“Driver, do you suppose I could keep my grip in the depot for a while?”
“I reckon they’d let you do that,” the driver said. “How long would you think it might be?”
“I don’t know,” Rachael said. “Perhaps only until the next stage returns to La Junta.”
“That would be tomorrow,” the driver said. “Would you really come all the way out here just to spend one night?”
“That might be the case,” Rachael said. “If you would, please, put it in the depot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver replied.
Taking a deep breath, and squaring her shoulders, Rachael walked across the street, then up onto the front porch of the saloon. She paused for just a moment, then pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
The first thing she noticed was the odor, a combination of stale beer, sour whiskey, and unwashed bodies. The floor was covered with expectorated tobacco quids, and the towels, hanging from hooks on the bar, were filthy. At least ten men were standing at the bar, and that many or more were sitting at tables.
Rachael looked around for a piano and finally saw it, sitting against the wall just under the staircase. It was an upright piano, and half of the cover was missing so she could look in and see the soundboard. Several of the wires were broken, and two of them were even lying out on the keyboard itself.
Rachael felt a hollowness in the pit of her stomach. Her knees grew weak, and her head began to spin.
There were three women in the saloon, though Rachael had never seen any women dressed as these were. All three had very low-cut blouses and they were wearing what looked to be bloomers. One of them came over to her.
“Honey, are you sure you are in the right place?” she asked.
“No, she isn’t in the right place,” a man’s voice said. Recognizing the voice, Rachael turned to see Corey Hampton standing just inside the door.
“Mr. Hampton?” she asked in a weak voice.
“Miss Kirby, what are you doing in here?” Corey asked.
Rachael held her hand out. “I—I was told this was the saloon,” she said.
“It is a saloon,” Corey replied. He smiled at her. “But it isn’t the right saloon.”
“Oh,” Rachael said. “I’m terribly sorry. I suppose I just didn’t think a town this small would have more than one saloon.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize,” Corey said. “The stage is always late. Wouldn’t you know it would pick today to be early? Shall we go?” He offered Rachael his arm.
“Yes, thank you,” Rachael said.
“Higbee has two saloons,” Corey explained once they were out in the street. “The Golden Nugget, which belongs to my brother and me. And the one you were just in. It is called the Hog Waller.”
“I beg your pardon? What did you call it?” Rachael asked.
“I called it by its name. The Hog Waller,” Corey said.
Rachael laughed out loud. “Oh, what a perfect name for it,” she said.
After stopping by the stage depot to retrieve her luggage, they walked down to the Golden Nugget. By any standards, the Golden Nugget was an attractive saloon, with a long, highly polished mahogany bar; glistening brass rings hanging every four feet along the front of the bar, each ring holding a crisp white towel; an exceptionally clean and varnished hardwood floor; gleaming tables; and a large mirror behind the bar that reflected back a shelf filled with liquors and brightly colored liqueurs. A huge, sparkling chandelier hung from a ceiling that was itself covered with textured brass.
Looking around, she saw the piano, not an upright, but a Haynes Square piano, rosewood, with octagon curved legs and mother-of-pearl inlay on the name board. She walked over to it.
“May I?” she asked.
“By all means, please do,” Corey replied.
Standing by the piano, Rachael depressed a few of the keys, and was rewarded with a rich, resonant sound. She sat down and began to play. She played a passage from a Bach Toccata and Fugue, then from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and finally from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
“My God,” Prentiss Hampton said, the words more a prayer than an oath. “I have never heard anything so beautiful.”
“Do you see what I was talking about?” Corey asked.
“Yes. What I can’t see is why she would choose to work here.”
“Well, she did accept on condition,” Corey said. “I guess now we’ll have to ask her if the condition has been met.”
Rachael continued to play. It was just before noon, and there were very few customers in the place to hear the music, but those few who were in the saloon interrupted their conversations to listen. Even the bar girls who lived upstairs, and who never made an appearance until around seven P.M., were drawn to the music, and they moved halfway down the stairs, then sat on the steps as they listened, spellbound by the sound.
In a strange way, even Rachael was spellbound by her own music, enjoying the beautiful tone of the piano as well as the ambiance of this place. Finally, when the last note hung quivering in the air, she sat there for a long second, letting the strings continue to vibrate with the last harmonic resonance of the music.
Her contemplation of the moment was disturbed by the clapping of those present, and because Rachael was lost in the moment, the applause startled her. Then, standing up to see the source of the applause, she saw that the four customers as well as the young women, Corey, and the man standing with Corey were all applauding.
“Thank you,” she said self-consciously.
“Miss Kirby, this is my brother, Prentiss,” Cory said by way of introducing the man at his side. “He is my partner in this saloon.”
Rachael extended her hand. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Hampton.”
“How do you like the piano?” Corey asked.
“It’s beautiful.”
“The tone quality is all right?”
“Yes, it is excellent, thank you.”
“What about the saloon itself? Does it meet with your approval?”
“Oh, yes,” Rachael said. “I’ve seen concert halls in New York that had less to offer.”
Smiling, Prentiss and Corey stared at each other for a moment. Then Prentiss cleared his throat.
“Miss Kirby, I’m not as, uh, subtle as my brother, so you will forgive me, I hope, if we dispense with the small talk and I get right to the point.”
“I’m always ready to get right to the point,” Rachael replied.
“Good. Then the question is, will you agree to stay and play piano for us?”
“I would love to stay and play for you,” Rachael said.
The bar girls on the steps cheered out loud.
Chapter Seven
Falcon was standing on the depot platform at MacCallister, Colorado, when the train pulled into the station, a symphony of hissing steam and rolling steel. It was a beautiful engine, painted a forest green, with shining brass trim. The lettering was yellow, and the huge driver wheels were red.
The engineer was hanging out the window looking at the track ahead, in order to find where to stop. He held a pipe clenched tightly in his teeth. The cars slowed and squeaked as they came to a stop. The conductor, who was standing on the boarding step of the first car, was the first to get off the train.
“MacCallister!” he called. “This here is MacCallister!”
The conductor was followed off the train by a dozen or so others: cowboys, miners, drummers, as well as a woman who may have been pretty at one time and was trying, unsuccessfully, to restore with makeup what nature had taken away. In addition, there were a couple of women who were tending to children.
“Grandma!” one little girl shouted as soon as she stepped down from the train. Falcon watched her run into the arms of an older woman who had come to meet the train.
From time to time when Falcon saw such displays, he thought of what he had lost in his own life. His mother and father had both been murdered, as had his wife and children. The twins, a boy and a girl, would have been about twelve years old today. By now, the boy would know how to ride, shoot, hunt, and track, and the girl would just be showing some of the beauty that so characterized her mother. Not one to dwell on such things, however, Falcon turned his attention back to the train.