“Good morning, Smitty,” he called.
“’Mornin’, Poke. Is Mr. Rudd around?”
“Yes, he’s back in his office.”
Smitty nodded, then started toward the opposite end of the depot. Here, there was a closed door with a frosted glass windowpane. On the frosted pane were painted the words STATIONMASTER.
Smitty knocked lightly on the door, then pushed it open. “Mr. Rudd?” he called.
“Yes, come in,” a voice answered from inside.
Rudd was a man in his sixties, with white hair and white muttonchop whiskers. He was sitting at his desk, writing in a ledger, but looked up, then nodded as he recognized Smitty.
“Mr. Smith,” he said. “You would be here for the Garrison shipment, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. Did everything get here that was supposed to?”
“It did,” Rudd replied. “It’s the rearmost car at the back of the marshaling area. Let’s see, the number of the car is”—he paused to consult a book—“yes, here it is. The number is 10031. Here, I’ll write it down for you.”
“Thanks,” Smitty said, taking the number from Rudd. “Is all of it in the same car?”
“Yes, everything in that one car. Will you be signing for it?”
“No, I will sign for it,” Falcon said.
“And you are?”
“Falcon MacCallister.”
“Falcon MacCallister?” Rudd said, reacting to the name. “Are you the famous Falcon MacCallister?”
“I don’t know about the famous part,” Falcon replied.
“Yes, sir, this is the same Falcon MacCallister you’ve prob’ly heard about,” Smitty said. “After what happened to our last shipment, General Garrison hired Mr. MacCallister to ride along with us.”
“Yes, yes, I heard about what happened to the last shipment. What a shame. Mr. True was a fine man, a true gentleman. I will miss him. Uh, Mr. MacCallister, no offense, but do you have some authorization to sign for General Garrison’s shipment? It’s railroad regulations, you understand.”
“No offense taken,” Falcon said, showing the stationmaster the letter Garrison had given him before he left town this morning.
Rudd put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, hooking them carefully over one ear at a time. Then he read the letter slowly, as if going over each word. Then, he cleared his throat and put the paper aside.
“Sign here, please,” he said, sliding a bill of lading toward Falcon.
Falcon signed the document, then he and Smitty returned to the wagons.
“Back there in the corner, boys!” Smitty called to the other drivers. He pointed to the car in the most remote part of the yard.
Lee Davis and Gene Willoughby had been cutting weeds around the depot when Falcon went in to talk to the stationmaster.
“Son of a bitch!” Davis said. “Son of a bitch, it’s him!”
“It’s who?” Willoughby said.
“Wait, I’ll be right back.”
“I ain’t cuttin’ all these damn weeds by myself, you know,” Willoughby called out after Davis dropped his weed hook and started toward the depot.
Davis moved up close to the window that opened onto Rudd’s office, then looked in. Seeing what he wanted to see, he hurried back to Willoughby, whose right earlobe sported a ragged, encrusted wound.
“It’s him,” Davis said.
“Yeah, that’s what you said a while ago,” Willoughby replied as he continued to swing the weed hook. “Only you ain’t said who.” The expression in his voice showed that he had little interest in whoever it was Davis was talking about.
“Who? Him, that’s who,” Davis said. “Falcon MacCallister, the fella that shot off your earlobe when we tried to hold up that stage.”
That got Willoughby’s attention and he looked up sharply. “What? Are you sure?”
“Damn right I’m sure. I not only recognized him, I heard him tell Rudd that was his name. You might remember, that’s the son of a bitch that took our guns.”
“Yeah, and our boots, too,” Willoughby said. “Where is he?”
“He’s with them wagons,” Davis said, pointing to the three wagons that were now working their way across the tracks toward a freight car that was sitting alone.
“Well, what do you know?” Willoughby said. “I’ve been waitin’ for a chance to get even with that bastard, and here it is.”
Davis smiled. “Yeah, I thought you might be happy about this.”
“Damn!”
“What?”
