William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

“I only ask two things of you,” Falcon said when he backed their operation. “Keep all the card games honest, and don’t water your whiskey. Because if you treat your customers fairly, I have no doubt but that you will do a good business.”

The Hamptons had kept their promise to him and the Golden Nugget had prospered.

From the moment Falcon stepped inside, he felt some relief from the heat. Borrowing a trick developed by the Indians, the Hampton brothers kept gourds of water hanging throughout their establishment. The evaporation of the water resulted in a saloon that was noticeably cooler than the outside temperature.

It was dark enough inside that Falcon had to stand for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The Hampton brothers were particularly proud of the bar, which had been shipped by rail and freight wagon all the way from New York.

Above the mirror was a large oil painting of a night train, its headlamp sending a beam ahead. Every window of every car was shining from interior light, and in every window there was a passenger, each passenger individually and painstakingly detailed. One of the passengers, by design, was Falcon MacCallister. The Hampton brothers were also depicted. That was because the painting had been commissioned specifically for the Golden Nugget Saloon.

Prentiss Hampton was standing at the far end of the bar, polishing glasses and laughing and joking with some of the customers, when he saw Falcon. With a big smile, he put down the glass and cloth, and walked quickly to Falcon’s end of the bar to extend his hand in welcome.

“Falcon!” he said. “What a pleasant surprise! Checking up on us, are you?”

Falcon laughed and shook his head. “Why should I do that? You boys paid back every cent you borrowed from me a long time ago.” He thought it best not to share the information that General Garrison had sent him a letter inviting him down.

“Wait until I tell Corey you are here,” Prentiss said. “You will have dinner with us tonight, won’t you? We have a new restaurant in town that’s really quite nice. It’s called the Vermillion.”

“Great, I’d love to eat with you,” Falcon said.

Looking toward the back of the saloon, Falcon saw a young woman come through the back door, then stop for just a moment to survey the room. The woman was very pretty, with raven-dark hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, and full lips. She was thin, but generously rounded in the right places. Falcon’s first thought was that she might be a bar girl, hired to tease the customers into buying more drinks. But as he looked at her more closely, he saw that she wasn’t dressed in the provocative manner of such women. Also, she had a young, innocent look about her, with no hint of the dissipation bar girls quickly acquired.

“Who is that?” Falcon asked.

Prentiss smiled. “Ah. I see you are taken with our pianist.”

“Piano player? You have a woman piano player?”

“She isn’t a piano player, she is a pianist,” Corey Hampton said, and hearing the voice of his friend, Falcon turned to greet him.

“Hello, Corey. What did you call her? A pianist?” Falcon asked.

“It’s what she calls herself. In fact, she absolutely insists upon the term,” Corey said.

“How did you get a—pianist—especially one as pretty at this young woman, to play piano in a saloon?”

“Her name is Rachael,” Corey explained. “She came to La Junta with a group of players, but the manager of the troupe absconded with all the money, leaving the players stranded. Most left, but I happened to be in La Junta at the time. I had heard her play, so I prevailed upon her to come to Higbee to play for us.”

“Rachael?”

“Rachael Kirby,” Corey said. He smiled as he saw Falcon’s lingering appraisal of the young woman. “She is pretty, isn’t she?”

Falcon nodded. “Yes, very,” he said.

Rachael smiled at a few of the customers, then sat at the piano.

“Wait until you hear her play,” Prentiss said.

Rachael began to play then. The piece, though Falcon didn’t actually recognize it, was Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number One. The music spilled out from the piano in grand, crashing chords, but with a continuing and melodic theme, weaving in and out like a golden thread through a rich tapestry.

Falcon looked around at the customers and saw that all were so entranced by the music that none of them were drinking. He chuckled.

“It’s beautiful music,” he said. “But it can’t be doing much for your business.” He took in the nondrinking customers with a wave of his hand. “Nobody is buying drinks.”

“On the contrary, she is great for business. She draws people to the saloon just to hear her play,” Corey said. “Every night we let her play one or two pieces like that. Then she has to play ‘drinking’ music.”

Finishing the piece with a grand crescendo, Rachael got up from the bench to smile and curtsy in response to the applause.

“Saloon customers applauding a piano player,” Falcon said. “I don’t believe I have ever seen that. Most of the time, they don’t even know the piano player is there. The piano player is like an extra chair or a potted plant or something.”

“It’s impossible not to notice Rachael,” Corey said. He laughed. “You certainly noticed her fast enough.”

Falcon nodded. “Yeah, well, she’s definitely not a chair or a potted plant,” he said with a chuckle.

Sitting back down, Rachael began playing “Buffalo Gals,” and with the change in musical fare, the customers once again began drinking and visiting with each other.

“You’ve been standing here with your mouth open, listening to Rachael,” Prentiss said. “Would you like a beer?”

“Listening, hell, he’s been looking at her,” Corey said with a little laugh.

“I’ve been doing both,” Falcon admitted. “And, yes, I’d very much like a beer.”

When that song was over, someone requested that she play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” Rachael complied, and the music elicited more than a few tears as the patrons stood at the bar or sat at the tables, drinking. Now, business was brisk as bar girls moved quickly about the room, carrying drinks to those who ordered them.

“See what I mean about her being good for business?” Corey asked, pointing to the sudden activity.

“Yes, I see,” Falcon replied. “About this dinner we’re going to tonight. Do you think if we invited Rachael, she might come along with us?”

Corey laughed. “I think she might,” he said.

“Falcon MacCallister,” a friendly voice said. “I heard you were in town.”

Turning toward the sound of the voice, Falcon saw a tall, bearded man.

“Titus Calhoun, how are you?” Falcon said warmly. “Still wearing a star, I see.”

“Yes, I’m the city marshal here,” Calhoun replied.

“Let’s see, the last time I saw you, you were sheriffing down in Arizona,” Falcon said.

“That’s right,” Calhoun said. “And if you hadn’t stopped by for a drink that day, I’d still be in Arizona, lying under six feet of dirt.”

Falcon nodded as he recalled that meeting.

Picacho, Arizona Territory, two years earlier*

As he stood at the bar, a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man stepped in through the back door. At first, Falcon wondered why he had come through the back door. Then he saw that a star was barely showing from beneath the vest he was wearing. The sheriff pointed a gun toward one of the tables.

“I just got a telegram about you, Kofax,” the lawman said. “You should’a had better sense than to come back to a town where ever’one knows you.”

“Let it be, Calhoun,” Kofax replied. “I ain’t staying here long. I’m just waitin’ around for the train to take me out of here.”