“That’s gold,” Luke said, a broad smile spreading across his face.
“Where did this rock come from?”
“The Little Sandy River in the Sweetwater Mountains,” he answered.
“How many rocks like this are there?”
“They’s quite a few of ’em around, ain’t they, Percy?”
His partner, who had been quiet so far, now said, “Yeah. They’s a lot of these here rocks up there.”
“Just lying around on the ground to be picked up?” Bailey asked.
“Oh, no ma’am, they ain’t like that,” Percy said. “You can’t just go up there ’n’ start pickin’ up rocks thinkin’ ever’ one of ’em is goin’ to show color. A fella is goin’ to have to hunt around some.”
Bailey turned her attention back to the rock. “Did you get an assay report?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke said. “It will prove out at eighty dollars per ton.”
“Well, now, gentlemen, what do you think of those numbers?” Bailey asked.
“Eighty dollars a ton is going to start a rush like the one they had in California,” Jason White said.
“Is that good enough for you, Mr. Ford?” Bailey asked.
“It’s more than good enough,” Addison said. “I will telegraph the Secretary of Interior tomorrow that I have approved your application for operational status under the provisions of the Railroad Land Grant Act of 1862.”
“Mr. White, how soon can you start the survey?”
“Right away,” he replied.
“Gentleman,” Bailey said, “the Sweetwater Railroad is in business.
The piano player in the Royal Flush saloon was bad. The only thing worse was the piano he was playing. Though in a way, Hawke thought, the fact that the piano was so badly out of tune might be a blessing in disguise. It made it difficult for the average person to be able to differentiate from a discordant note badly played and the harsh dissonance of the soundboard.
Hawke stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.
“Ain’t seen you around,” the bartender said as he held a mug under the beer spigot.
“I haven’t been around.”
“Well, welcome to the Royal Flush.” The bartender set the beer in front of Hawke. “My name is Jake.”
“Good to meet you, Jake. My name is Hawke.” Hawke put a nickel on the bar, but the bartender slid it back and shook his head.
“No sir, the first beer is on the house. That’s the owner’s rule.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. The reason is, Mr. Peabody won this-here saloon in a game of cards. Fact is, he was holdin’ this very hand,” he said, pointing to a glass-encased box. There, fanned out for display, was a royal flush, exactly like the one depicted on the sign out front. “That’s how come he came to change the name of the saloon from Red’s Place to the Royal Flush. And to show his gratitude, well, first time anyone comes into the saloon, their first drink is on the house.”
“That’s very generous of Mr. Peabody.”
At that moment the piano player hit a note that was so discordant it raised the hackles on the back of Hawke’s neck, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.
“Where did you get your piano player?” he asked, nodding toward the bald, sweating man who was pounding away at the keyboard.
“That there is Aaron Peabody,” the barkeep replied.
“Peabody? The owner?”
The barkeep shook his head. “The owner lives back in Cheyenne. Aaron is his younger brother.”
That was all the information Hawke needed. The guy could be playing with his elbows, but if he was the owner’s brother, his position was secure.
In the mirror behind the bar Hawke saw someone come into the saloon. The man moved quickly away from the door, then backed up against the wall, standing there for a long moment while he surveyed the room.
Hawke noticed this because he had made the same kind of entrance a few moments earlier. It was the entrance of a man who lived by his wits, and often by his guns. It was the move of a man who had made enemies, some of whom he didn’t even know.
Hawke had never met Ethan Dancer, but he had heard him described, and from the way this man looked and acted, he would bet that this was the gunfighter. Even as he was thinking about it, Jake bore out his musings.
“Donnie,” Jake said to a young man who was sweeping the floor. “Mr. Dancer is here. Go into the back room and get his special bottle.”
“All right,” Donnie said. He bent down to pick up the little pile of trash he had swept up.
“Quickly, man, quickly,” Jake said. “Never mind that.”
Dancer walked over to an empty table. By the time he sat down, Donnie had returned with the special bottle, and he handed it to Jake. The barkeeper poured a glass, then took it and the bottle to the table.
“Here you go, Mr. Dancer,” he said obsequiously.
Dancer said nothing. He just nodded and took the glass as Jake set the bottle in front of him.
“Call me if you need me, Mr. Dancer,” Jake said, wiping his hands on his apron.
Again Dancer just nodded.
Jake returned to the bar, then, seeing that Hawke’s beer was nearly empty, slid down the bar to talk to him.
“Do you know who that is?”
“I heard you say his name was Dancer.”
“Yes. Ethan Dancer. I reckon you have heard of him, haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“They say he’s kilt hisself more’n fourteen men,” Jake said, not to be denied the opportunity to impart the information.
“Fourteen, huh?” Hawke replied.
“Yes, sir, at least that many. And truth to tell, they don’t nobody really know just how many he’s kilt. He mighta kilt a lot more’n that.”
“You don’t say,” Hawke said. “That’s quite a reputation to be carrying around.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon it is,” Jake said.
For the next few minutes Hawke just stared at Dancer’s reflection in the mirror. After a while Dancer sensed that he was being stared at and glanced up. The two men’s eyes caught and locked in the mirror.
Dancer stared back at the man in the mirror, and was surprised to see his stare returned with a similar unblinking gaze. There were very few men who could meet his gaze without turning away, whether in revulsion from his looks or out of fear of his reputation.
Dancer continued to glare at the image in the mirror, giving him his “killing” expression. It was a glare had made men soil their pants, but it looked to him as if the man at the bar actually found the moment amusing.
“Hey, you,” Dancer called, his words challenging.
All conversation in the saloon stopped and everyone looked at Dancer.
Hawke did not turn around.
“You, at the bar,” Dancer said. “Quit looking at me in that mirror.”
This time Hawke did turn, still with a bemused expression on his face.
“Do you know who I am?” Dancer asked.
“I heard the bartender say your name was Ethan Dancer,” Hawke replied.
“Does that name mean anything to you?”
“I’ve heard of you,” Hawke said easily.
“If you’ve heard of me, then you know I’m not a man to be riled.”
Hawke smiled and lifted his beer. “I’ll try to remember not to rile you,” he said.
This wasn’t going the way it should, Dancer thought, finding the situation disquieting. Clearly, this man knew who he was…and clearly, he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t used to that.
“Ya hoo!” someone shouted, coming into the saloon then. He was holding a rock in one hand and his pistol in the other. He fired the pistol into the ceiling.
The others in the saloon were startled by the unexpected pistol shot.
“Luke! What the hell are you doin’, coming in here shootin’ up the place?” Jake scolded.
“Gold!” Luke replied. “Me ’n’ Percy’s done discovered gold!”