“I’ll bet you’ve never seen this much dust before,” Falcon said.
“Not since Egypt,” Duff said.
Falcon chuckled. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I suppose there is a little dust in Egypt.”
There was a drunk passed out on the steps in front of the place, so Duff and Falcon moved to one side so they could step directly up onto the porch from the sun-baked ground. They pushed through the swinging bat-wing doors, and because the inside of the saloon was illuminated only by the light that streamed in through dirty windows, they had to stand there for just a second to allow their eyes to adjust. Duff noticed that Falcon had automatically moved away from the door and placed his back against the wall, so he did the same thing.
Compared to many of the saloons Duff had seen since coming west, Fiddler’s Green was fairly nice looking, surprisingly so because the town seemed so remote. There was a mirror behind the bar, bracketed by shelves that were filled with scores of bottles of various kinds of liquor and spirits. A sign on the wall read: “GENTLEMEN, KINDLY USE THE SPITTOONS.”
The sign was either obeyed, or the saloon proprietor was particular about cleaning, for the floors were remarkably free of any expectorations. There was a piano at the back of the room, but nobody was playing. A young boy, no more than twelve or thirteen, Duff believed, was sweeping the floor with a big push broom. That validated Duff’s belief that the saloon owner was fastidious.
As Duff and Falcon approached the bar, Duff saw a brass foot rail and he made use of it, welcoming it because lifting his leg somewhat did seem to ease a bit of the ache he was feeling in his back as a result of the long ride of the last two days.
“What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked, sliding down the bar with a towel tossed across his shoulder. The fact that the towel was relatively clean spoke volumes about the class of the establishment.
“Two beers,” Falcon said.
“And I’ll have the same,” Duff said.
The bartender laughed. “You boys seem to have worked up a thirst.”
“Long ride,” Falcon said.
“Where’d you boys come from? Not that it’s any of my business,” he added quickly, holding up his hand to indicate that they didn’t need to answer.
“I take your question as friendly discourse and have no problem with answering,” Duff said. “Especially since we will be neighbors and I expect to visit your establishment from time to time. We rode up from Cheyenne.”
“That is a long ride,” the bartender said as he drew the four beers. Then holding the mugs by their handles, two in each hand, he set them in front of Duff and Falcon. Both men pulled out two nickels apiece, but the bartender took only one nickel from each of them.
“First beer to a first-time visitor is free,” he said.
“That’s very neighborly of you,” Falcon said.
Both Falcon and Duff turned up their mugs and drained them without pause. Then, both finishing about the same time, they put the empties down.
Duff wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That one was for thirst,” he said as he picked up the second mug. “This one is for taste.”
This time he took only one sip before he put the mug down again.
“Do you serve food here?” Falcon asked. “Or do we need to find a restaurant?”
“Bacon, beans, biscuits,” the bartender replied. “The biscuits ought to be pretty good. I was just back in the kitchen and they are about ready to come out.”
“What do you think, Duff?”
“I’m not likely to get haggis, taties, or neeps, so bacon, beans, and biscuits will do just fine.”
“You’re from Scotland,” the bartender said with a broad smile. “I thought I recognized your accent.”
“Ye have a good ear for accents,” Duff said.
“Not really. But my wife’s parents are from Scotland, so I am familiar with the brogue. And with haggis, taties, and neeps. Though I have to tell you, I can’t stand the stuff.” He stuck his hand out. “If we’re going to be neighbors, as you say, we may as well get acquainted. The name is Johnson, Biff Johnson.”
“Duff MacCallister,” Duff replied.
“Duff? Hmm, Duff and Biff, we shouldn’t have any trouble remembering our names,” Biff said.
Duff chuckled, then turned toward Falcon. “This is my kinsman, Falcon.”
“Yes, Falcon, I thought I recognized you,” Biff said, shaking Falcon’s hand.
“Do we know each other, Biff?” Falcon asked.
“It’s been a while but . . .” Biff paused in mid statement. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Falcon shook his head. “I’m sorry, friend, I can’t say that I do remember you.”
“I’ll let you think about it for a while,” Biff said. “I believe it will come to you.”
“Biff,” Duff said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that name.”
Biff chuckled. “Not likely that you would have. My real name is Benjamin Franklin Johnson. But that was too long a handle so folks started calling me B.F., and, somehow, that became Biff. What about eats? Do you want what we have?”
“We’ll take it,” Falcon said. Scooping a couple of boiled eggs from the large jar that sat on the end of the bar, he handed one to Duff. Then the two of them took the boiled eggs and their beer to a nearby table. It didn’t take long for one of the bar girls to approach them.
“Hello,” she said, smiling her greeting at them. “My name is Lucy.”
Lucy was tall, raw-boned, and full-breasted. She had wide-set, blue-gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a mouth that was almost too full. “Have I seen you two in here before?”
“Not likely, we just got into town,” Falcon answered.
Duff stood up and pulled a chair out for her by way of invitation.
“My, aren’t you the gentleman though?” Lucy asked. “Most of the time someone just kicks the chair out with their foot and expects me to be all grateful that they have invited me to sit down.”
“Och, I could never do such a thing,” Duff said.
“Oh, my. What a lovely accent.”
Duff held the chair until Lucy was seated, then she let out a long sigh. “If you hadn’t invited me to sit down I may have anyway. I’ve been on my feet all day.”
“No big thing, you’re a whore so you’ll be on your back all night,” a big man from the next table said. He laughed heartily at his joke, though no one else in the saloon did.
“Pig Iron, you got no call to be saying something like that,” one of the other patrons said.
Duff saw the hurt reflected in Lucy’s eyes and, without saying another word, he stepped over to the table of the man who had made the rude comment.
“’Tis thinking, I am, that you’ll be wanting to apologize to the lady for that intemperate remark,” Duff said.
“Ha! You want me to apologize to a whore? In a pig’s eye, I will.”
“Then I’ll be asking you, with all due respect, to move to another table,” Duff said.
By now all conversation in the saloon stopped as everyone looked over to see the confrontation between Duff and the man called Pig Iron.
Pig Iron stood up and smiled at Duff. It was not a smile of humor.
“I heard you tell the bartender that you was goin’ to be movin’ here, so you may as well learn now to mind your manners around ole Pig Iron.”
Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Pig Iron took a swing at Duff, but Duff ducked under it easily. Then, with the extended fingers of his left hand, he jabbed hard at a point in the upper abdomen just below where the ribs separated. It had the effect of knocking the breath out of Pig Iron, and with a wheezing whoosh, he stepped back and fell into his chair gasping for breath.
“Don’t worry, friend, you will regain your breath,” Duff said. “Sure and I could follow that up with a blow that would render you unconscious. But I think you are uncomfortable enough as it is, and I’ve nae wish to make enemies so quickly in my chosen place of abode. So let us just agree that this episode is over. Do I have your agreement on that?”