“Yes, it is excellent, thank you.”
“What about the saloon itself? Does it meet with your approval?”
“Oh, yes,” Rachael said. “I’ve seen concert halls in New York that had less to offer.”
Smiling, Prentiss and Corey stared at each other for a moment. Then Prentiss cleared his throat.
“Miss Kirby, I’m not as, uh, subtle as my brother, so you will forgive me, I hope, if we dispense with the small talk and I get right to the point.”
“I’m always ready to get right to the point,” Rachael replied.
“Good. Then the question is, will you agree to stay and play piano for us?”
“I would love to stay and play for you,” Rachael said.
The bar girls on the steps cheered out loud.
Chapter Seven
Falcon was standing on the depot platform at MacCallister, Colorado, when the train pulled into the station, a symphony of hissing steam and rolling steel. It was a beautiful engine, painted a forest green, with shining brass trim. The lettering was yellow, and the huge driver wheels were red.
The engineer was hanging out the window looking at the track ahead, in order to find where to stop. He held a pipe clenched tightly in his teeth. The cars slowed and squeaked as they came to a stop. The conductor, who was standing on the boarding step of the first car, was the first to get off the train.
“MacCallister!” he called. “This here is MacCallister!”
The conductor was followed off the train by a dozen or so others: cowboys, miners, drummers, as well as a woman who may have been pretty at one time and was trying, unsuccessfully, to restore with makeup what nature had taken away. In addition, there were a couple of women who were tending to children.
“Grandma!” one little girl shouted as soon as she stepped down from the train. Falcon watched her run into the arms of an older woman who had come to meet the train.
From time to time when Falcon saw such displays, he thought of what he had lost in his own life. His mother and father had both been murdered, as had his wife and children. The twins, a boy and a girl, would have been about twelve years old today. By now, the boy would know how to ride, shoot, hunt, and track, and the girl would just be showing some of the beauty that so characterized her mother. Not one to dwell on such things, however, Falcon turned his attention back to the train.
When all the arriving passengers were off the train, the conductor pulled out his pocket watch and examined it.
“Board!” the conductor called.
Falcon watched the other departing passengers exchange good-byes, then board the train. He waited until everyone else had boarded before he stepped up into the car.
“Good afternoon, Mr. MacCallister,” the conductor said. “It’s good to have you traveling with us today. But then it’s always good to have you.”
“Hello, Syl,” Falcon replied. “How is the family?”
“They are doing well. Oh, and my boy is at West Point now thanks to the letter you sent.”
“I was glad to do it, Syl. Charley is a fine young man,” Falcon said.
Once on board, Falcon moved halfway down the car, then chose a seat on the opposite side from the depot. He watched the other passengers get settled. Then, with a jerk, the train started forward.
It would be an overnight run to La Junta, but as the train was primarily a local, there was no sleeper car. It didn’t bother Falcon that there was no sleeper car. During the war, he had slept in holes, filled with mud by drenching rainstorms, while undergoing artillery barrages. Since that time, he had slept in desert heat, mountain blizzards, and even in the saddle, so the prospect of spending a night in a padded seat in a train car was not in the least daunting.
Shortly after the train got under way, Falcon took a letter from his pocket. The return address indicated the letter was from Wade Garrison. Falcon had known a Brigadier General Wade Garrison during the war. The letter had come as a surprise, because he had not seen Garrison in over fifteen years. But any question as to whether or not this was the same Wade Garrison had been answered when he saw the address the letter was mailed to:
