“I’ve had Mr. Potter, the telegrapher, look into it,” Brisbane said. “Apparently, the rifles have been misdirected.”
Falcon looked over at Potter. “Misdirected to where?” he asked.
“I haven’t been able to find out,” Potter said.
“Well, keep trying,” Falcon ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
“If we are lucky, the same thing will happen with the Gatling guns. I know I sure don’t want the damn things,” Falcon said.
“Colonel, we can’t just leave them at the railroad depot in Denver,” Brisbane said. “I mean, we are having enough trouble trying to find out what happened to the rifles.”
“No, I guess you are right about that,” Falcon said. He stroked his chin for a moment as he studied the telegram. “They are supposed to get to Denver on the ninth, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I’m going to be in Ft. Lincoln on the twelfth, I’ll have to leave today.”
“I see no reason why you cannot go to Ft. Lincoln as planned,” Brisbane said. “I can see to the retrieval of the guns.”
“All right, we will send someone to get them. I mean, you are right, we can’t just leave them there. But let’s keep this very quiet, shall we?” Falcon said. “Let’s pick the detail with great care. And I don’t want anyone to know about the guns until we actually have them here.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll lead the detail myself,” Brisbane said.
Falcon shook his head. “No, I don’t think you should. Seeing someone of your rank making a supply run would be absolutely sure to raise some suspicions. Send Sergeant Major O’Leary.”
“With or without escort?”
“We normally send an escort when we pick up supplies, don’t we?”
“Yes, sir, we normally send four men. Two in front and two behind the wagon. Perhaps we should double the escort.”
“No, I don’t want this to look any different,” Falcon replied. “One wagon, driven by O’Leary, and four well- chosen escorts. As far as anyone who sees them is concerned, it will be just another routine supply run.”
When Graham Potter, the civilian telegrapher, returned to his office, he saw Willie Crawford sitting at the instrument, sending a message.
“Here, what are you doing?” Potter demanded.
“I was just exchanging greetings with an old pard who is a telegrapher in Denver,” Crawford said.
“You know telegraphy?”
“Yes, I was a telegrapher during the war,” Crawford said.
“Well, you ain’t a telegrapher here,” Potter said. “So get.”
Potter watched as the private hurried out of his office. He was about to send a message, and he didn’t want anyone who could read telegraphy hanging around. Locking the door and pulling the shade, Potter sat down to his instrument and began tapping out a message. He did not notice Crawford standing just outside the door, listening to the taps.
A bald-headed and nearly toothless piano player sat at a stained upright, pounding away on yellowed and cracked keys. The Copper Penny Saloon was filled with customers, and smoke from dozens of cigars, pipes, and roll-your-own cigarettes gathered in a cloud just below the ceiling.
From a table at one side of the room, a soiled dove’s squeal was followed by the loud, coarse laughter of half a dozen men.
Clete Harris, Jim Garon, Jay Bryans, and Ken Richland were sitting on the other side of the room. There were a couple of empty chairs at their table.
Two cowboys approached, each carrying a mug of beer.
“’Evenin’, gents,” one of the cowboys said. He gestured toward the empty chairs with his beer. “It’s pretty crowded in here tonight. Do you mind if me an’ my pard join you?”
“Find another place, cowboy,” Harris said gruffly. “These chairs is taken.”
“But there’s nobody—”
“I said find another place,” Harris repeated, his voice even harsher.
“Come on, Boone, I don’t want to be where we ain’t wanted,” the other cowboy said.
Harris waited until the cowboys were gone before he continued his conversation with the others.
“There’s two of ’em,” he said. “And they’re worth two thousand dollars each.”
“How in the world did you come up with two Gatling guns?” Ken Richland asked.
“I haven’t come up with them yet,” Harris said. “If I already had the guns, wouldn’t need you.”
“But you know where to get them, right?”
