Malcolm fought hard to suppress his smile. He would have been willing to pay up to one hundred dollars.
“Twenty-five now, and twenty-five when the job is done,” Malcolm suggested.
Pogue held out his hand. “Give me the money.”
As Malcolm counted it out, Pogue started giggling.
“What is so funny?”
“I was goin’ to say ten dollars, ’till you come with twenty-five. When you said that, I figured I could maybe get fifty. You don’t know it, Mister, but you got took.”
“You’re just too smart for me,” Malcolm said. “Now, if you would, please start rounding up some more men.”
“You would’a give him more, wouldn’t you?” Shaw asked after Pogue left.
“Perhaps.”
“I mean, you give me a hunnert.”
“We’ll keep that between ourselves, won’t we?” Malcolm asked.
“Hell, yeah, you think I want Pogue knowin’ I’m gettin’ more money than he is?”
“I think he would not be too pleased with that,” Malcolm said.
Sheriff Angus Somerled read the letter the postmaster brought him. It was another letter from Duff MacCallister, intended for Ian.
Sheriff Somerled folded up the copy of the letter and drummed his fingers on the desk for moment or two. Then he got an atlas of the United States and looked up Colorado. He put his finger on the town of MacCallister, between Red Cliff and Wheeler, in Eagle County.
“You think you are safe, do you, Duff MacCallister?” Somerled said aloud. He pulled his pistol from his holster and held it for a long moment, thinking of his three sons, all dead because of Duff MacCallister.
Then, putting his pistol back in the holster, he took out a piece of paper and wrote out his resignation. He had sent Malcolm to America to deal with MacCallister, but so far all he had done was get his two sons killed. The old adage “If you want something done, do it yourself,” resonated with him. He was going to America to find Duff MacCallister, and he was going to kill him.
Chapter Sixteen
“You Americans have tremendously large breakfasts,” Duff said as he split open a biscuit and laid a piece of fried ham between the halves. His plate showed the residue of three eggs and home fried potatoes.
“That may be so, but you seem to be up to the task,” Falcon said.
Duff laughed as he took a bite of his ham biscuit. “I didn’t say that I didn’t approve. I was just commenting.”
“I eat a big breakfast when I can,” Falcon said, “because I’m not always certain I will get to eat again on that day.”
“Seems reasonable enough to me,” Duff said.
“Didn’t you tell me that you bought a pistol?” Falcon asked.
“Aye, that I did. I bought an Enfield Mark 1.”
“Enfield is it? Hmm, I’ve heard of Enfield rifles. I didn’t know they made a pistol.”
“Quite a good one, actually,” Duff replied.
“Do you have a belt and holster set?”
“Oh, I do indeed,” Duff said.
“I tell you what. After breakfast, suppose you strap on your pistol and we’ll go outside for a little shooting?”
“I think that would be splendid.”
When Duff stepped outside a few minutes later, he was wearing a pistol belt with bullets in every loop. The holster was in front, just over his right leg.
“Why are you wearing your holster like that?” Falcon asked.