“I’m sure you can as well. It looks like you’ve made a fine start.”
Gleason came out of the house carrying a little cloth bag. He handed it to Falcon.
“This is in case you get hungry on the train,” he said. “I baked you somethin’.”
“Mr. Gleason, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Falcon said.
Gleason chuckled. “What do you think, that I cooked up a rat? I didn’t always eat rats and bugs and such. Before I got the gold fever, I was a belly robber for Mr. Richard King on his ranch down in Texas. And I was a good one, if I say so myself. I cooked you up a batch of sinkers. I think you’ll like them.”
Falcon opened the sack and looked down inside. As the aroma hit him, he smiled. Then he pulled one of them out and took a bite.
“Uhhmm,” he said. “Mr. Gleason, this is delicious. Cousin, if he can’t drive a nail for you, he’s worth keeping around just for his sinkers.”
“I don’t know what a sinker is,” Duff said.
“Some people call them doughnuts,” Falcon said. He broke off a piece of the one he was eating and handed it to Duff. “Try this.”
Duff tasted it, then smiled. “Mr. Gleason, I do hope you didn’t give all of them to Falcon.”
“Sonny, do you think I don’t know where my bread is buttered?” Gleason said. “I gave him a few, but I kept most of them back.”
Falcon laughed, then swung into his saddle. “Duff, I think I am leaving you in good hands,” he said. “You know how to get hold of me if you need me.” Slapping his legs against Lightning’s sides, Falcon rode off, throwing a wave as he left.
“He’s a good man,” Gleason said.
“Aye, I have found that to be so,” Duff agreed.
Chugwater
It created some curiosity when eight men rode into Chugwater together. That was because while groups of cowboys who were involved in trail drives often traveled together, this was not the time for a trail drive. Also, news of the bank robbery in Cheyenne had already reached Chugwater by telegraph message. So when Malcolm and the others tied up in front of Fiddler’s Green, Fred Matthews, who was standing at the window in the front of his mercantile store, saw them.
“Lonnie,” he called to the sixteen-year-old who worked for him.
“Yes, Mr. Matthews?”
“Go down to Marshal Craig’s office and tell him that he might want to check in on that bunch of men who just went into Fiddler’s Green. I’ve got a feeling about them.”
“Who do you think they are?”
“I think they may be the bunch that held up the bank down in Cheyenne.”
“You think they’re maybe goin’ to rob our bank? I got me near thirty dollars in that bank.”
“I don’t know,” Fred admitted. “But I think the marshal should know about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Biff Johnson had just finished tapping a new barrel of beer, and he held a mug under the spigot, then operated it to see if it was working properly. A steady stream of golden liquid flowed from the spigot, so, satisfied that the flow was all right, he shut it off, then took a sip to see if the beer tasted all right. It was necessary that he do that, because the beer came by train from Denver to Tracy, then by wagon from Tracy up to Chugwater, and sometimes it got a little stale. But that wasn’t the case now, because this beer was fine.
Biff was putting the mug in a tub of water when he saw the eight men coming into his saloon. Though that wouldn’t have been unusual during the cattle season, it was unusual now, and he looked up at them in curiosity.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Fiddler’s Green.”
“We’ve ridden long and hard, and we’re thirsty,” one of the men said. He was a small man, with nostrils so prominent that they reminded Biff of a pig’s snout. He chided himself for having such a thought, though. After all, these were customers.
“Well, gentlemen, I have just the thing for thirst. I have only this moment tapped a new keg of beer.”
At the marshal’s office, Russell Craig, a man in his early sixties, had just poured himself a cup of coffee when young Lonnie Mathers came into his office. “Good morning, Lonnie,” the marshal said.
“Marshal, them folks that robbed the bank in Cheyenne is in town,” Lonnie said.
Craig had just lifted the cup to his lips, but he brought it down quickly when Lonnie said that.
“What? How do you know?”
“That’s what Mr. Matthews said. They’s eight folks just rode into town an’ they all went into Fiddler’s Green. Mr. Matthews said he’s sure they was the ones that robbed the bank.”
“He said that? He said he’s sure?”
“Well, no, sir, not exactly. But he said he believes they might be the ones.”
“He believes they might be the ones,” Craig repeated. This time he did raise the cup to his lips.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Lonnie. You can tell Fred that I will look into it.”
“Yes, sir,” Lonnie replied. “I’ll tell him that.”
Marshal Craig watched Lonnie walk back down the street to the mercantile store, then he went over to a hook on the wall and took down his holster and pistol. Strapping the gunbelt on, he pushed through the door of the marshal’s office and started toward Fiddler’s Green.
Back at Fiddler’s Green Lucy and Peggy, the only two bar girls remaining since Annie had been killed, were sitting at a table in the corner having a cup of coffee. It was just ten-thirty in the morning, and their normal work hours didn’t start until two o’clock in the afternoon, but they had no place else to go and they often just relaxed and visited with each other before starting to work.
“Peggy, let’s get out of here,” Lucy said quietly.
“Get out of here? Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t care. Anywhere but here. I don’t like the looks of this.”
“What? You mean all those men?” Peggy asked.
“Yes,” Lucy said. “There’s something not right about this.”
Marshal Craig came into the saloon, then stopped and stood for just a moment inside the door. Malcolm and the men with him looked around at him.
“Liam Pettigrew,” Craig said, recognizing one of them. “I thought you were in prison.”
“I got out,” Pettigrew said.
“So I see. What are you men doing here?”
“Good morning, Constable,” Malcolm said. “We have come to find a friend of mine, a fellow countryman.”
Upon hearing Malcolm’s accent, Marshal Craig’s eyes narrowed. The telegram he had received telling about the bank robbery in Cheyenne identified two of the men by name. One was Pogue, no first name available, and one, who spoke with a Scottish brogue, was Rab Malcolm.
“You would be Rab Malcolm, I take it?”
Malcolm looked surprised. “Aye. How do you know that?”
“Son of a bitch!” Pogue shouted. “Malcolm, he knows about the bank robbery, that’s how he knows about it!”
Upon hearing Pogue’s shout, Marshal Craig went for his pistol, but he was too late. Pogue, Pettigrew, and McKenna all beat him to the draw. Their three guns fired almost as one. Craig pulled the trigger on his pistol, but as he had not brought his gun to bear, the bullet plunged into the floor. Craig fell facedown with three bullets in him.
By now all the other outlaws had drawn their pistols as well, and they stood there holding them at the ready as the smoke from four discharges floated up to form a blue-gray cloud just under the ceiling.
Malcolm turned toward Biff Johnson just as he was reaching for the shotgun that he kept under the bar.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Malcolm said, pointing his pistol at the bartender.
Biff backed away from the bar.
“You killed the marshal,” Biff said.