Falcon was carrying a small grip with him when he stepped into the Yellow Dog Saloon after detraining in Bitter Creek. It was late enough in the day that the wagon wheel that hung over the saloon to support a dozen kerosene lanterns had been lowered. One of the employees of the saloon was busy lighting all the lanterns and, with the firing of each new lantern, some of the gloom was pushed away.
The saloon was doing a brisk business, and there were more people coming into the place even as Falcon stepped over to put his back to the wall while he surveyed the room. He stayed against the wall until all the lanterns were lit and the wagon wheel pulled back up and tied off. There was enough light now for him to scan the entire saloon, and looking around, he satisfied himself that none of the three men he was looking for were in there.
Feeling a little grubby from a couple of days on the train, he stepped up to the bar.
“Where can a man get a bath?” he asked the bartender.
“We got us a jim-dandy tub in a room in the back,” the bartender answered. “It come all the way from St. Louis. It’ll cost you twenty-five cents for water, ten cents if you want it heated, and fifteen cents more for a soap and towel.”
“I’ve got my own soap and towel,” Falcon said, holding up his grip. “But I’ll take the water heated.” He slapped a fifty-cent piece onto the bar. “And I’ll have a beer while I’m waiting for the bath.”
“All right,” the bartender said. He took the money, drew a beer from the keg, then set it and the ten cents change down in front of Falcon. “I’ll get someone to heat the water and fill the tub for you,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Falcon picked up the beer, then turned his back to the bar to look out over the clientele. He didn’t see any of the men he was looking for, so he started looking for a card game—one that was honest and had a congenial attitude about it. Falcon enjoyed playing poker, but he didn’t like playing if some of the players were too intense, or were gambling with money they couldn’t afford to lose.
Also, he had learned that in a friendly game, players tended to talk more, and it was always a lot easier to get information from sociable conversation than it was by asking questions. There were three games going on, but only one of the three seemed to fill the bill, and at that game, every seat was taken.
“Your water is ready,” the bartender said a few moments later.”
“Thanks.” Falcon drained the rest of his beer, then went into the back room, where he saw a large tub filled with water. Sticking his hand into the water, he ascertained that, while it wasn’t hot, it was warm enough. And truth to tell, he was so in need of a bath that it didn’t really make that much difference to him whether the water was hot or cold.
Half an hour later, feeling human again, he went back to the main room of the saloon and ordered a supper of ham and fried potatoes. Just as he was finishing his supper, a chair opened up at the game he wanted and he walked over to see if he could join them.
“You’re welcome, mister,” one of the players said, and the others seconded the invitation. He stuck his hand across the table. “The name is Charley Knox. I own the hardware store here. This is Beckworth, he owns the livery, and this is Zell. He runs the newspaper.”
Falcon played three hands with them, winning one and losing two. It was always good to ease into the conversation, so he hadn’t asked any questions and he hadn’t picked up on any specific information. He was just trying to formulate how to get the information he needed when he overheard something from one of the other tables that caught his attention.
“I told Custer to take them Gatling guns,” the man said. “I stood right there and told him that, just afore he took that last ride. But he didn’t listen to me. No, sir, he didn’t listen at all.”
Falcon turned in his seat to get a look at the man who was talking.
“Don’t pay no attention to him,” one of the cardplayers at Falcon’s table said. “He’s told that story more’n a dozen times, and he changes it most ever’ time.”
“Yeah,” one of the other players said. “It’s surprisin’ Stevens can even find anyone to listen to his stories anymore.”
“What did you say his name was?” Falcon asked.
“Stevens.”
Falcon shook his head. “It isn’t Stevens.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, sir. His name is Clete Harris. He and two other men, Jim Garon and Jay Bryans, are wanted back in Green River for murder and robbery.”
“Damn, I heard about that,” Zell said. “I ran the story about it in my newspaper. I never put that with Stevens, though.”
“I don’t know, he may be right,” Beckworth said. “You say there was three of them?”
“Yes,” Falcon said.
“That sort of fits. Stevens, or whatever his real name is, runs with a couple other galoots, and they all three got to town at about the same time.”
“Now that I think on it, they don’t none of them work, far as I can tell. But they always seem to have money,” Knox said. “And the thing is, they are great friends with Clayton.”
“Who is Clayton?”
“He’s the city marshal. That’s funny. If these here galoots are the ones you say they are, wonder why Clayton is so friendly with them?”
“Excuse me, gents,” Falcon said. He stood up from the table, then walked over to the table where Harris was continuing with his story.
