Falcon hung the cup back on the hook, then started back to his seat. Before he left, though, he turned back toward Billy. “You’re a good brother to them,” he said. “You’re a hell of a lot better than either one of them deserves.”
By mid-morning it was very hot in the train car, and though the raised windows did allow air to come in, the air felt as if it were coming off a blast furnace. In addition, smoke and cinders often flew in, and one cinder, which was still white-hot, set fire to a seat and the fire had to be patted out.
By now, both Ray and Cletus were awake. It was obvious that they were suffering the effects of a hangover, because they both sat very quietly, staring morosely at the rest of the car. It also appeared that Billy had been correct in his assessment, because neither one of them showed any recognition of Falcon.
“La Junta!” the conductor called, passing through all the cars of the train. “Next stop is La Junta!”
Stepping down from the train, Falcon took in the sunbaked town with a slow, all-encompassing sweep of his eyes. Behind Falcon, the locomotive relief valve vented steam in loud, rhythmic puffs, while wheel bearings and journals popped and snapped as they cooled. The wheels of a utility cart squeaked as an old Mexican man pushed it up to the baggage car to receive the luggage that had been checked through. A team and carriage waited alongside the station, the horses standing in harness with their heads lowered to escape the sun. A Mexican man sat in the shade near the carriage, apparently waiting to meet one of the passengers. The railroad dispatcher was just outside the door of the depot, wiping the sweat from his face as he looked on at the few departing passengers. The train conductor was standing at the foot of the boarding steps examining his pocket watch as the three cowboys left the train.
“Senor Billy!” the Mexican said, standing then to call out.
“Manuel, thanks for meeting us,” Billy answered.
“What do you mean, thanks?” Cletus asked with a low growl. “We pay the son of a bitch, don’t we? Don’t seem to me like thanks is needed.”
Falcon scratched a match on a post and held it to his quirley, squinting through the smoke as he watched two of the young men climb into the carriage. Billy walked over to the baggage cart with Manuel to help him retrieve the luggage.
“Hey, Manuel, how about stopping by the saloon for a bit?” Cletus asked as the Mexican climbed back onto the driver’s seat and picked up the reins.
“I’m sorry, senor, I no can do,” Manuel said. “Senor Clinton say I must bring you back to La Soga Larga.”
“The ranch can get along for half an hour without us,” Cletus said.
“I’m sorry, senor. You pa will fire me if I do this.”
“And I’ll fire you if you don’t,” Cletus said angrily.
“You cannot fire me,” Manuel said. “Only Senor Ike Clinton can fire me.”
“Yeah? Well the ole man ain’t goin’ to live forever, you know,” Cletus said. “And when he dies, I’ll fire you.”
“Cletus, enough,” Billy said. “Manuel is only doing his job.”
“All right, if we’re going home, then let’s go home,” Cletus said. “I’ll drive.”
Cletus crawled into the front seat, took the reins from Manuel, and removed the whip from its stand.
“Hyyaah!” he yelled as he lashed out at the team. The horses broke into a gallop from a standing start and, with Cletus shouting warnings and curses, the carriage raced down the main street, scattering pedestrians as it did so.
La Junta had not changed since the last time Falcon was here. The little town was built along the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, the steel ribbons that gave it life. By horseback, it would have taken Falcon at least four days to ride to La Junta from his ranch just outside MacCallister. But by rail, it took only sixteen hours.
A stagecoach was drawn up on the street behind the railroad depot and, retrieving his luggage, Falcon walked over to it. The driver of the stage was stretched out on top of the coach. His hands were folded across his chest, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. Because Falcon once had had a business investment in Higbee, he had made this trip a few times before, and he recognized the driver.
“Wake up, Sam,” Falcon called up to him.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” the driver said, sitting up and stretching. Then, recognizing Falcon, he smiled. “Well, Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
Falcon held up his bag. Attached to the bag was a Winchester rifle.
“Where do you want this, Sam? On top, or in the boot?” he asked.
“The boot’ll be fine,” Sam replied. He climbed down from the coach, then undid the straps and buckles in order to open the boot.
Other passengers arrived then, a woman with a young boy of about twelve and a short, very rotund, bald man who was carrying a case of samples.
“Billings is the name, and notions is my game,” the man said, extending his hand to Falcon.
“Notions?” Falcon asked, taking the drummer’s hand.
“Thimbles, needles, thread, lace, and yard goods,” Billings explained.
Seeing the woman struggling with her bag, Falcon moved toward her and, with a smile, relieved her of the burden. He put it in the boot alongside his own bag. The drummer kept his case with him.
The woman and her son sat on the back seat, facing forward. Falcon and the drummer took the front seat, facing the rear.
The coach tilted slightly as the driver climbed into his seat up top. “You folks ready down there?” he called.
“We’re ready, Sam!” the drummer replied. “You may wonder why I called the driver by his first name, but I take
