“And now,” he said, paraphrasing a verse from Philippians, “comes the peace that passeth all understanding.”
Turning the bottle up, he took several Adam’s apple–bobbing swallows before staggering off to bed.
CHAPTER SIX
MacCallister Valley, Colorado
After leaving Durango, MacCallister followed the Gunnison River for a while, though with no particular destination in mind. The river snaked out across the gently undulating sagebrush-covered prairie before him, shining gold in the setting sun, sometimes white where it broke over rocks, other times shimmering a deep blue-green in the swirling eddies and trapped pools.
The ragged mountains to the east of him were dotted with aspen, pine, cottonwood, and willow. There were bare spots on the mountains in between the trees. These bare spots of rock and dirt were sometimes gray and sometimes red, but always distant and foreboding.
Just in time for supper, a rabbit hopped up in front of MacCallister and bounded down the trail ahead of him. MacCallister stopped his horse, pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, looped his leg around the pommel, raised the rifle to his shoulder, rested his elbow on his knee, and squeezed the trigger. He saw a puff of fur and spray of blood fly up from the rabbit. The rabbit made a headfirst somersault, then lay perfectly still.
Since he had no particular destination in mind, MacCallister stopped here and made camp under a growth of cottonwoods. He started a fire, skinned and cleaned the rabbit, then skewered it on a green willow branch and suspended it over the fire between two forked limbs. When it was golden brown he seasoned the meat with the supply of salt he always kept on hand, and began eating.
After his supper, MacCallister stirred the fire, then lay down alongside it, using his saddle as a pillow. He stared into the coals, watching, while the red sparks rode a heated column of air high up into the night sky. There, the still glowing red and orange sparks joined the jewel-like scattering of stars.
MacCallister had a full belly, a good fire, a good horse, and a nearby supply of water. He was content.
One might think, seeing MacCallister this way, that he was a man without a home, subsisting on rabbit, fish, and such as he could provide. But such a thought would be wrong, for MacCallister was truly among the most affluent in all of Colorado. Falcon MacCallister was the kind of man who was a welcome guest in the governor’s mansion, a frequent visitor to New York where he stayed in the finest hotels and dined in the most elegant restaurants, yet equally comfortable, and always welcome, around the campfires of nomadic Indians. And he very much enjoyed his frequent excursions into the mountains.
It was late in the afternoon of the next day when Falcon MacCallister approached the little town. He stopped on a ridge and looked down at the town as he removed is canteen from the saddle pommel. He took a swallow, recorked the canteen, then put it back. Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, he headed Lightning down the long slope of the ridge. He was sure he had never been in this town before, and he thought he would like to check it out.
The town was typical of many others he had seen with several unpainted, wood-frame shanties and even a couple of sod buildings lining the street. Then, just as abruptly as the town started, it quit, and the prairie began again.
MacCallister knew about such towns, festering and inbred, bypassed by the railroad and just hanging on. He was sure the population couldn’t be more than a hundred, if that many. He knew that in the spring the street would be a muddy mire, worked by the horses’ hooves and mixed with their droppings to become a stinking, sucking, pool of ooze. In the winter it would be frozen solid, while in the summer it would bake as hard as rock. It was summer now, and the sun was yellow and hot.
The buildings were weathered and leaning, and the painted signs on front of the edifices were worn and hard to read. A wagon was backed up to the general store, and a couple of men were listlessly unloading it. They looked over at MacCallister, curious as to who he was and what brought him to town, though neither of them were ambitious enough to speak to him.
MacCallister dismounted in front of the building that had the word SALOON painted on the front, just above the door. Shadows made the saloon seem cooler, but that was illusory. It was nearly as hot inside as out, and without the benefit of a breath of air, it was even more stifling. The customers were sweating in their drinks and wiping their faces with bandannas.
As always when he entered a strange saloon, MacCallister checked the place out. To one unfamiliar with what he was doing, MacCallister’s glance appeared to be little more than idle curiosity. But it was a studied surveillance. Who was armed? What type guns were they carrying? How were they wearing them? Was there anyone here he knew? More important, was there anyone here who knew him, and who might take this opportunity to settle some old score, real or imagined, for himself or a friend?
It appeared that there were only workers and cowboys here. The couple of men who were armed were young, probably wearing their guns as much for show as anything. And from the way the pistols rode on their hips, MacCallister would have bet that they had never used them for anything but target practice, and not very successfully at that.
The bartender stood behind the bar. In front of him were two glasses with whiskey remaining in them, and he poured the whiskey back into a bottle, corked it, and put the bottle on the shelf behind the bar. He wiped the glasses out with his stained apron, then set them among the unused glasses. Seeing MacCallister step up to the bar, the bartender moved down toward him.
“Beer,” MacCallister said.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” the bartender said.
“I don’t think I’ve been here before.”
“What brings you to town?”
“I’m not in town,” Falcon said. “I’m just passing through. Thought I’d have a couple of drinks, eat some food that isn’t trail-cooked, and maybe get a room for the night.”
“We don’t get too many of your kind in here,” one of the men at the bar said.
Falcon paid for his drink, then lifted it to his lips. Taking a swallow, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Is there a place to eat in this town?”
“The Mountain Café is just down the street. A woman named Sally Morgan runs it. The food ain’t fancy, but she sets a good table,” the bartender said. “She can put you up, too. She has a couple of rooms in the back that she rents. Sometimes you have to share it, but most of the time you don’t.”
“Hey, mister, are you deef?” someone at the bar said. “I said we don’t get too many of your kind here.”
The tone of the man’s voice was more challenging than friendly, and Falcon turned to look at him. He was a big man with an unkempt, black beard.
“Oh?” MacCallister replied. “And just what would my kind be?”
“I’d say you are a saddle tramp,” the bushy, bearded man said.
“Well now, we seem to be getting off on the wrong foot here,” Falcon said. “I tell you what. Why don’t I buy you a drink?” Falcon put a coin on the bar and slid it toward the bartender, who took the coin, then poured a new drink for the bearded man.
“Here you go, Pierce,” the bartender said. “Compliments of the gentleman.”
Pierce picked the glass up and held it toward Falcon as if offering a toast. Falcon returned the gesture, then lifted his glass to his mouth. Pierce poured his drink into the spittoon that was on the floor beside him.
“I’m pretty choosy about who I drink with,” Pierce said.
“Are you? Well, I suppose I’m just more eclectic.”
“Ec—what?”
“It means I’m not quite as choosy. I mean, look, you are clearly a tick-infested sack of horse shit, but I’m willing to drink with you.”
The others in the saloon, surprised to hear Falcon’s response, laughed out loud.
“Mister, nobody talks about me like that,” Pierce said.
“Oh, I’m sure they all do. They just don’t say it w
here you can hear them.”
Again there was laughter.
“I don’t like you, mister,” he said. “I don’t like you at all.”
“Pierce, you had better back out of this conversation while you can,” one of the bar patrons said. “I’ve got a feelin’ that this is a man who can’t be buffaloed.”
Pierce, his face flushed red with anger and embarrassment, charged toward MacCallister with a loud yell.
Falcon saw the glint of a silver blade flashing toward him, and he jerked to one side just in time to keep from having his belly ripped open. At almost exactly the same time, he pulled his pistol from his holster and brought it down hard, on Pierce’s head. Pierce went down like a sack of potatoes.
Falcon put his pistol back in his holster, then picked up his drink.
“That’s a hell of a welcoming committee you’ve got there,” he said.
“You got it right, mister,” the bartender said. “Pierce is a horse’s ass. He has the whole town buffaloed. I reckon he figured he needed to take you down, just to show everyone else that he was still the top rooster.”
Falcon nodded. Finishing his drink, he put the glass down and slapped another nickel on the bar beside it. “That was a pretty good beer. I think I’ll have another.”
The bartender pushed the nickel back. “This one is on me.” He drew another beer from the keg behind him.
“Thanks.”
“I think I’ll give Pierce a drink on me as well.” The bartender filled another mug with beer, then, leaning over the bar, poured the beer down on Pierce’s face.
Pierce came to, spitting and swearing. When he sat up, he saw the bartender holding an empty glass.
“Why you . . . ,” he said, getting to his feet angrily. “I’m going to ... ,”
“Leave,” the bartender said.
“What?” Pierce asked.
“I was just finishing your sentence for you. You were about to say that you were going to leave.”
“I wasn’t about to say no such thing,” Pierce sputtered.
“Yeah, you were,” the bartender said. He reached under the bar, then pulled out a double-barrel shotgun. “I want you to leave, right now.”
“What kind of saloon is this, where you think you can just throw anyone out that you want to?”
“Oh, I’m not throwing anyone out. The only one I am throwing out is you.”
“Listen, what about the rest of you?” Pierce asked the others in the saloon. “This man is a stranger. Are you people takin’ his side over one of your own?”
“You ain’t one of our own, Pierce, and you never have been,” the bartender said.
“All right, all right, I’m a’goin’,” Pierce said. He looked at each one of the remaining bar customers. “But I plan to remember who was here, and who didn’t stand beside me. And when I come back, there’s going to be a settling of accounts.”
“Is that a threat, Pierce?” one of the saloon patrons asked.
“You damn right it is a threat.”
“Well, this isn’t a threat, Pierce, this is a promise. If you come back, we’ll kill you,” the saloon patron said. He spoke quietly and calmly. And it was that, the matter-of-fact delivery, that made the words so chilling.
Pierce pointed at the speaker. “You think you are man enough to kill me?” he asked.
“He didn’t say ‘I,’ Pierce. He said ‘we,’” one of the other patrons said. “If you come back, we will kill you.”
The anger and defiance on Pierce’s face was replaced by a flicker of fear. He stood there for a moment longer, blinking, trying unsuccessfully to regain a little of his self-respect. Finally, he ran his hand through his beard, then turned toward Falcon.
“You,” he said. “You’re the cause of this. What’s your name, mister?”
“MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”
“Falcon Mac . . . you? You are Falcon MacCallister?” There was an expression of awe and fear in Pierce’s voice.
“Yes.”
“I . . . uh . . . I didn’t know.”
Pierce moved toward the door with the bartender behind him. Everyone but Falcon went to the door as well, and they watched as Pierce climbed onto his horse.
“I didn’t know,” he said again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sorrento
Lucy Smith lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. Sheriff Poindexter was lying in bed beside her, still breathing hard from the exertion of a few moments earlier. Lucy had chosen this profession because she thought it would be an easy way to make a lot of money.
There was nothing easy about it. It did have its moments, such as when she helped some young man through his first experience. But more often than not, she found herself dealing with men who were angry with their alcohol-induced impotence, men who sometimes struck out at her in their anger.
Poindexter had never hit her, but because he frightened her, it took all she had just to be able to force herself to be with him. She breathed a sigh of relief that she managed to do so once more. Then she got up from the bed and walked over to the chest of drawers, where she poured water into the large, porcelain basin. In the mirror above the chest, she saw Sheriff Poindexter staring at her, so she picked up the basin and went behind the dressing screen.
“What for did you go behind that screen?” Sheriff Poindexter asked.
“I don’t like performing my ablutions before an audience,” she answered.
“Say what?”
There was a sound of rippling water as she dipped the washcloth into the basin. “It means I need a little privacy.”
“You’re a whore,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “There ain’t nothin’ a whore does that’s private. Whatever it is that you’re a’ doin’, do it out here so I can watch.”
There was another rippling sound of water, but Lucy Smith did not come out from behind the screen.
“I said, come out from behind that screen!” Sheriff Poindexter walked over to the folding screen, picked it up, and threw it.
Lucy let out a little scream of fear, then cringed, frightened that he was about to hit her.
“What are you duckin’ for?” Sheriff Poindexter demanded. “I ain’t plannin’ on hittin’ you. Not as long as you do what I say. All I’m goin’ to do is watch. Now, go on with what you were doin’.”
Lucy, now sobbing silently in fear and embarrassment, dipped the cloth in the water and continued to clean herself. There was a loud knock on the door.
“Lucy, is everything all right in there?” a man’s voice called.
“This is Sheriff Poindexter,” Poindexter called back. “I’ve got ever’thing under control.”
“Lucy?”
“I told you I got ever’thing under control. Now you just go on about your business; leave me to mine!”
“I want to hear her voice,” the man outside the door insisted.
Sheriff Poindexter pulled on his pants, strapped on his pistol belt, and then walked over to jerk open the door. Beeson, who was not only the bartender, but the owner of the Hog Heaven saloon, was standing on the other side.
“Sheriff, what’s goin’ on here? Why did I hear Lucy call out?”
“Beeson, you’re just the man I’m wanting to see,” Poindexter said. “I’ve just discovered that you’re runnin’ a whorehouse here,” he said. “A whorehouse mind you, in clear violation of the law. You’re under arrest.”
“Under arrest? What do you mean? You’re the one that came up here to Lucy’s room.”
“It was just part of my investigating,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “I suspected you were runnin’ a whorehouse, and now I know for sure that you are. So, you can pay me the fine now, five dollars for each one of your whores, or you can come down to the courthouse and pay ten dollars for each of your whores. Which is it goin’ to be?”
“First, I want to see that Lucy is all right.”
Poindexter pulled his pistol, pointed it at Beeson’s head, and pulled the hammer back. “I told you, you were u
nder arrest. I could shoot you for resisting arrest.”
“No, don’t, please!” Lucy shouted. “Mr. Beeson, it’s all right! I’m fine.”
“I heard you call out,” Beeson said.
“It’s all right, really,” Lucy said. “I . . . I knocked over the dressing screen by accident, that’s all.”
“All right, if you are sure,” Beeson said. “I’ll just go back down to the bar.”
“Not yet,” Sheriff Poindexter said.
“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?”
“There is the little matter of twenty-five dollars that you owe me, five dollars for each whore you have workin’ here.”
“You aren’t serious about that, are you? You know that I pay a fine once a month so I can do business, just as all the girls do.”
“Yes, well, this is a special fine. Now what is it to be? The fine, or I take you to jail? Or do I shoot you for resisting arrest?”
“I’ll . . . I’ll have to get the money from downstairs,” Beeson said.
“You do that.”
Lucy started to get dressed.
“What are you doin’?” Sheriff Poindexter asked.
“I’m getting dressed.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m finished with my toilette.”
“You are? You mean that’s all there was to it?”
“Yes.”
“Hell, what was you so private about? You didn’t do nothin’ but splash a little water onto yourself.”
“Sheriff, would you like me to bathe you?” Lucy asked. She smiled seductively at him, hoping in such a way to defuse his anger.
“No. Why the hell would I want that? I took me a bath not no more than a couple weeks ago.”
“Some men seem to like it,” Lucy suggested.
“Seems to me that only a girly man would like something like that. No thanks, I’ll be doin’ my own washin’.”
Poindexter went downstairs, still tucking his shirttail in as he was on the steps. He walked over to the bar.
“You got that money ready for me yet?”
“Sheriff, this ain’t in no way right, and you know it,” Beeson said.
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