Turning southwest, Tyree rode hard for two days, avoiding towns until he reached Badito. Badito was little more than a flyblown speck on the wide-open range. He chose it because it had no railroad and he saw no telegraph wires leading into it, which meant they had probably not heard of his escape yet. Stopping in front of the Bull’s Head Saloon, Tyree went inside and ordered a beer. It was his first beer in over a year.
Shortly after Tyree arrived, a young man stopped in front of the Bull’s Head. Going inside, he stepped up to the bar. The saloon was relatively quiet, with only four men at one table, and a fifth standing down at the far end of the bar. The four at the table were playing cards; the one at the end of the bar was nursing a drink. The man nursing the drink was a fairly small man with dark hair, dark, beady eyes, a narrow mouth, and a nose shaped somewhat like a hawk’s beak. He looked up as the young man entered, but turned his attention back to the beer in front of him.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
“Beer.”
“A beer it is,” the bartender replied. He turned to draw the beer.
“Make it two beers.”
The bartender laughed. “You sound like you’ve worked yourself up quite a thirst.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon I have. I went down into New Mexico to have a look around.”
“Did you now?” the bartender replied as he put the beers on the bar before the young man. “See anything interesting down there?”
“A lot of desert. It’s good to be back to land that can be farmed.”
“You like farmin’, do you?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, sir, I do. My pa’s a farmer, and I was raised on a farm.”
“I know some farmers. What’s you pa’s name?”
“My pa’s name is Carter Manning.”
“Hmm, I don’t know think I know him.”
“We live up in a place called Hancock,” Manning said. “Well, we don’t actually live there. Like I say, we live on a farm outside Hancock. But we get our mail at the Hancock post office.”
“I was wonderin’ why you smelled like pig shit,” Tyree said without looking up from his beer.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Manning said. “What did you just say?”
“I said you smelled like pig shit,” Tyree said. “You and your old man. As far as I’m concerned, all farmers smell like pig shit.”
“I won’t hold that against you, ’cause I reckon you are just trying to make a joke,” Manning said. “But I don’t mind tellin’ you, mister, I don’t see anything funny about it.”
“Well, that’s good, ’cause I don’t mean it as a joke. You smell like pig shit, just like all the rest of the farmers in the world.”
“Mister, looks to me like we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. Let me see if I can’t change your mind. My name’s Manning, John Nathan Manning, and here’s to you, Mr.—”
“My name is MacCallister, Falcon MacCallister,” Tyree said. “And I’d sooner drink horse piss than drink with a farmer.”
“Falcon MacCallister? You’re Falcon MacCallister?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I—I’ve never met Falcon MacCallister, but I’ve certainly heard a lot about him. If you are MacCallister, you are very different from anything I’ve ever heard.”
“Boy, that sounds like you’re callin’ me a liar,” Tyree said.
Using the back of his hand, Manning wiped beer foam from his mouth. It was obvious that Tyree had irritated him, and for the briefest of moments, that irritation was reflected in his face. But he put it aside, then forced a smile.
“Hell, Mr. MacCallister, if you don’t want to drink to me, that’s fine. You’re the one that butted into this conversation, so why don’t we just each one of us mind our own business? I’ll keep quiet, and you do the same.”
“So now, you not only call me a liar, you tell me to shut up,” Tyree said.
“What’s the matter with you, mister?” Manning asked, bristling now at the man’s comment. “Are you aching for a fight or something? Because, if you are, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Easy, son,” the bartender said, reaching across the bar to put his hand on Manning’s arm. “There’s something about this that ain’t goin’ down right.”
Manning continued to stare at Tyree, his anger showing clearly in his face. By contrast, the expression on Tyree’s face had not changed.
“I just don’t like being insulted by some sawed-off runt of a man who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut,” Manning said. “And I don’t care if he’s the famous Falcon MacCallister or not.”
“Let it go,” the bartender said.
“Yeah, sonny, let it go, before you get so scared you piss in your pants,” Tyree taunted.
“That’s it, mister! I’m going to mop the floor with your sorry hide!” Manning said. He put up his fists.
Tyree smiled, a smile without mirth. “If we’re going to fight, why don’t we make it permanent?” he asked. He stepped away from the bar, then turned, exposing a pistol that he wore low and kicked out, in the way of a gunfighter.
“Hold on there, mister,” the bartender said to Tyree. “There’s no need to carry this any further.”
“Yeah, there is,” Tyree said. “This young fella here has brought me to the ball and now I reckon he owes me a dance.”
Manning suddenly realized that he had been suckered into this, and he stopped, then opened his fists and held his hands palm out in front of him.
“Why are you pushing this?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“I want to settle this little dispute between us permanently,” Tyree said.
“No, there’s no need for all this. This little disagreement isn’t worth either one of us dying over.”
“Oh, it won’t be either of us, sonny. It’ll just be you dyin’,” Tyree said.
“I’m not a gunfighter, mister. I don’t have any intention of drawing on you. If you shoot me, you are going to have to shoot me in cold blood, and in front of these witnesses.”
“What witnesses?” Tyree asked, looking toward the table where the cardplayers had interrupted their game to watch the unfolding drama. “I don’t see any witnesses.”
Taking their cue, all four men got up from the table, two of them standing so quickly that their chairs fell over. The chairs struck the floor with two pops, as loud as gunshots, and Manning jumped. The four cardplayers hurried out the front door.
Tyree turned toward the bartender. “You plannin’ on takin’ part in this?” he asked.
“Don’t do this, mister,” the bartender said. “The boy didn’t mean nothin’.”
“Either get a gun and take part in this, or go outside with the others,” Tyree ordered.
A line of perspiration beads broke out on the bartender’s upper lip. He looked over at Manning with an expression of pity in his face.
“I’m sorry, boy,” he said. “I—I—” He couldn’t finish.
“Go ahead, Mr. Bartender,” Manning said, his voice tight with fear. “I’m just sorry I got you into this. I know this ain’t your fight.”
The bartender remained a second longer, then, with a sigh, headed for the door.
The saloon was now empty except for Manning and Tyree. Manning’s knees grew so weak that he could barely stand, and he felt nauseous.
“Anytime, sonny,” Tyree said with an evil smile.
Suddenly, Manning made a ragged, desperate grab for his pistol. He cleared the holster with it. Then, as if changing his mind in the middle, he turned and tried to run, doing so just as Tyree fired. As a result, Tyree’s bullet struck Manning in the back. Manning went down, took a few ragged gasps, and then died.
Tyree finished his drink, then walked over to look down at Manning’s body.
“Son of a bitch, boy,” he said. “You made Falcon MacCallister shoot you in the back. Wonder what your pa will think of that.”