“I see them,” Cody answered just as quietly.
The bartender stood at the end of the bar, wiping used glasses with his stained apron, then setting them among the unused glasses. When he saw Falcon and Cody step up to the bar, he moved down toward them.
“Two beers,” Falcon said.
The bartender had seen the way Falcon and Cody had examined the five men in the back, and he had seen the way the five men had studied them. He poured the drinks with shaking hands, and Falcon knew that they had found their men.
“Do you know why we are here?” Falcon asked quietly.
“I reckon I do,” the bartender replied, his voice strained with fear.
“I’m told there are six of them. I see only five sitting back there.”
The bartender raised his head and looked toward the stairs at the back of the room, but he said nothing.
“Would the one upstairs be Lightfoot?” Falcon asked.
Again, the bartender said nothing, but he answered in the affirmative with a slight nod of his head.
“Thanks,” Falcon said. He finished the drink then looked toward the flight of wooden stairs that led upstairs to an enclosed loft.
“You go after him,” Cody said. “I’ll take care of these galoots.”
“All right.”
Falcon pulled his gun as he started up the stairs. The five in the back, seeing that, stood up as one, pulling their pistols as they did so.
“Hold it!” Cody called, pointing his gun at the five. “Drop your guns, all of you!”
“The hell you say!” one of the five men shouted, and they turned toward Cody.
Seeing that Cody was now in danger, Falcon called to them from the stairs. “Do what he says!” Falcon shouted.
One of the five men fired toward Cody and another fired toward Falcon. Even though the five men outnumbered Falcon and Cody, they were at a disadvantage because they were bunched into one big target, whereas their targets were separated.
Guns roared as they all began firing. Smoke billowed from the barrels of the guns, filling the saloon with a thick, acrid cloud. When the smoke moved away, the five were lying on the floor. Then, from the room at the head of the stairs, Lightfoot emerged, gun in hand. He fired at Falcon, and a hole the size of a man’s thumb and the height of a man’s chest appeared in the wall right beside Falcon as the heavy .44 caliber slug tore into the wood.
Both Falcon and Cody returned fire at the same time and Lightfoot, struck by two bullets, tumbled over the banister and, turning in midair, landed on his back on the very table around which his five confederates had been sitting.
An unexpected roughness in the track jarred Falcon from his sleep and he lay in his berth for a moment, halfway between dream and wake as the scenes of that event, so long ago, gradually faded away. He heard the sound of the train whistle as he drifted back to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
When Falcon and Cody stepped down from the train in Chicago they were met by a young army lieutenant, accompanied by two enlisted men. Stepping up to Cody, the lieutenant saluted.
“Colonel Cody, I am Lieutenant Vaughan. If you will come with me, sir, I have a carriage waiting that will take you to your meeting with General Miles.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, that is most kind of you,” Cody said. “This is Falcon MacCallister. I have brought him with me to meet with the general.”
“Sir, I don’t mean to be particular, but General Miles said nothing about anyone named Mr. MacCallister. I was told to meet you and provide you with transportation to the general’s headquarters.”
“I assume, Lieutenant, that the carriage you have brought is large enough to accommodate all of us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I suggest that you let me handle the general.”
“Very good sir,” Lieutenant Vaughan replied. “If you will give these two privates your claim tickets, they will secure your luggage.”
“Thank you,” Cody said as he and Falcon turned over their claim checks.
Lieutenant Vaughan led Falcon and Cody through the crowded station, then out to the front where an army carriage and an army buckboard stood. The carriage was being driven by an army sergeant, who stepped down to salute as the three men approached.
“If you gentlemen wish to proceed, we will go on ahead,” the lieutenant said. “Cooper and Dagan will come along behind us in the buckboard with your luggage.”
“That’ll be fine, Lieutenant,” Cody said, as he and Falcon got into the carriage. They rode on the back seat facing forward, while the lieutenant rode in the front seat facing to the rear. The driver climbed onto his seat, snapped his whip, and they started forward. The team moved out at a trot, pulling the carriage at a rapid pace, but the carriage had good springs, so the ride was smooth and pleasant.
General Miles stood when Lieutenant Vaughan brought the two men into his office. A tall, slender man, General Miles looked very much at ease in the uniform of an army general, though, unlike most of the other generals in the army, Miles was not a graduate of West Point. In fact, he had been a clerk in a crockery factory when the Civil War began and he had volunteered his services as a private. He was commissioned a second lieutenant shortly after
