“The reason I wanted to look over the town is because I expect that Cody will be much like this one,” Cody said. “After all, Mr. Beck founded and built this town, and he is the principal architect for Cody, which is to be built some fifty miles west of here.”
The town was well laid out, not only with a very fine hotel, but with many other conveniences a town would need: a mercantile, a leather goods store, a feed and seed store, a hardware store, a butcher shop, a livery, a gun shop, and, of course, a saloon. In this case the saloon was called the North Star Saloon, and it was a rather substantial building. Unlike many of the others, it was painted a gleaming white.
Buffalo Bill Cody had been to the town of Sheridan many times over the last few years, and he knew several of the people who were, at the moment, patronizing the saloon. They all greeted him effusively, and Cody returned the greetings with equal enthusiasm, introducing Falcon and Ingraham to them. Nearly all had heard of Falcon and Prentiss Ingraham, much to the delight of Ingraham, who enjoyed sharing stories of both his books and adventures.
As Falcon and the others listened with interest to Ingraham’s tall tales, the sound of a slap could be heard all through the saloon.
“Ouch! Don’t do that!” a woman called out, the pain and fear evident in the tone of her voice.
“Don’t tell me what to do, whore!” a man’s gruff voice replied. “I done bought you four drinks and you say you I can’t lie in your bed?”
“I’m a bar girl, I’m not a prostitute,” the woman replied.
“She’s right, Slayton,” the bar tender said. “Lucy is not a soiled dove. None of the girls here are. If you want that kind of woman, you need to go down the street to the cribs.”
“Don’t tell me where to go, and don’t tell me she ain’t no whore,” Slayton said. He drew his hand back and turned toward Lucy. “You’re goin’ to lie with me, or I’m going to beat you to a pulp,” he said with a menacing growl.
“Mister, back away from the lady,” Falcon ordered, loudly.
“Say what?” Slayton replied. Slayton was nearly as big a man as Falcon. He didn’t have a beard, but neither was he clean-shaven. He had what looked like a five-day stubble. The most noticeable thing about him was his teeth. Irregular and yellow, one front tooth was broken and the one next to it was missing.
“I said back away from the lady. Now,” Falcon said.
Slayton turned toward Falcon and pointed at him. “Mister, you are buttin’ in where you got no call. Now my advice to you is to sit down and mind your own business.”
“Mister, you might want to rethink,” Falcon said.
“Really? And what is it I need to rethink?”
“Your entire attitude.”
Don’t you be worryin’ none about my attitude,” Slayton said. “If there is anyone in here that’s needin’ to rethink, it’s you for buttin’ in where you got no business. You bein’ a stranger in town, you may not know that I ain’t the kind of man you want to mess with.” He had been pointing at Falcon, but now he started to drop his arm.
“Huh, uh. Don’t drop your arm, don’t make a move,” Falcon said.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Falcon said. “Don’t make a move. If you so much as twitch, I’ll kill you.”
“Mister, you don’t even have a gun in your hand. Do you think you can run a bluff on me? Nobody runs a bluff on me.”
“Friend,” Buffalo Bill said. “I’ve known Falcon MacCallister for some time now, and I don’t believe I have ever seen him run a bluff.”
“I don’t believe that is Falcon MacCallister,” Slayton said. He started to drop his arm, but no sooner did he twitch than he found himself staring at the black hole of the business end of Falcon’s pistol.
“I told you not to move,” Falcon said.
“No! Wait!” Slayton shouted. He put both arms up. “Don’t shoot, Mister, don’t shoot!”
For the moment the loudest sound to be heard was the steady tick-tock of the regulator clock which hung just above the fireplace mantle. The other customers in the saloon were viewing the unfolding scene as intently as anyone who had ever watched a Buffalo Bill Wild West Exhibition. And in a way, they were spectators of a show, but in this case the scene being played out before them was much more intense than anything Buffalo Bill had ever produced. This was a drama of life or death.
Unable to control the sudden twitch that started in his left eye, Slayton looked around the saloon to see if he could count on anyone for help.
“Are you people going to just let him get away with this?” Slayton called out. “He’s a stranger! I’m one of you!”
“You ain’t never been one of us, Slayton,” a cowboy over at the bar said. The cowboy was standing with his back against the bar, leaning back with his elbows resting on the bar. “You ain’t done nothin’ but run roughshod over the rest of us ever since you got here. As far as I’m concerned, he can shoot you right now and I’d say good riddance.”
Slayton looked back at Falcon, realizing now that not only was he on his own, but he had come up against someone who was far his superior.
“Please, Mister,” Slayton said with a whimper. “What are you going to do?”
“Yes, Falcon, what are you going to do?” Cody asked.
“What do you think, Buffalo Bill? Do you think I should just shoot him and be done with it?” Falcon asked.
“My God,” Slayton said, his bottom lip quivering now. “Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill?”
