Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Tyree felt a blow on the back of his head. The blow knocked him down, but not out, and looking up, he saw the proprietor’s wife holding the broom handle.
“You crazy bitch!” Tyree shouted. He shot her, and saw the look of surprise on her face as the bullet plunged into her heart.
“Suzie!” the proprietor shouted.
Tyree shot him as well, then got up from the floor and dusted himself off. Almost casually, he finished loading the pistol, then, moving around the store, he began collecting supplies: a belt and holster, a couple of new shirts, some coffee, bacon, beans, and a hat. After that, he cleaned out the cash drawer, finding a total of sixty-two dollars and fifty-one cents.
Turning southwest, Tyree rode hard for two days, avoiding towns until he reached Badito. Badito was little more than a flyblown speck on the wide-open range. He chose it because it had no railroad and he saw no telegraph wires leading into it, which meant they had probably not heard of his escape yet. Stopping in front of the Bull’s Head Saloon, Tyree went inside and ordered a beer. It was his first beer in over a year.
Shortly after Tyree arrived, a young man stopped in front of the Bull’s Head. Going inside, he stepped up to the bar. The saloon was relatively quiet, with only four men at one table, and a fifth standing down at the far end of the bar. The four at the table were playing cards; the one at the end of the bar was nursing a drink. The man nursing the drink was a fairly small man with dark hair, dark, beady eyes, a narrow mouth, and a nose shaped somewhat like a hawk’s beak. He looked up as the young man entered, but turned his attention back to the beer in front of him.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.
“Beer.”
“A beer it is,” the bartender replied. He turned to draw the beer.
“Make it two beers.”
The bartender laughed. “You sound like you’ve worked yourself up quite a thirst.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon I have. I went down into New Mexico to have a look around.”
“Did you now?” the bartender replied as he put the beers on the bar before the young man. “See anything interesting down there?”
“A lot of desert. It’s good to be back to land that can be farmed.”
“You like farmin’, do you?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, sir, I do. My pa’s a farmer, and I was raised on a farm.”
“I know some farmers. What’s you pa’s name?”
“My pa’s name is Carter Manning.”
“Hmm, I don’t know think I know him.”
“We live up in a place called Hancock,” Manning said. “Well, we don’t actually live there. Like I say, we live on a farm outside Hancock. But we get our mail at the Hancock post office.”
“I was wonderin’ why you smelled like pig shit,” Tyree said without looking up from his beer.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Manning said. “What did you just say?”
“I said you smelled like pig shit,” Tyree said. “You and your old man. As far as I’m concerned, all farmers smell like pig shit.”
“I won’t hold that against you, ’cause I reckon you are just trying to make a joke,” Manning said. “But I don’t mind tellin’ you, mister, I don’t see anything funny about it.”
“Well, that’s good, ’cause I don’t mean it as a joke. You smell like pig shit, just like all the rest of the farmers in the world.”
“Mister, looks to me like we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. Let me see if I can’t change your mind. My name’s Manning, John Nathan Manning, and here’s to you, Mr.—”
“My name is MacCallister, Falcon MacCallister,” Tyree said. “And I’d sooner drink horse piss than drink with a farmer.”
“Falcon MacCallister? You’re Falcon MacCallister?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I—I’ve never met Falcon MacCallister, but I’ve certainly heard a lot about him. If you are MacCallister, you are very different from anything I’ve ever heard.”
“Boy, that sounds like you’re callin’ me a liar,” Tyree said.
Using the back of his hand, Manning wiped beer foam from his mouth. It was obvious that Tyree had irritated him, and for the briefest of moments, that irritation was reflected in his face. But he put it aside, then forced a smile.
“Hell, Mr. MacCallister, if you don’t want to drink to me, that’s fine. You’re the one that butted into this conversation, so why don’t we just each one of us mind our own business? I’ll keep quiet, and you do the same.”
“So now, you not only call me a liar, you tell me to shut up,” Tyree said.
“What’s the matter with you, mister?” Manning asked, bristling now at the man’s comment. “Are you aching for a fight or something? Because, if you are, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Easy, son,” the bartender said, reaching across the bar to put his hand on Manning’s arm. “There’s something about this that ain’t goin’ down right.”
