“It’s only eleventhirty,” Timberman said, looking at his wristwatch. “You’ve got a half hour before noon.”
“So it’s onethirty Eastern,” Barnum growled, “which means we’ve wasted an hour and a half of drinking time.”
Timberman frowned while he drew a beer and poured a shot. “Why Eastern time?”
“Our new friend here is used to Eastern,” Barnum said.
“Didn’t you notice how he said ‘here’? He said ‘here’ like JFK. He’s from Boston or someplace, but he’s got Virginia plates and a lot of outdoor gear in his rig. Judging by the dirt on that car, I’m guessing he didn’t fly and rent, he drove out all the way.”
“I ain’t seen him in here before,” Timberman said, taking the coffee cup and replacing it with the draft and the shot.
“Nope,” Barnum said. “He was asking you something a minute ago. What was it?”
Timberman looked over Barnum’s shoulder to make sure the tall man wasn’t coming back yet. “He’s got an interest in falconry. He asked me if I knew of anybody around here who might have birds available. He also asked me if we have a range where he can sight in his hunting rifle. And he wanted to know where the bathroom is.”
When the tall man returned he found a shot of bourbon and a glass of beer next to his coffee cup. He looked toward Timberman, who pointed to the exsheriff.
“Cheers,” Barnum said, raising his shot glass and sipping the top off.
“Thanks are in order,” the man said to Barnum, tentatively raising his whiskey, “but it’s pretty early in the day.”
Barnum said, “It’s never too early to treat a visitor to some cowboy hospitality.”
The tall man sipped half of his shot, winced, and chased it with a long pull from the beer, never taking his piercing brown eyes off Barnum.
“Who says I’m visiting?” the tall man asked.
Barnum tipped his head toward Timberman. “Buck here said you were asking about falcons.”
“So much for the famed confidentiality of the bartend
ing profession,” the tall man said evenly. In his peripheral vision, Barnum could see Timberman suddenly look down at his shoes and shuffle away.
“I asked him,” Barnum said. “What he told me will be treated with confidence.”
The tall man’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you, exactly?”
“I used to be the sheriff here,” Barnum said.
“To a lot of us,” Timberman interjected, “he’ll always be our sheriff.”
Barnum humbly nodded his thanks to Timberman.
The tall man seemed to be thinking things over, Barnum observed, trying to decide if he was going to say more or take his leave.
“I might be able to help you out,” Barnum said.
The tall man turned to Timberman, and the bartender said, “You ought to ask the sheriff.”
While the tall man pondered, Barnum closed his newspaper, folded it, and put his reading glasses and gold pen in his shirt pocket.
“Let me ask you this,” Barnum said. “Are you looking for a falcon, or are you looking for a particular falconer?”
The tall man’s face revealed nothing. “I don’t believe we’ve actually met.”
“Bud Barnum. You?”
“Randan Bello.”
“Welcome to Saddlestring, Mr. Bello.”
Bello picked up his shot and beer, walked down the length of the bar and sat down on a stool next to Barnum.
Timberman watched, then went to the far end of the bar to wash glasses that were already clean.
“I’m looking for a falconer,” Bello said, speaking low and looking at his reflection in the back bar mirror and not directly at Barnum.
“I know of a guy,” Barnum said to Bello’s face in the mirror. “He’s got a place by himself on the river. Carries a .454 Casull. Is that him?”
Bello sipped his beer. “Could be.”
Barnum described Nate Romanowski, and let a halfsmile form on his mouth. “If he’s the one, he’s been a thorn in my side since he showed up in my county. Romanowski and a game warden named Joe Pickett. I’ve got no use for either one of them.”
Bello turned on his stool and Barnum felt the man’s eyes bore into the side of his head.
“So you can help me,” Bello said.
At the end of the bar, Timberman made a loud fuss over cleaning some ashtrays.
