“Actually, I was with Reno.”
“Oh, yeah, forgot about the ones with Reno.” The sheriff stroked his chin and studied Falcon for a moment; then he shrugged.
“Well, I can see how you might take somethin’ like that just real personal. And when you get right down to it, I don’t reckon it makes no never mind who finds ’em or why—long as the sons of bitches get what’s comin’ to ’em,” Dancer said.
“Do you have any leads on them?” Falcon asked.
“I thought I did, but it didn’t pan out. One of the freight wagon drivers said he thought he saw one of the men over in Bitter Creek. But when I wired the city marshal over there, he checked on it and came up empty. I figured maybe Harley did see him, but the fella had passed on through. Only, Harley has been back to Bitter Creek twice, and he claims to have seen him both times. Then, the other day, the stagecoach driver said he seen one of the men over there also.”
“Did you get in touch with the marshal again?”
“Yeah, I did, and he said he would keep an eye out for them.”
“You said the freight wagon driver’s name was Harley?”
“Yeah, Harley Barnes. The stagecoach driver is Norman Case.”
“Do you think they would talk to me?”
“I expect they would, though Case is more’n likely out on a run right now. But you can probably find Harley down at the freight office. Tell ’im I sent you.”
“All right, thanks. And thanks for the information,” Falcon said, starting for the door.
“Hold on a second,” the sheriff called.
Falcon stopped, then turned back toward the marshal.
“I could make you a deputy, but that wouldn’t give you any jurisdiction over there. What I can do, though, is give you this here warrant that Judge Feeler wrote out for me. I don’t have any authority over there, but the judge does, so I reckon you could serve it as an officer of the court, so to speak.”
The sheriff opened a drawer on his desk, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to Falcon. “Truth is, I don’t know how legal that is, but it might give you some cover.” “I appreciate that, Sheriff,” Falcon said.
“If you can bring the galoots back alive, I’d love to hang ’em,” Sheriff Dancer said. “But if they are belly-down over their saddles, why, that won’t bother me none at all either.”
Falcon nodded, then went back outside and walked down to the freight office that was at the far end of the street.
“Harley Barnes? He’s out back packing a wheel hub. He’s a big fella and, more’n likely, he’ll have grease up to his elbows,” someone inside the office said.
There was a wagon out back, blocked up with the right front wheel removed. A rather large man was sitting on an upturned barrel, packing grease into the hub of the removed wheel.
“Would you be Harley Barnes?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, sir. Who might you be?”
“Falcon MacCallister.”
A broad smile spread across Harley Barnes’s face. “The Falcon MacCallister?” he asked. “I’ve heard of you, mister.” Barnes extended his right hand, but when he saw it was filled with grease, he pulled it back, then rather sheepishly wiped it on his trousers. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand you saw one of the men who robbed the bank, over in Bitter Creek.”
“Hell, I’ve seen all three of ’em over there,” Harley said. “A couple of times.”
“How do you know it was them?”
“Because I was sittin’ in this very wagon, right out front, when they come gallopin’ down the street, shootin’ an’ yellin’ like fiends from hell. They passed right in front of me, no more’n ten, twelve feet away.”
“Sheriff Dancer said the city marshal over in Bitter Creek says he hasn’t seen them,” Falcon said.
“Yeah, well, the marshal over in Bitter Creek is lyin’, ’cause I seen him standin’ right next to one of ’em in the saloon.”
“Did you point it out to the marshal?”
“No,” Barnes said. “They was takin’ on like they was just real good friends. I figured he not only wouldn’t believe me, it could be dangerous to even mention it.”
“You may be right,” Falcon said. “Mr. Barnes, I thank you for your information. I’m going to go over there and have a look around myself.”
“What are you going to do if you find them?” Barnes asked.
“I’m going to kill them,” Falcon said flatly. He turned to walk away, but Barnes called after him.
“Mr. MacCallister?”
“Yes?”
“Try the Yellow Dog Saloon.”
Falcon touched the brim of his hat, then walked down to the depot to catch the next train to Bitter Creek.
