Showdown at Dead End Canyon

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Showdown at Dead End Canyon Page 7

by Robert Vaughan


  “Billy, you were pointing your gun at me?” Pamela asked.

  “No, ma’am, not you,” Billy replied. “I was just pointin’ it at him.” He nodded toward Hawke. “Hope you didn’t take no offense at it, mister,” he added.

  “No offense taken,” Hawke replied. “Under the circumstances, it was the prudent thing to do.”

  “This way, please,” the conductor said, starting toward the rear of the train.

  “Do have someone bring us some food from the dining car, would you?” Pamela said. “I haven’t eaten for some time now, and I am famished.”

  “Oh, that won’t be possible, I’m afraid. The dining car is closed,” the conductor replied.

  “Open it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Hawke followed Pamela onto the train, dropping his saddle on the platform deck just before they went into the car. There were two men and two women in the car, all sitting in overstuffed, comfortable chairs. They were well-dressed, as befit their station, and they looked up in curiosity and ill-concealed irritation as Hawke and Pamela invaded their domain.

  “Good evening,” Pamela said, smiling brightly at the others in the car. No one returned her greeting, and a moment later Hawke overheard one of the men grumbling to the others.

  “I’m all for picking up unfortunate souls who may be wandering around in the desert. But to put them in the car with us is unconscionable.”

  Hawke glanced over toward Pamela to see if she heard, but she had taken her seat and was looking through the window. It was getting dark outside, and because it was well-lighted inside the car, Hawke could see her reflection in the window. Her face expressed no reaction to the comment.

  Shortly after the train got underway, the conductor came into the car, accompanied by two dining car stewards. Each of the stewards carried a silver-covered serving dish. A table was set up between them and the meal served.

  “Oh heavens,” one of the women in the car said. “Now they are going to eat here. Well, I say, this is just too much.”

  “Indeed it is,” the older of the two men said. “And I shall certainly complain to the railroad, you can rest assured of that.”

  “Anything else I can do for you, madam?” the conductor asked as, with a flourish, the two stewards unfolded white napkins and gave them to Pamela and Hawke.

  “Yes,” Pamela said. “Our fellow passengers seem to resent our presence. Perhaps you could find other accommodations.”

  “Well now, that’s decent of you, madam,” the older of the two men said. “I have nothing against you personally, you understand. I have nothing but compassion for those who are down on their luck. But I’m sure you can see our position.”

  “Other accommodations?” the conductor asked.

  “For them,” Pamela said as she picked up a fresh asparagus spear and took a bite.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the conductor replied. Looking toward the other passengers, he held up his hand. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask all of you to leave this car,” he said.

  “What?” the older man replied in loud disbelief. “Do you know who I am? I am Addison Ford, Administrative Assistant to Secretary of Interior Columbus Delano! And I am undertaking the journey on official cabinet business. You might even say that I represent the President of the United States! How dare you ask us to leave!”

  “Yes, Mr. Ford, I know who you are. But don’t worry, I’m sure I can find accommodations on one of the other parlor cars that are just as nice as these.”

  “See here, I will not be put out of this car. I paid good money for my passage.”

  “Indeed you did, sir,” the conductor replied. “But it has come to my attention that you would prefer not to share this car with Miss Dorchester and her guest. Therefore I am sure you will be more comfortable in one of the other cars. Come along, please.”

  “Well, I never!” one of the women said. “Addison, do something.”

  “What would you have me do, my dear? Wrestle them off the car?” Addison replied.

  Grumbling and complaining, the four passengers left the car, glaring at Hawke and Pamela as they passed the table where the two were eating. Neither Hawke nor Pamela glanced up at them.

  “You seem to have some influence with the conductor,” Hawke said after everyone was gone.

  “I think the conductor feels beholden to me because my father owns some stock in the railroad,” Pamela replied as she carved into her piece of ham. “Is the food satisfactory?”

  Hawke smiled. “I’m sure if it wasn’t, you would find some way to make it right. It’s quite good, thank you.”

  When Addison Ford and his party came into the second parlor car, they were greeted by Bailey McPherson.

  “Addison,” she said with a smile. “How nice to have you join us.”

  “It wasn’t by choice, Miss McPherson.”

  “Oh?”

  Addison stammered. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “What I meant was, the conductor threw us out of our car in favor of the two people that we just picked up when the train stopped.”

  “And two more unkempt and disagreeable people you’ve never seen,” Mary Ford said. “They are filthy, and dressed in rags.”

  “And with the most boorish manners,” Lucy White said. “Why, do you know that she is actually wearing men’s clothes?”

  Bailey McPherson looked questioningly at the conductor. “Is that right, Mr. Marshal? You threw Mr. Ford and his party out of the car to accommodate a couple of indigents?”

  “It is Miss Pamela Dorchester, Miss McPherson,” the conductor said. “As I’m sure you know, she disappeared from the Chicago Limited a few nights ago.”

  “Yes, I read about it in the paper. Well, how delightful that she has been found safe and sound. She is all right, isn’t she?”

  Marshal sighed. “I assure you, Miss McPherson, she is quite all right.”

  “Well, in that case, Addison, Mary, you, and your son-in-law and daughter are certainly welcome to join Mr. Dancer and me. Isn’t that right, Mr. Dancer?”

  Ethan Dancer made no direct response.

  “I, uh, thank you for the invitation,” Addison said.

  “Do make yourselves at home,” Bailey invited. “But I ask you to excuse me for a few minutes while I go pay my respects to Miss Dorchester.”

  “I can’t believe you are actually going to go speak to that horrid woman,” Mary Ford said.

  “My dear, that ‘horrid woman’ is Pamela Dorchester.”

  “Should that mean something to me?”

  “Well, for one thing, her father owns one hundred thousand shares of this railroad, as well as six hundred thousand acres of land. You might have heard of his ranch, Mr. Ford. He calls it Northumbria.”

  “Northumbria?” Addison said. “You mean, the eminent domain section?”

  “That is exactly what I mean.”

  Addison smiled. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s almost worth getting thrown out of the car for that.”

  “I thought you might appreciate the irony.”

  Hawke and Pamela were just finishing their meal when Pamela looked up to see the small woman come into the car.

  “Bailey,” Pamela said. “What a…surprise.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Bailey McPherson replied. “Ever since we heard you disappeared from the train to Chicago we have been worried to death about you.”

  Hawke had stood when Bailey came into the car, and when she approached the table, he towered over her.

  “I’m sure you were. But as you can clearly see, I’m fine,” Pamela said.

  “I am so relieved.” Bailey looked up at Hawke. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your handsome gentleman friend?”

  “Bailey McPherson, this is Mason Hawke. Mr. Hawke is my knight in shining armor.”

  “So, I take it we have you to thank for Pamela’s rescue.”

  “Nothing heroic,” Hawke said. “I just happened to stumble into the cabin where she was.”

 
“Oh, it was much more than that,” Pamela said. “He killed the two desperadoes who kidnapped me.”

  “Killed them?” Bailey said with a gasp. She turned toward Hawke. “Oh, my, you must be very brave to take on two men in a fierce gun battle.”

  Hawke chuckled. “It wasn’t like I had a choice,” he replied. “They forced the fight on me.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they did.”

  Bailey turned toward Pamela again.

  “How fortunate you were to have this gentleman come to your rescue. Well, you will have a story to tell to your grandchildren, won’t you, my dear?”

  “I will indeed,” Pamela said. “Won’t you join us for tea?”

  “No, thank you, but I have people waiting for me in the other car.” She laughed. “In fact, they happen to be the very people you displaced from this car.”

  “Oh. Do you mean Mr. Addison Ford, Administrative Assistant to Secretary of Interior Columbus Delano?”

  “Then I see that you do know who he is.”

  “He informed us of his identity. He was quite put out, I’m afraid.”

  “Never mind about Mr. Ford. I will do what I can to soothe his ruffled spirits,” Bailey promised. “I’m glad you survived your ordeal. And, Mr. Hawke, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Hawke said with a slight nod. He waited until she had left the car before he sat down again.

  “What did you think of her?” Pamela asked.

  “Your friend is rather small,” Hawke said. He could think of nothing else to say.

  Pamela laughed out loud. “She is small. But I would hardly call her my friend. She is a scheming opportunist who doesn’t let a little thing like ethics stand in the way of her goal.”

  “Oh,” Hawke said. “Well, you can understand my confusion, I’m sure, but you two were carrying on like best friends.”

  “Women aren’t like men, Mr. Hawke, anxious to settle differences with fisticuffs. We can hide our most bitter disagreements behind disingenuous smiles.”

  “So I see,” Hawke said.

  Chapter 7

  HAWKE WAS ASLEEP WHEN PAMELA SHOOK HIM gently by the shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw her smiling down at him.

  “Have you always been able to fall asleep so quickly?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Hawke said. He yawned, then rubbed his eyes. Feeling the train’s speed diminishing, he asked, “Where are we?”

  “We are coming into Green River,” she said. “This is where I get off.”

  “I guess I’ll get off here as well.”

  “You needn’t detrain unless you wish to. I’ve made arrangements with the conductor. You can travel all the way through to California if you want.”

  “Thank you, but this is good enough.”

  Hawke looked out the window. There was nothing to see but a black, seemingly empty maw, interspersed with low-lying brush that grew alongside the track, illuminated for a brief moment by light cast from the windows of the train, then disappearing back into the darkness. Not until the train had slowed considerably did he see any indication of life, a few low-slung unpainted wooden buildings of such mean construction that, had he not seen dim lights shining from within, he would have thought unoccupied.

  With a rattling of couplings and a squeal of brakes, the train gradually began to slow. Still looking through the window, Hawke saw a brick building with a small black-on-white sign that read: GREEN RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.

  “So this is Green River,” he said.

  “Yes. It doesn’t look like much at night, but it’s really quite a growing little town,” Pamela said. She laughed. “Listen to me, English born and bred, extolling the virtues of a tiny town in the American West. But it has become my home and I feel a sense of proprietorship toward it now.”

  “I’m sure the town has no better advocate than you,” Hawke said. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Dorchester.”

  Nodding good-bye to Pamela, he went out to the car platform to pick up his saddle, then stepped down even before the train had come to a complete halt.

  The depot was crowded with scores of people. Trains connected the three thousand citizens of Green River with family, friends, and memories. They also brought visitors, returning citizens, mail, and the latest goods and services. It was no mystery, then, that at the arrival of each train the depot was the liveliest place in town.

  Hawke picked his way through the crowd, went into the depot, then stepped up to the freight window. A sign on it read: SHIPPING CLERK. In the little office behind the window, the shipping clerk himself, a thin man wearing a striped shirt with garters around each sleeve, was sitting at a desk. Under the light of a kerosene lantern, he was busily making entries into an open ledger book. Sensing Hawke’s presence, he looked up.

  “Yes, sir, somethin’ I can do for you?” he asked.

  “I wonder if I could store my saddle here for a while,” Hawke said.

  “You sure can, but it’ll cost you ten cents a day.”

  Hawke pulled out a dollar and handed it to the clerk. “Here’s ten days worth,” he said.

  The clerk took the dollar then nodded toward a door with his head. “You can stash it in there,” he said. “Go on in and find a place for it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hawke went into the room the clerk had pointed out. It was dimly lit by a wall-mounted lantern, but there was enough light to allow him to walk around without stumbling over anything. He found a spot by the wall for his saddle and dropped it there.

  As he was turning away he saw a piano—not the beer-stained, cigarette-burned, spur-scarred upright of most saloons, but a Steinway Concert Square.

  Hawke walked over and ran his hand across the smooth, ebonized rosewood. Pulling the bench out, he sat down between the carved cabriole legs, then lifted the lid and supported it with the fretwork music rack.

  It had been a long time since he’d touched such a fine piano. He hit a few keys and was rewarded with a rich, mellow tone. As he began playing, Hawke felt himself slipping away from the dark, depot storeroom in a small western town. He was at another time and another place.

  Fifteen hundred people filled the Crystal Palace in London, England, to hear the latest musical sensation from America. When the curtain opened, the audience applauded as Mason Hawke walked out onto the stage, flipped the tails back from his swallow coat, then took his seat at the piano.

  The auditorium grew quiet, and Mason began to play Beethoven’s Concerto Number Five in E Flat Major. The music filled the concert hall and caressed the collective soul of the audience. A music critic, writing of the concert in the London Times, said:

  “It was something magical. The brilliant young American pianist managed, with his playing, to resurrect the genius of the composer so that, to the listening audience, Mason Hawke and Ludwig Beethoven were one and the same.”

  “I say, my good man, who is that playing the piano?”

  The shipping clerk looked up to see a tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking man.

  “Oh, Mr. Dorchester! I’m sorry,” the shipping clerk said. “I don’t know just what the hell that fella thinks he’s doin’ in there.”

  The shipping clerk got up from his desk and went around the counter, heading for the storage area. “I’ll put a stop to it at once.”

  “No wait,” Dorchester said, holding up his hand. “I’ll see to it myself.”

  “I thought you were going to find Mr. Hawke and thank him,” Pamela said.

  “I will, my dear, I will,” Dorchester replied. “But listen to that music. I have not heard anything so beautiful since we left England. I must see who it is.”

  Dorchester and his daughter stepped into the dimly lit storeroom. The man playing the piano was practically in the dark, but even in the shadows of the dingy and crowded room, he projected a commanding presence as he sat on the bench dipping, moving, and swaying to the powerful movements of the allegro.

  “It can’t be,” Pamela said i
n a shocked tone of voice.

  “It can’t be what?” Dorchester asked.

  “It’s him!” Pamela said quietly. “This is the man I told you about! Father, he is the one who rescued me.”

  “This can’t be possible,” Dorchester whispered.

  “Father, it is him. I swear it is.”

  Dorchester held out his hand as if to quiet his daughter, then, seeing a box and a stool nearby, motioned that they should be seated.

  When Hawke finished the piece, he sat there for a moment, listening to the last fading echo of the music. It wasn’t until then that he heard two people applauding him. Turning, he saw Pamela and a tall, white-haired man that he knew must be her father.

  “I am sure that, for as long as I own that piano, I will never hear it played more beautifully,” Dorchester said.

  “Father, this is Mason Hawke, my knight in shining armor,” Pamela said.

  “This is your piano, Mr. Dorchester?” Hawke asked.

  “Yes, it arrived last week. I’m waiting to have it delivered to my house.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no right—” Hawke began, but Dorchester interrupted him.

  “That is nonsense. Who, I ask, has more right to play any piano than Sir Mason Hawke, Knight of the British Empire? You are that person, are you not? You were knighted by Queen Victoria during your triumphant concert tour of Britain and the Continent?”

  Hawke waved his hand in dismissal. “As you have learned, Mr. Dorchester, there are no titles in America. The knighthood was strictly honorary, and of no practical use.”

  “Of course it was honorary, but in my opinion, an honor well deserved, for your music truly is inspiring.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Pamela said. “When I said you were my knight, I wasn’t just talking, was I?”

  Hawke smiled and bowed. “What knight, real or honorary, would pass up the opportunity to rescue such a lovely damsel in distress?” he asked.

  Pamela smiled. “Mr. Hawke, you truly are an amazing man. Wouldn’t you say so, Father?”

  “I would indeed,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Hawke, I obviously cannot place a price on my daughter’s life. But I would like to reward you in some way.”

 

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