“Sounds good,” Falcon said, picking up his grip and heading for the stairs.
The bathing room the clerk spoke of was at the far end of the upstairs hallway. Water came from a tank overhead, heated by the sun and brought to the room by turning a spigot.
Falcon took a bath, then a much-needed nap, waking up just as it was beginning to get dark outside. Going downstairs, he took a walk around the little town before winding up in the Lucky Strike Saloon.
Stepping through the batwing doors, Falcon moved to one side and placed his back against the wall. It was a habit he had developed over several years of being on the trail and encountering, and making, enemies as well as friends.
The symphony of the saloon was a familiar one: clinking glasses, loud talk, and a slightly-out-of-tune piano playing away from the back wall.
Once his eyes were accustomed to the low light in the saloon, he surveyed the crowd. It seemed to be a combination of cowboys and hard-rock miners. These were hardworking men, letting off a little steam after a day of labor. There was also the usual mix of gamblers, drifters, and bar girls in the room.
Smiling, one of the girls came over to greet Falcon.
“My, my,” she said, looking up at him. “You’re a big, good-looking man.”
Falcon smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Callie.”
“Well, Callie, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let a compliment like that go unrewarded. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I would like that,” Callie said. “Thank you ...” She paused, waiting for him to offer his name.
“Falcon.”
“Falcon? That’s an interesting name.”
“My parents were interesting people. Barkeep,” Falcon called. “I’ll have a beer, and give the lady whatever she wants.”
“Lady?” a man standing down at the other end of the bar said, scoffing. “Mister, I don’t know whether you are blind, or just dumb. But that ain’t no lady. That’s a whore.”
Falcon looked down toward the end of the bar. The belligerent man had dark hair and dark eyes and a scar on his cheek. He didn’t look like either a miner or a cowboy, but Falcon had seen his kind before. They were drifters who supported themselves in any way that did not require work. Most of the time they were gamblers, cheats, and petty thieves.
“You know this asshole?” Falcon asked Callie. He said it loudly enough that several people heard it, including the belligerent man at the end of the bar. The others who did hear it laughed, including Callie.
“What? What did you call me?” the belligerent man asked in a blustering voice.
“I never met him before this afternoon,” Callie replied. “He says his name is Pete. Pete Tucker.”
“I asked you what you called me,” Pete demanded.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t I say it clearly enough?” Falcon replied. “I called you an asshole. Ass ... hole,” he said slowly and deliberately.
“Why, you son of a bitch!” Pete said, making a grab for his pistol.
Falcon threw his beer mug at Pete, hitting him in the forehead with it. Pete’s first reaction was to put both hands to his head and when he did so, Falcon closed the distance between them in a rush. He hit Pete in the nose, and felt it break under his fist.
With a shout of pain, Pete dropped his hands to his nose. When he did, Falcon drove his fist into Pete’s belly, causing him to double over as he gasped for breath. That enabled Falcon to grab him by his collar and belt. Picking him up, Falcon carried him to the front door, then tossed him out into the street, right into a pile of horse apples. Following him into the street, Falcon leaned down and took Pete’s gun from his holster. He removed the cylinder, then stuck the gun, barrel down, into a horse turd.
When Falcon went back inside, he was greeted by applause and a smiling Callie, who was holding a fresh mug of beer for him.
“Mister,” she said. “My job is to make men buy me drinks, so I’ve never bought a man a beer in my life. But after you came to the defense of my honor like that, buying you a beer is the least I can do.”
“Well, thank you, Callie.”
“I wish I could offer more, if you know what I mean,” she said. She looked toward the clock. “But in ten minutes I have a ... uh ... engagement.”
Falcon smiled at her. “Then I’ll just enjoy your company for the next ten minutes until it is time for your ... engagement,” he said, setting the word apart the way she had.
In truth, Falcon didn’t actually want to take her up on her offer, so it worked out better this way.
After Callie left with the man who had arranged for her services, a young, hard-rock miner, Falcon saw a poker game in progress. When one of the players got up, Falcon walked over to the table.
“Mind if I join the game?”
“No, we don’t mind at all. Fresh blood is always welcome. Please, feel free to join in,” one of the men said.
The game turned out to be a friendly, low-stakes game with enough good hands being passed around from player to player so that nobody was winning too much and nobody was losing too much.
The one who had invited Falcon to sit introduced himself as George Snyder.
