Looking up, he saw Bryans and Garon riding into town as well and, though they weren’t exactly together, they were close enough that Harris thought they should be further separated. All three waited at various places up and down the street until the bank opened. As soon as someone inside the bank turned around the sign reading OPEN, the three men came together. Garon remained in his saddle. Harris and Bryans handed him their reins; then both men went inside the bank.
There were no customers yet, and the teller, who had just posted the OPEN sign, was walking around to the teller cage. He smiled at Harris and Bryans.
“Good morning, gentlemen, you are early this morning,” he said.
“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” Harris said. “The early bird gets the worm.” He pulled his pistol and pointed it at the teller. “Or in this case, the early bird gets the money.”
“Oh, my!”
“Empty the safe,” Harris said, waving his pistol.
Bryans went back to the door and turned the sign around so that, once again, it indicated the bank was closed.
The teller was so frightened that his hands were shaking visibly as he opened the safe. He took out a stack of bills and held them out toward Harris.
“Here, Harris, have him put the money in this bag,” Bryans said, handing Harris a cloth bag.
“Bryans, you dumb bastard, you said my name,” Harris replied irritably.
The teller had just finished filling the sack when a new customer came into the bank.
“Hey, Johnny, you forgot to turn the sign around,” the customer said. “It says you are still closed. I turned it back for—” The customer stopped in mid-sentence when he realized what was going on.
“Bank robbery!” he shouted at the top of his voice. He turned to go back outside, but before he could get through the door, Bryans shot him in the back. He fell through the door, lying half inside the bank and half outside.
“Let’s get out of here!” Harris growled.
With Harris clutching the now-filled sack of money, the two men ran out of the bank, stepping over the customer’s body. The horses had been startled by the sound of the gunshot, and they were milling around in the street, making it difficult for Garon to control them.
“Garon, you get those horses under control now!” Harris shouted angrily.
After one more turn, Garon managed to quiet the horses. Then he held out the reins so Harris and Bryans could swing into the saddle. Once mounted, they slapped their legs against the sides of their animals, and the horses bolted down the street toward the edge of town.
By now, several of the townspeople had heard the gunshot, and had seen the three men leave the bank at a gallop. Some of them were calling out: “Bank robbery! The bank is being robbed!”
“Shoot up the town!” Harris shouted to the others. “Keep their damn heads down!”
Without even looking, the three bank robbers began shooting. It had the desired effect, as those who had come out of the stores and buildings to see what was going on now rushed back inside.
Unharmed, the three men galloped out of town.
Nobody chased them, because everyone’s attention had been drawn to the schoolyard.
There, two children and the schoolmarm lay dead.
When Falcon took the train to Green River, Wyoming, he carried with him a copy of the newspaper he had read two days earlier. The newspaper had the story of a bank robbery that had taken place in Green River a week earlier. Three men had robbed the bank, and the teller had heard all three names called. The names were Harris, Bryans, and Garon.
Falcon had not been specifically looking for the three men in the year since the Custer massacre; there had been other things to keep him occupied. But he hadn’t forgotten about them, and when he heard the three names together, he knew this was them.
When he stepped down from the train, he saw a wanted poster attached to the front wall of the depot.
WANTED!
For Bank Robbery and Murder
Dead or Alive.
Harrison- Garon- Bryans
$500 for each man.
See Sheriff Mickey Dancer,
Green River, Wyoming Territory.
When Falcon pushed the door open to the sheriff’s office a short time later, he saw two men playing checkers: one player inside a jail cell, the other sitting on a stool just outside the cell bars.
“Is Sheriff Dancer here?” Falcon asked.
“I’m Sheriff Dancer,” the man on the stool outside the bars said.
“Ha! I got you!” the prisoner said. “Crown me.”
“I’d like to crown you,” the sheriff grumbled as he stacked a second checker on top of the prisoner’s piece. After that, he turned to Falcon.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m here to talk to you about Clete Harris, Jim Garon, and Jay Bryans,” Falcon said.
“Clete, Jim, and Jay, huh? Those are their first names, are they?” Sheriff Dancer asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, we never knew their first names. Nobody in town had ever seen any of ’em before. Only way we got their last names is because they were dumb enough to use them. How do you know them?”
“I’ve been looking for them for over a year.”
“Are you a lawman?”
“No.”
“A bounty hunter then?”
“No. This is personal.”
“Personal, is it?”
“Yes.”
“How personal?”
“These three men stole some guns that I was responsible for,” Falcon said. “They sold those guns to the Sioux. The Sioux used those guns against Custer.”
“You say you were responsible for the guns?”
“Yes,” Falcon said, without going into further detail.
“How do you know they were used against Custer?”
“Because I was with Custer at his last fight.”
“What?” Sheriff Dancer asked, surprised by Falcon’s announcement.
“Actually, I was with Reno.”
“Oh, yeah, forgot about the ones with Reno.” The sheriff stroked his chin and studied Falcon for a moment; then he shrugged.
“Well, I can see how you might take somethin’ like that just real personal. And when you get right down to it, I don’t reckon it makes no never mind who finds ’em or why—long as the sons of bitches get what’s comin’ to ’em,” Dancer said.
“Do you have any leads on them?” Falcon asked.
“I thought I did, but it didn’t pan out. One of the freight wagon drivers said he thought he saw one of the men over in Bitter Creek. But when I wired the city marshal over there, he checked on it and came up empty. I figured maybe Harley did see him, but the fella had passed on through. Only, Harley has been back to Bitter Creek twice, and he claims to have seen him both times. Then, the other day, the stagecoach driver said he seen one of the men over there also.”
“Did you get in touch with the marshal again?”
“Yeah, I did, and he said he would keep an eye out for them.”
“You said the freight wagon driver’s name was Harley?”
“Yeah, Harley Barnes. The stagecoach driver is Norman Case.”
“Do you think they would talk to me?”
“I expect they would, though Case is more’n likely out on a run right now. But you can probably find Harley down at the freight office. Tell ’im I sent you.”
“All right, thanks. And thanks for the information,” Falcon said, starting for the door.
“Hold on a second,” the sheriff called.
Falcon stopped, then turned back toward the marshal.
“I could make you a deputy, but that wouldn’t give you any jurisdiction over there. What I can do, though, is give you this here warrant that Judge Feeler wrote out for me. I don’t have any authority over there, but the judge does, so I reckon you could serve it as an officer of the court, so to speak.”
The sheriff opened a drawer on his des
k, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to Falcon. “Truth is, I don’t know how legal that is, but it might give you some cover.” “I appreciate that, Sheriff,” Falcon said.
“If you can bring the galoots back alive, I’d love to hang ’em,” Sheriff Dancer said. “But if they are belly-down over their saddles, why, that won’t bother me none at all either.”
Falcon nodded, then went back outside and walked down to the freight office that was at the far end of the street.
“Harley Barnes? He’s out back packing a wheel hub. He’s a big fella and, more’n likely, he’ll have grease up to his elbows,” someone inside the office said.
There was a wagon out back, blocked up with the right front wheel removed. A rather large man was sitting on an upturned barrel, packing grease into the hub of the removed wheel.
“Would you be Harley Barnes?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, sir. Who might you be?”
“Falcon MacCallister.”
A broad smile spread across Harley Barnes’s face. “The Falcon MacCallister?” he asked. “I’ve heard of you, mister.” Barnes extended his right hand, but when he saw it was filled with grease, he pulled it back, then rather sheepishly wiped it on his trousers. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand you saw one of the men who robbed the bank, over in Bitter Creek.”
“Hell, I’ve seen all three of ’em over there,” Harley said. “A couple of times.”
“How do you know it was them?”
“Because I was sittin’ in this very wagon, right out front, when they come gallopin’ down the street, shootin’ an’ yellin’ like fiends from hell. They passed right in front of me, no more’n ten, twelve feet away.”
“Sheriff Dancer said the city marshal over in Bitter Creek says he hasn’t seen them,” Falcon said.
“Yeah, well, the marshal over in Bitter Creek is lyin’, ’cause I seen him standin’ right next to one of ’em in the saloon.”
“Did you point it out to the marshal?”
“No,” Barnes said. “They was takin’ on like they was just real good friends. I figured he not only wouldn’t believe me, it could be dangerous to even mention it.”
“You may be right,” Falcon said. “Mr. Barnes, I thank you for your information. I’m going to go over there and have a look around myself.”
“What are you going to do if you find them?” Barnes asked.
“I’m going to kill them,” Falcon said flatly. He turned to walk away, but Barnes called after him.
“Mr. MacCallister?”
“Yes?”
“Try the Yellow Dog Saloon.”
Falcon touched the brim of his hat, then walked down to the depot to catch the next train to Bitter Creek.
Falcon was carrying a small grip with him when he stepped into the Yellow Dog Saloon after detraining in Bitter Creek. It was late enough in the day that the wagon wheel that hung over the saloon to support a dozen kerosene lanterns had been lowered. One of the employees of the saloon was busy lighting all the lanterns and, with the firing of each new lantern, some of the gloom was pushed away.
The saloon was doing a brisk business, and there were more people coming into the place even as Falcon stepped over to put his back to the wall while he surveyed the room. He stayed against the wall until all the lanterns were lit and the wagon wheel pulled back up and tied off. There was enough light now for him to scan the entire saloon, and looking around, he satisfied himself that none of the three men he was looking for were in there.
Feeling a little grubby from a couple of days on the train, he stepped up to the bar.
“Where can a man get a bath?” he asked the bartender.
“We got us a jim-dandy tub in a room in the back,” the bartender answered. “It come all the way from St. Louis. It’ll cost you twenty-five cents for water, ten cents if you want it heated, and fifteen cents more for a soap and towel.”
“I’ve got my own soap and towel,” Falcon said, holding up his grip. “But I’ll take the water heated.” He slapped a fifty-cent piece onto the bar. “And I’ll have a beer while I’m waiting for the bath.”
“All right,” the bartender said. He took the money, drew a beer from the keg, then set it and the ten cents change down in front of Falcon. “I’ll get someone to heat the water and fill the tub for you,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Falcon picked up the beer, then turned his back to the bar to look out over the clientele. He didn’t see any of the men he was looking for, so he started looking for a card game—one that was honest and had a congenial attitude about it. Falcon enjoyed playing poker, but he didn’t like playing if some of the players were too intense, or were gambling with money they couldn’t afford to lose.
Also, he had learned that in a friendly game, players tended to talk more, and it was always a lot easier to get information from sociable conversation than it was by asking questions. There were three games going on, but only one of the three seemed to fill the bill, and at that game, every seat was taken.
“Your water is ready,” the bartender said a few moments later.”
“Thanks.” Falcon drained the rest of his beer, then went into the back room, where he saw a large tub filled with water. Sticking his hand into the water, he ascertained that, while it wasn’t hot, it was warm enough. And truth to tell, he was so in need of a bath that it didn’t really make that much difference to him whether the water was hot or cold.
Half an hour later, feeling human again, he went back to the main room of the saloon and ordered a supper of ham and fried potatoes. Just as he was finishing his supper, a chair opened up at the game he wanted and he walked over to see if he could join them.
“You’re welcome, mister,” one of the players said, and the others seconded the invitation. He stuck his hand across the table. “The name is Charley Knox. I own the hardware store here. This is Beckworth, he owns the livery, and this is Zell. He runs the newspaper.”
Falcon played three hands with them, winning one and losing two. It was always good to ease into the conversation, so he hadn’t asked any questions and he hadn’t picked up on any specific information. He was just trying to formulate how to get the information he needed when he overheard something from one of the other tables that caught his attention.
“I told Custer to take them Gatling guns,” the man said. “I stood right there and told him that, just afore he took that last ride. But he didn’t listen to me. No, sir, he didn’t listen at all.”
Falcon turned in his seat to get a look at the man who was talking.
“Don’t pay no attention to him,” one of the cardplayers at Falcon’s table said. “He’s told that story more’n a dozen times, and he changes it most ever’ time.”
“Yeah,” one of the other players said. “It’s surprisin’ Stevens can even find anyone to listen to his stories anymore.”
“What did you say his name was?” Falcon asked.
“Stevens.”
Falcon shook his head. “It isn’t Stevens.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, sir. His name is Clete Harris. He and two other men, Jim Garon and Jay Bryans, are wanted back in Green River for murder and robbery.”
“Damn, I heard about that,” Zell said. “I ran the story about it in my newspaper. I never put that with Stevens, though.”
“I don’t know, he may be right,” Beckworth said. “You say there was three of them?”
“Yes,” Falcon said.
“That sort of fits. Stevens, or whatever his real name is, runs with a couple other galoots, and they all three got to town at about the same time.”
“Now that I think on it, they don’t none of them work, far as I can tell. But they always seem to have money,” Knox said. “And the thing is, they are great friends with Clayton.”
“Who is Clayton?”
“He’s the city marshal. That’s funny. If these here galoots are the ones you say they are, wonder why Clayton is so friend
ly with them?”
“Excuse me, gents,” Falcon said. He stood up from the table, then walked over to the table where Harris was continuing with his story.
“I was right there with Custer when all the fightin’ commenced. I seen him go down, last one to go down he was, ’cept for me.”
“How’d you get away, Stevens?” one of the others at the table asked. “From what I heard, the Injuns kilt ever’one.”
“Yeah, well, the Injuns didn’t see me. What I done was, I rolled over into some real tall grass and I stayed there real quiet ’till them heathens was finished with their scalpin’ and all.”
“You are lying,” Falcon said.
“What did you say to me, mister?”
“I said you are lying. And while I don’t normally care whether a man lies or not, your lies are stealing honor from good men. And I won’t allow that.”
“You won’t allow it?” Harris stood up so quickly that his chair fell over with a loud pop. He backed away from the table, staring menacingly at Falcon.
The others who had been sitting at the table with Harris got up and moved away quickly. The sound of the falling chair, plus their sudden action, alerted all the other customers in the saloon so that all conversation stopped, and everyone who perceived that they might find themselves in the line of fire moved away quickly. That caused other chairs to fall over and tables to squeal as they were pushed out of the way all around the room.
“That’s right, I won’t allow it. You’re Clete Harris, aren’t you?”
“What? No, my name is Bart Stevens.”
“I know who you are, Harris, and you know who I am. You were the foreman of the jury that let Garon off. Later, you, Garon, Bryans, and Richland sold Gatling guns to the Indians.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“What the hell, Stevens, or Harris, or whoever you are,” one of the other men who had been sitting at Harris’s table said. “You sold Gatling guns to Injuns? I spent some time in the army, mister. That’s about as low as you can get.”
“He’s crazy,” Harris said. “I don’t know what he is talking about.”
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