suddenly—a shot rang out!
“That is far enough, Falcon MacCallister. Take one more step and it is at your peril, for surely, with six of us and but one of you, the outcome of a fight may be foretold!” The voice of he who called was none other than that of Dangerous Dan himself.
Falcon was in great danger for, as Dangerous Dan had correctly spoken, he was but one against an armed and desperate band of six. But Falcon was nothing if he was not a man of great courage and coolness under pressure. He gathered himself to hurl back a defiant response to the challenge issued by Dangerous Dan.
“Dangerous Dan, I do not fear you, nor the evil associates who are in your company!” Falcon called back. “For my cause is just, and I have the strength of many. I call upon you to surrender, or face judgment from the bullets of my Colt .45!”
Looking up toward the huge chalkboard, Somerled saw that his train had arrived on track number seven. He started to put the book back, but decided to buy it. If Duff MacCallister was, indeed, in league with Falcon, then it would be to his advantage to learn as much about him as he could.
With the book in hand he passed through door that had a sign overhead reading: TO TRAINS.
There were several trains under the huge car shed, some leaving, some arriving, and some backed in to discharge or to take on passengers. The shed captured the smoke and steam so that it burned his nostrils as Somerled walked up the long brick ramp between the trains. Stepping up into his assigned car, he settled down to read his book.
He had been traveling for two days by fast train, and yet he had two days remaining before he reached a place called Denver, Colorado. One could cross Scotland by train in but half a day. He had had no idea how large this country of America was until he arrived here.
Chapter Twenty-five
Elmer Gleason, bathed, shaved, his hair cut, fingernails trimmed, and wearing some clothes Duff had provided, sat on the porch drinking a cup of coffee.
“I forgot how good coffee was,” he said.
“How long has it been since you have had a cup?” Duff asked.
“I don’t know,” Gleason said. “I don’t know what year this is.”
“It is 1887,” Duff said.
“1887? Well now, I’m goin’ to have to do some cipherin’ here,” Gleason said. He counted on his fingers and mumbled to himself. “I reckon it’s been eleven years.”
“And you’ve lived in that mine all those years?” Falcon asked.
“Purt’ much,” Gleason answered. “Some years ago I spent some time with the Cheyenne Injuns. I even married me one of ’em, but she died when she was birthin’ our youngin’, and the youngin’, he up and died a couple days later. So I left. I wandered around a bit, then come back to the mine. Not sure when that was, but I know I spent six, maybe seven winters there.”
“Mr. Gleason, you said you killed Lonnie Post and Sam Hodges in self-defense,” Falcon said. “What about Arnold Brown? Did you kill him in self-defense, too?”
“I never heard of a feller named Arnold Brown,” Gleason said. “Who is he?”
“According to Mr. Guthrie, he is a man who went out to the mine to look for gold, and has never been heard of since.”
Gleason laughed. “So that was his name,” he said. “There was a feller come out there not too long after I kilt them two men. But I scairt him off and he never come back.”
“How much gold did you find?” Duff asked.
“I ain’t found much more than you have found,” Gleason said. “But I know it’s there, I can smell it.” Gleason laid his finger alongside his nose.
“But in all the years you spent there, you never found it,” Duff said.
“That don’t mean it ain’t there.”
“Why didn’t you file on it?” Falcon asked.
“I never got around to it,” Gleason replied. “Now you’re a’ tellin’ me that this here fella owns it.” He pointed to Duff.
“He does own it,” Falcon said. “He filed a claim on this land and all its environs.”
“That there word, ‘environs.’ That means he owns the mine?” Gleason asked.
“Yes.”
“Well then, there ain’t much more I can do, is there?”
“You can sell the mine to me,” Duff said.
“What do you mean I can sell it to you? Didn’t you just tell me you already own it?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have no claim whatever. You were here first.”
“I wasn’t first. It was either the Spanish or the Injuns that was first.”
“When you tried to sell it before, how much did you ask for it?”
“I wanted five hunnert dollars,” Gleason said. He chuckled. “But I couldn’t get nobody interested in it.”
“Suppose I give you two hundred dollars, and twenty percent of anything the gold mine ever makes?” Duff
