“Yes, sir,” Clyde answered, glad to acquiesce to someone who seemed confident enough to take control.
Leaning out the side of the engine cab, Falcon saw Buddy standing in the doorway of the express car, holding a white bag.
“Buddy, I’ve got your horse! Throw me the bag and let’s get out of here!” a voice shouted from the darkness.
“Bring my horse here.”
“And get him shot? Throw the bag!”
Buddy threw the bag and Falcon shot it, hitting it twice. The impact of the bullets stopped the bag in midflight, and it fell just at the outside edge of the ambient light.
Buddy shot at Falcon, and Falcon returned fire. Buddy went down.
Jumping down from the engine cab, Falcon started up the side of the tender. That was when someone from the first car leaned out and shot at him. The bullet cracked by his head; then his would-be assailant disappeared back inside.
Falcon walked out to recover the bag, keeping his senses alert to the fact that someone was out there in the darkness. That was when he heard the sound of galloping hooves.
Thinking his adversary had fled the scene, Falcon relaxed somewhat and started toward the bag. That was a mistake, because two more shots came from the darkness, both of them dangerously close.
“You ain’t gettin’ my money, mister,” the voice called from the darkness.
“It’s not your money,” Falcon replied.
“Well, now, it looks like what we’ve got ourselves here is a Mexican standoff,” Thad called from the darkness. “The money is just lyin’ out there in the dark, and can’t neither one of us get to it.”
At that moment, Falcon heard a shot coming from inside one of the passenger cars. The shot was followed by a woman’s scream.
Thad laughed, his laughter evil-sounding from the dark. “Sounds like my men are killin’ your passengers,” he said. “That means you got yourself a decision to make, Mr. Hero. You can stay out here and keep an eye on that money bag, or you can get back on the train and rescue the passengers.”
From inside one of the passenger cars there was another shot, and another scream.
“So, which will it be? The money or the passengers?”
With a frustrated sigh, Falcon turned back toward the train. He slipped back on board as soon as he had a chance to do so. Laughter from outside told him that the train robber had retrieved the money bag.
In the first car, he saw that everyone was awake, and sitting in their seats, terrified by what was going on. But one man in the back was looking out the window as if totally uninterested in the drama playing out around him.
Falcon wondered how the man could be so unafraid, unless he was the cause of everyone else’s fear. He stared at the man as he walked down the aisle.
Either because of Falcon’s intense stare, or because he was just nervous, the man suddenly raised his pistol and fired at Falcon. Falcon saw the finger of fire leap from the barrel of the pistol, and felt, rather than heard, the crack of the bullet as it slammed by him.
A woman screamed as Falcon fired back, and he saw a small, dark hole appear right between the man’s eyes. The man fell back across the seat.
Falcon ran through the cars until he reached the last car. As he ran up the aisle, gun drawn, several people reacted in fear, but one of the passengers called out to him.
“He got off the train!”
Nodding his thanks, Falcon started toward the rear exit. Because the car was lit from inside, and it was dark outside, the windows acted as mirrors. That little fact saved Falcon’s life, because glancing at the window nearest the exit, he saw a man aiming a gun at him. It was the same person who had just told him that the outlaw had left the train.
Hawk jerked to one side just as the man fired, and the bullet from the assailant’s gun went through the very window in which Falcon had seen the reflection.
Falcon fired back, hitting the shooter in the throat and sending him crashing through the window by his seat, half in and half out.
Falcon stood there for a moment with smoke curling up from his gun, commingling with the smoke from the outlaw’s gun. He walked over to check the man out, but saw that he was dead. He put his gun back in his holster, then looked up at the anxious passengers.
“It’s all over, folks,” he said.
“There may be others,” someone said in alarm.
Falcon shook his head. “No. There were only four. One got away.”
“What about the other three?”
“You won’t have to worry about the other three,” Falcon said.
* * *
After retrieving the money bag, Thad waited around for a while until he saw five bodies put into the baggage car. Three of the bodies were his men, Buddy Taylor, Curly Latham, and Rufus Wade. And, by the coveralls the man was wearing, he recognized the engineer’s body. He had no idea who the fifth body was, but figured it was probably one of the passengers.
“Well, boys,” he said with a silent salute. “Too bad you aren’t going to be around to help me spend the money.” He laughed, then leaned forward and patted the money bag, which now hung from the saddle pommel.
* * *
“Mr. MacCallister?” the conductor said, gently shaking Falcon awake.
Falcon opened his eyes and ran his hand across his face. “Yes?”
“We’re coming into Belfield,” the conductor said.
Falcon nodded, then looked through the window. It was light now, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. It was five after eight.
“I hated to wake you, you were sleeping so soundly, and Lord knows you earned it,” the conductor said. “But you did say you wanted me to wake you at Belfield.”
“Yes, thanks,” Falcon said.
The train slowed with a series of jerking moves, rather than the smooth way it normally slowed. That was evidence of the fact that the man at the throttle was the fireman, and not the engineer.
Falcon thought of the man who was driving this train. While Falcon slept, Clyde had been forced into the position of being both fireman and engineer. It was a backbreaking task, and he’d kept it up all through the night. Falcon hoped the railroad would reward him in some way.
Reaching overhead, Falcon retrieved his saddlebags and rifle, the only luggage he had. He walked to the front of the car and stepped down onto the wooden platform. The depot was a small, red-painted building with a black-on-white sign that read BELFIELD.
Behind Falcon the train, temporarily at rest from its long run, wasn’t quiet. Because Clyde kept the steam up, the valve continued to open and close in great, heaving sighs. Overheated wheel bearings and gearboxes popped and snapped as the tortured metal cooled. On the platform all around him, there was a discordant chorus of squeals, laughter, shouts, and animated conversation as people were getting on and off the train.
Dickenson was the only scheduled stop between where they were robbed and Belfield, but as no one on the train was ticketed for Dickenson, and the stationmaster didn’t have a stop signal out, Clyde had barreled on through. As a result, no one in Belfield knew of the robbery until the train arrived. But within minutes after arriving in the station, the news spread quickly.
Falcon could measure the speed with which the news was traveling according to the change in conversation. He knew also that the arriving passengers were telling of his participation in the excitement, because soon he could feel many sets of eyes staring at him.
Looking up toward the baggage car, Falcon saw that five bodies were being taken down and laid out side by side on the wooden platform.
“Don’t you dare!” Falcon heard Clyde shout, his words clearly audible even above the sound of popping metal and vented steam.
“What’s that?” someone called back up to him.
“Don’t you dare lay Cephus’s body alongside those other sons of bitches!”
“That there is Micah Peters. He was a passenger; he don’t belong with them outlaws either,” someone said.
&n
bsp; “All right, move Cephus and Mr. Peters away from the others,” another said.
The curious began to gather around the bodies then, and while Falcon had no particular interest in them, he found himself there as well, because the bodies had been placed very close to the stock car and Falcon was waiting for his horse to be off-loaded.
“Hey, I know one of them boys,” someone said. He pointed to one. “That one there is Rufus Wade. Me’n him cowboyed together last year. That is, till he got drunk and set fire to the bunkhouse. Mr. Eddington fired him for that.”
The one identified as Rufus Wade was the one Falcon had shot through the throat. There was a hole in his throat, as well as cuts and gashes on his face, sustained when he crashed through the window. One of Rufus’s eyes was open and one eye was shut. His lips were pursed and open, showing yellow, crooked teeth.
“He’s young,” the man who identified him said.
“He ain’t young,” another said.
“Yeah, he is too. He’s only nineteen.”
“He ain’t young,” the other insisted. “He’s dead. You can’t get no older than dead.”
“Who are the other two?”
“I don’t know. Onliest one I know is Rufus Wade.”
“That is Buddy Taylor, and that’s Curly Latham,” a new voice said. The speaker was a short, stocky, gray-haired man wearing a badge.
Even after all these years, Falcon recognized him, and he walked over to the man whose life his mother and father had saved so long ago.
“You’d be Billy Puckett?” he asked.
“I am.”
Falcon extended his hand. “As near as I can reckon, it’s been thirty-two years since I last saw you. But you haven’t changed that much.”
For a second Sheriff Billy Puckett looked confused. Then a wide grin spread across his face. “You’re Falcon MacCallister,” he said. He reached to shake Falcon’s hand. “Welcome to Belfield.”
“Thanks,” Falcon said. “When did you take up sheriffing?”
“Comin’ up on twenty years now,” Puckett said. “Soon as I got back from the war.”
“You said you were seventy years old. It would seem to me like you’d earned the right to sit in a rocking chair for a while.”
“A fella can’t make a living sitting in a rocking chair,” Billy replied.
“I guess you’re right about that,” Falcon agreed.
Falcon stared down at the bodies. All three had their arms folded across their chests. Only Buddy Taylor had both eyes open, and Curly Latham had both eyes closed, his eyelid muscles having been destroyed by the bullet that hit him right between the eyes.
Another man came up to stand near Falcon and Billy Puckett. This man was also wearing a badge. He was younger, taller, and slimmer than Billy. He was wearing a big, black handlebar moustache.
“Falcon, this here is my deputy, Walter Merrill,” Billy said.
Falcon and the deputy nodded at each other.
“Walter’s been with me for five years now. He’s goin’ to make a good sheriff someday. Fact is, he’d be a good sheriff now if I’d step out of the way.”
Merrill shook his head. “I ain’t ready for you to step out of the way yet, Sheriff,” he said. “I’m still learnin’ a lot from you.”
“See why I like this man?” Billy teased. “He knows how to suck up.”
Falcon and Merril both laughed.
Sheriff Billy Puckett lit a cigar and took several puffs before he spoke again.
“Falcon, folks are talkin’ about the big man, a passenger on the train, who took these outlaws on. I’ve got a strong feelin’ you are the one they are talking about.”
“I reckon I am,” Falcon replied.
“I understand they got away with the money.”
“Not they. One man,” Falcon said.
Hearing a sound, Falcon looked toward the stock car and saw that they were leading a big, black horse down a ramp.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to see to my horse.”
“That’s yours?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a good-looking horse.”
“Diablo is a good horse,” Falcon said. “He’ll probably live longer than I will.”
Puckett chuckled. “Yes, well, to be honest with you, Falcon, from all I’ve heard, I don’t know how the hell you’ve stayed alive this long,” he said.
“Lucky, I guess,” Falcon said.
“Uh-huh. Listen, Judge Heckemeyer is in town. Just to be on the safe side, why don’t you come on down to my office so we can get an official ruling of justifiable homicide on these three? There’s no sense in taking a chance on getting some more bad paper out there.”
“Heckemeyer? Did you say Judge Heckemeyer?”
“Yes, why? Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever met him,” Falcon said. “But the name seems familiar to me.”
“You will come talk to him, though?”
“All right. But if you don’t mind, can I come down after breakfast?” Falcon asked. “I’m a little hungry.”
“Sure, no hurry,” Puckett said. “I’ve got to figure out what to do about these three anyway.” He sighed. “Damn, Falcon, I invited you up to do a little elk hunting, not cause me all this paperwork,” he said.
Falcon chuckled. “Sorry ’bout that. Where’s a good place for breakfast?”
“I’d say the Dunn Hotel is about as good as anyplace,” Puckett answered.
Falcon’s saddle was unloaded as well and, taking his leave of the sheriff, Falcon saddled Diablo, threw his bags across, sheathed his long gun, then mounted his horse and rode down the street looking for the Dunn Hotel.
* * *
Falcon ate so many of his meals out on the range that when he did have the chance to eat in town, he ate well. Breakfast this morning consisted of a stack of pancakes, two eggs, fried potatoes, an oversized piece of ham, and half-a-dozen biscuits. He was just washing it all down with a second cup of coffee when Sheriff Puckett came in.
“Join me for a cup of coffee, Billy?” Falcon invited.
Puckett shook his head. “Wish I could,” he said. “But the judge is over at my office now, and he wants to see you.”
“All right,” Falcon said. He stood up, took a last swallow, then left fifty cents on the table, which not only paid for his meal, but left a generous tip.
Judge Heckemeyer was a relatively large man, bald, with a round face and bulldog jaws. He was sitting at Sheriff Puckett’s desk reading a newspaper when Puckett led MacCallister in.
“Judge, this is Falcon MacCallister, the fella I was telling you about,” Puckett said.
“Your Honor,” Falcon said with a slight nod of his head.
“I understand that you killed all three of them?” Heckemeyer said by way of reply.
“Yes,” Falcon said, not elaborating on his answer.
“Was it really necessary to kill all three of them?”
“Yes,” he said again.
“Not one of them offered to surrender, or made an effort to get away without creating danger to you or any of the passengers?”
“Not one.”
Judge Heckemeyer drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment as he looked up at Falcon, studying him over the top of his glasses.
“Judge, I’ve already interviewed half-a-dozen people on the train,” Puckett said. “They tell me that Falcon wasn’t only defending his own life, but was defending them as well. Two of the passengers were shot, you know. Micah Peters was killed and Harley Jones was shot in the shoulder. Harley, he’s over to the doctor’s office now, if you would like to talk to him.”
“I don’t need to talk to him,” Judge Heckemeyer replied. He continued his questioning of Falcon. “There were four train robbers, you killed three. Odd, isn’t it, that the one who got away got away with the money?” Heckemeyer asked.
“What is so odd about it?” Falcon asked.
“Well, perhaps odd isn’t quite the word I wanted. Perhaps ironic w
ould be better. How did it happen, by the way, that the one man who did make good his escape, did so with the money?”
“I had to make a choice between retrieving the money, or keeping the outlaws who were on the train from shooting any more passengers,” Falcon said.
“I have heard of you, sir. I have also heard of your prowess with a gun. And I don’t like what I hear.”
“I have always tried, to the best of my ability, to obey the law,” Falcon said.
“So you say. On the other hand, you always seem to be walking very close to the edge. I know for a fact that there have been wanted dodgers posted for you. And on more than one occasion.”
“And they have been withdrawn every time,” Billy Puckett said.
“Ah, yes, they have been withdrawn. But the question remains, how is it that so many of them have been issued in the first place, only to be withdrawn?”
“I can’t explain that.”
“Well, perhaps I can,” Heckemeyer said. “This is what I think, Mr. MacCallister. I think that you are a murder case waiting to happen. You are like a moth, flying close to the flame. So far you have avoided the flame . . . you have managed to stay on the right side of the law. Though, I think that even you will agree with me, you have barely managed to do so.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. MacCallister, it has been my experience that wanted posters are not frivolously issued. In every case, a law enforcement authority somewhere has been convinced that you were guilty of one felony or another. Then, no sooner are the circulars issued than something turns up that temporarily exonerates you.
“But your luck cannot continue, Mr. MacCallister. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and I feel certain that one day that fire is going to flare up and . . . like the moth, you will be consumed by it.”
“Your ruling, Judge?” Sheriff Puckett asked.
Heckemeyer nodded. “Yes, my ruling,” he said. “I’m going to rule that these three men died by the hand of Falcon MacCallister—”
“Judge?” Puckett interjected quickly, but before he could go any further, Judge Heckemeyer held up a finger.
“By the hand of Falcon MacCallister,” Heckemeyer continued, “in an act of justifiable homicide. I have no choice, the facts compel me to do this.” He wagged the finger that he was holding up. “But I shall be keeping an eye on you, Mr. MacCallister. Yes, sir, I will be keeping an eye on you.”
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