The bartender shoved the coin back to Falcon. “Your money’s no good here, Falcon. The first one is on me.”
“Thanks,” Falcon said.
“By the way, did you hear that the son of a bitch who kilt the Poindexter family escaped prison?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Falcon replied without elaboration.
“I still don’t see how it is that they didn’t find him guilty of murder. If they had just gone ahead and hung the bastard, he wouldn’t be loose now.”
“There’s no arguing with that,” Falcon replied.
“I hope they find the bastard, that’s all I can say,” the bartender said. “I heard you are the one who brought him in.”
“I am.”
“Too bad you didn’t kill him.”
Falcon took a swallow of his beer to keep from answering. He had killed his share of men—more than his share, if truth be known. He had never backed down from a fight and never would, but he didn’t have a lust for killing.
The bartender, realizing Falcon didn’t want to talk about it anymore, slid on down to the far end of the bar and began polishing glasses.
“MacCallister, you are a no-count, back-shooting son of a bitch!”
The loud, angry words silenced all conversation in the saloon, and the piano player halted his song in mid-bar, the last few notes hanging discordantly in the air. Except for the loud tick-tock of the Regulator Clock that hung from the back wall, a deathly quiet came over the room.
Falcon looked into the mirror behind the bar. The mirror was distorted so that, although he saw his challenger, he could not see him clearly enough to make out his features.
“Turn around, real slow,” the man said. “I ain’t a back-shooter like you. When I kill you, I want you to be lookin’ right into my eyes.”
Falcon took another drink of his beer, doing so slowly and deliberately.
“I said turn around, you son of a bitch!” the man repeated, his anger reaching a fever pitch.
When Falcon turned around, he saw an older man with graying red hair and a scraggily red beard. The man was pointing a Remington rolling-block .45-70 at him.
“I’ve never shot a man with one of these before,” the man said. “But seein’ as it’ll leave a hole in a bear big enough to stick your fist into, well, I’ve got me a pretty good idee what it’ll do to a low-assed polecat like you.”
Falcon noticed that the hammer was not pulled back on the rifle. “Mister, you seem to have something stuck in your craw,” he said calmly.
“You killed my boy,” the man said. “You shot him in the back. And now I’m going to kill you.”
“What was your boy’s name?” Falcon asked.
“What the hell?” the old man sputtered. “Have you done kilt so many men that you can’t even keep track of ’em?”
“What was his name?” Falcon repeated.
“His name was Manning. John Nathan Manning. I’m Carter Manning. That boy’s mama died when he was just a pup and I raised him all alone.” Tears welled up in the man’s eyes. “And I didn’t raise him up just so someone like you could come along and shoot him in the back.”
“Well, Mr. Manning, I hope I don’t have to kill you, I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain something to you.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want to have to kill me? I’m the one that’s holdin’ the gun, or ain’t you noticed? And what is there to explain about shootin’ someone in the back?”
“That’s just the point, Mr. Manning,” Falcon continued in a calm, quite voice, “I’ve never killed anyone named Manning, and I’ve never shot anyone in the back.”
“Oh, no?” Manning said, shaking his head. “I may be nothin’ but a dirt farmer, but I ain’t so far out of it that I’m goin’ to let you lie your way out of this. I got me a letter from a man named Tyree. He said he seen the whole thing.”
“Would that be Jefferson Tyree?” Falcon asked.
“Ah-hah! So, you know him, do you? Then I reckon that proves he was tellin’ the truth.”
Manning raised his rifle, but before he even got it to his shoulder, Falcon had his own pistol out and cocked. He stuck his arm out with his pistol pointed right at Manning.
“Don’t make me do it, Manning!” Falcon said sharply.
Manning stopped midway through raising his rifle and stared in shock and fear at the big hole in the end of Falcon’s pistol. Nervously, he lowered the rifle. “How’d you do that?” he asked in an awestruck voice. “How’d you get your gun out so fast?”
“Mr. Manning, Jefferson Tyree is an escaped convict. He has killed dozens of people, including an entire family,” Falcon said. “He killed more than half of them by shooting them in the back. If he says he saw your son shot, then it’s better than even odds that Tyree is the one who shot him.”
“MacCallister is right, Manning,” the bartender said. “Jefferson Tyree is a murderer.”
Manning stared at Falcon, but said nothing.
