the train, then disappearing back into the darkness. Not until the train had slowed considerably did he see any indication of life, a few low-slung unpainted wooden buildings of such mean construction that, had he not seen dim lights shining from within, he would have thought unoccupied.
With a rattling of couplings and a squeal of brakes, the train gradually began to slow. Still looking through the window, Hawke saw a brick building with a small black-on-white sign that read: GREEN RIVER, WYOMING TERRITORY.
“So this is Green River,” he said.
“Yes. It doesn’t look like much at night, but it’s really quite a growing little town,” Pamela said. She laughed. “Listen to me, English born and bred, extolling the virtues of a tiny town in the American West. But it has become my home and I feel a sense of proprietorship toward it now.”
“I’m sure the town has no better advocate than you,” Hawke said. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Dorchester.”
Nodding good-bye to Pamela, he went out to the car platform to pick up his saddle, then stepped down even before the train had come to a complete halt.
The depot was crowded with scores of people. Trains connected the three thousand citizens of Green River with family, friends, and memories. They also brought visitors, returning citizens, mail, and the latest goods and services. It was no mystery, then, that at the arrival of each train the depot was the liveliest place in town.
Hawke picked his way through the crowd, went into the depot, then stepped up to the freight window. A sign on it read: SHIPPING CLERK. In the little office behind the window, the shipping clerk himself, a thin man wearing a striped shirt with garters around each sleeve, was sitting at a desk. Under the light of a kerosene lantern, he was busily making entries into an open ledger book. Sensing Hawke’s presence, he looked up.
“Yes, sir, somethin’ I can do for you?” he asked.
“I wonder if I could store my saddle here for a while,” Hawke said.
“You sure can, but it’ll cost you ten cents a day.”
Hawke pulled out a dollar and handed it to the clerk. “Here’s ten days worth,” he said.
The clerk took the dollar then nodded toward a door with his head. “You can stash it in there,” he said. “Go on in and find a place for it.”
“Thanks.”
Hawke went into the room the clerk had pointed out. It was dimly lit by a wall-mounted lantern, but there was enough light to allow him to walk around without stumbling over anything. He found a spot by the wall for his saddle and dropped it there.
As he was turning away he saw a piano—not the beer-stained, cigarette-burned, spur-scarred upright of most saloons, but a Steinway Concert Square.
Hawke walked over and ran his hand across the smooth, ebonized rosewood. Pulling the bench out, he sat down between the carved cabriole legs, then lifted the lid and supported it with the fretwork music rack.
It had been a long time since he’d touched such a fine piano. He hit a few keys and was rewarded with a rich, mellow tone. As he began playing, Hawke felt himself slipping away from the dark, depot storeroom in a small western town. He was at another time and another place.
“I say, my good man, who is that playing the piano?”
The shipping clerk looked up to see a tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking man.
“Oh, Mr. Dorchester! I’m sorry,” the shipping clerk said. “I don’t know just what the hell that fella thinks he’s doin’ in there.”
The shipping clerk got up from his desk and went around the counter, heading for the storage area. “I’ll put a stop to it at once.”
“No wait,” Dorchester said, holding up his hand. “I’ll see to it myself.”
“I thought you were going to find Mr. Hawke and thank him,” Pamela said.
“I will, my dear, I will,” Dorchester replied. “But listen to that music. I have not heard anything so beautiful since we left England. I must see who it is.”
Dorchester and his daughter stepped into the dimly lit storeroom. The man playing the piano was practically in the dark, but even in the shadows of the dingy and crowded room, he projected a commanding presence as he sat on the bench dipping, moving, and swaying to the powerful movements of the allegro.
“It can’t be,” Pamela said in a shocked tone of voice.
“It can’t be what?” Dorchester asked.
“It’s him!” Pamela said quietly. “This is the man I told you about! Father, he is the one who rescued me.”
“This can’t be possible,” Dorchester whispered.
“Father, it is him. I swear it is.”
Dorchester held out his hand as if to quiet his daughter, then, seeing a box and a stool nearby, motioned that they should be seated.
When Hawke finished the piece, he sat there for a moment, listening to the last fading echo of the music. It wasn’t until then that he heard two people applauding him. Turning, he saw Pamela and a tall, white-haired man that he knew must be her father.
“I am sure that, for as long as I own that piano, I will never hear it played more beautifully,” Dorchester said.
“Father, this is Mason Hawke, my knight in shining armor,” Pamela said.
“This is your piano, Mr. Dorchester?” Hawke asked.
“Yes, it arrived last week. I’m waiting to have it delivered to my house.”
“I’m sorry. I had no right—” Hawke began, but Dorchester interrupted him.
“That is nonsense. Who, I ask, has more right to play any piano than Sir Mason Hawke, Knight of the British Empire? You are that person, are you not? You were knighted by Queen Victoria during your triumphant concert tour of Britain and the Continent?”
Hawke waved his hand in dismissal. “As you have learned, Mr. Dorchester, there are no titles in America. The knighthood was strictly honorary, and of no practical use.”
“Of course it was honorary, but in my opinion, an honor well deserved, for your music truly is inspiring.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Pamela said. “When I said you were my knight, I wasn’t just talking, was I?”
Hawke smiled and bowed. “What knight, real or honorary, would pass up the opportunity to rescue such a lovely damsel in distress?” he asked.
Pamela smiled. “Mr. Hawke, you truly are an amazing man. Wouldn’t you say so, Father?”
“I would indeed,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Hawke, I obviously cannot place a price on my daughter’s life. But I would like to reward you in some way.”
“No reward is necessary,” Hawke replied. “I just happened to discover your daughter’s predicament. Anyone else in the same situation would have done the same thing I did.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t anyone else. It was you,” Dorchester said. “And I truly would like some tangible way of expressing my appreciation for what you did. Tell me what you want.”
Hawke smiled and stroked his chin. “Well, if you happen to have any influence with one of the local saloon owners, I could use a job playing a piano.”
“In a saloon? You would play a piano in a saloon?”
Hawke nodded. “It’s how I’ve been making my living for the last several years.”
“But, God in heaven, man, you could play in any concert hall in America. In the world. Why would you lower yourself to playing in a saloon?”
