“That seems a bit much, doesn’t it? Am I to check under my bed for goblins as well?”
Falcon chuckled. “Goblins can’t hurt you. But somebody like this fella, Roy, you met today can.”
“Do you think Roy might come knocking on my door?”
“I think it is entirely possible that he might,” Falcon said. “Do you have any idea how many people there are out there who want me dead?”
“I would have no idea how many, nor any idea as to why they might want you dead,” Duff replied.
“I don’t know exactly how many, either,” Falcon replied. “But there are an awful lot of them.”
“Even so, by your own admission it is you that they want dead. You, not me.”
“Uh-huh, I wish that was right, but the truth is, you are in as much danger as I am.”
“I have made no enemies, unless you are talking about Roy. And that was but a chance encounter.”
“It is chance encounters like that that make enemies,” Falcon said. “But even if you had not run into him, you would still be in danger.”
“And why is that?”
“Didn’t you say that this sheriff from Scotland sent people to New York to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he will give up?”
“No. Though he has no idea where I am.”
“It has been my experience that when someone hates enough to want to kill, they have ways of finding out where you are. And, without regard to the sheriff, you are in danger for another reason.”
“What reason would that be?”
“I hate to say it, but it is because your name is MacCallister,” Falcon said.
“Och, so if I’m to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, I’m to blame you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You did not knock on my door merely to give me an object lesson, did you, Falcon?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s nearly supper time. I thought you might like to go grab a bite.”
“Grab a bite,” Duff said, chuckling. “What quaint sayings you Americans have.”
“Och, ’tis quaint indeed,” Falcon replied, perfectly mimicking Duff’s accent.
Duff laughed out loud. “Well, pardner, let me just grab my hat, and we’ll mosey on down to grab a bite,” he said, perfectly imitating Falcon’s Western twang.
Falcon laughed as well. “I think I’m bringing you along, cousin. Pretty soon you’ll fit right in.”
Roy Jameson was still angry about what had happened in the saloon earlier today. The doctor had bandaged his hand, but it still hurt. And he wasn’t sure that he would ever have as fast a draw as he once had. Because Roy was someone who made his living by selling his expertise with a gun, this could wind up affecting his livelihood.
He had no intention of letting that go without doing something about it. It was more than just revenge. And as long as that Scottish bastard was free to wander around the streets of Cheyenne, it would diminish his value as a hired gunman.
Roy had once waited for three days for the opportunity to kill someone. He had drunk tepid canteen water and eaten jerky, fighting off mosquitoes, ticks, and fleas while he waited along a trail that he knew his target would take. And he had no personal investment in that killing—it was just a job.
He did have a personal stake in this one. That foreign, funny-talking son of a bitch had put a hole in his hand. So if he had to wait outside for three days until he got a chance at the Scot, then so be it. It was a wait he would do, willingly.
Roy had been here all afternoon, standing in the opening between the apothecary and the leather goods store. Both establishments were already closed, so nobody was curious about him being here and, as darkness began to fall, he couldn’t be seen anyway. He reached up to put his hand on the wall, then winced with pain as it caused the wound to hurt.
“Son of a bitch!” he said aloud, jerking his right hand back from the wall and rubbing the wound gently with his left hand. “Scotsman, you are goin’ to die,” he said. “Yes, sir, you are goin’ to die.”
As it grew darker, the tone and tint of the town changed. The daytime resonance of a town at work, the rolling of freight wagons, the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil, the chatter of commerce, was replaced by the nighttime sounds of a town at rest and relaxation: piano music and laughter from the saloons.
The dining room of the Inter-Ocean hotel was brightly lit with gas lanterns and well decorated with preserved and mounted heads of antelope, deer, elk, mountain sheep, and buffalo. Meat from these creatures was featured on the menu, along with pork and beef.
It was a popular eatery, not only for the guests of the hotel such as Duff and Falcon but for many of the citizens of the town as well. Tonight it was full, as nearly every table was occupied. As was Falcon’s habit, he and Duff took a table in the back corner.
“You’ll have to try the buffalo,” Falcon suggested. “It is very good.”
“Have you ever taken a buffalo?” Duff asked.
“Taken? Yes, I’ve eaten it often.”
“I meant, have you hunted the buffalo?”
“Oh. Yes, I have. But the buffalo are getting very scarce now. I fear we have about hunted them out. During the building of the railroad they hired hunters to provide meat for the workers, and there was almost wholesale slaughter. And that’s a shame. They are really magnificent animals.”
“I should like to see one in the wild.”
“I imagine you will on your land,” Falcon said. He took in all the other animal heads. “All these as well.”
Duff and Falcon both ordered pot-roasted buffalo with potatoes, onions, and corn on the cob.
“This is an ear of corn, isn’t it? How does one eat it?”
“Like this,” Falcon explained, spreading butter on the corn, then adding salt and pepper. He picked it up and began biting the corn off.
“My word,” Duff said. He followed suit, took a bite, then smiled. “It is quite good,” he said.
“Stay here long enough, you’ll learn to eat properly,” Falcon teased.
After supper, Duff declared that he would like to take a walk around town to have a look.
“I’ll come with you,” Falcon ordered.
Duff held up his hand. “There’s no need,” he said. “I mean, I’m not trying to stop you, if you genuinely want to come with me. But don’t feel that you must.”
“All right,” Falcon said. “I tell you what. Take your walk around town, then if you feel like it, drop into the White Horse. We’ll have a drink together before we turn in.”
“I would enjoy that,” Duff replied.
The night air felt good as Duff strolled along the board sidewalk. He could hear piano music from the White Horse. Then, as he walked farther, that piano faded out and he heard another piano from a different saloon. Most of the buildings along the street were dark as the businesses were closed, but there were at least six brightly lit buildings, every one of them a drinking establishment.
As he reached the end of the sidewalk, he could hear the sounds from the houses that were close in. A baby was crying somewhere, a dog was barking, and he heard the loud, complaining voice of a woman berating someone. He assumed it was her husband.
He crossed the street here, and then started back down on the sidewalk on the other side, his boots clopping loudly on the wide plank boards. Toward the middle of town there were a few greenish-glowing gas streetlights, and from the saloons, light spilled through the front windows and doors to project clearly defined gleaming squares on the walk and out into the street.
He heard the clopping sound of a horse coming toward him, but he couldn’t see it as yet. Then the horse passed under the first street lamp and he saw a rider, wearing a duster, slumped in the saddle. He watched the horse until it passed through all the lighted area, then disappeared into the distant darkness.