“Aye.”
“I’ve something to show you,” Fincher said.
Fincher went into the back room, then reappeared a moment later, gingerly carrying something.
“Pipes!” Duff said. “Sure an’ I haven’t heard that sweet sound since I left Scotland.”
“Can you play the bagpipes, Duff?” Falcon asked.
“Aye, and would I be Scot if I couldn’t?”
“How did you come by this, Argus?” Falcon asked.
“A couple of years ago a drummer sold them to me for ten dollars,” Fincher said. “I thought I might learn to play them, but they are the devil’s own device. I can barely get a sound from them.”
“May I?” Duff asked, reaching for them.
“What is all that sticking out of the bag?” Fincher asked.
“This is the tube you blow into in order to inflate the bag,” Duff explained. “This is the chanter. You move your fingers over the holes in the chanter to play the notes. And these are the drones, two tenor and one bass.”
Duff took the bag, inflated it, then began to play. At first the strange sound coming from the instrument surprised the others in the saloon, but then they heard the melody, sweet and harmonious over the steady thrum of the three drone tubes.
When Duff finished the impromptu concert, every person in the saloon applauded. He thanked them, then handed the pipes back to Fincher.
“No, sir,” Fincher said, holding his hand out. “That thing belongs to someone who can play it. You keep it.”
“I can’t do that,” Duff said. “But I’ll buy them from you. How much did you pay for them?”
“Ten dollars.”
Duff took out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the bartender.
“Thank you,” Fincher said.
“No, Mr. Fincher. Thank you.”
“Play us another tune, would you, Mr. MacCallister?” one of the saloon patrons asked.
“I’ll play for you, ‘Scots Wha Hae,’” Duff said. “That means, ‘Scots Who Have.’”
Duff played the song, a stately slow melody, then afterward he spoke the words.
That evening Duff and Falcon sat on the front porch of the old MacCallister homestead. It was on this porch that Kate Olmstead, Falcon’s mother, had died. And now she and Falcon’s father lay buried twenty-five yards away.
The two men sat far into the night, exchanging stories. Falcon said that he could understand the killing rage Duff felt after Skye was killed. His own wife had been kidnapped and murdered, and Falcon went after and killed those who were responsible. He also told of his father and mother, how they had met when very young and run away together, how he was mentored by an old mountain man who was called simply Preacher. He also told of his own, as well as his father’s adventures in the American Civil War.
Duff spoke of his own father, Brigadier Duncan MacCallister, a career soldier in India, where Duff had spent much of his childhood. Brigadier MacCallister was at Lucknow, in command of 855 men, when it was besieged by over 8,000 rebels. He held them off until relieved by Major General Havelock. Though Duff had earned a commission, he had not made a career of the army. He did serve in Egypt for a while, and he told Falcon his own experiences at the battle of Tel-el-Kebir. He also told of his time at sea.
“They are a breed in and of themselves, these men who sail before the mast,” he said. “Good men who have only each other for company.”
In the dark vault of night, a golden meteor streaked across the sky.
“That was Skye, saying hello to me,” Duff said.
“The meteor was Skye?”
Duff chuckled. “Every time Skye saw a meteor, she would say that it was the soul of some departed loved one saying hello. I laughed at her then, but find some comfort from it now. She spoke to me many times while I was sea.”
Duff almost told of hearing her voice in the wind and seeing her eyes in the fluorescent flash of fish, but he knew that Falcon wouldn’t understand. Every time it happened, he had passed it off. But now he wondered—could it be true? Could it have actually been Skye, speaking to him? Was that golden streak across the sky Skye? Or was it merely a dead rock falling to earth from outer space?
“I guess you think that is crazy,” Duff said.
“No, I don’t. Not at all,” Falcon replied, his answer surprising Duff. “The Indians have a much better connection to nature than the White man. And Indians believe, strongly, in such signs. And I know better than to question them.”
