“Then get them out of here,” Calhoun growled. He looked at the four men and at the smug expressions on their faces.
“I reckon you don’t have as much power as you thought you did, huh?” Bart said to the marshal.
Calhoun held up his index finger. “Here’s how much power I have, sonny,” he said. “If ever I see any of you in my town again, I will throw you in jail again.”
“For what?” Bart asked defiantly.
“For breathing without permission,” Calhoun said pointedly.
“What about our guns and such?” Virgil asked. “You plannin’ on givin’ ’em back to us?”
“They’re hangin’ over there,” Calhoun said, pointing to four pistol belts, handing from nails protruding from the wall.
The four cowboys recovered their guns, then looked over at Ike with huge smiles. “Hey, Mr. Clinton, can we stop by the Hog Waller for a bit before we get back home?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Just get on your horses and get back to the ranch, or leave your horses—they’re mine, remember—and go off on your own. But we ain’t stoppin’ by the Hog Waller.”
Falcon had been quiet during the entire episode, but after Clinton, Belmond, and the four men left, Falcon spoke up.
“You’re going to have trouble with those men,” he said.
Calhoun chuckled. “Hell, I’ve already got trouble with them.”
Falcon shook his head. “No, I mean real trouble.”
“You goin’ to talk or play checkers?” Calhoun asked.
The two men returned to their checker game. Calhoun won that one, Falcon won the second one, and they were on the third set to determine a winner for best two out of three.
“Damn, I’m getting so sleepy I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ my eyes open here,” Calhoun said. He stretched, then stood up. “I’ve got some coffee over there. Would you like a cup?”
“That would be good, thanks,” Falcon said.
Calhoun walked over to take two cups down from their hooks; then he picked up the coffeepot.
“Don’t you be movin’ none of them pieces now, you hear me?” he teased.
“Hell, Titus, you’ve got me in such a pinch now, I wouldn’t even know what pieces to move to help me,” Falcon replied.
“Ha! What are you tryin’ to do, lull me into a trap? You’ve got more pieces on the board than I do. I’m not even sure—unhh!”
Concurrent with Calhoun’s grunt, came the sound of breaking glass. That was followed almost immediately by an entire barrage of shots, smashing through the front window and zinging around the room.
Falcon dived to the floor behind the desk, just as one bullet penetrated the chair where he had been but an instant before.
Even as the bullets were flying through the room, Falcon was on his stomach, working his way across the floor to Calhoun’s prostrate form. But, by the way Calhoun way lying, and by the open eyes and slack jaw, Falcon knew, even before he put his hand on the marshal’s neck to feel for a pulse, that the marshal was dead.
Suddenly, the shooting stopped, and Falcon heard the sound of receding hoofbeats as the assailants galloped away from the marshal’s office. Standing up, Falcon grabbed a Winchester from the gun rack on the wall, then ran out into the street. By now, the two shooters were already more than one hundred yards away, scattering pedestrians as they fled the scene of the assassination.
Both sides of the street were lined with citizens of the town who, when they heard the barrage of gunshots, had poured out of the houses and businesses onto the boardwalks to see what was going on. There were two people crossing the street between Falcon and the fleeing men.
“Get off the street!” Falcon shouted, waving his hand. “Get out of the way!”
Seeing the galloping horses, as well as seeing Falcon standing in front of the marshal’s office with a rifle, the pedestrians were galvanized into movement, and they ran to clear a path between Falcon and the fleeing gunmen.
Falcon didn’t bother to check to see who might be in the street beyond the fleeing men. He didn’t have to. He knew that the bullets would not be going any farther than his intended targets.
Jacking a round into the chamber, Falcon raised the rifle to his shoulder, brought the front sight down on the rider on the left, then squeezed the trigger.
The rifle roared, and kicked back against his shoulder. The rider on the left tumbled from his saddle, and even before the smoke of the discharge had drifted away, Falcon had levered another shell into the chamber and fired a second time, knocking the other rider down. The two horses, now with empty saddles, continued to gallop.
From the Higbee Journal
MURDER SO FOUL!
Marshal Titus Calhoun Murdered.
ASSAILANTS KILLED WHILE FLEEING!
On the afternoon of the 15th, instant, Virgil Tate, Bart Gray, Jesse Jimmerson, and Clyde Newbury were arrested by Marshal Titus Calhoun. These four miscreants had busied themselves with the vandalizing and destruction of private property, to wit: this newspaper. Their stated motive for the vandalism was dissatisfaction with an article that had appeared in the Journal two days prior.
After spending but one night in jail, the four were freed from jail when their employer, Ike Clinton, paid bail. Shortly after being released, Jesse Jimmerson and Virgil Tate returned to the marshal’s office and, firing through the window, killed Marshal Calhoun.
Falcon MacCallister, who was visiting with the marshal at the time, armed himself with a Winchester .44-.40 and with exceedingly accurate rifle fire slew both assailants as they attempted to flee.
Funeral for Marshal Calhoun will be held Saturday next.
The body of Marshal Titus Redfern Calhoun lay in a highly polished black coffin, liberally decorated with shining silver accoutrements. The lining of the coffin was white satin and the marshal, wearing his finest suit, lay in the coffin with his hands folded across his body and his head resting upon a red felt pillow. The undertaker had used clay to cover the bullet hole in his temple, and though he had been quite skillful, a close examination could locate the fatal wound.
The marshal lay in state in the front of the sanctuary of the Higbee Church of the Redeemer. The top half of the casket was open as mourners filed by to pay their last respects. At the request of the marshal’s two brothers, Travis and Troy, Rachael played the piano.
The music Rachael chose was from Joseph Haydn’s Mass in G, and as she played, the music filled the church and caressed the collective soul of the congregation. If there was anyone in town who did not know of the talent of the beautiful young pianist who played at the Golden Nugget, they soon realized that they were listening to a concert pianist of great skill.
Not one person in the congregation had ever read the story in the London Times, written by a British music critic, about Rachael Kirby, but if they had read it, they would have agreed with everything he said:
Although some may question whether or not a woman can play music of concert quality, no one could question the renderings of Miss Kirby on this night. Her music was something magical, and one could almost believe that the very composers whose music she recreated were looking down upon her with deep appreciation of her skills.
It rained on the day of the funeral, and the Reverend E. D. Owen stretched out the eulogy and the service in an attempt to wait out the rain. He reviewed every aspect of the marshal’s life, from the time he was a boy back in Ohio, through his military service during the terrible war that had so recently torn asunder the very fabric of civilization as brother fought brother, till his time as a peacekeeper, both in Arizona and there in Colorado. The Reverend Owen told about the marshal’s two brothers, Travis and Troy, who had come to Higbee to join him and to begin a restaurant.