“No, sir, ain’t talkin’ about them. This was the Barlow family, and they lived right there along the Stinking Water River. And the closest Injuns to ’em is Crow.”
“How do you know it was Indians who did it?” Falcon asked.
“How do I know? ’Cause they cut ’em up somethin’ awful. And they scalped ’em too. Now I’ve heard of white men killing people for to rob them and such. But I ain’t never heard of no white men scalping other whites. Most especial if it be a woman and a child.”
“Has the army been called out?” one of the other card players asked.
“Nah,” Reynolds said. “The people are takin’ care of it their ownselves. Mr. Bellefontaine organized a posse, found some Injuns off the reservation, and kilt a couple of them. Then they left a note, lettin’ the Injuns know the two was kilt ’cause they didn’t stay where they belong. And it told ’em there’d be more killin’ if the Injuns got off their reservation again.”
“Bellefontaine did that?” Cody asked. “What right did he have to do something like that? Why didn’t he take it to the army?”
“I don’t know why he didn’t take it to the army,” Reynolds replied. “But seein’ as he purt’ nigh owns the entire town, I reckon that’s about all the right he needs.”
That evening, as the boat moved slowly, but majestically down the river, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham stood out on the deck, enjoying the cool evening breeze, and looking at the wake of paddlewheel-churned water, breaking white and gleaming in the moonlight.
Cody lit his pipe, and for a moment the flare of his match cast a golden glow on the faces of the three men. He sucked on the pipe a few times until the tobacco caught, then he exhaled, the puff of smoke caught by the night air and drifting back over the churning paddlewheel where it was broken up.
“I don’t mind telling you that I have been giving a lot of thought to what Reynolds was talking about at our poker game this afternoon,” Cody said.
“Do you believe him?” Ingraham asked.
“I don’t have any reason not to believe him,” Cody replied.
“What do you know about this man, Bellefontaine?” Falcon asked.
“Well, I know that we are going to be competitors,” Cody replied. “We’ll be building Cody very close to where DeMaris Springs is, and when the railroad extends this far, why Cody and DeMaris Springs will just naturally be in competition for it.”
“Is he the kind of man who would send out a posse on his own?” Falcon asked.
Cody paused for a moment before he answered. “Look, I don’t want you to get me wrong here. I mean, I have already told you that Bellefontaine and I will both be competing for the railroad, so I don’t want you to think that colors my assessment of the man. But to answer your question? Yes, he is exactly the kind of man who would send out a posse on his own, and not just for Indians. Reynolds was correct when he said that Bellefontaine owns the town. And he was also correct when he said that is all the right Bellefontaine thinks that he needs.”
“I may need to meet this man,” Falcon said.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. You will meet him,” Cody replied.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As Ebersole had suspected, Billy Taylor had overheard the conversation that told him that Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill were going to the Standing Rock Agency to talk to Sitting Bull.
“Talk to Sitting Bull? What the hell do they want to talk to that Redskin for?” Ebersole asked.
“I don’t know,” Taylor replied. “I never heard the why of it, just the doin’ of it.”
“Then we need to get there,” Ebersole said.
“How we goin’ to do that?” Dewey asked. “We didn’t get no money at all from the train holdup.”
“We was holdin’ up the wrong thing,” Ebersole said. “What we need to do is hold us up a bank.”
“A bank? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious,” Ebersole said. “Banks have more money, and they don’t move.”
“Have you took a good look at the bank here?” Hawkins asked. “It’s damn near like a fort.”
“We ain’t goin’ to hold up the bank here,” Ebersole said. “We’re goin’ to hold up the bank in Tyson.”
“Tyson? Where the hell is that? I ain’t never even heard of it.”
“It’s a little town ’bout thirty miles south of the railroad track.”
Ebersole and the others rode into Tyson just after dark. The town consisted of a single street lined on both sides by squat, unpainted small houses. High above the little town stars winked brightly, while over a distant mesa the waxing moon hung like a large, silver wheel.
“What do you say we get a drink?” Ebersole suggested.
Tying off their horses, the five men went into the only building in town that was showing any light. There were two small windows and a door that was open onto the night. There was no sign suggesting that it was a saloon, but because of the light and the sound and the smell of whiskey and beer, they knew what it was.
There were only two tables in the saloon, and the bar. Four men were sitting at one of the tables, playing a game of cards. Nobody was at the other table, nor was anyone at the bar except for the bartender. Everyone looked
