“Thank you, ma’am,” Kerry replied, following her inside.
Mrs. Snyder opened a safe, then took out a canvas bag and set it on the counter. The bag was sealed shut with a padlock, and Mrs. Snyder opened it. “There’s fifteen thousand dollars here,” she said. “Would you count it, then sign here, please?” she asked.
Sheriff Ferrell had come inside to watch.
“Yep, fifteen thousand, just like you said,” Kerry said after he finished counting.
“Sheriff, would you sign here as a witness to the transfer, please?” Mrs. Snyder asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m real sorry about your husband,” Kerry said again as the sheriff signed. “But I’m glad them yahoos is all in jail. I wouldn’t want to run across them out on the road.”
“Well, you aren’t going to have to worry about them,” the sheriff said. “The only place those people are going from here is hell.”
As Kerry left the office, he met the undertaker. Significantly, the man Falcon had shot was still lying in the street, surrounded now by a handful of the morbidly curious. The undertaker and his assistant had gone first to see to George Snyder’s body.
The undertaker, who was dressed in a black swallowtail coat and a tall black hat, touched the brim of his hat with a white-gloved hand.
“You have my sympathy in your bereavement, Mrs. Snyder,” he said with professional somberness.
At the stage depot, there were four other people besides Falcon who were waiting to board the stage. One of the passengers was an attractive woman with copper hair. She was accompanied by her ten-year-old son. The little boy had fire-red hair and a face that was covered with freckles.
The only other male passenger was short, overweight, and had a round, puffy face. He looked to be in his early forties.
The last passenger was a very pretty young woman with black hair, deep brown eyes, and a smooth, golden complexion. Seeing her made Falcon catch his breath for a moment, because she reminded him so much of his own late wife, Marie Gentle Stream.
A second look confirmed that, like his wife, the young woman passenger was actually Indian. She was dressed as a white woman, though, wearing a calico dress of yellow with a pattern of tiny red flowers and green leaves.
The driver stuck his head into the waiting room.
“Folks, my name is Gentry. I’ll be your driver today. We’ve got your luggage all stowed and the team hitched up. If you’ll climb aboard, we’ll get under way.”
The five passengers went outside to the stage. Falcon glanced first toward the front of the express office, then out into the street. He was glad to see that both bodies had now been moved.
The short, fat man opened the door for the young mother, and graciously allowed her and her son to get into the coach first. When the young Indian woman started to board as well, however, the man stepped in front of her.
“Since when have they started letting Indians ride on the stage with white people?” he asked under his breath.
Falcon resisted the urge to reach up and jerk him back down. Instead, he removed his hat and smiled at the young Indian woman.
“After you, miss,” he said politely.
She smiled shyly back at him.
“Thank you,” she said.
The seats inside the coach faced each other. They were quite wide, wide enough, in fact, to seat four across. The short fat man sat on the front seat, with the young mother and her son. Falcon and the Indian girl sat on the rear seat, facing forward.
Smiling broadly, the short fat man stuck his hand out toward Falcon.
“Arnold Johnson is my name and selling harness is my game,” he said. “I’m what they call a drummer.”
Falcon hesitated for a second, then took Johnson’s hand. “MacCallister,” he said. “Falcon MacCallister.”
Falcon heard the Indian girl inhale sharply, and he sensed that she’d tightened up beside him.
“What brings you to our fair part of the country, Mr. MacCallister?” Johnson asked.
“Business,” MacCallister said.
“Will you be staying long?”
“No.”
Falcon’s truncated answers finally convinced Johnson that he wasn’t looking for conversation. Johnson leaned back in his seat, then took a collapsible fan from his pocket and began fanning himself. “Whew, I’ll be glad when we get under way, so we get a little air. It’s very hot in here.”
“Oh, how clever,” the young mother said, seeing the fan.
Proudly, the drummer turned the fan toward her so she could see.
THURMAN LEATHER GOODS it said on the fan.
“My company puts these out,” he said. “I do a lot of traveling by stagecoach selling my goods, you see. So I learned a long time ago to always carry a fan with me.”
“Are you folks all settled in down there?” the driver called from his seat up front and on top.
“We’re ready,” Johnson called back.
“Yeeehah!” the driver shouted; then he whistled, and snapped the whip over the top of the team. The report of the whip was as loud as a gunshot, and the team started forward, putting the stage into motion with a jerk.
The stage rolled through town with little rooster tails of dust coming from all four wheels. As they passed through the town, Falcon looked through the window. It was small, but typical of the hundreds of Western towns he had visited over his lifetime, the only difference being that, instead of the false-fronted whipsawed lumber buildings he was more used to, these buildings were adobe, or mud-brick.
It was still early morning, so many of the businesses were not yet open. A man with an apron was sweeping the porch in front of the general store. A dog ran off the porch and followed the coach through town, barking at the spinning wheels.
When they passed the blacksmith shop, Falcon saw the smithy building his fire. The last building they passed was the livery barn, and a young boy of no more than fourteen was pitching hay into the feeding troughs. After that, they were out of town and rolling through the desert, which was pocked with hundreds of stately looking saguaro cactuses.
“Are you a Indian?” the little boy asked the young woman who was sitting beside Falcon.
“Timmy!” the mother said sharply.
“It’s all right,” the young Indian woman answered pleasantly. “Yes, I am an Indian.”
“You don’t look like one,” Timmy said. “I mean, you’re so pretty and all.”
“Well, thank you,” the Indian girl said with a lilting laugh. “Does that mean you’ve never seen a pretty Indian girl?”
“Oh!” Timmy said, putting his hand to his mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you don’t look like a Indian because of your clothes.”
The Indian woman smiled. “I know what you meant,” she said. “I was just teasing you. I’ve been wearing these kind of clothes for the last two years while I was back East, enrolled in school.”
“I’ll bet that’s why you speak English so good too,” Timmy said.
“Well,” the Indian woman said.
“Well what?”
“That’s why I speak English so well.” She laughed. “Excuse me for correcting you, but I learned to be a teacher while I was back East, so I’m just practicing.”
“White man’s clothes, white man’s language,” Johnson said sneeringly. “But it’s like they say, you put a mule in horse harness ... you still got a mule.” He laughed at his comment.
“Sir, have I done something to offend you?” the Indian woman asked.
“You are Apache, aren’t you?” Johnson asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“You are Apache, and you ask if you have done something to offend me? I’m offended just by having to ride in the same coach with your kind.”
“Well, hell, Mr. Johnson, if you don’t want to ride in the coach with her, I can take care of that,” Falcon said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You say you don’t like riding in the coach with an Indian?”
“I do not.”