Roy interrupted his draw and put his hands to his nose, which was now bleeding.
“You son of a bitch! You bloodied my nose!” Roy shouted in anger. Once more his hand dipped toward his pistol, but as he started his draw this time, Duff, who immediately after tossing his beer mug had drawn his own pistol, pulled the trigger, putting a bullet through Roy’s hand.
“Ayiieee!” Roy shouted, jerking his hand back. “I thought you said you wasn’t good.”
“I said I could not draw quickly, I did not say that I could not shoot,” Duff said. “I am, in fact, considered to be a rather superior marksman with a handgun.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you!” Falcon called loudly. “Drop it!”
Looking toward Falcon, who had just come back in, Duff saw that he was holding a gun in his hand. He also saw that Billy Ray had drawn his own pistol. At Falcon’s call, Billy Ray dropped his pistol to the floor.
“That’s more like it,” Falcon said. “Piano player?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry
about this, I was very much enjoying your piano music. But I’m going to have to borrow your piano for a while.”
“Borrow my piano? Whatever do you mean?”
“Open up the back.”
With a look of confusion on his face, the piano player did exactly as Falcon asked.
“Now my friend and I came in here for a nice, quiet drink. It’s too late for it to be quiet, but we can still have the drink. Only, I don’t want to worry about any of the rest of you getting the idea that you might want to shoot one of us. So, this is what I want you to do. All of you, bring your pistols up here and drop them into the back of the piano.”
“What? Are you crazy? I ain’t goin’ to do that!” one of the other men in the saloon said.
“You have three choices, my friend,” Falcon said. “You can either bring your pistol up here and drop it in the back of the piano like I asked you to, or you can walk out of here right now.”
“That’s only two choices,” Billy Ray said. “What’s the third choice?”
“The third choice is I’ll kill you where you stand,” Falcon said, coldly.
“Damn, Billy Ray, I think he means that,” one of the others said.
Grumbling, every customer in the saloon, one by one, walked up to the piano and dropped his pistol into the back.
“Hey, I can’t play the piano now!” the piano player complained. “How’m I going to make my tips?”
Falcon pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “This ought to cover your tips for the rest of the day.”
“Gee, Mister. Thanks,” the piano player said.
Chapter Eighteen
Cheyenne
Duff’s room overlooked the street from the top floor of the Inter-Ocean hotel, a three-story brick building on Central Avenue. Though still fully dressed, Duff lay in bed, using the bedside lantern to provide enough illumination for him to read in his guidebook about the area he was going to homestead.
These plains have an average width of forty miles, and are one hundred miles in length. They comprise an area of over two and a half million acres and are regarded as one of the richest grazing areas in the country.
When Duff thought of the vast distances he had encountered here in America and compared it with Scotland, he couldn’t help but be amazed. He had left behind two hundred acres and that was considered a very large holding. With a mere stroke of his pen, he would now control twenty-six hundred acres, with access to another ten thousand acres. The sheer size of it boggled his brain.
When someone knocked on his door, Duff put the book down on the bedside table, then walked over to the door. Opening it, he saw Falcon standing in the hall.
“No,” Falcon said, shaking his head. “Don’t ever do that.”
“Don’t ever do what?”
“Don’t ever open the door like that,” Falcon said. “Always ask through the closed door who it is. Never stand behind the door while you are inquiring, and open it only partially until you are satisfied with whoever is on the other side.”
“That seems a bit much, doesn’t it? Am I to check under my bed for goblins as well?”
Falcon chuckled. “Goblins can’t hurt you. But somebody like this fella, Roy, you met today can.”
“Do you think Roy might come knocking on my door?”
“I think it is entirely possible that he might,” Falcon said. “Do you have any idea how many people there are out there who want me dead?”
“I would have no idea how many, nor any idea as to why they might want you dead,” Duff replied.
“I don’t know exactly how many, either,” Falcon replied. “But there are an awful lot of them.”
“Even so, by your own admission it is you that they want dead. You, not me.”
“Uh-huh, I wish that was right, but the truth is, you are in as much danger as I am.”
“I have made no enemies, unless you are talking about Roy. And that was but a chance encounter.”
“It is chance encounters like that that make enemies,” Falcon said. “But even if you had not run into him, you would still be in danger.”
“And why is that?”
“Didn’t you say that this sheriff from Scotland sent people to New York to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he will give up?”
“No. Though he has no idea where I am.”
“It has been my experience that when someone hates enough to want to kill, they have ways of finding out where you are. And, without regard to the sheriff, you are in danger for another reason.”
“What reason would that be?”
“I hate to say it, but it is because your name is MacCallister,” Falcon said.
“Och, so if I’m to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, I’m to blame you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You did not knock on my door merely to give me an object lesson, did you, Falcon?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s nearly supper time. I thought you might like to go grab a bite.”
“Grab a bite,” Duff said, chuckling. “What quaint sayings you Americans have.”
“Och, ’tis quaint indeed,” Falcon replied, perfectly mimicking Duff’s accent.
Duff laughed out loud. “Well, pardner, let me just grab my hat, and we’ll mosey on down to grab a bite,” he said, perfectly imitating Falcon’s Western twang.
Falcon laughed as well. “I think I’m bringing you along, cousin. Pretty soon you’ll fit right in.”
Roy Jameson was still angry about what had happened in the saloon earlier today. The doctor had bandaged his hand, but it still hurt. And he wasn’t sure that he would ever have as fast a draw as he once had. Because Roy was someone who made his living by selling his expertise with a gun, this could wind up affecting his livelihood.
He had no intention of letting that go without doing something about it. It was more than just revenge. And as long as that Scottish bastard was free to wander around the streets of Cheyenne, it would diminish his value as a hired gunman.
Roy had once waited for three days for the opportunity to kill someone. He had drunk tepid canteen water and eaten jerky, fighting off mosquitoes, ticks, and fleas while he waited along a trail that he knew his target would take. And he had no personal investment in that killing—it was just a job.
He did have a personal stake in this one. That foreign, funny-talking son of a bitch had put a hole in his hand. So if he had to wait outside for three days until he got a chance at the Scot, then so be it. It was a wait he would do, willingly.
Roy had been here all afternoon, standing in the opening between the apothecary and the leather goods store. Both establishments were already closed, so nobody was curious about him being here and, as darkness began to fall, he couldn’t be seen anyway. He reached up to put his hand on the wall, then winced with pain as it caused the wound to hurt.
“Son of a bitch!” he said aloud, jerking his right hand back from the wall and rubbing the wound gently with his left hand. “Scotsman, you are goin’ to die,” he said. “Yes, sir, you are goin’ to die.”
As it grew darker, the tone and tint of the town changed. The daytime resonance of a town at work, the rolling of freight wagons, the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil, the chatter of commerce, was replaced by the nighttime sounds of a town at rest and relaxation: piano music and laughter from the saloons.
The dining room of the Inter-Ocean hotel was brightly lit with gas lanterns and well decorated with preserved and mounted heads of antelope, deer, elk, mountain sheep, and buffalo. Meat from these creatures was featured on the menu, along with pork and beef.
It was a popular eatery, not only for the guests of the hotel such as Duff and Falcon but for many of the citizens of the town as well. Tonight it was full, as nearly every table was occupied. As was Falcon’s habit, he and Duff took a table in the back corner.
“You’ll have to try the buffalo,” Falcon suggested. “It is very good.”
“Have you ever taken a buff
alo?” Duff asked.
“Taken? Yes, I’ve eaten it often.”
“I meant, have you hunted the buffalo?”
“Oh. Yes, I have. But the buffalo are getting very scarce now. I fear we have about hunted them out. During the building of the railroad they hired hunters to provide meat for the workers, and there was almost wholesale slaughter. And that’s a shame. They are really magnificent animals.”
“I should like to see one in the wild.”
“I imagine you will on your land,” Falcon said. He took in all the other animal heads. “All these as well.”
Duff and Falcon both ordered pot-roasted buffalo with potatoes, onions, and corn on the cob.
“This is an ear of corn, isn’t it? How does one eat it?”
“Like this,” Falcon explained, spreading butter on the corn, then adding salt and pepper. He picked it up and began biting the corn off.
“My word,” Duff said. He followed suit, took a bite, then smiled. “It is quite good,” he said.
“Stay here long enough, you’ll learn to eat properly,” Falcon teased.
After supper, Duff declared that he would like to take a walk around town to have a look.
“I’ll come with you,” Falcon ordered.
Duff held up his hand. “There’s no need,” he said. “I mean, I’m not trying to stop you, if you genuinely want to come with me. But don’t feel that you must.”
“All right,” Falcon said. “I tell you what. Take your walk around town, then if you feel like it, drop into the White Horse. We’ll have a drink together before we turn in.”
“I would enjoy that,” Duff replied.
The night air felt good as Duff strolled along the board sidewalk. He could hear piano music from the White Horse. Then, as he walked farther, that piano faded out and he heard another piano from a different saloon. Most of the buildings along the street were dark as the businesses were closed, but there were at least six brightly lit buildings, every one of them a drinking establishment.
As he reached the end of the sidewalk, he could hear the sounds from the houses that were close in. A baby was crying somewhere, a dog was barking, and he heard the loud, complaining voice of a woman berating someone. He assumed it was her husband.
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