“Better get back in the coach, folks,” Sam said. “We aren’t making any time sitting here.”
The passengers reboarded, but for the rest of the trip, Billings, who had been so talkative earlier, now stared morosely out the window, unwilling to meet the gaze of anyone else in the coach.
As the coach approached the edge of town, they passed a welcoming sign.
WELCOME TO HIGBEE
Come Grow With Us
Population 257.
But as the coach rolled further into town, the population number on the welcome sign was put into question by the number of people on the street. The boardwalks on both sides of the street were filled with pedestrians, and the street itself was active with traffic: wagons, buckboards, surreys, and horses. From Falcon’s perspective, it looked as if more than two hundred people were moving around. He suspected that the population figure on the sign was from a time before word got out of an impending railroad. Falcon had seen enough “End of Track” towns grow overnight from sleepy little settlements to booming communities, sometimes only to wither and die as the railroad crews moved onward. But if Garrison made this his headquarters, then the rapid growth of the town would be sustainable.
The coach stopped in front of a leather goods store that also bore a small, hand-painted sign that read, STAGECOACH DEPOT.
“Here we are, folks!” the driver called down. “The big city of Higbee.”
“Can I give you a hand?” Falcon asked Mrs. Ellis. “Carry your luggage somewhere?”
“Thank you, no,” Mrs. Ellis said. “My husband is here to meet me.” She nodded toward a man sitting in a buckboard. Even as she was speaking, the man climbed down from the buckboard and ambled over.
“Pa, this is Falcon MacCallister!” Jimmy said excitedly.
“And I’m Buffalo Bill,” Ellis said, picking up his wife’s suitcase and starting back toward the buckboard. Jimmy and his mother followed, and Jimmy looked back over his shoulder once, staring at Falcon as if trying to determine whether he really was Falcon MacCallister.
“Are you really Falcon MacCallister?” Billings asked in a tight voice.
“Why, Fred, you mean you don’t remember me?” Falcon teased.
“I’m sorry, Mr. MacCallister,” Billings said. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by all that. I was just spoofin’ the kid, is all.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Falcon said. “Kids have had lot worse done to them.”
“Yes, sir, they have,” Billings replied. “They truly have. I tell you what—seein’ as I been caught in a lie, I think I owe a penance. So the first thing I’m goin’ to do soon’s I get back to Denver, is donate to the orphanage.”
Falcon nodded. “I think that would be a good thing,” he said. Then he dropped the subject altogether.
Chapter Nine
After getting a room in the hotel, Falcon walked down to the office of the Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas Railroad Company. When he pushed open the door, a little tinkling bell caused a young woman to look up.
“Yes, sir?” she said. “May I help you?”
“I’m Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon said.
“Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister, what can I do for you?”
“You aren’t expecting me?”
The young woman looked confused. “Should I be?” “Not necessarily you personally, but I believe Wade Garrison is. I received a letter from the general, asking me to come see him,” Falcon said.
“That would be my father, but I had no idea he had invited anyone to come stay with us.”
“It wasn’t exactly that kind of invitation,” Falcon replied with a smile. “So, you are Miss Garrison,” he said. “I heard the general had a daughter. I must say you are every bit as pretty as your reputation.”
Kathleen blushed. “Well, I, uh, appreciate that, Mr. MacCallister,” she said. “My father is down at Mr. Thompson’s freight office right now, but I expect he’ll be back very soon.”
As if on cue, the bell rang and a tall, ramrod-straight man with a full head of silver hair stepped through the door and into the room.
“Falcon! You old horse thief, you!” Wade Garrison said exuberantly. He stuck out his hand. “It is good to see you. Thanks for coming.”
Falcon smiled. “Well, General, you asked me to come. And after all these years, there’s still enough of the soldier in me to respond.”
Garrison chuckled. “Good, good, I was counting on just that,” he said. “So, I see you’ve met my daughter, Kathleen.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Kathleen is my right hand,” Garrison said. “I couldn’t do any of this without her.”
“By any of this, you mean build a railroad?”
“Come back here, take a look at this map, and let me show you what I plan to do,” Garrison said.
Falcon followed Garrison to the back of the room where there were several maps laid out on a table. Most of the maps were simple line maps that Falcon could read and understand. But a lot of the maps were filled with lines and numbers denoting such things as grade and slant, and with other markings intelligible only to the construction engineers.
“I intend to start by building the railroad to La Junta,” Garrison said, pointing it out on the map. “But we have a branch of the Las Animas River to cross here, a gulley here, and another here. Also, the elevation from here to La Junta increases by seven hundred and fifty-three feet. Fortunately, that is one long, continuous grade. But it is something we must take into consideration.”
“Have you started yet?”
“We haven’t laid any track yet, but as you can see, we do have most of the surveying done.” Garrison pointed to another part of the map. “I’ll be going to La Junta first. That will open up rail service right away.”
“It’s smart going to La Junta first,” Falcon said. “That should win the support of everyone in town, by connecting them with the rest of the country.”
“It also enables me to use rail shipments to bring in all of my needed supplies,” Garrison pointed out. “And, yes, you would think that all the people of the town would support that.”
“But your letter said not everyone is supporting you,” Falcon said.
“You’ve got that right,” Garrison said. He stroked his chin. “There is a rancher by the name of Clinton. Ike Clinton. He opposes the entire operation, and he’s talked some of the other ranchers into backing him.”
“I don’t understand,” Falcon said. “What do the ranchers have to lose by having a railroad built? I would think they would among your biggest supporters.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Garrison said. “But that would be underestimating the evilness of Ike Clinton. And, of course, he has three sons who are just as bad as he is.”
“Billy isn’t,” Kathleen said.
Falcon looked up at the young woman in surprise.
“Just because young Billy seems to have more manners than the other two, doesn’t mean he is any different than his two older brothers.”
“No, I agree with your daughter. Billy is different,” Falcon said, his comment surprising Garrison.
“He is different? How do you know? Do you know the Clintons?”
“I met the three boys on the train,” Falcon said. “Ray, Cletus, and Billy. I assume these are the ones you are talking about.”
“Yes,” Garrison said.
“From my brief time on the train with them, I would say that Billy is actually quite a nice young man. It is unfortunate that he is saddled with two worthless brothers.”
“And an even more worthless father,” Garrison said. “To make matters worse, the Clintons have Sheriff Belmond on their side.”
“Yes, I heard Belmond was elected sheriff of Bent County. I must confess that surprised me a bit. The only way I would have ever thought Mark Belmond would wind up in a sheriff’s office is if he were behind bars. That is, if I’m thinking of the right man.”
Garrison nodded. “You are thinking of
the right man, all right,” he said. “Mark Belmond is as crooked as they come. When the three freight wagons were attacked, Belmond did nothing, even though it happened in the county, in his jurisdiction. The truth is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew who did it.”
“Why is Belmond in cahoots with Clinton?”
“Clinton financed Belmond’s campaign for sheriff. Financed him, campaigned for him, coerced people to vote for him. You might say he practically appointed Belmond sheriff.”
“What about the town marshal?”
“Titus Calhoun is a good man. In fact, he ran against Belmond for sheriff, and would have been elected if the election had been honest. But as it is, Calhoun is very limited in what he can do. First of all, the town doesn’t have a big enough budget to pay for a deputy, so Titus’s brothers, Travis and Troy, volunteer when deputies are needed. Also, our biggest problems come from the cowboys who don’t live in town, so Titus is helpless to do anything once they leave the city limits.”
“I know Titus Calhoun, and he is a good man,” Falcon said. “I’m beginning to get the picture,” Falcon said.
“I hoped that you would. Falcon, I’m going to make a lot of money from this railroad, that’s true enough. But I also think it would be very good for this part of the state. I’m determined to see this thing through, but I’ll be honest with you—I don’t think I can see it through by myself.”
“I’ll do what I can to help,” Falcon said.
A broad smile spread across Wade Garrison’s face. “I knew you would,” he said. “Say, where are you staying? You could stay with us. Kathleen wouldn’t mind moving to a cot in the kitchen.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Falcon replied quickly. “I would not want to put Kathleen out. I’ve already taken a room at the hotel.”
“All right, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Falcon said.
“I have another wagonload of building material coming in a few days,” Garrison said. “I’ve hired Thompson Wagon Freight to meet the train and bring the material back. If you don’t mind, I would like you to ride with the wagons to meet the train, and then come back with them to see that the supplies get here safely.”
“I’ll be glad to do it,” Falcon said. “But now, if you don’t need me for anything else, I think I’ll take a look around town and maybe meet a few folks.”
“Yes, yes, good idea,” Garrison said. “Oh, and maybe at the outset, you shouldn’t tell anyone that you are here at my behest. You might learn more if people don’t perceive an affiliation between us.”
“My thought as well,” Falcon replied. He tipped his hat toward Kathleen. “Miss Garrison,” he said.
“Mr. MacCallister,” Kathleen replied with a subtle dip of her head.
Even from the front of the CNM&T Railroad office, Falcon could see the sign displayed on the false front of the building. Painted in large red letters, outlined in black, was the name of the saloon, Golden Nugget, as well as the names of the two owners; Corey and Prentiss Hampton. It was a short walk from the railroad office to the saloon, and in less than a minute, Falcon was stepping up onto the porch to go inside.
Falcon had come to the saloon, not only to enjoy a cool beer, but also to visit with the Hampton brothers. Though it was not generally known around town, Falcon was the one who had loaned the Hampton brothers the money they’d needed to open their saloon. He’d done that because he had known the Hampton brothers for many years. They had been childhood friends, growing up near MacCallister, and like Falcon and some of his brothers, Prentiss and Corey had fought on opposite sides in the war. Also, as with Falcon and his brothers, that had been put behind them so that the familial bonds were as strong as they ever were.
“I only ask two things of you,” Falcon said when he backed their operation. “Keep all the card games honest, and don’t water your whiskey. Because if you treat your customers fairly, I have no doubt but that you will do a good business.”
The Hamptons had kept their promise to him and the Golden Nugget had prospered.
From the moment Falcon stepped inside, he felt some relief from the heat. Borrowing a trick developed by the Indians, the Hampton brothers kept gourds of water hanging throughout their establishment. The evaporation of the water resulted in a saloon that was noticeably cooler than the outside temperature.
It was dark enough inside that Falcon had to stand for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The Hampton brothers were particularly proud of the bar, which had been shipped by rail and freight wagon all the way from New York.
Above the mirror was a large oil painting of a night train, its headlamp sending a beam ahead. Every window of every car was shining from interior light, and in every window there was a passenger, each passenger individually and painstakingly detailed. One of the passengers, by design, was Falcon MacCallister. The Hampton brothers were also depicted. That was because the painting had been commissioned specifically for the Golden Nugget Saloon.
Prentiss Hampton was standing at the far end of the bar, polishing glasses and laughing and joking with some of the customers, when he saw Falcon. With a big smile, he put down the glass and cloth, and walked quickly to Falcon’s end of the bar to extend his hand in welcome.
“Falcon!” he said. “What a pleasant surprise! Checking up on us, are you?”
Falcon laughed and shook his head. “Why should I do that? You boys paid back every cent you borrowed from me a long time ago.” He thought it best not to share the information that General Garrison had sent him a letter inviting him down.
“Wait until I tell Corey you are here,” Prentiss said. “You will have dinner with us tonight, won’t you? We have a new restaurant in town that’s really quite nice. It’s called the Vermillion.”
“Great, I’d love to eat with you,” Falcon said.
Looking toward the back of the saloon, Falcon saw a young woman come through the back door, then stop for just a moment to survey the room. The woman was very pretty, with raven-dark hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, and full lips. She was thin, but generously rounded in the right places. Falcon’s first thought was that she might be a bar girl, hired to tease the customers into buying more drinks. But as he looked at her more closely, he saw that she wasn’t dressed in the provocative manner of such women. Also, she had a young, innocent look about her, with no hint of the dissipation bar girls quickly acquired.
“Who is that?” Falcon asked.
Prentiss smiled. “Ah. I see you are taken with our pianist.”
“Piano player? You have a woman piano player?”
“She isn’t a piano player, she is a pianist,” Corey Hampton said, and hearing the voice of his friend, Falcon turned to greet him.
“Hello, Corey. What did you call her? A pianist?” Falcon asked.
“It’s what she calls herself. In fact, she absolutely insists upon the term,” Corey said.
“How did you get a—pianist—especially one as pretty at this young woman, to play piano in a saloon?”
“Her name is Rachael,” Corey explained. “She came to La Junta with a group of players, but the manager of the troupe absconded with all the money, leaving the players stranded. Most left, but I happened to be in La Junta at the time. I had heard her play, so I prevailed upon her to come to Higbee to play for us.”
“Rachael?”
“Rachael Kirby,” Corey said. He smiled as he saw Falcon’s lingering appraisal of the young woman. “She is pretty, isn’t she?”
Falcon nodded. “Yes, very,” he said.
Rachael smiled at a few of the customers, then sat at the piano.
“Wait until you hear her play,” Prentiss said.
Rachael began to play then. The piece, though Falcon didn’t actually recognize it, was Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number One. The music spilled out from the piano in grand, crashing chords, but with a continuing and melodic theme, weaving in and out like a golden thread through a rich tapestry.
Falcon looked around at the customers and saw that all were so entranced by the music that none of them were drinking. He chuckled.
“It’s beautiful music,” he said. “But it can’t be doing much for your business.” He took in the nondrinking customers with a wave of his hand. “Nobody is buying drinks.”
“On the contrary, she is great for business. She draws people to the saloon just to hear her play,” Corey said. “Every night we let her play one or two pieces like that. Then she has to play ‘drinking’ music.”
Finishing the piece with a grand crescendo, Rachael got up from the bench to smile and curtsy in response to the applause.
“Saloon customers applauding a piano player,” Falcon said. “I don’t believe I have ever seen that. Most of the time, they don’t even know the piano player is there. The piano player is like an extra chair or a potted plant or something.”
“It’s impossible not to notice Rachael,” Corey said. He laughed. “You certainly noticed her fast enough.”
Falcon nodded. “Yeah, well, she’s definitely not a chair or a potted plant,” he said with a chuckle.
Sitting back down, Rachael began playing “Buffalo Gals,” and with the change in musical fare, the customers once again began drinking and visiting with each other.
“You’ve been standing here with your mouth open, listening to Rachael,” Prentiss said. “Would you like a beer?”
“Listening, hell, he’s been looking at her,” Corey said with a little laugh.
“I’ve been doing both,” Falcon admitted. “And, yes, I’d very much like a beer.”
When that song was over, someone requested that she play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” Rachael complied, and the music elicited more than a few tears as the patrons stood at the bar or sat at the tables, drinking. Now, business was brisk as bar girls moved quickly about the room, carrying drinks to those who ordered them.
“See what I mean about her being good for business?” Corey asked, pointing to the sudden activity.
Thunder of Eagles Page 10
