“Skye?”
Duff sat up in his bedroll, reaching out into the darkness for his Skye, but she wasn’t there.
For just a moment Duff felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness, then he knew he had only been dreaming. Or was it a dream? It seemed so true, so physical that it was hard to think of it as surreal. What had she told him? That she would always be just on the other side of memory?
He heard Falcon snoring and he looked over toward the other bedroll. Falcon was sound asleep, and Duff was glad. This dream was very personal and he wanted to keep it that way.
Falcon had come with Duff not only to be with him as he filed for his land but also to help him build the cabin he would need in order to “improve” his holding. So they spent the next morning and into the afternoon scouting the area, first determining the perimeters of his land, then deciding where best to build the cabin. Duff wanted it right at the confluence of the two creeks, but Falcon cautioned him that when the snow in the mountains melted, there would be a runoff and the creeks would be in freshet stage.
“You are likely to wake up one morning knee deep in water,” Falcon said.
“Aye, you are right. ’Twould be a big mistake to put it right here.”
They found a place on some elevated ground, at least thirty feet higher than the creek but close enough to it that it would be a ready source of water.
“When we come back from town, we will lay out the dimensions of the cabin, right here,” Duff said. They didn’t leave for town until early afternoon, but it did not take them long to finish their ride, for Chugwater was but ten miles from Duff’s land.
Duff’s initial view of the town was not all that reassuring. At first it seemed little more than a part of the topography of the land they were riding through: hillocks on the horizon, mostly the same color as the earth from which the clumps emerged. As they drew closer though, the hillocks and clumps began to take shape and he saw that they were not a part of the desert but were a town.
The buildings, consisting mostly of adobe brick and ripsawed unpainted and weathered boards sat festering in the sun. A sign as they entered the town reflected either the hyperbole of an overenthusiastic town booster or his sarcasm.
WELCOME TO CHUGWATER, W.T.
POPULATION 205
The town was not served by a railroad, but as they rode in, Duff saw a stagecoach sitting at the depot, the six-horse team standing quietly in their harness. The driver, with a pipe stuck in his teeth, was sitting in his seat, his feet propped up on the splashboard in front of him, his arms folded across his chest. He appeared to be grabbing a few moments of rest, totally indifferent to the depot personnel who were loading passengers’ baggage on top of the coach and into the boot.
The passengers were waiting alongside the coach: three men, two women, and a child. One of the passengers who had just gotten off the stage was a woman, whom Duff guessed was in her twenties. She was quite pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. She brushed a fall of hair from her forehead, then flashed a smile toward Duff as he rode by. He touched his hand just above his right eye and dipped his head toward her.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Falcon asked as they rode on.
Duff was surprised by the comment. He was riding behind Falcon and had no idea that Falcon had even noticed the brief and silent exchange.
“Aye,” Duff said. “She is.”
“What do you say we get the dust out of our mouths?” Falcon suggested, pointing toward one of the more substantial looking of the buildings. It was a saloon bearing the unlikely name of Fiddler’s Green.
“Aye, ’tis a good idea, I would say,” Duff replied.
Dismounting in front of the saloon, Duff and Falcon spent the first few seconds slapping themselves to get rid of the dust and raising a cloud around them.
“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
