As Falcon started to shuffle the cards, Roy, who had been drinking enough whiskey to feel brave, stood up suddenly, a belligerent expression on his face.
“That’s not good enough for me! I think you’re a cheat, MacCallister, an’ I want my money back.”
Falcon stopped shuffling and sat very still. It was a common hazard of his profession to be called a cheater. Most men who played poker didn’t study their opponents as he did, and resented the fact that he consistently won when they were losing. He didn’t take offense at the suggestion, as most men would, since he knew it was testimony to his prowess at the game, and he could usually talk his way out of the situations without resorting to gunplay.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at Roy.
“I explained to you how I won the hand, Roy. Now, either ante up or get out of the game. Don’t let that whiskey you’ve been guzzling all night do your talking for you.”
Walter Gibbons, a saddlemate of Roy’s from the spread they both worked on, also stood up. “I’m with Roy, MacCallister. You been winning all night, an’ nobody’s that lucky. ”
“Luck has nothing to do with winning at poker, Walter. It is a matter of skill.”
Roy’s face got beet-red and he slapped at the pistol on his belt. A split second later, so did Walter.
Falcon threw himself backward out of his chair, hit the floor and rolled to his knees, hands filled with iron.
His Colt Peacemakers exploded, kicking back into his palms, shooting flame and smoke from the barrels.
His left hand gun sent molten lead into Roy’s face, punching a hole in his forehead and blowing brains and blood out the back of his head, dropping him like a stone.
His right-hand gun spit a .45 caliber slug into Walter’s chest, shattering his breastbone and imbedding itself in his heart, spinning him around to sprawl facedown in the sawdust on the floor, dead before he hit the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, Falcon saw the Kid whip out his pistol and aim it in his direction. The Kid’s draw was so fast that he fired before Falcon could swing his pistols around toward him.
The Kid’s bullet passed over Falcon’s head, striking another man in the upper shoulder and dropping him to the floor, where he lay moaning and crying in pain.
Falcon glanced over his shoulder and saw the man had a pistol in his hand. He was a friend of Roy’s, and had been about to shoot Falcon in the back.
Falcon got slowly to his feet, his nostrils wrinkling at the acrid smell of gunsmoke and cordite which filled the room with a gray haze.
He nodded at the Kid.
“Thanks, Kid. I owe you one for that.”
“Naw, it weren’t nothin’. I can’t abide a backshooter. Man wants to join a fracas, that’s all right with me, but he ought to have the cojones to do it face-to-face, not from behind like some bushwhacker.”
“Nevertheless, I’m in your debt.”
As Falcon and the Kid stood talking, another rider from Roy and Walter’s ranch stepped through the batwings and leveled a rifle at the pair.
A tall man with a handlebar moustache standing at the bar drew in a flash and backhanded the puncher in the face with his pistol, knocking his head back and sending teeth and blood flying into the air.
The cowboy staggered, shook his ruined face once, then fell backward over a chair, out cold.
Falcon and the Kid whirled, hands full of iron, crouching to face this new threat.
The tall man held his hands up, a half-smile on his face.
“Hold on there, gents. I’m not involved in this. I just don’t like backshooters any more than the Kid does.”
The Kid squinted, then grinned and holstered his pistol.
“He’s all right, Falcon. That there is Pat Garrett, an old acquaintance of mine.”
Falcon walked over to the bar and held out his hand.
“I’m mighty obliged to you, Mr. Garrett.”
Garrett took Falcon’s hand.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Falcon said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“How’re you doin’, Pat?” the Kid asked.
“Long time no see, Kid.”
As they bellied to the bar, Falcon got a bottle of his best whiskey and poured himself and Garrett a drink. “I guess you don’t want any of this, huh, Kid?”
The Kid shook his head. “Nope, but I’ll take a glass of that there sarsaparilla, if you’re offerin’.”
Falcon complied, then turned to Garrett. “Where do you two know each other from?”
Garrett smiled. “I met the Kid when I first came out here. I was trying my hand at buffalo hunting, and me and my partner had a little trouble, so we ... split up. The Kid and me were both scrounging around, looking for just about any work we could find.”
The Kid broke in. “Yeah, and me and Pat played a few hands of poker together. He’s hell on the faro table, I’ll tell you that.”
Garrett, who was at least six-foot four inches tall, laughed. “They used to call us Big Casino and Little Casino around the gambling halls, cause we were such a sight standing at the tables next to each other.”
“What are you up to now, Pat?” Falcon asked.
Garrett shrugged. “Not much. I just got into town tonight, and I haven’t gotten a job yet.”
Falcon nodded. “You ever do any bartending?”
“I’ve leaned against my share, but always on this side. Why?”
Falcon inclined his head. “Roy here, my regular man, has been wanting some time off to go back east and visit some kinfolk. How about you take his job until he gets back? That way, when things are slow, you might even be able to pick up a little money playing poker.”
“Take the job, Pat,” the Kid said. “I need for you to earn some money so I can take it away from you at the tables.”
Garrett shook his head. “That’ll be the day, Kid. All right, Mr. MacCallister, I’ll do it. When do you want me to start?”
“Tomorrow’s soon enough.”
Garrett stroked his moustache. “It looks like your game is a couple of men short. If I could get a small advance, I’d be willing to teach the Kid some lessons about poker.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Falcon said.
“Then get somebody to drag these men outta here so we can get back to playin’,” the Kid said, putting his arm around Garrett’s shoulders and leading him toward the table. “I still need to win that boots and chaps money.”
Falcon glanced at the bartender. “Call the sheriff and take that one over to doc’s place,” he said, indicating the wounded man.
“This round’s on the house,” he called, “and we have one more empty seat in the game if anyone’s interested.”
* * *
Two hours later, shortly after midnight, he walked with Billy out to his horse.
“I was serious in there, Kid. I never forget a debt. If you ever need me, I’ll be there with you.”
The Kid waved a handful of dollars. “Hell, Falcon. I got me enough for my boots, so I’m satisfied.”
Falcon noticed the Kid was climbing up on a different horse than the one he’d been riding when he met him the other day.
“That’s a fine looking sorrel, Kid. New bronc?”
The Kid turned to Falcon, his eyes excited. “Yeah. When Mr. Tunstall hired me, he saw I was down on my luck, so he made me a present of this here horse, a new saddle, and a new gun.”
He pulled out a nickel-plated Colt Peacemaker with ivory handles. Looking into Falcon’s eyes, he said, “It’s the first time in my life anybody’s given me anything. I’ll tell you, Falcon, Mr. Tunstall’s the best man I ever knowed.”
Falcon nodded. “Yes, everyone I’ve talked to has said the same thing, that he’s a right smart gentleman.”
“He’s every bit of that,” the Kid said as he swung up into the saddle. “I’m privileged to be working for the man and ridin’ for his brand.”
“You take care now, Kid. Watch your back. I’ve heard there’s r
eal bad blood between Tunstall and Dolan and his men.”
“Don’t you worry none ’bout me, Falcon. I’ll take care to see that nothing happens to Mr. Tunstall.”
He pulled his horse around and walked it down the street in the direction of Tunstall’s Rio Feliz ranch.
“You won’t be sorry you hired Pat Garrett,” he called back over his shoulder. “He’s a real fine fellow.”
Falcon smiled to himself as he walked back into The Drinking Hole. He was glad the Kid seemed to have found a good place to work, for a man that would treat him right and appreciate him. Maybe that would keep him from getting into more trouble.
Ten
Over the course of the next several weeks Falcon settled into the routine of respected citizen and business owner of Fort Sumner, and found he was actually enjoying himself for the first time in several months. He almost forgot the reason he was roaming the country, away from his home in Valley, Colorado—the horrible death of his beloved wife Marie. Almost.
He began to learn the names of the townsfolk, and they, in turn, began to frequent The Drinking Hole in greater numbers than ever. Falcon began serving light lunches of steak sandwiches and sliced tomatoes and canned peaches and such. Many of the townspeople began to have lunch at his establishment, doing deals and talking business while eating and drinking.
He also found that the Kid had been right about the stranger he hired to bartend, Pat Garrett. The man was a natural born politician. Tall, lean, handsome, he had a way of making people feel at ease, encouraging them to talk about themselves so they stayed in the Hole longer and drank and ate more. Business had never been better. Falcon even found himself liking the big man, and ended up telling him some of the story of his past over long conversations during slow periods.
Garrett never drank while on duty, and kept a pot of fresh coffee to drink while talking. Falcon found Garrett to be a shrewd judge of character, almost as good as he himself was at reading people. Perhaps that was why he was such a good gambler, making more money in his off hours at poker than Falcon was paying him to tend bar.
Falcon noticed that certain group of businessmen from Lincoln were making the long trip around the mountain to Fort Sumner several times a week, to have lunch or a late dinner huddled at a corner table, heads together, speaking in low tones.
He couldn’t understand why they would travel all that way to eat and talk when there were several establishments in Lincoln that would have served their purpose just as well. He supposed it was because they didn’t want to be seen together by the people of Lincoln. Like all good businessmen, he kept his suspicions to himself and his mouth shut, and listened whenever he could.
James J. Dolan, Lawrence G. Murphey, and Sheriff Brady were becoming almost regulars at the lunches, often accompanied by a man Falcon was told was a lawyer named Billy Matthews.
Murphey, who drank to extreme, often became loud during these meetings, and Falcon was able to overhear some of his comments. Tunstall’s name was mentioned, along with Chisum’s, and on several occasions, there were heated discussions with a known gunfighter named Jesse Evans.
On one of those days, Evans stayed behind after the others left and signaled Garrett for another drink. Falcon, who was standing at the bar, offered to carry it to the gunny’s table.
When he handed the drink to Evans, the man said, “Your name be Falcon MacCallister?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard of you, MacCallister. Word around is you’re pretty handy with them six-killers you wear on your belt.”
Falcon wondered where this conversation was headed. “I know how to use them if the need arises.”
“I also hear you’ve killed so many men you’ve lost count of the actual number.”
Falcon inclined his head at a chair, and Evans nodded for him to have a seat.
“You hear a lot for a man I don’t know. Just what business are you in, Mr. Evans? You don’t have the look of a cow puncher.”
Evans laughed, a nasty, sarcastic laugh. “Me? I’m not a cowboy. I make my living with my wits, MacCallister, just as I’ve heard you do.”
Falcon shook his head. “I’ve never hired my gun out, if that’s what you mean. And to answer your earlier question, the only men I’ve killed have been those who have done me or mine wrong. I never shot a man for profit, or in the course of doing business.”
“Well, if I was to make an offer, a very good offer I might add, would you consider doing some business for some friends of mine, if the need arose?”
“By friends, do you mean J.J. Dolan and L.G. Murphey?”
Evans frowned and his eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”
Falcon shrugged. “They seem to be the only people I ever see you in here talking with.”
“Well, what if it was them? Would you take on a job if it was offered?”
Falcon shook his head. “I told you, I don’t hire my gun out, to anyone. Besides, I already have a job.”
Evans smiled—at least, his lips curled up—but there was no humor in his eyes. “Good, ’cause my friends were a bit worried that if push came to shove you just might stick your nose into something that ain’t none of your business.”
“Are you talking about their campaign against John Tunstall and John Chisum?”
Evans straightened in his seat. “What do you mean by that, MacCallister?”
Now Falcon smiled, also without any mirth. “Oh, I hear things now and again.”
“What things?”
“Things like you’ve been selling a lot of cattle to Murphey and Dolan for their government contracts, cattle you say you’ve been buying in Mexico, but no one’s ever seen you riding toward the border and these cattle look a lot fatter and bigger than the usual Mexican steers.”
Evans’ hand inched toward his hip. “Those are dangerous things to be hearing, MacCallister. A man could get killed for repeating accusations like that.”
Falcon moved his chair a bit and leaned back, his hand loose on the arm of his chair. “Don’t even think about drawing on me, Evans. You’d be dead before you cleared leather.”
“You that good, MacCallister?”
“Like you say you’ve heard, there are more men than I can count who found out how good I am.”
Evans put his hand back on the table, finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes worried. If they had been playing poker, Falcon thought, he would have had the look of a man drawing to an inside straight with his last dollar in the pot.
“As they say, MacCallister, curiosity killed the cat.”
Falcon shrugged. “I’d be worried if I was a cat. But I’m not. I am, however, a friend of John Chisum’s and John Tunstall’s, and I will be very disappointed if anything happens to either of them. Do you understand me, Evans?”
Evans glared with hate as he reached in his pocket and threw a couple of coins on the table. He got up and stalked out of the Hole without a backward glance.
Falcon took the money and gave it to Garrett. “I couldn’t hear what you said, bossman,” Pat told him, “but I’d say you put a sizeable burr under Jesse Evans’s saddle just now.”
“I hope so, Pat. I gave him some advice that I hope he takes.”
“That wouldn’t be about him shopping for cattle on Chisum’s and Tunstall’s spreads, would it?”
Falcon looked at Pat.
Pat shrugged. “I’ve been hearing things.”
Falcon laughed. “The way people have been hearing things around here, you’d think this was a ladies’ sewing circle instead of a saloon.”
Just then, the Kid walked through the batwings, looking back over his shoulder at the departing Jesse Evans.
“Howdy Falcon, Pat.”
“Hello, Kid,” Falcon said.
“I just saw Jesse Evans leavin’ here with an expression like he’d been sucking on lemons.”
“Yes. He’s been meeting here regularly with Dolan and Murphey from over in Lincoln.”
&nbs
p; The Kid frowned. “What’re they doin’ over here? Kind’a long way to come for a drink, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking, too, Kid. Seems those three and Sheriff Brady like to come over here to talk business, two, maybe three times a week.”
The Kid scowled. “That Sheriff Brady is crooked as a snake’s trail. Mr. Tunstall tells me he’s been trying to serve some papers on him and Mr. McSween about some old cattle deal or something.”
Falcon’s gaze became thoughtful. “Kind of makes you wonder what a sheriff and supposedly respectable businessmen have to do with a known outlaw like Jesse Evans, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t care who they’re dancin’ with, long as they leave my boss alone,” the Kid snarled.
“What are you doing here in the middle of the day, Kid? Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Falcon asked.
“Yeah, but the boss is staying out at the ranch and doesn’t need me to watch his back out there. He asked me to come in to town and invite you out for dinner tonight. He wants to have a palaver with you.”
“What about?”
“Beats me. He just told me to bring you back, if you’re willin’.”
Falcon shrugged. “I don’t see any reason why not. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in quite a while. Is the cook out at the Rio Feliz any good?”
“She’s a Mexican señora, wife of one of the vaqueros Mr. Tunstall uses to herd the beeves. Weighs about three hundred pounds and cooks a steak so tender you don’t need a knife to cut it.”
“Then let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we eat.”
The Kid hesitated. “Uh, Falcon, you might want to go and put on a clean coat, spruce up a bit.”
Falcon raised his eyebrows. “For supper?”
The Kid shrugged. “It’s some custom the boss brought over here from England. He says they always ’dress for dinner’ over there.”
Falcon shook his head. “The man has a lot to learn about life in the West,” he murmured to himself.
Eleven
Falcon saddled Diablo and the Kid rode the sorrel Tunstall had given him and they set off for the Rio Feliz ranch about an hour before dusk.
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