Down at the depot, Ike, Ray, Cletus, and Billy stood on the wooden platform as the train pulled into the station with hissing steam, squeaking brakes, and a clanging bell.
“Ray, I’m countin’ on you to see to it that we get top dollar for our cows,” Ike said to his oldest son.
“All right, Pa,” Ray said.
“And Billy, you seem to have the most sense, so I’m countin’ on you to keep the other two out of trouble long enough to close the deal.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Billy said.
“What about me, Pa?” Cletus said. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re the worst of the lot,” Ike said without regard as to how Cletus would take that comment.
“What do you mean I’m the worst of the lot?” Cletus asked. He seemed genuinely hurt by Ike’s words.
“You are good with a gun, you’ve got a temper, and you can’t stay away from whiskey or women,” Ike said. He shook his head. “Boy, that ain’t a good combination. I want you to keep your mouth shut when Ray is doin’ business, and listen to what Billy is sayin’ when you’re drinkin’ or messin’ with the whores,” Ike said.
Cletus glared at his father. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Pa?” he asked.
“Not all that much,” Ike replied, again oblivious as to how the words may have sounded to Cletus. “Get on the train now,” he ordered.
Ray laughed. “Pa, you goin’ to get on the train with us to see if we get the seats we’re supposed to?”
Ike shook his head. “I’m hopin’ you got enough sense to do that on your own.”
Higbee
The warm afternoon, the rocking motion of the stage, and the rhythmic sound of horses’ hooves and rolling wheels had combined to put Rachael asleep. She didn’t wake up until the coach came to a stop.
“Higbee, folks!” the driver called down. “This is Higbee.”
“Oh,” Rachael said. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”
“Yes, ma’am, you did,” her fellow passenger said. He was a traveling preacher. “Ordinarily, I get into a good conversation with whoever is riding with me when I make this trip. But you were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I’m sorry I was so rude as to fall asleep,” Rachael said.
“Oh, no need to apologize, ma’am,” he said. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. “I guess I had better get on down to the church,” he said. “Reverend Owen and the board of deacons are having a meeting and they asked me to come.”
The preacher stepped out of the coach, then reached his hand back to help Rachael down.
“Thank you,” Rachael said.
Rachael stepped up onto the porch of the depot and looked around.
“Can I help you with somethin’, ma’am?” the driver asked. He was standing at the boot, unloading packages as well as Rachael’s suitcase.
“No, I suppose not,” Rachael said. “Someone was supposed to meet me and I was just looking around to see if I could see him.”
At that moment, there was the crash of glass, then a burst of loud raucous laughter from a building across the street.
“What is that building?” Rachael asked.
“Oh, that’s the saloon,” the driver said.
“The saloon?” Rachael replied in a weak voice.
“Yes, ma’am. Here’s your luggage, ma’am.”
“Driver, do you suppose I could keep my grip in the depot for a while?”
“I reckon they’d let you do that,” the driver said. “How long would you think it might be?”
“I don’t know,” Rachael said. “Perhaps only until the next stage returns to La Junta.”
“That would be tomorrow,” the driver said. “Would you really come all the way out here just to spend one night?”
“That might be the case,” Rachael said. “If you would, please, put it in the depot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver replied.
Taking a deep breath, and squaring her shoulders, Rachael walked across the street, then up onto the front porch of the saloon. She paused for just a moment, then pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
The first thing she noticed was the odor, a combination of stale beer, sour whiskey, and unwashed bodies. The floor was covered with expectorated tobacco quids, and the towels, hanging from hooks on the bar, were filthy. At least ten men were standing at the bar, and that many or more were sitting at tables.
Rachael looked around for a piano and finally saw it, sitting against the wall just under the staircase. It was an upright piano, and half of the cover was missing so she could look in and see the soundboard. Several of the wires were broken, and two of them were even lying out on the keyboard itself.
Rachael felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach. Her knees grew weak, and her head began to spin.
There were three women in the saloon, though Rachael had never seen any women dressed as these were. All three had very low-cut blouses and they were wearing what looked to be bloomers. One of them came over to her.
“Honey, are you sure you are in the right place?” she asked.
“No, she isn’t in the right place,” a man’s voice said. Recognizing the voice, Rachael turned to see Corey Hampton standing just inside the door.
“Mr. Hampton?” she asked in a weak voice.
“Miss Kirby, what are you doing in here?” Corey asked.
Rachael held her hand out. “I—I was told this was the saloon,” she said.
“It is a saloon,” Corey replied. He smiled at her. “But it isn’t the right saloon.”
“Oh,” Rachael said. “I’m terribly sorry. I suppose I just didn’t think a town this small would have more than one saloon.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize,” Corey said. “The stage is always late. Wouldn’t you know it would pick today to be early? Shall we go?” He offered Rachael his arm.
“Yes, thank you,” Rachael said.
“Higbee has two saloons,” Corey explained once they were out in the street. “The Golden Nugget, which belongs to my brother and me. And the one you were just in. It is called the Hog Waller.”
“I beg your pardon? What did you call it?” Rachael asked.
“I called it by its name. The Hog Waller,” Corey said.
Rachael laughed out loud. “Oh, what a perfect name for it,” she said.
After stopping by the stage depot to retrieve her luggage, they walked down to the Golden Nugget. By any standards, the Golden Nugget was an attractive saloon, with a long, highly polished mahogany bar; glistening brass rings hanging every four feet along the front of the bar, each ring holding a crisp white towel; an exceptionally clean and varnished hardwood floor; gleaming tables; and a large mirror behind the bar that reflected back a shelf filled with liquors and brightly colored liqueurs. A huge, sparkling chandelier hung from a ceiling that was itself covered with textured brass.
Looking around, she saw the piano, not an upright, but a Haynes Square piano, rosewood, with octagon curved legs and mother-of-pearl inlay on the name board. She walked over to it.
“May I?” she asked.
“By all means, please do,” Corey replied.
Standing by the piano, Rachael depressed a few of the keys, and was rewarded with a rich, resonant sound. She sat down and began to play. She played a passage from a Bach Toccata and Fugue, then from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and finally from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
“My God,” Prentiss Hampton said, the words more a prayer than an oath. “I have never heard anything so beautiful.”
“Do you see what I was talking about?” Corey asked.
“Yes. What I can’t see is why she would choose to work here.”
“Well, she did accept on condition,” Corey said. “I guess now we’ll have to ask her if the condition has been met.”
Rachael continued to play. It was just before noon, and there were very few customers in the place to hear the music, but those few who were in the saloon in
terrupted their conversations to listen. Even the bar girls who lived upstairs, and who never made an appearance until around seven P.M., were drawn to the music, and they moved halfway down the stairs, then sat on the steps as they listened, spellbound by the sound.
In a strange way, even Rachael was spellbound by her own music, enjoying the beautiful tone of the piano as well as the ambiance of this place. Finally, when the last note hung quivering in the air, she sat there for a long second, letting the strings continue to vibrate with the last harmonic resonance of the music.
Her contemplation of the moment was disturbed by the clapping of those present, and because Rachael was lost in the moment, the applause startled her. Then, standing up to see the source of the applause, she saw that the four customers as well as the young women, Corey, and the man standing with Corey were all applauding.
“Thank you,” she said self-consciously.
“Miss Kirby, this is my brother, Prentiss,” Cory said by way of introducing the man at his side. “He is my partner in this saloon.”
Rachael extended her hand. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Hampton.”
“How do you like the piano?” Corey asked.
“It’s beautiful.”
“The tone quality is all right?”
“Yes, it is excellent, thank you.”
“What about the saloon itself? Does it meet with your approval?”
“Oh, yes,” Rachael said. “I’ve seen concert halls in New York that had less to offer.”
Smiling, Prentiss and Corey stared at each other for a moment. Then Prentiss cleared his throat.
“Miss Kirby, I’m not as, uh, subtle as my brother, so you will forgive me, I hope, if we dispense with the small talk and I get right to the point.”
“I’m always ready to get right to the point,” Rachael replied.
“Good. Then the question is, will you agree to stay and play piano for us?”
“I would love to stay and play for you,” Rachael said.
The bar girls on the steps cheered out loud.
Chapter Seven
Falcon was standing on the depot platform at MacCallister, Colorado, when the train pulled into the station, a symphony of hissing steam and rolling steel. It was a beautiful engine, painted a forest green, with shining brass trim. The lettering was yellow, and the huge driver wheels were red.
The engineer was hanging out the window looking at the track ahead, in order to find where to stop. He held a pipe clenched tightly in his teeth. The cars slowed and squeaked as they came to a stop. The conductor, who was standing on the boarding step of the first car, was the first to get off the train.
“MacCallister!” he called. “This here is MacCallister!”
The conductor was followed off the train by a dozen or so others: cowboys, miners, drummers, as well as a woman who may have been pretty at one time and was trying, unsuccessfully, to restore with makeup what nature had taken away. In addition, there were a couple of women who were tending to children.
“Grandma!” one little girl shouted as soon as she stepped down from the train. Falcon watched her run into the arms of an older woman who had come to meet the train.
From time to time when Falcon saw such displays, he thought of what he had lost in his own life. His mother and father had both been murdered, as had his wife and children. The twins, a boy and a girl, would have been about twelve years old today. By now, the boy would know how to ride, shoot, hunt, and track, and the girl would just be showing some of the beauty that so characterized her mother. Not one to dwell on such things, however, Falcon turned his attention back to the train.
When all the arriving passengers were off the train, the conductor pulled out his pocket watch and examined it.
“Board!” the conductor called.
Falcon watched the other departing passengers exchange good-byes, then board the train. He waited until everyone else had boarded before he stepped up into the car.
“Good afternoon, Mr. MacCallister,” the conductor said. “It’s good to have you traveling with us today. But then it’s always good to have you.”
“Hello, Syl,” Falcon replied. “How is the family?”
“They are doing well. Oh, and my boy is at West Point now thanks to the letter you sent.”
“I was glad to do it, Syl. Charley is a fine young man,” Falcon said.
Once on board, Falcon moved halfway down the car, then chose a seat on the opposite side from the depot. He watched the other passengers get settled. Then, with a jerk, the train started forward.
It would be an overnight run to La Junta, but as the train was primarily a local, there was no sleeper car. It didn’t bother Falcon that there was no sleeper car. During the war, he had slept in holes, filled with mud by drenching rainstorms, while undergoing artillery barrages. Since that time, he had slept in desert heat, mountain blizzards, and even in the saddle, so the prospect of spending a night in a padded seat in a train car was not in the least daunting.
Shortly after the train got under way, Falcon took a letter from his pocket. The return address indicated the letter was from Wade Garrison. Falcon had known a Brigadier General Wade Garrison during the war. The letter had come as a surprise, because he had not seen Garrison in over fifteen years. But any question as to whether or not this was the same Wade Garrison had been answered when he saw the address the letter was mailed to:
Major Falcon MacCallister
General Delivery
MacCallister, Colorado
Dear Major MacCallister,
I reckon I’m about the last person on earth you ever expected to get a letter from. But it’s me, the same man you junior officers used to salute to my face and cuss to my back.
I’ve settled in a place called Higbee, Colorado. It’s a fine little town, and I have plans to build a railroad that will connect Higbee with the rest of the country, which means the town will grow and prosper. Unfortunately, though most all the citizens of the town and the surrounding ranchers support my plan, there is one rancher who is opposed, and in fact, is rallying other ranchers to his cause.
Now, a little business opposition I could handle, but this gentleman—and I do use the term gentleman with some reser vation—is opposing it in a way that is causing me some concern. Recently, three wagons which were carrying supplies I needed were attacked. The drivers, good men all, were killed, and the wagons burned. I can replace the supplies, but the drivers are irreplaceable.
There have been no charges made; indeed, nobody has even made any accusations because the operation was too clean to have left any physical clues as to who did it. However, there is no doubt in my mind as to who did it. I just need the proof.
I’ve kept up with you since the war, Falcon. I know that you have gained quite a reputation for what the dime novels call “derring-do.” I would like to call upon you to come to Higbee for a visit. While you are here, I can apprise you of the situation and if you can see your way to lend a hand, I would be eternally grateful.
Sincerely,
Wade Garrison
“Eternally grateful,” Falcon said, whispering the words. Folding the letter, he put it in his pocket, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, and in that state of half-awake, half-asleep, he recalled a place named Palmetto Hill in Southern Texas.
It was in late May of 1865, and elements of the Texas 15th had boarded a train for its run south over the bucking strap-iron and rotted cross-ties of the railroad.
The regiment that boarded the train was less than thirty percent of the mustering-in strength. Of the thirty-five officers who had taken to the field with the brigade when the war started, all had been killed except for Dooley Perkins and Falcon MacCallister. Both were majors now, though they had started the war as second lieutenants.
Lieutenant Colonel Matthew Freeman was now in command of the regiment, having been put in that position by General Wade Garrison.
“Major MacCallister, I gave Freeman the
command because he outranks you,” Garrison told Falcon when the regiment received the assignment to proceed to Palmetto Hill. “But in truth, you have more experience, and a better knowledge of the regiment than anyone else. So, even though Freeman is in command, I’m going to be counting on you to keep an eye on him. And to be honest, at this point, it doesn’t really make that much difference who is in command. I just got word this morning that General Lee surrendered back in Virginia, in a place called Appomattox. For all intents and purposes, the war is over.”
“I beg your pardon, General?” Falcon said. “Did you just say that the war was over?”
“Yes.”
“Then would you mind tellin’ me why we are going to Palmetto Hill?”
“Duty, honor, country,” Garrison said.
“General, if we’ve surrendered, we don’t have a country,” Falcon said. “And if we don’t have a country, then we have no duty.”
Garrison held up his index finger. “You may be right, my boy,” he said. “But we still have honor. We’ll always have honor.”
Falcon was quiet for a long moment, then, with a sigh, he nodded.
“You’re right, General. We still have our honor,” he said.
“Look, Falcon, I know your soldiers are tired, hungry, and dispirited, and I doubt that many of them could understand the concept of fighting, and perhaps dying, for something as abstract as honor.
“But tell them this. Some of the Yankee commanders are not paroling the men they capture. They are putting them in prison. Especially those of us out here in Texas. They consider all of us to be irregulars, not covered by the rules of civilized warfare. They’ve even hung a few. If we make a good showing at Palmetto, we can at lest sue for better terms.”
Falcon chuckled.
“What is it? Why are you laughing?”
“General, the terms don’t have to be all that good to be better than hanging,” Falcon said.
General Garrison laughed as well.
“I guess you’re right at that,” he said. He sighed. “I am sorry about having to put Colonel Freeman over you.”
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