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“Here is your money,” she said. “I’ll give it back to you.”

Dagen pulled his pistol and pointed it toward the girl.

“I don’t want my money, bitch. I want you. Now you get back up here or else I’m goin’ to put a bullet right between your eyes.”

The room was now deathly quiet, so quiet that the loudest sound to be heard was the steady tick-tock of the clock that hung from the back wall. And because of the silence, Falcon’s quiet words resonated loudly.

“Miss, if you’re not busy now, I’d like a little of your time,” he said.

Dagen looked toward Falcon, then, recognizing him, gasped.

“You!” he said. “You’re Falcon MacCallister, ain’t you?”

“I am,” Falcon said.

There was a gasp of recognition among many in the saloon, for though none had met him, all knew about him.

“I thought we killed you.”

“You thought wrong,” Falcon said.

“Yeah, well, I guess I did. What are you doing here?”

“I thought I might have a drink,” Falcon said. “And maybe spend a little time with a woman.” He looked pointedly at the girl. “That woman,” he said.

Dagen shook his head. “Huh-uh. Better pick yourself another one. This one’s comin’ back up to me.”

“I don’t think she wants to do that, and as a matter of fact, I don’t want her to do it either.”

“What the hell do I care what she wants?” Dagen said. “She’s got no choice. Neither do you, mister. Or haven’t you noticed that I happen to be holding a gun in my hand.”

“Oh, yeah, I see the gun,” Falcon said. “But what are you going to do with it?”

“What do you mean what am I going to do with it?” Dagen answered, obviously exasperated by Falcon’s question.

“Well, here’s the thing,” Falcon said as if patiently explaining something to a child. “You see, you are pointing that gun at the girl. But she’s not your problem ... I am. If you move it toward me, I’m going to kill you. If you shoot her, I’m going to kill you. If you so much as twitch, I’m going to kill you. The only way you are going to get out of this alive is to drop your gun right now.”

“What? Are you crazy? Your guns are still in your holster,” Dagen said.

“What’ll it be, mister? Are you going to drop the gun, or are you going to die?”

“Mister, if you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to kill this girl,” Dagen said.

“Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Go ahead,” Falcon said. “While you are shooting her, I’ll be shooting you.”

With a shout of rage, Dagen swung his gun toward Falcon and fired. The bullet slammed into the bar just alongside him. In one motion, Falcon had his own gun out and he fired back just as Dagen loosed a second shot.

Dagen’s second shot smashed into the mirror behind the bar, scattering shards of glass but doing no further damage. Dagen didn’t get off a third shot because Falcon made his only shot count.

Dagen dropped his gun over the rail and it fell with a clatter to the bar floor, twelve feet below. He grabbed his chest, then turned his hand out and looked down in surprise and disbelief as his palm began filling with his own blood. His eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward, crashing through the railing, then turning over once in midair before he landed heavily on his back alongside his dropped gun.

Dagen lay motionless on the floor with open but sightless eyes staring toward the ceiling. The saloon patrons, who had scattered when the first shot was fired, now began to edge toward the body. Up on the second-floor landing, a half-dozen girls and their customers, in various stages of undress, moved to the smashed railing to look down on the scene.

Gun smoke from the three shots merged to form a large, acrid cloud that drifted slowly toward the door.

Upstairs, Monroe had opened the door from his room to tell Dagen to have his whore get an extra bottle of whiskey. Before he could say anything to Dagen, he heard Dagen call Falcon MacCallister by name.

“Son of a bitch!” Monroe said under his breath. He stepped back inside and grabbed his pants, then dashed back into the hall. He started to stop at Casey’s door just long enough to warn him, and he got as far as putting his hand on the doorknob.

He hesitated. Why the hell should he warn Casey? Let Casey look out for himself. In fact, the longer Dagen and Casey could delay Falcon, the better it would be for him.

Monroe ran down to the end of the hall, lifted the window, climbed out onto the mansard roof just below; then, even as he heard the shooting, he dropped down to the alley. He moved around quickly to the front of the saloon, mounted, and rode away, fighting the urge to put his horse into a gallop.

When Casey heard the shooting, he jumped from the bed and grabbed his gun, then ran out into the hall, where he was joined by at least three other whores and two other customers. He ran to the head of the stairs and looked down to the saloon below. That was when he saw Dagen lying on his back, his gun on the floor beside him. A tall man with a smoking gun in his hand was standing over Dagen, looking down at him.

“Oh, shit!” Casey said. He fired at the tall man, but missed. Those around him screamed and started running.

The bullet from Casey’s gun buzzed by Falcon’s ear and plunged into the floor beside him. Falcon looked up, but couldn’t return fire because of the people around Casey.

Casey turned and ran back down the hall, and Falcon ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, he saw the second door down on the right side closing. He looked at one of the women, who was cowering in fear on the opposite side of the hall. Silently, he used his pistol to indicate the door he had just seen shut, and with a quick nod she verified it was where Casey had gone.

At that moment Falcon heard glass crashing. The son of a bitch was escaping through the back window!

Falcon kicked open the door, then ran inside. The back window was smashed out and he stepped over to look through it, then sensed someone moving up behind him.

Falcon turned, just as Casey was bringing his gun down to smash him on the head. Falcon managed to deflect the blow, moving it away from his head. It did crash down on his shoulder, however, and a numbing, shooting pain caused him to drop his pistol.

Unarmed now, Falcon had no recourse but to wrap his arms around his assailant in a bear hug. It had the effect of pinning Casey’s arms by his sides, so he could not raise his pistol. Falcon threw Casey to the floor and he heard Casey gasp as they went down. Then he felt all the strength leave Casey’s body.

Carefully, Falcon raised up from him, and saw a bloody shard of glass sticking up through Casey’s neck. Casey flopped a few times; then he died.

When Falcon stepped back out into the hallway, the same girl who had indicated which room Casey went into, now pointed to the open window at the end of the hall.

“The other one went out that way,” she said.

“Thanks.”

By the time Falcon got back downstairs, the sheriff had arrived.

“Mister, you’ve got some explaining to do,” he said.

Falcon wished now that he had taken a badge from Sheriff Corbin.

“My name is Falcon MacCallister. Get in touch with Sheriff Corbin at Oro Blanco; he’ll tell you what this is all about.”

The sheriff smiled. “I don’t have to get in touch with him, Mr. MacCallister. He’s already sent me a letter. Fact is, he sent ever’ sheriff in this part of the territory a letter, explaining what you are doing.”

“Did he tell you everything I’m doing?” Falcon asked. He nodded toward Dagen’s body. “What I need to do to stop an Indian war?”

“Don’t do it here,” the sheriff said cryptically. “I’ll have the bodies taken down to the undertaker’s office. You can do what has to be done there.”