“How are we going to do that?” Hawkins asked.
“I’m going to register at the hotel,” Ebersole said. “When I sign the register book, I’ll be able to see which room he’s in.”
After the bodies of the three men who had tried to kill him were removed, Falcon returned to the hotel. He was always somewhat ill at ease after killing someone, even if they had been trying to kill him. And though it wasn’t something he had ever expressed in words, he knew that he never wanted to get over that sense of unease. If it ever got to the point to where killing another human being came as easy to him as stepping on a bug, he would know that he had lost his soul.
When he went to his room he walked over to look out the window. From here he had a good view of the main street. The street, scarred with wagon ruts and dotted with horse droppings, formed an X with the track. The railroad station was halfway down the street but the train had already gone back to Livingston. It would return in mid-morning the next day with another batch of Yellowstone visitors.
On the far side of the track he saw a scattering of buildings, fashioned from log and rip-sawed lumber. On this side of the track the buildings were all commercial so they were somewhat more substantial. Some had false fronts, and a few were even painted. Right across the street from the hotel was the livery stable. Below him and next door to the hotel was the saloon. Because it was nearly midnight, the saloon was much quieter, not because the cowboys were concerned about disturbing anyone’s slumber, but because so many of them were now passed out drunk.
This would be the first night Falcon had spent in a bed in over a week, and he was rather looking forward to it. Walking over to his bed he hung his pistol belt on the headboard, loosed the revolver in its holster, then extinguished the lantern. He was asleep within a few minutes.
By two o’clock in the morning, all the celebration was over. The cowboys who had been serenading the town most of the night were now either passed out drunk or sound asleep, wherever they had been able to throw down their bedrolls.
As he had explained to the others, Ebersole was able to ascertain which room Falcon was in simply by looking at the register when he signed in. Now, Ebersole, Peters, and Hawkins were standing in the lobby of the hotel. It was dark except for one dimly glowing kerosene lantern that was attached to the wall just over the check-in desk. The hotel clerk was sound asleep, and the air was rent by his loud snoring.
Every room in the hotel was rented, as evidenced by the fact that only one key was hanging from each of the hooks which designated a room. Ebersole leaned over the desk, and quietly lifted the key from the hook for room number five.
“All right, you two, you need to be very quiet now,” he whispered. He pulled his pistol from the holster and the others did the same; then, as quietly as possible, the sound of their steps softened by the carpet, they started up the stairs to the second floor.
If anyone had asked Falcon what awakened him from a sound sleep, he probably would not have been able to explain it. He knew only that, in the midst of a deep slumber, a sudden feeling of danger passed over him, a feeling so strong that even as he was awakening, he was slipping his pistol from its holster.
The full moon that had served him well in the empty lot earlier in the night was now in position to send a splash of silver in through the open window. It was that, and the fact that because he had been sleeping, his eyes were accustomed to the dark, that he could see the door.
Falcon did not stare directly at the door but looked slightly to the left of it. If asked, he could not tell anyone the scientific reason for it, he knew nothing about visual purple, or that the
He did not need to know the scientific or physiological reason for this, nor had anyone ever told him about it. It was a trick he had discovered on his own, many years ago. It had served him well many times, and it was serving him well now, because even as he heard the tumblers in the lock fall, he could see the doorknob turning, slightly.
With gun in hand, Falcon slid out of bed, then moved quickly across the room to stand in the far corner opposite of the bed. The door swung open.
“Now!” a voice shouted, and three pistols began firing through the doorway, the noise deafening, the muzzle flashes, like successive streaks of lightning, illuminating the room. The intruders fired several shots at the bed, then stopped.
“Can I help you boys with something?” Falcon asked.
“What? What the hell?” a voice called.
“He’s over there!”
Actually, Falcon wasn’t “over there,” because as soon as he spoke, he dropped to his knees and crawled quickly back over to his bed.
Again the pistols fired through the door, this time into the corner where Falcon had been. And this time Falcon returned fire, using the flame patterns from the muzzle flashes as his target. When he stopped firing, all was silent, except for a quiet moaning.
Even before Falcon could light his own lantern, he saw a light moving down the hall way toward his room.
“Falcon! Falcon, are you all right?” he heard Bill Cody call.
“Yeah,” Falcon called back. “I’m all right.”
By now, other guests in the hotel were coming down the hall as well.
“Who are you?” Falcon recognized Ingraham’s voice. “Who are you? Are you connected with the other three men who tried to kill Mr. MacCallister?”
“I told Ebersole it was a dumb idea,” a pain-filled voice said. “When you run us off from the train robbery, we should have . . .” that was as far as he got.
“Oh,” a woman said. “My goodness! Is it always like this out here? George, I want to go home. I want to go back to Baltimore.”
