“Good evening, gentlemen,” a woman’s voice said.
There was something familiar about the voice, and turning, Falcon saw Kathleen Coyle.
“Why, Miss Coyle,” he said, starting to rise. “What are you doing here?”
Kathleen chuckled. “I thought we were old friends by now,” she said. “Surely you can call me Kathleen. And everyone has to be somewhere. Are you displeased to see me?”
“No, of course not,” Falcon said. “It’s just that I didn’t expect it, that’s all.”
“Well, as to what I am doing here, I’m singing.” She smiled broadly. “I’m finally getting to perform. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yes, it is. I’m very pleased for you. Where are you performing?”
“Why, right here in the Gold Strike,” Kathleen said. She pointed to the piano player, who in all the time Falcon had been in the saloon had played not a note. “Jimmy is my accompanist. Jimmy, this is my friend, Falcon MacCallister.”
Hayford had just taken a swallow of his beer, but upon hearing MacCallister’s name, he spewed it back out over the table.
“Hayford, what the hell’s got into you?” one of the other players complained, wiping the beer from the table.
“MacCallister?” Hayford said. “Did she say your name was Falcon MacCallister?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Boys, I don’t know if you know it or not, but Mr. MacCallister here is a man of some renown. For example, along with Mickey Free, he cleaned out Naiche and his bunch a few years back. Then, if that wasn’t enough, he went back down there and took care of Keytano. Yes, sir, Arizona is safe because of this man. Mr. MacCallister, I wonder if I could shake your hand.”
Falcon was uncomfortable with all the accolades, but he smiled and shook Hayford’s hand, then the hand of everyone he had been playing cards with, as well as the hands of several others who came over to meet him.
“Say,” Nye said. “You may have just been teasing about running for Congress before, but I believe I could get you elected.”
“I doubt that,” Falcon said. “And I was teasing.”
“Don’t be too sure I couldn’t do it. Look what happened to Davy Crockett. He was a hero who wound up in Congress.”
“Yeah,” Falcon said. “He also wound up dead.”
“A minor obstacle,” Nye said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
The others laughed.
Falcon looked back toward Kathleen. “When do you sing again?”
“I’ll sing right now if you’d like.”
“Please do,” Falcon invited.
“The song is called, “A Cowboy’s Wife I’ll Be,’ and it was written by Mr. George Henry Russel.”
Kathleen nodded at the pianist, who, putting his whiskey glass on top of the piano, began to play. After the introduction, Kathleen, smiling sweetly, began to sing.
I’m a wild and laughing girl,
Just turned sweet sixteen,
As full of mischief and fun
As ever you have seen;
And when I am a woman grown,
No city beau for me.
If ever I marry in this life,
A cowboy’s wife I’ll be.
The song had a bouncy melody, and Kathleen was pretty and perky and all conversation halted as she sang. Kathleen danced around the room, stopping first at one table, then another. Sometimes she would put her finger under her chin and curtsy; other times she would throw her hip out and pout. But at every table she had a way of looking into the eyes of her listeners, making it appear as if she were singing to them, and them alone. She purposely did not come to Falcon’s table until she reached the last verse.
Let those who like it best
Enjoy the smoky town,
Midst dusty walls and dusky walks
To ramble up and down;
But sunny fields and shady groves
Have charms enough for me.
So if ever I marry in this life
A cowboy’s wife I’ll be!
About eighty percent of the customers in the saloon were cowboys, and they burst into applause as she finished.
“Darlin’, I’m the cowboy you should marry!” one of them called.
“To hell with that! I’m the one!” another shouted, and soon several were shouting out their proposals.
Kathleen laughed them off; then she walked over to the bar and held up a glass.
“Boys,” she called, “will you all buy a fresh drink and have it with me?”
“I’ll drink with you,” one of the cowboys said.
“Me too!” another shouted, and nearly everyone in the saloon rushed to the bar for a drink or a refill.
Nye chuckled. “She does that after every song,” he said. “She’s been the best thing for Sylvester’s business since he opened the Gold Strike.”
“Do you know her from somewhere?” Hayford asked.
“I met her up in Miles City, Montana, a few weeks ago.”
“And here she is in Laramie, Wyoming,” Nye said. “Small world.”
“Yes,” Falcon agreed.
After a few more hands, Nye stood up. “Well, gentlemen, since my luck has turned, I think I’ll leave the game before I lose it all back.”
“I have to go as well,” Hayford said. “I’ve got some more work to do on tomorrow’s paper.”
The departure of both Nye and Hayford effectively ended the game, so Falcon took his chips over to the bar and cashed them in. He had won ten dollars on the night, which ironically was the amount of money he had paid for his room and board.
Kathleen came over to stand beside him.
“What did you think of the song?” she asked.
“I thought you did very well.”
Kathleen smiled, obviously pleased by his response. “I hoped you would like it,” she said.
“I must say, it was a surprise, seeing you here,” Falcon said.
“I’m not here by chance,” she said candidly. “I heard you and Mr. Kohrs talking about what was going to happen here, and I thought it might be interesting to come down and watch. Besides, it gave me another chance to see you. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”
“Yes, I’ve taken a room,” Falcon said.
“I’ve got a room here in the saloon. It comes with the job. You could always give your room up and come stay with me,” she invited.
It was a tempting invitation, but Falcon didn’t like to get too involved with any one woman. Since losing Marie, he was not ready to give too much of himself to any woman now.
“I thank you for the invitation,” he said. He softened his rejection with a smile. “But if I’m going to be bidding on cattle, I need to keep my head clear. I’m afraid you would be too much of a distraction.”
Kathleen chuckled. “I’ll accept that as a compliment,” she said.
“Good, because that’s what I intended it to be.” Tossing the rest of his drink down, Falcon told Kathleen good-bye, then left the saloon.
Ten
It was eleven P.M. when Falcon let himself into his room. He noticed that the covers were turned down for him, and a lantern burned dimly by his bedside. There was a note on the table under the lantern.
Mr. MacCallister,
I hope you enjoy your stay with us. I will be serving breakfast at seven of the morning. I will knock once lightly on your door.
Sincerely,
Frances Martin
The knock on his door the next morning wasn’t gentle, but neither was it made by Mrs. Martin.
“Mr. MacCallister! Mr. MacCallister,” Gordon’s young voice called. “It’s time for breakfast!”
Falcon opened his eyes and looked around the room. For just a moment, he was disoriented. The room was unlike any hotel room he had ever been in. Instead of a bare table and a spartan closet, this room had an ornate dresser and chest of drawers, a claw-foot table, curtains on the windows, pictures on the wall, and a carpet on the floor.
“Mr. M
acCallister!” Gordon called again. “Are you awake in there?”
“Yes,” Falcon said. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“Don’t be long. Mom gets sore when folks are late for breakfast.”
Falcon smiled. “I’ll hurry,” he said.
For a moment, as Falcon was dressing, he thought back to the days when he was part of a family, getting dressed in the morning, eating around the breakfast table with his parents and siblings. Part of that feeling tugged at his heartstrings now, and made him feel pain.
But in a strange way, he also took a great deal of comfort from it, and was looking forward to having breakfast with Gordon and his mother.
The pleasant feeling continued when he passed through the kitchen into the dining room. He could smell fresh coffee, bacon, and biscuits. And when he sat down, he saw that she had made gravy.
“Oh,” he said, almost in a sigh of delight. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked breakfast like this. Mrs. Martin, you are a wonder.”
Frances smiled in embarrassment. “My goodness,” she said. “It is just a breakfast.”
“Just a breakfast? And I suppose you think the Rocky Mountains are just a few hills.”
Frances laughed, the sound reminding Falcon of wind chimes.
“Gordon, would you please pass Mr. MacCallister the biscuits?” Frances said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Gordon answered, passing the plate to Falcon.
As Falcon picked up a biscuit, he let his hand fly up. “Goodness,” he said. “This biscuit is so light it’s about to fly away.”
Frances laughed again.
“Gratuitous compliments aren’t necessary, Mr. MacCallister,” she said. “You may have as many biscuits as you wish.”
“In that case, I’ll just take another while the platter is here,” Falcon said, taking a second biscuit.
“Mr. MacCallister, are you going to take part in the rodeo today?” Gordon asked.
“Rodeo? What rodeo?”
“Some of the local businessmen arranged it. It’s to celebrate the big cattle auction. There’s going to be riding contests, roping contests, shooting contests, all sorts of things. There’s going to be a footrace too, and I aim to enter that.”
“Are you a good runner?”
“I’m the fastest runner in Albany County.”
“Gordon, don’t brag so,” Frances scolded.
“It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true,” Gordon said.
“It isn’t bragging if it’s true,” Frances corrected.
“See, even you think that.”
“I was correcting your grammar,” Frances said.
“All right, but I am the fastest runner in Albany County,” Gordon said.
“I wish you luck in the race,” Falcon said.
“Thanks, but I don’t need it. I’m going to win,” Gordon said resolutely.
“Gordon, bragging is not an admirable trait,” Frances said.
“But confidence is,” Falcon said. “And I admire the young man’s confidence.”
* * *
Back in Denver, Gilly Cardis had just about given up trying to find Falcon MacCallister. It was early morning of his third day in Denver, and he had spent the previous two days wandering around town, picking people at random to ask where MacCallister lived. An amazing number of people knew about MacCallister, but no one knew him, and not one person could tell Cardis where Falcon lived.
Having just finished breakfast, he was about to start on another day of looking for MacCallister when he happened across a young newspaper boy.
“Paper! Get your morning paper!” the boy was shouting, holding up the paper so people could see the headlines.
As Cardis walked by, one of the stories caught his eye.
CATTLE AUCTION IN LARAMIE.
Falcon MacCallister Among Those In Attendance.
Cardis grabbed the paper to look at it.
“Hey, mister, that’ll be five cents!” the newspaper boy said indignantly.
“I just want to see this one story,” Cardis said.
“It will cost you five cents,” the boy said again. “Unless you want me to call that policeman over.”
Looking up, Cardis noticed that a policeman was standing on the corner and, having overheard the paperboy, was now looking back toward him.
“All right, here’s your nickel,” Cardis said irritably.
The boy handed the paper to Cardis, and Cardis looked more closely at the story that had caught his attention.
CATTLE AUCTION IN LARAMIE.
Falcon MacCallister Among Those In Attendance.
NEW BREED OF CATTLE TO BE AUCTIONED.
To be attended by America’s Wealthiest Cattle Barons,
Colorado to be Represented by MacCallister.
Upwards of 100,000 Dollars to be Spent!
Said to be end of the Longhorn.
Cardis read no further than the headline and sub-headlines. He didn’t need to. If Falcon MacCallister was in Laramie, then that was where he was going as well.
He handed the paper back to the boy.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve read it. Give me my nickel back.”
“I’m sorry, mister, you bought it,” the paperboy said. “It’s your paper now.”
“Give me my nickel back, you little shit, or I’ll pound your head in,” Cardis said angrily.
The paperboy took out a coin, then dropped it. As Cardis bent over to pick it up, the paperboy ran. That was when Cardis saw that the boy had returned a penny, not a nickel.
The boy was too fast and had too much of a head start for Cardis to be able to do anything. Angrily, he threw the paper down on the street, then walked quickly to the depot.
It was still early morning, but the depot was as crowded now as it had been when he arrived. He had no idea how many people were milling around, but he believed that this depot alone had as many people as most of the towns he was familiar with.
He could feel, almost as much as hear, the heavy trains moving around out in the train shed. Someone was standing by the door that led TO TRAINS, shouting through a megaphone.
“Train for Kansas City and points east, now loading on Track Five!”
Cardis walked over to the long counter with the frosted glass. He stepped up to one of the windows.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“How much is a ticket to Laramie?” he asked.
“Four dollars.”
“When is the next train?”
“The next train to Laramie is sitting on Track Three at this very moment,” the ticket agent said. “If you hurry, you can catch it. It will put you in Laramie by eight o’clock this evening.”
“Give me a ticket,” Cardis said, presenting his money to the agent.
* * *
At the very moment Gilly Cardis was boarding the train in Denver, the entire town of Laramie, Wyoming, was turned out for the festivities. Bleachers had been erected around the corral, and the spectators cheered for their favorites as cowboys from neighboring ranches competed for best rider. The riding and roping events took up most of the morning; then people began gathering for the footrace. The runners were loosening up, kicking their legs high, running quick sprints, then coming back to the starting line. There were at least twenty entered in the race, and Gordon was clearly the youngest.
Frances was standing behind her son, massaging his neck and shoulders.
“Mr. MacCallister, are you going to enter the shooting match this afternoon?” Gordon asked.
“I don’t know,” Falcon said. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“I think you should enter.”
“Gordon, Mr. MacCallister can make up his own mind whether or not he enters,” Frances said.
“If I win this race, will you enter?” Gordon asked.
“You don’t have to win. It’s enough that you are competing,” MacCallister said.
“Ha!” Gordon replied. “You are just saying that because you don’t thi
nk I can win and you don’t want me to feel bad.”
Falcon smiled. “Something like that,” he agreed.
“Well, don’t worry. I’m going to win.”
“How long is this race?”
“It’s to the fork in the river and back.”
“How far is that?”
“Three miles to the fork, so the race is six miles.”
Falcon let out a whistle. “You are going to run for six miles?”
“Yep.”
“Gordon?” Frances said.
Gordon smiled sheepishly. “I mean, yes, sir.”
“People, people, people!” a loud voice called. “All runners for the footrace, come to the starting line now!”
“I’ve got to go,” Gordon said.
“Good luck,” Falcon called to the boy as he sprinted back to the starting line.
The official starter got all the runners lined up behind the starting line, then explained that he would start them by firing his pistol in the air.
Falcon looked at the line of runners. Gordon was clearly the youngest, and the smallest.
“Look at him,” Frances said. “So young and so sure of himself.” She sighed. “I do hope he does well.”
The gun popped and the runners started. Although Falcon knew that the start of a distance race wasn’t as explosive as the start of a sprint, he knew that it was just as important, for there was an immediate jockeying for position as the field began setting up. Before they passed the church at the edge of town, there were already frequent changes of leadership among the top six runners.
As the runners grew smaller in the distance, the field was fairly well strung out. But because Gordon was clearly the shortest of all the runners, he could be identified, even at this distance. He was running in the front one third of the pack.
Then they were too far to make out at all.
“Oh,” Frances said nervously. “I wish we could see them.”
“We’ll just have to wait until . . .” Falcon began; then glancing across the street, he saw something in the window of the hardware store that made him smile. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
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