Cletus lowered the club but he didn’t drop it. He smiled, though it was a smile without mirth. “Now here, Mr. MacCallister, is that right? I mean after me’n you just had us a real friendly game of cards, you go and pull a gun on me behind my back. Is that nice? What kind of way is that for friends to act?”
“I don’t consider us friends, Mr. Clinton,” Falcon said. “And I don’t take kindly to anyone who would threaten a lady.”
“I was just trying to get her attention.”
“Really. And you got my attention instead. Funny how it works out like that sometime. Now, drop your pistol belt on the floor and get out of here.”
“What? Why the hell should I drop my pistol belt on the floor?” Cletus asked angrily. “I ain’t the one holdin’ a gun in my hand. You are.”
“You just answered your own question, Clinton. You should drop your pistol belt because I am the one holding the gun. And I’ll kill you if you don’t do it. Come back tomorrow when you are sober and you can pick it up.”
Cletus’s eyes narrowed as he continued to glare at Falcon. “Mister, I reckon you must be new in these parts. Otherwise, you would know that I ain’t the kind of man you want to have as an enemy,” he said menacingly.
“You don’t say,” Falcon replied calmly.
“Please go, Cletus,” Prentiss said quietly. “Do what the man says and get out of here. Otherwise, he will have to kill you, and I don’t want you bleeding all over my floor.”
There was a scattering of nervous laughter.
Cletus hesitated a few seconds longer. Then he dropped the chair leg, unbuckled his gunbelt, and let it drop to the floor. He pointed at Falcon.
“Mister, you made a mistake tonight. A big mistake. This ain’t over between us.”
“Clinton, you had better hope that it’s over,” Falcon said quietly.
“Are you threatening me?” Clinton asked.
“Call it more of a promise,” Falcon said.
Cletus curled his hands into fists, then walked to the door and stepped outside.
“Miss Kirby, are you all right?” Prentiss called over to the piano player.
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” Rachael replied in a tight voice.
While everyone else was reliving the scene in excited conversation and minute detail, very few paid any attention to Falcon when he walked over to pick up the club Cletus had dropped. With the club in his hand, Falcon stepped up to the batwing doors, then moved to one side and backed up against the wall. He waited.
He didn’t have to wait long, because seconds later the doors were pushed open with a bang.
“You son of a bitch! Nobody braces Cletus Clinton and gets away with it! Nobody!” Cletus shouted in a loud voice, totally oblivious of the fact that Falcon was standing no more than a few feet from him,
Cletus’s eyes were flashing, and his face was twisted into a mask of rage, but nobody was looking at his face. What everyone was looking at was the double-barrel 12-gauge Greener shotgun he had thrust out in front of him.
“Look out!” Corey shouted.
There were other shouts of alarm as everyone in the saloon hurried to get out of the way.
Those who had kept their eyes glued on Clinton were surprised when they suddenly saw Falcon smash the cowboy in the forehead with the club he was holding.
For a long moment, everyone remained quiet and still, shocked into silence by what they had just witnessed.
“Son of a bitch,” someone finally said, the words almost reverent.
Then all began talking at the same time, the voices rising louder and louder in their nervous excitement.
Deke and Lou looked at the prostrate form of their boss as he lay on his back on the saloon floor.
“Is he dead?” Deke asked.
“No,” Falcon said. “Now, get him out of here.”
“Mister, I hope you know what you done. Cletus has a bad temper. He ain’t likely to forget this.”
“I don’t intend for him to forget it,” Falcon said. “Now, get his sorry carcass out of here.”
At that moment, Marshal Calhoun pushed his way through the batwing doors and, seeing Cletus on the floor, looked around the smoke-filled room.
“Son of bitch, is that Cletus Clinton?” he asked.
“Hello, Marshal Calhoun. Yes, that’s him, all right,” Prentiss said.
Deke and Lou started to pick up Cletus. “Leave him be for the moment,” Calhoun said. “Is he dead?”
“No such luck,” Corey said. “Falcon just laid him out, is all.”
Calhoun saw the shotgun lying on the floor, then looked up at Falcon. “You the one he was coming after, Falcon?”
“I was,” Falcon replied.
“Why didn’t you save us all a peck of trouble and kill the son of a bitch? If he came after you with a shotgun, you certainly had cause.”
“I guess I was just feeling generous,” Falcon said.
Marshal Calhoun chuckled. “Falcon MacCallister feeling generous,” he said. “I like that.”
“Marshal, what are you going to do about this fella hittin’ Cletus right between the eyes, like he done?” Lou asked. “He could’a kilt him.”
“He should’ve killed him,” Calhoun replied.
“Can we take Cletus home now?” Deke asked.
“No, but you can take him down to the jail,” Calhoun replied.
“What? The hell you say. You ain’t goin’ to put ’im in jail,” Deke said angrily.
“That’s where you are wrong, because that is exactly what I am going to do,” Marshal Calhoun said.
“It ain’t in no way right for you to put him in jail,” Deke insisted. “Cletus is the one that got hit. Right between the eyes, it was, and with a club as big around as your wrist. Ike ain’t goin’ to like this. He ain’t goin’ to like this none a’tall.”
“Take him down there and put him in jail now,” Calhoun ordered, pointing toward the jailhouse, “or I’ll throw the two of you in there with him.”
Struggling with the deadweight of the unconscious form, Deke and Lou left the saloon carrying Cletus.
“All right, folks, all the excitement is over,” Prentiss said to the saloon patrons, who were still gathered around watching the proceedings with intense curiosity. “Go on back to your tables now and enjoy your time with us. The next beer is on the house.”
“Good!”
“Thanks!”
“Good man.”
As the patrons crowded the bar for their free beers, Rachael, after a nod from Corey, returned to the piano and began playing.
“I’ve been here at least a half-dozen times,” Falcon said. “I’ve heard of Ike Clinton, but I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”
“That’s because until there was talk of a railroad, Clinton pretty much stayed to himself,” Calhoun said.
“Where did he come from?”
“Some say he rode with Doc Jennison and the Kansas Jayhawkers; others say he rode with Bloody Bill Anderson and the Bushwhackers of Missouri,” Calhoun explained. “If you want to know the truth, I think they are both right. I think our friend Clinton played both sides for whatever he could get. I know he came out here not too long after the war with more than ten thousand dollars in cash.”
“Folks say he’s never seen an acre he didn’t claim, or a cow he didn’t brand,” Corey said.
“Yes, and if he has his way now, he’ll put his brand on General Garrison’s railroad,” Prentiss added.
“Knowing the general, I think that may be a bit bigger project than Clinton can handle,” Calhoun said.
“It just might be,” Falcon said.
Calhoun studied Falcon for a long moment, then he laughed. “I’ll be damned, Falcon, I just figured out why you are here. You were with the general durin’ the war, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was with him for a while,” Falcon agreed.
“I thought as much. The general brought you out here, didn’t he?”
Falcon paused for a moment,
recalling Garrison’s suggestion that he not tell anyone. But he knew it would be impossible to maintain that façade, so he just took a deep breath and answered truthfully.
“Yes, I got a letter from the general asking me if I would come.”
Calhoun nodded. “Good, good. The general is a good man, he needs somebody like you on his side.”
“You’re on his side,” Falcon replied.
“Yeah, I’m on his side. But only to the edge of town,” Calhoun said. He sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s as far as my jurisdiction goes.”
“Wait until the next election, Titus,” Corey said. “You’ll be the sheriff then.”
Calhoun chuckled. “I don’t know, I didn’t do all that well in the last election.”
“We’ve learned a few things since then,” Prentiss said.
“I appreciate your support,” Calhoun said. “But now, I guess I’d better get on down to the jail before my prisoner wakes up.”
“Good night, Marshal, thanks for responding so fast,” Corey said.
Calhoun nodded without answering, then pushed outside into the darkness.
“There goes a good man,” Prentiss said. “I don’t know where this town would be without him.”
“We would be run over roughshod by Sheriff Belmond more’n likely,” Corey replied.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Billy Clinton came into town driving a buckboard. He stopped in front of the general store where Carl Moore, the proprietor, was sweeping off the store’s front porch.
“Mr. Moore, have you seen my brother Cletus?” Billy asked.
“Not since yesterday, Billy,” Moore answered.
“Do you mind if I leave the buckboard parked here until I find him?”
“No, sir, I don’t mind a bit,” Moore said.
“Thanks.”
Climbing down from the buckboard, Billy started up the walk toward Little Man Lambert’s Café. If Cletus was still in town, like as not he would be having breakfast, and given that the Calhoun brothers owned the Vermillion, it wasn’t very likely he would be there. And even if Cletus wasn’t in town, Billy was hungry, so Little Man’s was as good a place as any to start looking for him.
“Mornin’, Billy,” someone said as he passed Billy on the board sidewalk.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Clark,” Billy replied. “Say, have you seen my brother this morning?”
Clark shook his head. “Haven’t seen him this morning, but I saw him at the Golden Nugget last night. He was feeling pretty good, if you know what I mean.”
“Drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get into any trouble?”
“Well, now, that I can’t tell you,” Clark said. “Seein’ as I didn’t stay too much longer after he got there. He wasn’t in no trouble last time I seen him, though.”
“Thanks, Mr. Clark.”
Billy left the sidewalk and crossed the dirt street, picking his way gingerly through the horse droppings. He pushed the door open at Little Man’s, and saw Cletus sitting at a table in the back.
Billy gasped. Both Cletus’s eyes were black and his nose was purple and swollen. He was also so drunk that it was all he could do to hold his head up.
Billy walked back to the table and sat down.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“What do you mean, what happened to me?” Cletus asked.
“Your eyes are all black.”
“They are?” Cletus touched himself between his eyes and winced in pain. “Damn,” he said. “That hurts.”
“Well, I should say it hurts,” Billy said. “It’s a wonder you can even see out of them. What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you get into a fight?”
“I don’t know,” Cletus repeated. “I must have. But I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Where did you spend the night? Do you at least know that?” Billy asked.
“Yeah, I know that.”
“Where?”
“In the jail,” Cletus said. “I spent the night in jail. What about Deke and Lou? Where are they?”
Billy shook his head. “I don’t know, I haven’t seen them this morning. Did they get into a fight, too?”
“I don’t know.”
Billy sighed. “Look at you. You are so damn drunk, you don’t know anything.”
The waitress brought a plate of eggs, potatoes, and fried ham to set before Cletus. Cletus looked at his breakfast stupidly for a moment, as if having difficulty making his eyes focus. Then he smiled.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, grinning. “I was sittin’ here waitin’ on another drink, but I must’ve ordered breakfast.” His face paled as he looked at the food, then he pushed it away. “Why’d I order breakfast? I can’t eat this shit,” he said.
“Give it to me, I haven’t eaten yet,” Billy said.
“You can eat it?”
“Yes, I can eat.”
“How can you eat it?”
“I can eat it because I’m not hungover from a night of drinking, fighting, and who knows what else you were doing.”
“Oh yeah, I forget,” Cletus said. “You are the good boy of the family. Pa thinks me and Ray should be more like you. Tell me, little brother, do you think I should be more like you?”
“Would it do any good if I said I thought you should?” Billy asked. He cut a piece of ham and stuck it in his mouth.
“No, it wouldn’t do no good a’tall,” Cletus said. “Besides which, I got me a score to settle with Marshal Calhoun.”
“What score do you have to settle with him?” Billy raked his biscuit through some egg yellow, then took a bite.
“I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Cletus,” Billy said. “You say you have a score to settle with Marshal Calhoun, but you don’t even know the reason?”
“I’ve got these here two black eyes!” Cletus shouted. “Ain’t that reason enough?” Cletus’s voice was so loud that a few of the others who were eating their own breakfast looked around nervously.
“You’re making a scene, Cletus,” Billy cautioned.
“I don’t care. This here thing with Marshal Calhoun and his two brothers has gone far enough. I’m goin’ to stand up to them today. Are you goin’ to stand up with me? Or are you goin’ to turn tail and run?”
“What do you plan to do?” Billy asked.
“It don’t matter what I plan to do. What I want to know is, whatever I do, will you be there with me?”
“I’m your brother,” Billy said.
“I know you’re my brother,” Cletus said. “That ain’t the question. The question I’m askin’ you is will you be there with me?”
“I hope it never actually comes to that, but it if does, yes, I’ll be with you.”
“What if it actually comes to gunplay? Would you be there to back me up?”
Billy sighed. “Yes,” he said. “Like I told you, you’re my brother. If it comes to gunplay, I’ll back you.”
Suddenly, the anger left Cletus’s face and he grinned broadly. “I was hopin’ you would say that,” he said. “Just knowin’ I can count on you makes me happy. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re goin’ home,” Cletus said. He laughed. “If Calhoun and his brothers want to have a shootout, why, they can just have it amongst themselves.”
Billy laughed happily. “Now you’re making sense,” he said. “Come on, I have a buckboard parked just down the street.”
“A buckboard? Where’s my horse?”
“It came back to the ranch last night,” Billy said.
Kathleen Garrison stood at the front window of the CNM&T office and watched as Billy drove by in the buckboard. Billy’s brother, Cletus, was sitting in the seat beside him, his head hanging forward as if he were asleep.
She wondered if Billy would glance toward the window, and when he did, she felt a little thrill pass through her. She waved at him, and she saw t
he small smile play across his face as he nodded in response.
Leaving the front window, she returned to the desk, then pulled out the poem he had written for her. She read the poem again, allowing each word to go to her heart.
Then, the joy she was feeling was suddenly replaced with a jolt of reality.
He had said it in the poem.
She was a Garrison.
He was a Clinton.
Kathleen heard her father’s footsteps on the front porch, and quickly, she folded the poem and stuck it between the pages of a copy of Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations.
“Hello, Papa,” she said to him as he came in.
“I was just down to the telegraph office,” Garrison said. “All the material I need for building the depot has arrived in La Junta. Mr. Thompson is sending wagons after it tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful, Papa,” Kathleen said. “Let’s just pray that it arrives without anyone being killed or hurt.”
“Prayer is good,” Garrison agreed. “But you’ve heard the old expression ‘God helps him who helps himself ’?”
“Yes, of course.”
Garrison nodded. “I’m helping myself,” he said. “I’m sending Falcon MacCallister along with the wagons. I pity anyone who tries to stop them this time.”
Mounted on a horse supplied by Wade Garrison, Falcon was on the way to La Junta with the wagons. They had left Higbee at first light, and were now halfway between Higbee and La Junta.
Garrison wasn’t the only one to take steps to ensure the safety of the shipment. For this trip to La Junta and back, Thompson had hired guards to ride with the drivers, arming each of them with double-barrel shotguns.
As the wagons rolled slowly toward La Junta, the three guards shouted directions at each other.
“Tom, you check the tree line over there. Do you see anything?” one of the guards called.
“No, what about you?” Tom replied. “Anything in those rocks?”
“Nothing I can see.”
“Uh, Tom, Larry, and, Frank, is it?” Falcon asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I make a suggestion?”
“No, why should we mind? We’re in this together,” Larry replied.
“Good,” Falcon said. “Take a look at the wagons.”
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