Dear Miss Kirby,
My name is Corey Hampton. My brother Prentiss and I own a saloon in Higbee, Colorado. Let me assure you, it is a saloon of the highest repute.
Last night I attended the performance you and the others gave, and I enjoyed it very much. But what I enjoyed most was your piano playing. It was beautiful, and it held me spellbound for the entire evening.
Then, later, I enjoyed a late dinner, only to discover that you and the other players were at a table very near mine. I intended to come introduce myself to you, but I overheard your conversation, and realized that you had been stranded by an unscrupulous thief who took all your money.
As I understood the conversation (and I beg you to forgive me for my eavesdropping), you and the others are now without employment. Also, if I understood correctly, the others are returning, but you plan to say out here.
I would be very pleased to offer you a job playing the piano in the Golden Nugget. If you are interested in such a position, please meet me for breakfast at Two Tonys Restaurant on Santa Fe Avenue. I will stay there until ten o’clock, at which time I must catch a train to return to Higbee.
Sincerely,
Corey Hampton
When Rachael stepped into the restaurant a few minutes later, the maitre d’ came up to her.
“Yes, madam, are you alone?”
“No, Mr. Deckert, the lady is with me,” a man said, getting up from a nearby table.
“You are Mr. Hampton?” Rachael asked.
“I am.”
Rachael smiled. “I am a pianist,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“In your letter, you said you wanted to hire me as a piano player. I am not a piano player, I am a pianist. Do you still want to hire me?”
Corey Hampton smiled, and nodded. “Oh, yes, ma’am, I want to hire you, Miss Kirby,” he said. “I think Higbee is ready for a pianist.”
Chapter Four
As Falcon rode down the street in Boulder, Colorado, the hollow clumping sound of his horse’s hooves was interrupted by a clang, then a cheer.
“You’re goin’ to be workin’ against a leaner there, Jimmy,” someone said. “Better be careful you don’t knock it down so that it becomes a ringer.”
“You boys don’t be worryin’ none about that,” Jimmy said. “I’m goin’ to knock that one off and drop mine in, clean as a whistle.”
By then, Falcon was even with the contest, and he heard the sound of the shoe hitting the steel stob, then shouts and laughter.
“I told you, you was goin’ to knock that into a ringer,” someone said.
“You jinxed me. If you hadn’t said nothin’, I would’a knocked that horseshoe plumb away from there.”
“Yeah, and if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump ’is ass ever’time he jumps,” someone else said, and everyone laughed.
Falcon continued on until he pulled up in front of the saloon. Dismounting, he went inside, stepped up to the bar, and slapped a silver coin down in front of him.
Looking around, the bartender broke into a wide grin.
“Well, I’ll be damned, if it isn’t Falcon MacCallister,” the bartender said, smiling at him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hello, Ed,” Falcon said. “How cold is your beer?”
“I’m running a little low on ice,” Ed said. “But I can promise you that it’s colder than horse piss.”
Falcon laughed and slid his coin across the bar. “That’s good enough,” he said.
The bartender shoved the coin back to Falcon. “Your money’s no good here, Falcon. The first one is on me.”
“Thanks,” Falcon said.
“By the way, did you hear that the son of a bitch who kilt the Poindexter family escaped prison?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Falcon replied without elaboration.
“I still don’t see how it is that they didn’t find him guilty of murder. If they had just gone ahead and hung the bastard, he wouldn’t be loose now.”
“There’s no arguing with that,” Falcon replied.
“I hope they find the bastard, that’s all I can say,” the bartender said. “I heard you are the one who brought him in.”
“I am.”
“Too bad you didn’t kill him.”
Falcon took a swallow of his beer to keep from answering. He had killed his share of men—more than his share, if truth be known. He had never backed down from a fight and never would, but he didn’t have a lust for killing.
The bartender, realizing Falcon didn’t want to talk about it anymore, slid on down to the far end of the bar and began polishing glasses.
“MacCallister, you are a no-count, back-shooting son of a bitch!”
The loud, angry words silenced all conversation in the saloon, and the piano player halted his song in mid-bar, the last few notes hanging discordantly in the air. Except for the loud tick-tock of the Regulator Clock that hung from the back wall, a deathly quiet came over the room.
Falcon looked into the mirror behind the bar. The mirror was distorted so that, although he saw his challenger, he could not see him clearly enough to make out his features.
“Turn around, real slow,” the man said. “I ain’t a back-shooter like you. When I kill you, I want you to be lookin’ right into my eyes.”
Falcon took another drink of his beer, doing so slowly and deliberately.
“I said turn around, you son of a bitch!” the man repeated, his anger reaching a fever pitch.
When Falcon turned around, he saw an older man with graying red hair and a scraggily red beard. The man was pointing a Remington rolling-block .45-70 at him.
“I’ve never shot a man with one of these before,” the man said. “But seein’ as it’ll leave a hole in a bear big enough to stick your fist into, well, I’ve got me a pretty good idee what it’ll do to a low-assed polecat like you.”
Falcon noticed that the hammer was not pulled back on the rifle. “Mister, you seem to have something stuck in your craw,” he said calmly.
“You killed my boy,” the man said. “You shot him in the back. And now I’m going to kill you.”
“What was your boy’s name?” Falcon asked.
“What the hell?” the old man sputtered. “Have you done kilt so many men that you can’t even keep track of ’em?”
“What was his name?” Falcon repeated.
“His name was Manning. John Nathan Manning. I’m Carter Manning. That boy’s mama died when he was just a pup and I raised him all alone.” Tears welled up in the man’s eyes. “And I didn’t raise him up just so someone like you could come along and shoot him in the back.”
“Well, Mr. Manning, I hope I don’t have to kill you, I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain something to you.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want to have to kill me? I’m the one that’s holdin’ the gun, or ain’t you noticed? And what is there to explain about shootin’ someone in the back?”
“That’s just the point, Mr. Manning,” Falcon continued in a calm, quite voice, “I’ve never killed anyone named Manning, and I’ve never shot anyone in the back.”
“Oh, no?” Manning said, shaking his head. “I may be nothin’ but a dirt farmer, but I ain’t so far out of it that I’m goin’ to let you lie your way out of this. I got me a letter from a man named Tyree. He said he seen the whole thing.”
“Would that be Jefferson Tyree?” Falcon asked.
“Ah-hah! So, you know him, do you? Then I reckon that proves he was tellin’ the truth.”
Manning raised his rifle, but before he even got it to his shoulder, Falcon had his own pistol out and cocked. He stuck his arm out with his pistol pointed right at Manning.
“Don’t make me do it, Manning!” Falcon said sharply.
Manning stopped midway through raising his rifle and stared in shock and fear at the big hole in the end of Falcon’s pistol. Nervously, he lowered the rifle. “How’d you do that?” he asked in an awestruck voice. “How’d you get your gun out so fast?”