Smiling, one of the girls came over to greet Falcon.
“My, my,” she said, looking up at him. “You’re a big, good-looking man.”
Falcon smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Callie.”
“Well, Callie, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let a compliment like that go unrewarded. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I would like that,” Callie said. “Thank you ...” She paused, waiting for him to offer his name.
“Falcon.”
“Falcon? That’s an interesting name.”
“My parents were interesting people. Barkeep,” Falcon called. “I’ll have a beer, and give the lady whatever she wants.”
“Lady?” a man standing down at the other end of the bar said, scoffing. “Mister, I don’t know whether you are blind, or just dumb. But that ain’t no lady. That’s a whore.”
Falcon looked down toward the end of the bar. The belligerent man had dark hair and dark eyes and a scar on his cheek. He didn’t look like either a miner or a cowboy, but Falcon had seen his kind before. They were drifters who supported themselves in any way that did not require work. Most of the time they were gamblers, cheats, and petty thieves.
“You know this asshole?” Falcon asked Callie. He said it loudly enough that several people heard it, including the belligerent man at the end of the bar. The others who did hear it laughed, including Callie.
“What? What did you call me?” the belligerent man asked in a blustering voice.
“I never met him before this afternoon,” Callie replied. “He says his name is Pete. Pete Tucker.”
“I asked you what you called me,” Pete demanded.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t I say it clearly enough?” Falcon replied. “I called you an asshole. Ass ... hole,” he said slowly and deliberately.
“Why, you son of a bitch!” Pete said, making a grab for his pistol.
Falcon threw his beer mug at Pete, hitting him in the forehead with it. Pete’s first reaction was to put both hands to his head and when he did so, Falcon closed the distance between them in a rush. He hit Pete in the nose, and felt it break under his fist.
With a shout of pain, Pete dropped his hands to his nose. When he did, Falcon drove his fist into Pete’s belly, causing him to double over as he gasped for breath. That enabled Falcon to grab him by his collar and belt. Picking him up, Falcon carried him to the front door, then tossed him out into the street, right into a pile of horse apples. Following him into the street, Falcon leaned down and took Pete’s gun from his holster. He removed the cylinder, then stuck the gun, barrel down, into a horse turd.
When Falcon went back inside, he was greeted by applause and a smiling Callie, who was holding a fresh mug of beer for him.
“Mister,” she said. “My job is to make men buy me drinks, so I’ve never bought a man a beer in my life. But after you came to the defense of my honor like that, buying you a beer is the least I can do.”
“Well, thank you, Callie.”
“I wish I could offer more, if you know what I mean,” she said. She looked toward the clock. “But in ten minutes I have a ... uh ... engagement.”
Falcon smiled at her. “Then I’ll just enjoy your company for the next ten minutes until it is time for your ... engagement,” he said, setting the word apart the way she had.
In truth, Falcon didn’t actually want to take her up on her offer, so it worked out better this way.
After Callie left with the man who had arranged for her services, a young, hard-rock miner, Falcon saw a poker game in progress. When one of the players got up, Falcon walked over to the table.
“Mind if I join the game?”
“No, we don’t mind at all. Fresh blood is always welcome. Please, feel free to join in,” one of the men said.
The game turned out to be a friendly, low-stakes game with enough good hands being passed around from player to player so that nobody was winning too much and nobody was losing too much.
The one who had invited Falcon to sit introduced himself as George Snyder.
“I run the express office,” George said. “This is Paul Gibson, who runs the hardware store, and Mike Stovall, a rancher.”
“I’m Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon said.
Mike Stovall raised his eyebrows at hearing the name. “Falcon MacCallister?” he said. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“I get around,” Falcon said offhandedly. He was never in a hurry to remind anyone of who he was for fear of dredging up some old enmity of which he might not be aware.
“Wait a minute, I remember you,” Stovall said, snapping his fingers in recognition. “You’re the fella who had a personal war with Naiche sometime back, aren’t you?”
“That would be me,” Falcon admitted. “You’ve got a good memory.”
“Well, hell, mister, it’s not hard to remember a fella that helped make this part of the country a lot safer,” Mike said.
“Yeah, it’s safer for the time being,” Paul said. “The question now is, how much longer is it going to be safe?”
“Why do you say that?” Falcon asked.
“Keytano’s as bad as Geronimo and Naiche. They should’ve taken care of him when they took care of the others.”
“Keytano?”
“He’s the chief now.”
“Keytano has never given us any trouble,” George said. “Damn, who dealt this hand?”
“You did,” Paul said.
“Well, I’m obviously an idiot,” George said, and the others laughed.
“What do you mean Keytano has never given us any trouble?” Mike asked. “What about those three prospectors they found a while ago? All three of ’em was dead and all three of ’em was scalped.”
“Yes, well, they were found well into Indian land,” George said. “They had no business being there. Besides, anyone could have killed them; we don’t know that it was Keytano. It could have been someone else, angry because they were there. Dealer takes three cards.”
Falcon held a pair of jacks and drew three kings to them. He won the pot, his first pot in the last three hands, and smiling at his good fortune, reached out to drag the money toward him.
“Mr. MacCallister, I liked the way you handled that fella a while ago,” George said. “Most men would have drawn their gun, and we would’ve had another killing. But you didn’t, though Lord knows, you had every justification to do so.”
“Do you have many killings here?”
“Not so many as before. Sheriff Ferrell has done a very good job of cracking down on the lawlessness in this town.”
“Yes, by making the town add two deputies to the payroll,” Paul said.
“What are you saying, Paul? Would you would rather it go back to the way it was before?” George asked.
“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that we’re having to pay for it. The town is taxin’ ever’thing now. Even the food you buy at the grocery store is bein’ taxed to pay for the deputies.”
“I don’t care if it is costing us. I’m with George. I think it’s worth it,” Mike said.
George glanced over at the clock. “Speaking of the sheriff and his deputies, the wife and I are having them over for breakfast tomorrow. And if I want to stay in good with her, I reckon I’d better go home and see if she needs anything.”
Paul laughed. “You just got a money shipment in, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why, you sly old dog you. That’s a cheap way of hiring a few extra guards when you transfer it to the stagecoach tomorrow. Just feed them breakfast.”
“Whatever is necessary,” George said as he stood. “Gentlemen, this evening has been a pleasure. Mr. MacCallister, it was nice meeting you,” he added, extending his hand.
“The same,” Falcon replied, taking the hand George had offered.
It was just after first light the next morning when Pete Tucker sat on his horse at the edge of town. His nose still hurt, and it whistled every time he took a breath.