“I was right there with Custer when all the fightin’ commenced. I seen him go down, last one to go down he was, ’cept for me.”
“How’d you get away, Stevens?” one of the others at the table asked. “From what I heard, the Injuns kilt ever’one.”
“Yeah, well, the Injuns didn’t see me. What I done was, I rolled over into some real tall grass and I stayed there real quiet ’till them heathens was finished with their scalpin’ and all.”
“You are lying,” Falcon said.
“What did you say to me, mister?”
“I said you are lying. And while I don’t normally care whether a man lies or not, your lies are stealing honor from good men. And I won’t allow that.”
“You won’t allow it?” Harris stood up so quickly that his chair fell over with a loud pop. He backed away from the table, staring menacingly at Falcon.
The others who had been sitting at the table with Harris got up and moved away quickly. The sound of the falling chair, plus their sudden action, alerted all the other customers in the saloon so that all conversation stopped, and everyone who perceived that they might find themselves in the line of fire moved away quickly. That caused other chairs to fall over and tables to squeal as they were pushed out of the way all around the room.
“That’s right, I won’t allow it. You’re Clete Harris, aren’t you?”
“What? No, my name is Bart Stevens.”
“I know who you are, Harris, and you know who I am. You were the foreman of the jury that let Garon off. Later, you, Garon, Bryans, and Richland sold Gatling guns to the Indians.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“What the hell, Stevens, or Harris, or whoever you are,” one of the other men who had been sitting at Harris’s table said. “You sold Gatling guns to Injuns? I spent some time in the army, mister. That’s about as low as you can get.”
“He’s crazy,” Harris said. “I don’t know what he is talking about.”
“I have a judge’s warrant for your arrest,” Falcon said. “Take your gun out, real slow, and drop it. We’re going to go see the marshal.”
“No need go anywhere to find me,” a third voice said. “I’m here.”
The town marshal had just come into the saloon, and when Falcon looked toward him, he and the marshal recognized each other at the same time.
“MacCallister!” the marshal shouted.
“Potter,” Falcon said.
Graham Potter had been the civilian telegrapher back at Ft. Junction. It was Potter’s telegram that set up operation in which Falcon’s old friend, Sergeant Major O’Leary, and four others had been killed.
“I’m the law here, MacCallister. If there’s any arrestin’ to be done, I’ll be doin’ it. Boys, if you want to know the truth, this here is Falcon MacCallister,” Potter said. “He was the commanding officer of the Colorado Home Guard, only he stole rifles and Gatling guns from his own regiment and sold them to the Indians. If there is arrestin’ to be done, I’ll be doin’ it,” he added.
“Not today, not ever,” Falcon said. “You are the one who set it up so Harris could take the guns, so as far as I’m concerned, you are as guilty as Harris, Garon, and Bryans are. I intend to put you into your own jail until we can get the sheriff here.”
“There’s two of us, there’s only one of you,” Potter said
“That’s all right. I’ve got enough bullets for both of you,” Falcon’s pistol was still in its holster.
“You’re crazy if you think you can come into my town and start making wild claims like that.”
“I would appreciate it, Potter, if you and Harris would both just take your guns out real slow.”
Falcon was studying the expressions on the two men’s faces. At the first confrontation, both Potter and Harris were tense, even frightened. But then a strange thing happened. Simultaneously, the tenseness left both their faces, and on Potter’s face, the beginning of a small grin appeared.
“Well now, I don’t plan to do that, MacCallister,” Potter said.
Falcon cut a quick glance toward the bar and when he did, he saw in the mirror why Potter was grinning. Standing at the railing of the upstairs landing were Bryans and Garon. Both were pointing their pistols at Falcon.
Suddenly, Falcon launched himself to his left, pulling his pistol and diving to the floor as he did so. Turning onto his back, he slid for a few feet across the floor, even as the two fired at him. One of the bullets hit a glass on the table where Harris had been sitting, sending out shards of glass and a shower of whiskey. The other bullet dug into the floor where Falcon had been standing but a second earlier.
Falcon fired back two quick shots. He hit Bryans between the eyes, and the man fell back. Garon caught a bullet in his stomach and he fell forward, crashing through the railing, then doing a half flip as he fell on his back onto the piano below. The piano gave off a loud, discordant sound.
At that moment, Falcon felt the sting of a bullet nicking his left arm and, rolling back over, he shot Harris, who had just shot him. In the meantime, Potter ran around behind the bar and shot the bartender. Then, he grabbed the double-barrel shotgun behind the bar.
“You go to hell, MacCallister!” he shouted as he aimed the gun at Falcon.
Before he could pull the trigger, though, there was another shotgun blast from the far end of the bar and Potter spun around with blood and brain matter spewing from his head and splashing onto the mirror. Looking toward the second shotgun, Falcon saw the bartender, bleeding from the shoulder, holding a smoking double-barrel shotgun
