“Ha!” one of the others in the saloon said, laughing as he told the story. “I wish ole’ Pelham had been here with his camera so he coulda’ took a picture of Slayton when MacCallister stood him down.”
“Yeah, we could hang it up on the wall here so’s Slayton would see it ever’ time he come in,” another said.
“Maybe there ain’t no picture, but don’t forget the writer feller that was with them,” one of the others said. “And I’d sure like to read what he wrote about this. I seen him writin’ somethin’ no sooner than Slayton went out of here with his tail tucked up between his legs, like as if he was a beat dog or something.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard tell that the biggest reason MacCallister and Buffalo Bill are famous in the first place is because that writer feller made them famous. Can’t think of his name, though.”
“His name is Ingraham,” Lucy said. “Prentiss Ingraham. And he is a real good writer, because I have read some of his books.”
“Ha! I wonder if Slayton will turn up in any of his books,” the bartender asked.
“Excuse me, gents,” Ebersole said, interjecting himself into the conversation. “This here MacCallister feller you are talking about. Would that be Falcon MacCallister?”
“It would indeed,” one of the talkers replied. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. He is an old friend of mine,” Ebersole said. “But who is this gentleman, Slayton, you are talking about?”
“Slayton ain’t no gentleman, Mister, and that is for sure and certain. He ain’t nothin’ but a bully. You see Lucy’s eye there? How it’s black? Slayton done that to her.”
“But he got his come uppance,” Lucy said. “Slayton thinks he is pretty good with a gun, only, as it turns out, he wasn’t good enough to go against MacCallister.”
“MacCallister kill him, did he?”
“Kill him? Nah, he didn’t kill him, and that’s what makes it so good,” the bartender said. “MacCallister just stood him down, made Slayton shuck out of his gun belt and leave it here.”
“His gun is still here,” one of the others said, laughing. “It’s there behind the bar. Show it to him, Jake.”
Jake, the bartender, held the gun up.
“Here it is, Ken,” Jake said. “Only thing is, Slayton ain’t got the gall to come back in for it.”
“My, my, I wish I had been here to see that,” Ebersole said. “Don’t you boys think that would have been a good show to see MacCallister stand down Slayton?” he asked the others at the table with him.
At first, Dewey and the others didn’t know what Ebersole was getting at. They certainly would not have enjoyed seeing MacCallister in a heroic role. But seeing the expression in Hagan’s face, they knew to go along with him, and so they enthusiastically agreed that they wish they had been here.
“It wasn’t just a show,” Lucy said. “Mr. MacCallister came to my aid when Slayton began hitting me.”
“That’s true,” Ken said. “MacCallister wasn’t just showin’ off or nothin’ like that. Slayton deserved what happened to him.”
“Where is he now?” Ebersole asked.
“Who?” Ken replied. “Slayton? Like as not, he’s still down at the livery. He works there. Don’t reckon we’ll see him back here very soon.”
“No. I mean Falcon MacCallister. Like I said, he’s an old friend of mine and I’d like to look him up. Is he still in town?”
“No, he ain’t here no more,” Ken said. “He left. Him, and Buffalo Bill and that writer.” He turned to his friends. “Say, that was really somethin’ in itself, wasn’t it? I mean Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill, both here at the same time.”
“They didn’t stay here long, though,” one of the others said.
“They couldn’t stay too long. Buffalo Bill is havin’ that big audition up in Cinnabar,” Jake said.
“What kind of audition? What are you talkin’ about?” Ebersole asked.
“Why, you know about Buffalo Bill, don’t you? He has a Wild West Show,” Jake said.
“Yes,” Ken said. “I ain’t never seen it, ’cause mostly he plays it back East, like in New York, and Philadelphia, and St. Louis and the like.”
“In London and Paris and Vienna too,” Lucy added.
“Anyhow,” Ken continued, his show has bronco bustin’, and stagecoach drivin’, all sorts of things like that, and it has done made him one of the richest men in the country.”
“And the cowboys that works for him makes good money too,” Jake said. “That’s why there will be so many showin’ up in Cinnabar to try and get signed on to his show.”
“Where is Cinnabar?” Ebersole asked.
“It’s just north of Yellowstone Park. Why? You plannin’ on tryin’ out for the show?”
“Who knows?” Ebersole said. “I might be interested. When is this audition bein’ held?”
“It’s a week from now,” Jake said. “It was printed up by the newspaper. Lucy, show him the newspaper article about the audition.”
Lucy walked down to the end of the bar, then brought a copy of the
