Song of Eagles (6 page)

Falcon enjoyed the ride from Lincoln to Fort Sumner and took his time, letting Diablo find his own pace on the winding mountain trail. The fall air was crisp and clean, smelling of sage and cactus blossoms and pine needles from the trees that dotted the mountainsides. He could see milling herds of cattle off in the distance, and several small ranch houses were scattered across the countryside.

Along the small river that flanked the trail, some farmer had planted trees in thick orchards, and their limbs were heavy with fruit.

When Falcon arrived in Fort Sumner he found a cow town like many of the hundreds in the West. Small, without an abundance of citizens, it served the purpose of being a watering hole for cowboys from nearby ranches and soldiers from the adjacent garrison at the fort. There were more saloons and eating establishments than houses, and very few children could be seen playing in the dusty streets.

It was just what Falcon was looking for, a place where thirsty punchers and soldiers came to raise a little hell and spend hard-earned dollars learning the intricacies of poker and faro. He would be more than willing to teach them, and earn a few dollars for himself in the bargain.

After he got Diablo rubbed and fed and bedded down at the livery stable, he registered at the town's only hotel. Paying the desk clerk fifty cents for a hot bath, he cleaned up and changed into a fresh shirt and pants, had his coat and hat brushed clean by the Chinese attendant, and made his way on foot to The Drinking Hole saloon to appraise the situation.

Though it was early in the evening, the place was almost full. Along one side of the room was a long bar, backed by a seven-foot mirror and a painting of a reclining nude woman swathed in red silk sheets that didn't manage to cover much of her body. There were several kegs of beer, and a row of various brands of liquor, mainly bourbon and rye.

There were eight tables scattered across the room, and all had poker games going, with sweating, drunken cowboys and soldiers laughing and joking among themselves as they spent in one night what it had taken them thirty days to earn. In a far corner was a faro table, surrounded by a crowd of men “riding the tiger”—betting against the next card to come out of the box with the painting of a tiger on it.

Falcon felt right at home. Gambling was his favorite way to make money, and it was his favorite pastime. He never tired of the thrill of pitting his wits against men who thought winning at poker was a matter of luck instead of skill. And calling a bet with his last gold coin, knowing if he lost he wouldn't eat, was the kind of pressure he lived for.

He walked to the bar, squeezed in between two punchers, and ordered a whiskey. When it came he turned and leaned back against the bar as he drank, observing the room and its occupants. Picking the right game to enter was as important as drawing the right cards. He didn't play with men who looked as if they couldn't afford to lose. He wanted the kind of high stakes game only the prosperous could give him.

At one of the tables there were two men who were, like Falcon, wearing suit coats and white shirts, and two others who were wearing jeans and leather vests but were too old to be punchers—probably local ranchers out to get away from their wives and children for an evening of fun and games. Falcon figured the suits were professional gamblers or merchants or bankers, men who could well afford to play his type of game.

He drained his drink, got a refill, and ambled over to stand watching the play at the table he'd picked out. After a moment, one of the rancher types looked up, studied him for a moment, and said, “Care to sit in, friend?”

“Don't mind if I do,” Falcon replied, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “Playing five card stud?”

The man nodded, “Ten dollar ante, pot limit on bets. Too rich for your blood?”

“Suits me,” Falcon said, and pulled a stack of greenbacks from his coat pocket.

One of the suits stared at the roll of money, glanced at the other man wearing a suit and raised his eyebrows, a slight grin curling his lips. Falcon kept his face straight, noticing everything that went on at the table. One of the secrets of his success as a gambler was his ability to read other players, and he knew from the start the two to watch out for were the men wearing suits, though over the years he had found that most of the really good card players acted as if they didn't know the difference between a straight and a flush.

The man who invited him to sit down introduced the other players.

“My name's Ben Johnson,” the rancher said. Then he inclined his head to the man on his left, also wearing ranch clothes. “That's Johnny Albright, and those two are Louis Longacre and Marcus Cahill.”

Falcon nodded, “I'm Falcon MacCallister.”

Ben riffled the cards, waited for the antes to be put in the pot at the center of the table, then began to deal.

“You new in town, Falcon?” he asked as he passed out the cards.

“Just got in today.”

“Are you here on business, or pleasure?” asked Louis Longacre.

When Falcon raised his eyebrows at the question, Ben grunted, a smile on his sun-weathered face. “Louis ain't being nosy, Falcon, he's the town banker. He's always hoping someone will come into town and buy up some of the mortgages he's holding paper on.”

“Sure,” Louis said, “no offense meant.”

“None taken,” Falcon replied. “As a matter of fact, it's a little of both. I'm looking to possibly invest some money here in Fort Sumner, maybe do a little business. As to the pleasure, that depends on how the cards fall in the next few hours.”

Ben and Louis laughed, but Johnny Albright just scowled, staring at his cards. “Ben, just shut up and deal the damned cards. This ain't no ladies' society social. Let's play poker.”

Falcon glanced at the pile of chips and money in front of Johnny. It was considerably smaller than the others'. It was always the losers who wanted to hurry the game along, often so they could lose their money even faster. He settled back in his chair and watched the others as the game progressed.

He was in no hurry. It would take him a couple of hours to figure out the other player's “tells”—the little unconscious motions and mannerisms most players make that can tell an experienced poker player how good their hand is, and whether they're bluffing or betting against strength.

Soon, Falcon learned that Louis Longacre owned the Fort Sumner bank and was a partner of Marcus Cahill in several other businesses in town, including the hotel and the livery stable. Ben Johnson and Johnny Albright were both ranchers, as he had figured, and owned two of the largest spreads east of town.

Of the group at the table, Louis and Marcus were better than average players, Ben was average, and Johnny was terrible.

Falcon played conservatively, betting only when he had a good hand, folding with anything less than a sure winner, while he learned the habits of his opponents.

He noticed that Louis picked at the corner of his moustache when he was bluffing or betting on a weak hand, while Marcus licked his lips and leaned slightly forward in his chair when he was on a bluff.

Ben had few tells, but tended not to push his advantage when he had good cards, rarely bluffed with any conviction, and folded several winning hands when pressed. He obviously played for the fun of the game, and not to make or lose any important amounts of money.

Johnny Albright, on the other hand, did everything badly. He sweated and blinked rapidly and nervously when he tried to bluff, and became boisterous and jubilant when he had a good hand, thus letting the others know they should bail out without letting Johnny make anything.

Falcon, for his part, played to stay about even, throwing in some winning hands so as not to make too good an impression on the other men. If he was going to be playing here for any length of time, he didn't want them to think he was a card sharp, or it would be hard to find men to play with him. The hardest thing about making a living at gambling was to let your opponents think you had won by luck, not skill. That way, they would keep coming back for more, hoping your luck would change.

It was a role Falcon had perfected over the years. He would take a little from each player at the table, letting each win a few big pots from him, but staying always a little ahead of the game. At the end of the night, most times, he won more than he lost and would leave the game richer than when he entered it.

It was well after midnight when Falcon stifled a yawn, figuring it was about time to call it a night. He was two hundred and fifty dollars ahead, Ben and Marcus were about even, and Louis had won over six hundred dollars, most of it from Johnny Albright.

Johnny didn't seem to mind overly much, other than cussing his luck and the damned cards that just wouldn't fall his way. Falcon noticed Marcus and Louis glancing at each other with tiny, tight smiles on their faces, and realized this was probably a weekly occurrence, with Johnny losing and the others winning. He hoped the man had a profitable ranch, because his poker playing was costing him plenty.

Falcon came fully awake when a man at an adjacent table shouted and jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over as he clawed for his pistol.

“You lyin' son of a bitch,” he screamed drunkenly, his bleary, bloodshot eyes staring across the table.

He was a young soldier in uniform, and swayed unsteadily on his feet as he aimed the Colt army revolver at another player at his table, who sat with large eyes and raised hands.

“You been cheatin' me all night, Billy Bob, an' I'm gonna drill you fer it!”

“I ain't neither been cheatin' you, Joey,” the terrified puncher said. “You're just a lousy poker player, that's all.”

In one fluid motion, Falcon stood up, drawing his Colt and bringing it down on top of the kid's head so fast no one in the room could follow the movement.

The young man dropped like a stone, unconscious but unhurt, and then everyone was talking and moving at once.

“Goddamn, did you see that feller draw?” one of the players at the next table said to the man next to him.

“Damn, he moved quicker than a rattler,” another said to no one in particular.

Falcon bent over the soldier, checked his head to make sure he was all right, then asked one of his soldier friends to take him out to the base and have the army doctor take a look at him.

A short, stubby man wearing a bright red plaid shirt, yellow suspenders, and sporting a full, bushy beard waddled over to the table. He looked at Falcon and stuck out his hand.

“Howdy, pardner. I'm Beaver Smith. I own this place, and I owe you a drink fer preventin' that young buck from killin' somebody.”

Falcon took the hand and introduced himself. “Just let me collect my money and I'll take you up on that drink, Mr. Smith.”

“Oh hell, son, just call me Beaver like everybody else.”

Falcon shook hands all around at his table. “I enjoyed the evening, gents. I'd like to do it again sometime.”

The others nodded, and Johnny Albright said, “Yeah, and maybe next time you won't be so lucky with them cards, Falcon.”

Falcon smiled and shrugged. “You're right, Johnny. I was awfully lucky tonight. Maybe next time it will be your turn to have the luck.”

Beaver Smith opened a door next to the bar and ushered Falcon into his office with a sweep of his hand. Falcon was impressed at the size and the opulence of the place. Though the saloon, like all of the other buildings in Fort Sumner, was nondescript and ordinary, Beaver's office was furnished and decorated very tastefully.

The entire floor was covered in a thick, woven rug, and the walls had dark wood paneling. There was a couch against one side wall, a small, well-stocked bar against another, and in the rear was a large, oaken desk with two heavy, easy chairs arrayed in front of it.

Beaver must have noticed Falcon's admiring gaze, for he said, “You like my little hideaway?”

Falcon nodded. “Yes, it's very nice, and rather unexpected.”

Beaver grinned. “Yeah. When I bought The Drinking Hole more'n ten year ago, I decided if I was gonna spend half my life runnin' the place I wanted to make myself a room I'd enjoy bein' in.”

He waved his arm at the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a load off, an' I'll get you a nip of some really fine bourbon—brought all the way from Kentucky it says on the label.”

In a few moments, he had drinks for both of them and he was settled in a plush, overstuffed desk chair, watching Falcon with appraising eyes.

“You don't strike me as the normal sort of travelin' gambler we usually get around here, Falcon.”

There's more to this man than meets the eye,
Falcon thought. “That's because I'm not a gambler. At least I don't make my living at it,” Falcon replied.

Beaver took a long sip of his whiskey, wiped his beard with the back of his hand, and sighed. “Man, that's smooth.” Then, he cut his eyes back at Falcon. “I didn't think so. Just what do you do for a livin', Falcon?”

“Oh, I've got my hand in several ventures. I own a ranch and breed some horses, and I own a saloon in Valley, Colorado, called The Wild Rose.” He smiled and added, “And I do a bit of gambling to pass the time when I'm not otherwise engaged.”

“So, you must know what I have to put up with, runnin' The Drinking Hole.” Beaver shook his head, “Sometimes I think I'm gettin' a bit long in the tooth to be in this business. If it's not drunken cowboys shootin' the place up, it's pissed-off soldiers fightin' and throwin' chairs and breakin' furniture.”

“Yes, it can be rather exciting, especially late in the night when the boys have gotten a snootful of whiskey and realize they've lost all their money for the rest of the month.”

Falcon paused to take a drink of his bourbon, noticing it was a good brand, so rich and flavorful he could almost taste the redwood barrels it had been aged in. “That's why I'd like to make you an offer on The Drinking Hole.”

Beaver's eyebrows almost disappeared in the mop of wild hair on his head. “You mean you want to buy my saloon?”

Falcon nodded. “If it's for sale.”

Beaver shrugged. “Son, everything's for sale, if the price is right.” He held his glass up and stared into the amber fluid for a moment. “Though I don't rightly know just what I'd do with myself if I sold out. It's true, runnin' the place gets a bit wearying, but I'm not the sort to go sit by a stream with a pole and fish the rest of my life.”

“I realize that, Beaver, and I'm not the sort of man to settle down in one town for any length of time. So, how about this? I'll pay you a fair price for half ownership in The Drinking Hole, and for as long as I'm around I'll run it and you can take some time off to rest up or travel or whatever you want to do. When I get tired of Fort Sumner I'll be on my way, and you can send my half of our profits to my bank back in Valley, Colorado.”

Beaver pursed his lips. “You'd trust me to do that, young feller?”

“I never enter into a business arrangement with a man I can't trust,” Falcon said. “And in all my years I've never yet been disappointed in any of my partners.”

Beaver thought for a moment, eyeing Falcon over the rim of his glass as he drank. Finally, he got up and poured them both another round.

“Well, if we're gonna make a deal, let's get down to some serious negotiatin',” he said with a wide grin.

It took almost two more hours and the rest of the bottle of bourbon before they agreed on a price for Falcon to purchase a half interest in The Drinking Hole.

As they shook hands and Falcon prepared to return to his hotel, Beaver said, “I told you I was a good judge of character. If you run the saloon half as well as you bargain, our profits are assured.”

* * *

The next night, after Beaver had packed up a suitcase and gone to visit his daughter over in Roswell, Falcon began his first night as new owner of The Drinking Hole. He arranged with the cook at the hotel to provide a large tray of sandwiches and several jars of pickled eggs, which he placed on the bar next to a sign saying Free Food.

Roy, the bartender, asked, “Why are we giving the food away for free, Mr. MacCallister? We could charge for it and make a profit on it.”

“We're going to make a profit on it, Roy. The more a puncher eats, the more he drinks, and our real profit is in the whiskey and beer we serve. Those pickled eggs make a man mighty thirsty, and the more we give away, the more whisky we'll sell.”

“What about the sandwiches?”

“A man with a full stomach is less likely to get dead drunk and start a fight, or shoot up the place. And the longer it takes a man to get drunk, the longer he can drink and the more whiskey we'll sell.”

Roy smiled and shook his head. “I can see things are going to be a mite different around here.”

“Not too different,” Falcon said. “Beaver ran a nice place. I just want to help him out with a few minor changes to enhance our profit margin a little.”

As the saloon began to fill up Falcon went to his table. He had set up a felt-covered table in a corner away from the entrance, and he sat with his back to a wall so he could observe everything that went on and could see who came in the door before they could see him. He wanted no surprises. It was a habit of carefulness he had acquired over the years, and it had served him well.

He had Roy bring him a cup of coffee and he sat there, watching the play at the other tables and the faro game, and dealt himself a game of solitaire to play until the heavy poker players arrived.

When he saw Billy Bonney and Dick Brewer, John Tunstall's foreman, walk through the door, he waved Billy over to his table. Billy left Brewer at the bar and pulled up a seat across from Falcon.

“Howdy, Kid. Would you like a beer?”

The Kid frowned. “You know I don't drink nor smoke, Falcon.”

“Well then, how's the new job going?”

The Kid smiled. “It's all right, so far. Mr. Tunstall seems a right decent man to work for.”

“He got you punching cows?”

“No, thank goodness. Dick's in charge of the cattle. My job is to stay next to Mr. Tunstall and make sure nobody shoots him in the back.”

Falcon frowned. “Things getting that bad?”

The Kid nodded. “Yeah. The boss thinks Murphey and Dolan are getting right tired of him taking their business away from them with his store, and he said Mr. Chisum was working on gettin' some of those government contracts to sell beef to the Indians. Mr. Tunstall says if that happens the lead is liable to start flyin' sooner rather than later.”

“Well, be sure to keep a close eye on your own back while you're watching out for Tunstall's, Kid.”

The Kid patted the Colt on his hip. “I keep my holster greased and the hammer thong off all the time, Falcon. I'm ready for whatever those galoots want to throw my way.”

“What are you doing out this way, Kid?”

“I heard you bought into the saloon here, and I wanted to come give you some business. Mr. Tunstall advanced me some pay, an' it's been too long since I've sat in on a good poker game.”

“You any good at poker?”

The Kid shrugged. “I usually win more'n I lose.”

“That's all that counts.”

Falcon glanced over the Kid's shoulder and saw Ben Johnson, Johnny Albright, Louis Longacre, and Marcus Cahill coming through the door.

“You're in luck, Kid. Here come some gents who'll be glad to test your luck.”

The Kid smiled. “Luck has very little to do with winnin', Falcon. It's all in knowin' who you're up against, and bein' ready to do whatever it takes to beat him.”

Falcon waved the men over and introduced them to the Kid.

“You men ready to play?” Falcon asked.

“Deal 'em,” Johnny Albright said, his voice slurred enough to show he had already started drinking. “I feel real lucky tonight.”

The Kid looked over at Falcon and winked, making Falcon smile in return. In some strange way, the Kid was a man after his own heart.