Falcon rode by the City Pig restaurant where someone called out to him, then he passed Sikes Hardware until he reached the post office. Because he had been gone for the last two weeks, he knew he would have mail piling up, so that would be his first order of business.
Sheriff Cody came walking up the boardwalk toward him.
“Hello, Falcon. I heard about your little fracas over in Durango a couple of weeks ago.”
“I figured you would have,” Falcon said as he tied off Lightning.
“You figured right. News does get around,” Sheriff Cody said. “By the way, I don’t know if you know it, but there was a pretty large reward for Drew. Twenty-five hundred dollars. I’ll be happy to file for it, if you want.”
“Yes,” Falcon said. “Do file for it. And when you get the money, give it all to the orphanage.”
Sheriff Cody smiled. “Ha! I figured you would do something like that. I’ll be glad to take care of that for you.”
Falcon didn’t really need the money. He owned mineral rights to working gold and silver mines, and he was drawing more money from those enterprises than the men who were actually working the mines. In addition, he had a very productive and profitable cattle ranch. As a result of his being independently comfortable, he often donated any unexpected money to charitable causes, be it the orphanage, various widows’ funds, or anything else that might catch his fancy.
Falcon went into the post office.
“Hello, Falcon,” the postmaster greeted warmly. “It’s good to see you in town for a change. You are gone so often.”
“Hi, Will. What have you got for me?”
“You got a letter from some newspaper in Texas. Or so the printed copy on the envelope says.”
“You reading my mail, are you, Will?” Falcon teased.
“Not reading your mail, just the envelopes. And I have to, that’s my job,” Will replied.
Falcon chuckled. “I was just teasing.” He tore open the envelope, then pulled out the letter and began to read.
Dear Falcon
I do hope you remember me. I am Harold Denham and I was editor and publisher of the Higbee Journal, when the town of Higbee was still in existence. I learned then that you are a man of honor, courage, and integrity. Such a man is badly needed in Sorrento. I have been publishing a newspaper, the Sorrento Advocate, since I arrived here. When I arrived the town was vibrant, with fair minded and industrious people, anxious to help the community grow.
But in the last 3 years things have changed drastically. We have a judge and sheriff who have taken over the town. Anyone who attempts to run against them is discouraged to the point of physical danger. Extremely heavy local taxes have been assessed, and our local judge, Judge Theodore Dawes, is known as “Hang ’em High” Dawes, not without good reason.
There have been to date, six hangings this year. It may well be that one or two of the victims deserved to be hanged, though the justification of all the hangings has been questionable and no doubt the sentence, if not the verdict, would have been overturned on appeal. But no appeal is allowed. The judge, with a handpicked jury, tries the defendants, often in less than an hour. The jury finds the defendant guilty, and the judge sentences the defendant to hang, the entire process taking less than one 24-hour period.
Sheriff Dewey Poindexter is Judge Dawes’s right-hand man and enforcer. Those who are in the judge’s or the sheriff’s favor are exempt from normal behavior. The town is terrorized, and neither merchant nor citizen can expect any support from the legal system. Vandalism, assaults on our citizens, public drunkenness, obscene behavior, all such activity as would normally be dampened by an honest and aggressive legal system are allowed to flourish here.
A recent incident will illustrate the sad state of affairs in our town. A concerned local citizen wrote to a friend of his, who was a Texas Ranger. He invited the ranger, a genuine Texas hero by the name of Corey Davidson, to come to Sorrento to investigate malfeasance on the part of our sheriff. Sheriff Poindexter shot and killed Ranger Davidson. Judge Dawes then held a trial, charging Poindexter with murder. Though it was reported to me by witnesses that it was indeed cold-blooded murder, those witnesses were too frightened to testify, and the result was exactly as Judge Dawes, Prosecutor Gillespie, and Sheriff Poindexter expected. The sheriff was found not guilty, thus immunizing him against any future charge of murder.
I have no way of persuading you to come, other than to appeal to your sense of honor, justice, and fair play. Should you decide to help us, you may find me at the Sorrento Advocate, 311 Front Street, Sorrento, Texas.
With Respect, I remain:
Your Obedient Servant,
Harold Denham
Letter in hand, Falcon walked down to the sheriff’s office, where he saw Sheriff Cody looking through reward posters.
“I haven’t found the Drew poster yet,” Cody said. “But I know I’ve seen paper on him.”
“Thank you, Amos, but I’m not here to check on that,” Falcon said. “I want you to see what you can find out about a judge Theodore Dawes and Sheriff Dewey Poindexter.”
“Hmm, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of either one of them,” Sheriff Cody said.
“I wouldn’t really expect you to. They are both down in Texas. Sorrento, Texas.”
“All right, I’ve got some sheriff friends down in Texas. I suppose I could send a few telegrams and see what turns up,” Cody promised.
It was nearly noon, so Falcon walked back down to the City Pig. He was greeted warmly by the customers when he stepped inside, and Kathy Johnson, the pretty waitress, escorted him back to “his” table. He ordered ham, rice, and gravy.
As Kathy walked away with his order, Swayne Byrd, a neighboring rancher, came over to Falcon’s table.
“Miss Kathy, if you would please, put Falcon’s dinner on my tab.”
“Thank you, Swayne,” Falcon said.
“No, sir, thank you. Johnny Pollard worked for me. I went to Durango and made arrangements to put his body on a train and send it back to his folks for buryin’. He was a good kid. From a little town in Southeast Missouri, he was.”
“I wish I had been there in time to have prevented it,” Falcon said.
Swayne nodded. “Some things are just bound to happen,” he said. “Well, I’ll leave you in peace with your dinner. I just wanted to thank you for what you done.”
Kathy brought Falcon’s meal just as Swayne left the restaurant and, with a large and pretty smile, put it on the table before him.
Falcon had just finished his meal when Sheriff Cody came in, clutching three pieces of paper in his hand. He walked over and sat across the table from Falcon.
“I’ve heard from three different people,” Cody said. “And they all say the same thing. Not one of them has anything good to say about either Dawes or Poindexter.”
Cody slid the telegrams across the table.
DAWES AND POINDEXTER ARE AS CORRUPT AS THEY COME. I DON’T KNOW HOW THEY HAVE AVOIDED PRISON THIS FAR.
The second was as damning as the first.
I KNOW THAT THERE HAS BEEN TALK THAT DAWES AND POINDEXTER SHOULD BE INVESTIGATED. I EXPECT THAT TO HAPPEN SOME TIME SOON.
The third telegram, more succinct than the first two, was no less condemning.
HAVE ONLY GUT FEELING THAT BOTH ARE CROOKS.
“Why did you ask about them?” Cody asked. “Where have you heard of them?”
“I hadn’t heard of them at all, until I got a letter from a friend of mine, a newspaper editor who lives in Sorrento. He has asked me for help.”
“Help in doing what?”
“I’m not sure,” Falcon said. “But he is a friend and he has asked for help. That’s all I need.”
Cody smiled. “All I can say is, he is a lucky man to have a friend like you. But then, all of us who know you are lucky to have such a friend.”
Falcon grinned across the table at Sheriff Cody. “With syrup like that, Amos, you don’t ever have to put anything on your flapjacks, do you?”
Cody’s smile grew self-conscious. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“Hold down the praise just a bit, will you?”
“What if I call you a bandy-legged, two-bit hustling sidewinder, who doesn’t have sense enough to get in out of the rain and couldn’t throw a ringer in horseshoes if his life depended on it?” Cody asked with a broad, teasing smile.
“Ouch! Now, that really does hurt—the part about the horseshoes I mean.”
Both men were laughing as they left the restaurant.
Money had neither been offered nor implied in the letter, which was simply a plea for help. And it was that, the earnest plea from an honest man, that had made Falcon decide to respond to the request.
He arrived in Fort Worth by train late in the day, off-loaded Lightning and put him up in a stable for the night, and then went into the White Elephant saloon on Rusk Street. Pushing through the batwing doors, he stepped into the saloon, well lit now with two dozen glowing lanterns hanging in wagon wheel chandeliers from the ceiling. This saloon was in Texas, but it could have been in New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Kansas, or Wyoming. Falcon could have closed his eyes and described it.
There was a long bar running down the left side of the saloon, a brass foot rail at the bottom of the bar, and bronze rings every six feet or so from which hung towels for the customers. Brass spittoons were placed every ten feet, with a wide circle of floor stains around each container, indicative of the poor aim of the tobacco chewers.
Behind the bar was a long, narrow mirror, fronted by a glass shelf upon which various bottles of liquors, liqueurs, and wines sat, their numbers doubled by the reflection in the mirror. Falcon was met instantly by one of the girls working the bar.
“Hello, cowboy.” Her voice was low and throaty. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”
“Don’t expect you would have, ma’am, seeing as this is the first time I’ve ever been in here.”
“Ma’am? Oh, how nice. I can’t remember the last time anyone called me ma’am.”
It was difficult to tell her age. She could have been anywhere from the low twenties to mid-forties and had no doubt been attractive at one time, though the immoderation of her profession was taking its toll.
“Don’t you be gettin’ used to it, Millie.” one of the other customers shouted. “Just because some fancy-talkin’ sissy boy says ma’am don’t change nothin’. You’re still a whore.”
There were two others sitting at the table with the heckler, and they laughed at the jibe.
Millie blushed. “You don’t need to be calling me names, Posey.”
“I’ll call you any damn thing I want,” Posey replied. “I’m payin’ to drink in here, which means you got to entertain me.”
“Miss Millie, would you care to join me for a drink?” Falcon asked.
Millie smiled, and the smile rolled away some of the dissipation. “Why, I would be glad to,” she said. “You pick out a table, cowboy, and I’ll bring you a drink. What would you like?”
“I would like a beer.”
Falcon chose a table and sat down, wondering if the saloon served food. He hoped that it did; he would like to just have a beer or two, then a bite to eat, before going to bed.
As Millie passed by Posey’s table, he reached out and slapped her on the behind.
“Ouch!” Millie said. “That hurt, Posey!”
“That hurt, Posey,” Posey repeated in falsetto, mimicking Millie’s complaint.
When Millie came back by the table carrying Falcon’s beer and a small glass for herself—Falcon assumed it was tea—she was smiling at him from across the room.
Because she was looking at Falcon, she didn’t see Posey stick his leg out at the last minute. Posey tripped her and she fell, dropping the beer and her drink.
“You clumsy bitch! You got beer on the table!” Posey said.
As before, the other two men at the table laughed loudly at Posey’s antics.
“Now, you go over there, get a towel, and come wipe off this table,” Posey demanded.
Neither Posey nor either of the other two men saw Falcon get up and walk over to them. Reaching down to grab Posey’s shirt from behind, Falcon gave it a jerk and literally ripped it from Posey’s back.
“What the hell?” Posey shouted in shock and anger.
Falcon handed Posey the ripped-up shirt.
“Here’s a rag,” Falcon said. “You wipe it up.”
“What? Why you son of a bitch! I’m goin’ to beat the hell out of you!” Posey shouted, standing up so quickly that he turned over the chair he had been sitting on.
Posey didn’t get all the way up before Falcon took him back down with a powerhouse right to the jaw.
The other two stood up then.
“Mister, I don’t know who you think you are, but . . .”
That was as far as they got, because Falcon picked up the table, then turned it on his side. Using it as a train would a snow plow, he rammed the table into them, pushing it so hard and so fast against them that they were unable to do anything but retreat before it. He pushed them all the way through the batwing doors, then, tossing the table aside, took each of them down with a couple of sledgehammer blows.
With the two men lying unconscious on the porch in front of the saloon, Falcon reached down to remove their pistols. When he came back, Posey was just beginning to sit up, and seeing Falcon coming toward him, he reached for his pistol. Before he could pull it from his holster, Falcon put him out again, this time with a kick to the head.
Millie hurried over to pick up Posey’s pistol, and Falcon handed her the two he had taken from Posey’s friends.
“Put these somewhere out of the way,” he said.
Millie took the three revolvers over to the bar.
That done, Falcon retrieved the table he had thrown aside, then brought it back and put it in place alongside the prostrate Posey, then reset the chairs.
“Did you—did you kill him?” Millie asked, returning from having given the pistols to the bartender for safekeeping.
“I didn’t kill him,” Falcon said. “But more than likely he’ll be eating oatmeal instead of steak for a while.”
“I’ll get you another beer,” Millie said.
“Millie, honey, that man’s beer is on me!” one of the other customers shouted. “It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed anything as much as seeing Posey and those other two buzzards getting their comeuppance.”
He applauded, and several of the others in the saloon applauded as well.
CHAPTER TEN
“Are you a cardplayer, mister?” the man who paid for Falcon’s beer asked.
“I am.”
“I’m Buck Paddock. I publish the newspaper here. This is Doc Burtz, and this is Tom Tidball,” he continued, introducing the others at the table with him.
“I’m pleased to meet you gentlemen. I’m Falcon MacCallister.”
Paddock reacted to the name. “You are Falcon MacCallister? Gentlemen, we have a famous man among us.”
“Or infamous,” Falcon replied self-deprecatingly. “Sometime’s it’s hard to go far enough to get away from the name.”
“We have an empty seat here, sir, and we’d be honored if you’d join us,” Doc Burtz said.
“I appreciate the invite,” Falcon said.
Falcon joined the card game and had been playing for a few minutes when the two men Falcon had driven outside came back in. By now Posey was up, sitting at the table, holding his hand to his jaw.
“You all right, Posey?” one of them asked.
“I—I don’t know,” Posey replied, his voice distorted. “What happened to me? Why the hell does my jaw hurt so?”
“You mean you don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember nothin’. Hey, where’s my gun?”
“I don’t know,” one of the other two said. “We don’t have our guns, neither.”
“Posey, Slim, Red, I’ve got your guns over here, behind the
bar,” the bartender said.
“Well, what the hell are you doin’ with ’em?” Slim asked. He walked over to the bar with his hand held out. “Give ’em to me.”
“You boys come back in tomorrow, and I’ll give you your guns then,” the bartender replied. “You ain’t gettin’ ’em tonight.”
“You!” Red said, pointing his finger at Falcon. “You’re the one done this to us, ain’t you? Well, I ain’t finished with you yet!”
Red picked up a chair and started toward the card table.
“Hold it right there, Red!” the bartender shouted. “Unless you want a load of buckshot in your ass!”
The bartender had pulled the shotgun out from under the bar and was pointing it toward Red.
“Look here, Clayton, this man is a stranger and we’re regulars!” Red said. “You takin’ his side agin’ us?”
“I’m takin’ my own side,” the bartender said. “I ain’t goin’ to see no furniture broke up in here. You three boys get on back to the ranch.”
“All right, give us our guns, and we’ll go.”
“Like I said, when you come in tomorrow, I’ll give you your guns back.”
“What do you mean you’ll give ’em back tomorrow? What if we run into a road agent or somethin’ on the way out to the ranch? How we goin’ to defend ourselves if we ain’t got our guns with us?”
“Now what self-respecting road agent is going to rob three cowboys who don’t have a dollar between them?” Clayton replied, and the others in the saloon laughed.
“That ain’t right,” Red said. “Posey, tell ’im! Tell ’im that ain’t right!”
“Let’s go home,” Posey said. “My jaw hurts somethin’ awful.”
The three men started toward the door, but before they left, Red turned back toward Falcon and pointed at him again.
“You ain’t heard the last of us, mister!” he shouted. “Do you hear me? You ain’t heard the last of us!”
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