Falcon was taking a sip of coffee when he heard the sound of gunshots from out in the street. Getting up quickly, he ran out onto the front porch of the hotel and looked toward the sound of the guns. He saw someone standing in front of the hotel, looking toward the far end of the street. It was Paul Gibson, one of the men Falcon had played cards with last night.
“Mr. Gibson, what is it?” Falcon called from the front porch of the hotel. “What’s going on?”
“It looks like someone is tryin’ to rob the express office,” Paul replied. “There’s shootin’ goin’ on down there.”
A bullet whizzed by, the angry buzz clearly audible to both men.
“Yeah, well, if I were you, I wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the street like that,” Falcon said.
“Damn, you’re right!” Paul replied. He darted behind a watering trough and squatted down. The wisdom of Falcon’s warning was demonstrated when a stray bullet kicked up dirt just behind where Paul had been standing but a second earlier. Another bullet whizzed by Falcon’s ear and plunged into the post just beside him.
From here, Falcon could see three men, wearing badges, standing in front of the express office, exchanging fire with six men out in the street. He happened to remember that George Snyder, with whom he had played cards last night, planned to entertain the sheriff and his deputies for breakfast. And he remembered seeing the money shipment being taken off the train yesterday.
One of the six men out in the street was mounted, and he was holding the reins of five horses. The other five were in the street, backing slowly toward their horses, all the while shooting at the lawmen. Up on the porch of the express office, one man lay belly-down, and even from here, Falcon could see the downed man’s blood pooling on the boards.
Pulling his pistol, Falcon started running toward the express office, staying up on the boardwalk. He fired once at the men in the street but hit no one. He hadn’t really expected to hit anyone; it hadn’t even been an aimed shot. He had fired at the outlaws only to let the lawmen know that he was not one of the outlaws, but was coming to join in with them.
“Fargo, the whole town is after us!” Pete shouted, pulling the rifle from his saddle holster. He jacked a shell into the chamber, then, seeing Falcon, recognized him as the man with whom he had had the run-in with yesterday.
“You!” Pete shouted. “You son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you!”
Pete let go of the horses and raised his rifle to his shoulder to aim at Falcon.
“Pete, what the hell are you doing? Hang on to them horses!” Fargo yelled when he saw what Pete had done.
Pete fired, and Falcon felt the bullet fry past his ear. Falcon fired back, an aimed shot this time. Pete tumbled from his saddle. When he did so, his horse galloped, causing the horses Pete had been holding to bolt off with him. The five remaining outlaws suddenly found themselves afoot in the middle of the street.
“Fargo! Fargo! Our horses is gone!” one of the other outlaws shouted.
“I can see that they are gone, damnit!” Fargo shouted back. “You think I’m blind?”
“Give it up, Fargo!” the sheriff called from the front porch of the express office. “Your horses is gone, one of your men is down, and none of the rest of you is goin’ anywhere!”
“The hell you say!” Fargo shouted back, throwing a shot toward the front of the express office.
Falcon fired five quick shots then. He didn’t hit anyone, but he didn’t intend to. Instead, he put each bullet within an inch of the boots of each of the five men, showing them that he could kill them at will.
“Holy shit, Fargo, they’ve got us surrounded!” one of the men said.
“Give it up, Fargo!” the sheriff shouted again. Fargo hesitated for just a second; then he put his hands up.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” Fargo shouted. “We give up!”
“Throw down your gun, Fargo. That goes for all of you,” the sheriff added.
Looking toward Falcon, with a snarl on his lips, Fargo threw down his gun.
“Tell your men to do the same thing,” the sheriff shouted. He made a motion with his own pistol. “Do it now!”
“Dagen, Ponci, Monroe, Casey, do like the man says,” Fargo ordered. “Throw your guns down.”
“I don’t give up my gun for nobody,” Dagen said with an angry growl.
“Have your own way, mister,” Falcon said. “Throw down your gun and live, or hang on to it and die. Makes no difference to me.” He aimed his pistol at Dagen and pulled the hammer back.
“Dagen, don’t be a fool,” Fargo said. “Look around you!”
Dagen and the other outlaws looked around as Fargo had instructed. By now several others, emboldened by Falcon’s quick move to join the fray, had come from houses and buildings as well, and they were all holding rifles, pistols, or shotguns. The outlaws were surrounded and vastly outnumbered.
“Shit,” Dagen said. He dropped his gun and, one by one, the others joined him, dropping their guns as well. Now, like Fargo Ford, they put their hands in the air.
“George!” a woman screamed, coming out of the express office. She knelt beside the man who was belly-down on the porch. “Oh, George!” she cried.
The woman turned him over; then, seeing that he was dead, she began crying uncontrollably.
“You boys are all goin’ to hang for this,” the sheriff said, coming toward them. “George Snyder was a good man, with a wife and two kids. Yes, sir, you’re all goin’ to hang, and I’m goin’ to enjoy watchin’ it. Wilcox, you and Baker take these men down the street and throw their asses in jail.”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff, we’ll be glad to,” one of the deputies replied. “Come along, fellas,” he said to the outlaws. “We’ve got a nice place all picked out and waitin’ for you.”
Seeing that everything was in hand, Falcon put his pistol back in his holster. The sheriff stepped down off the porch and started toward Falcon
“I don’t know where you come from, mister, but I’m glad you showed up. I’m Sheriff Ferrell.”
“Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon said.
“MacCallister?” the sheriff replied suspiciously. He stroked his chin. “MacCallister? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that name.”
“I had some paper out on me a long time ago,” Falcon said. “But it’s been recalled.”
Sheriff Ferrell shook his head. “No, I don’t think it was anything like that. Never mind. Whatever it was, it’ll come to me.”
Falcon nodded toward the men who were being led away. “They were after the money shipment, I take it?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, it looks like it. George got in fifteen thousand dollars in cash yesterday,” the sheriff replied. Again, he got a suspicious expression on his face. “By the way, Mr. MacCallister, you want to tell me how is it that you know about the money shipment? I thought it was supposed to be a secret.”
“It was rather hard to keep it a secret from someone who came in on the train yesterday,” Falcon said. “I saw you taking the pouch from the express car. Then, I played cards with George Snyder last night and some of the men around the table mentioned it.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. Too bad things like this get talked about,” Sheriff Ferrell said. He pointed to the dead man and the weeping woman. By now a few others had come up to aid and comfort Mrs. Snyder. “If I had my way, nobody but the express company would have even known when money was being shipped.”
“Is that his wife?” Falcon asked. He pointed to an attractive woman who was on her knees beside the body.
“Yes. Her name is Emma Snyder. You say you met George last night?”