“Thanks, Ella,” Falcon said. He nodded toward Roosevelt. “What did they call him? Roosevelt?”
“Yes.”
“He’s from the East?”
“Yes,” Ella answered. “From New York.”
“What’s he doing out here?”
“Well, he owns a ranch out here. But that’s not why he’s here. He’s here ’cause his mama and his wife both died on the same day, and he needed to just get away from it all. Isn’t that just about the saddest thing you ever heard?”
“Yes, it is,” Falcon agreed, remembering how it felt when his own wife was murdered.
Falcon looked at Roosevelt and realized that, even from the back, he could see the young man’s grief. Roosevelt stood at the bar, looking neither left nor right, and not participating in conversation with his men.
“He’s out of place out here,” Falcon said. “A dandy like that is going to be eaten alive by men like those two down there.” He nodded toward Muley and Zeb.
“They are a bad sort, all right,” Ella agreed. She rubbed her hands on her apron and smiled shyly at Falcon. “I hope you like the cornbread,” she said.
Falcon took a bite, then closed his eyes and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Uhmm, uhm,” he said. He held up the piece of cornbread. “This might just about be the best cornbread I’ve ever tasted.”
Ella laughed and waved her hand dismissively, though it was obvious she was pleased by his compliment. She went back into the kitchen.
Falcon began eating then, and had just cut a piece of ham when he saw Muley and Zeb moving back up the bar. Both had menacing scowls on their faces, and one of them was carrying a bar stool. It was plain to see that they intended to repay their benefactor for his generosity in buying them drinks with a violent attack.
Normally, Falcon did not like to mix into other people’s fights . . . especially a barroom brawl. But he knew that the Eastern dude wouldn’t stand a chance against these two. And as far as Falcon could tell, he had done nothing to deserve such treatment.
Quietly, Falcon pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. He started toward the bar.
“I aim to bash in your head and have me them funny-lookin’ glasses!” Muley shouted, closing the remaining distance to Roosevelt in a few, quick steps.
Falcon hadn’t started soon enough. Muley was going to be to Roosevelt before he could get there to lend a hand.
To Falcon’s surprise, Roosevelt made no effort to avoid the charge. Instead he turned to meet it head-on and, from nowhere, it seemed, Roosevelt’s left arm jabbed out and his fist caught Muley right on the tip of his chin.
Muley went down, just as Zeb, who was carrying the bar stool, raised it over his own head, intending to bring it crashing down on Roosevelt. Roosevelt sent two quick left jabs into Zeb, snapping his head back and causing him to drop the stool. Roosevelt followed with a hard right to Zeb’s jaw, and Zeb wound up on the floor with Muley.
Sensing Falcon’s approach, Roosevelt whirled to meet him, taking up the stance of a boxer, with his fists raised.
“Whoa! Hold on there, Mr. Roosevelt!” Falcon said, holding his hand out to stop Roosevelt. “I’m not attacking, I was coming over to help.” He looked down at Muley and Zeb, then chuckled. “Although it’s pretty clear that you don’t need any help.”
“Let’s hear it for Mr. Roosevelt,” one of his cowboys said, and the others in the saloon cheered loudly.
“You were coming to defend me?” Roosevelt asked Falcon.
“Well, that was what I had in mind,” Falcon said. “Sort of foolish of me, huh?” he added sheepishly.
“I was a boxer in college,” Roosevelt explained. “Perhaps I should have mentioned that to these two gentlemen before they undertook their little adventure. Had I told them, they may not have been so incautious.”
“Oh, I think they had it in their mind to take you on no matter what,” Falcon said.
“You called me by name. Do I know you?” Roosevelt asked.
“No, my name is MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.” Falcon extended his hand, and Roosevelt gripped it firmly.
“MacCallister? There are a couple of actors in New York named MacCallister.”
“Andrew and Rosanna,” Falcon said.
“Yes, I believe that is their names. I’m not much for the theater but they are so popular, everyone in the city knows of them, even those of us who do not follow the theater. I’m not sure if they are husband and wife or . . .”
“They are brother and sister,” Falcon said. “Twins actually.”
“You seem to know a good deal about them.”
Falcon smiled. “I should. They are my brother and sister,” he said.
“You don’t say. My, what an interesting coincidence. Won’t you join my friends and me, Mr. MacCallister?” Roosevelt invited.
“Thank you very much for the invitation,” Falcon said. He nodded toward his table. “But I’m just having my supper.”
“Then enjoy your dinner, my friend,” Roosevelt said.
Muley and Zeb got up then and, rubbing their jaws, slunk out of the saloon, aware of the sniggering comments of the other customers.
Falcon returned to the table and finished his dinner. When he asked for the bill, he learned that Roosevelt had already paid for it. He was also told that any drinks he ordered for the rest of the night would be paid for by Roosevelt.
Glancing up, he saw that Roosevelt was looking toward him. Smiling, Roosevelt touched his eyebrow in a salute. Falcon nodded his thanks back to him.
At that moment, Muley and Zeb stepped back into the saloon. Both men were holding pistols.
“Say your prayers, you four-eyed son of a bitch!” Muley shouted, raising his pistol.
Neither Muley nor Zeb had seen Falcon rise from the table, his own gun in hand. Before either of the belligerent cowboys could fire, the room was filled with the sound of two quick explosions. Muley went down with a bullet in his shoulder; Zeb had a bullet through his hand. Though neither wound was life-threatening, they caused both men to drop their guns.
It had all happened so fast that, for the first several seconds, only Muley, Zeb, and Falcon knew what had happened. Everyone else in the saloon spun around in surprise at the sound of the guns. It didn’t take long for them to piece it together, though, as they saw Falcon standing there with smoke curling up from his gun, while Muley and Zeb’s pistols were both on the floor.
Muley stood there for a moment, holding his hand over his shoulder wound, while Zeb held one hand over the wound in his hand.
Sheriff John Dennis came into the saloon then, drawn to the saloon by the sound of gunfire. As it happened, he arrived even before the smoke from the discharges had rolled away.
“What happened here?” the sheriff asked gruffly.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Muley said, glaring at Falcon. “This here son of a bitch shot me ’n Zeb for no reason a’tall.”
“That’s right, Sheriff,” Zeb added. “He didn’t have no call to do what he done.”
“Why are your guns on the floor instead of in your holster?” the sheriff asked.
“They’re on the floor because . . . because . . . well, he started in a-shootin’ at us,” Muley replied. “What was we supposed to do, just stand here an’ let him do it?”
“Yeah, what was we supposed to do? Just stand here with our thumb up our ass and let him do it?” Zeb added.
So far, Falcon hadn’t said a word, but he had put his pistol back in his holster. Now he sat down and, using a piece of cornbread, raked some beans onto the tines of the fork. It was this, his almost studied indifference to what was going on, that both fascinated and frustrated the sheriff.
“You got ’nything to say, mister?” Sheriff Dennis asked.
“Yeah,” Falcon said, holding up a piece of cornbread. “This is good cornbread.”
The others in the saloon laughed.
“You know what I’m talkin’ about, mister,” the sheriff said. “Thi
s here shootin’. Did you do it?”
“I did it front of the whole saloon,” Falcon replied. “It would be kind of hard for me to say I didn’t do it now, wouldn’t it?”
“So you’re sayin’ it happened just like Muley said?”
“Sort of like he said. There’s a few differences.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I didn’t just open up on ’em like they said. They both had their guns drawn, and they were about to shoot Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Is that your story? That they was about to shoot Mr. Roosevelt?”
“That’s my story,” Falcon said.
“Well, it looks to me like we’ve got us a little situation here,” the sheriff said. “Two of you are telling one story, one is telling another. So, that’s two to one against you, mister.”
“Sheriff Dennis, I would like to make that two to two,” Ella said, speaking for the first time.
“I beg your pardon?” the sheriff replied.
“It happened just the way this gentleman said it did,” Ella said, pointing to Falcon. “I saw it all. Those two men there were going to kill Mr. Roosevelt. And they would’ve too, if this gentleman hadn’t stopped ’em.”
“Make that three to two, John,” the bartender said. “’Cause I also seen it.”
“You seen it too, did you, Ed?”
“I did,” Ed answered.
“You want to tell me what it is that you saw?” the sheriff asked.
Ed nodded toward Falcon. “The big fella there is tellin’ the truth. These two was about to shoot Mr. Roosevelt. Would’ve too, if he hadn’t stopped ’em. And the thing is, he could’a killed them both. Instead, he just nicked ’em up a bit.”
“Well, now, boys, looks like things has turned a mite against you,” the sheriff said to Muley and Zeb.
“Yeah, well, we wasn’t aimin’ to kill Roosevelt or anything like that,” Muley said. “All we was goin’ to do was have a little fun with him. We wasn’t really goin’ to shoot him, was we, Zeb?”
Zeb shook his head furiously. “That’s right. We wasn’t really goin’ to shoot him. We was just goin’ to scare ’im.”
“So, you see, that fella had no right to shoot us like he done. So I demand that you arrest him.”
“I’m not goin’ to do any such thing,” the sheriff said. “You admit that you two was comin’ after Mr. Roosevelt with your guns drawn. How was anyone to know that you didn’t plan to kill him? Fact is, I believe you did intend to kill him, but was stopped by bein’ shot.”
The sheriff paused for a moment and stroked his chin as he studied the two men.
“The problem is, I can’t prove what you planned to do, only what you done. And you didn’t do anything ’cause that man stopped you before you could do it. So, I got no choice but to let you go.”
“We’re purt’ near bleedin’ to death here,” Muley protested. “And you ain’t doin’ nothin’ to the man who shot us.”
“That’s right,” the sheriff said. “So my advice to you is to get yourself down to the doc and let him patch you up.”
Muley reached down to pick up his gun. “Come on, Zeb,” he said with a growl. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah,” Zeb agreed.
The saloon had been relatively quiet following the gunfight, but as soon as the two men left, it erupted once more into laughter and loud talk.
“Well, gentlemen,” Roosevelt said. “Once more I am obliged to buy a round of libation, this time in celebration of my rescue from certain death.”
The men laughed and cheered as they rushed to belly up to the bar.
Belfield
Emil Prufrock looked up from his work when two men came into the embalming room of his establishment. On the embalming table in front of him was the body of an elderly woman.
“Oh, gentlemen, visitors aren’t allowed back here,” Prufrock said. Quickly, he pulled a sheet up over the woman’s body.
“Why not?” one of the men asked.
“Out of respect for the deceased.”
“Hell, she’s dead. She don’t know we’re here.”
“Then, let us say out of respect for the bereaved. Please, if you have business with me, let’s conduct it in the front.”
Prufrock ushered them from the embalming room to the front parlor.
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“My name is Creed Howard, this here is Bob Howard. Where-at is our brother?”
“Your brother?”
“Thad Howard. He got hisself hung here a few weeks ago. By the time me’n Bob found out about it, it was too late. So, where-at have you put him?”
“Oh, yes. Well, your brother was an indigent.”
“He was a what?”
“An indigent . . . a person without means. He was buried at public expense,” Prufrock said. “So that means he is in potter’s field.”
“Where is that?”
“The cemetery is at the south end of town. Potter’s field is at the back of the cemetery,” Prufrock said.
“I hope you spelled his name right on the marker.”
“Oh, I’m afraid there is no marker,” Prufrock said.
“What do you mean there ain’t no marker? How can you bury a man without puttin’ a marker over his grave? How can anyone find ’im?”
“As I explained to you, your brother was an indigent. The county will pay to have the body interred, but that is as far as it goes. No marker.”
“It ain’t right that he don’t have a marker,” Bob insisted.
“If you would like to pay for a marker, I will put one up for you,” Prufrock offered.
“Yeah,” Bob said.
“How much does a marker cost?” Creed asked.
“You can get a very nice marker for ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars?” Creed replied.
“Yes, that would be a very nice one, with a rose carved into the marker and a nice sentiment.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t need all that. What’s the cheapest one got on it?”
“It has nothing but his name, date of birth, and the date of his death.”
“I don’t know the date of his birth,” Creed said. “Do you, Bob?”
Bob shook his head.
“So, don’t put nothin’ on it but his name. How much would that cost?” Creed asked.
“Two dollars.”
Creed and Bob stepped over into a corner to discuss it between themselves for a moment; then they came back.
“So,” Prufrock said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. “Have you gentlemen decided what you want on your brother’s grave marker?”
“Yeah, we decided he don’t need one,” Creed said. “Tell us where his grave is at and we’ll just go look at it.”
“Yes, well, here is a chart of the cemetery,” Prufrock said, pointing to a chart on the wall. He put his finger on one of the spots. “Your brother is buried here, in the last row, third from the end.”
Without so much as a word of thanks, Creed and Bob left the undertaker’s parlor, then rode out to the graveyard.
“You think we should’a paid to get a marker put up?” Creed asked as he and Bob walked through the cemetery, looking for their brother’s plot.
“What for?” Bob replied. “Hell, he’s dead, ain’t he? He won’t know, one way or the other. And I can think of a lot of better ways to spend two dollars.”
“Yeah,” Creed said. Reaching Thad’s grave, they stood there for a moment, looking down at it.
“Think we ought to say some words?” Bob asked.
“Nah, I can’t think of nothin’ to say.”
“Then let’s go have a few beers.”
As they rode back into town, looking for the saloon, they passed the jailhouse. There was a lot of construction going on at the back of the jail, and they asked about it at the saloon.
“You mean you didn’t hear about all the excitement we had here a few weeks ago?” the bartender answered as he set a couple of beers in front of Bob
and Creed.
“All we heard was that you hung a fella named Howard here.”
“Oh, yes, that would be Thad Howard. Well, he was hung on the same day the jail got dynamited.”
The bartender began telling the story, aided by a couple of nearby patrons. That was when they heard Falcon MacCallister’s name for the first time.
“You say MacCallister fought off the train robbers, brought in Thad to be hung, and took on the bank robbers besides? What is he, a one-man army?” Creed asked.
“Some might say that he is,” the bartender answered. “Others might think he is just a man who seems to find himself in areas where trouble breaks out.”
“Where is he now?” Creed asked. “This MacCallister fella, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know. When he left here, I don’t think he had any particular place in mind,” the bartender said.
“He’s in Medora,” one of the bar patrons said.
“Medora? How do you know that?”
“I was there myself a couple of days ago, and I seen him shoot the guns out of the hands of two men who were about to shoot Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Roosevelt? Who is Roosevelt?”
“He’s some fella from the East who owns a ranch over near Medora.”
“And you say that MacCallister is over there?” Bob asked.
“He was when I left.”
Bob nodded. Then he and Creed took their beers over to a table where they could talk more privately.
“What you got in mind, Bob?” Creed asked.
“Maybe a little revenge,” Bob said.
“Whoa, wait a minute. You plannin’ on goin’ after this MacCallister fella, are you?”
“Yes,” Bob said.
“You heard what they said about him. And we know for a fact that he single-handed took out Rufus, Buddy, and Curly. Thad told us that, remember? Only thing is, he didn’t know the fella’s name at the time.”
“Yeah, he sounds like a one-man army all right.”
“Knowin’ all that, you still plan to go after him?” Creed asked.
“Maybe we can get some help,” Bob suggested.
“Get some help? From who? What are you talkin’ about?”
“You heard what the man said about MacCallister shooting the guns out of the hands of two men over in Medora.”
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