Chapter Fourteen
When Duff and Falcon went into town the next day, Duff was fascinated with how busy it was. The sign at the depot that gave the elevation of MacCallister as 8,750 feet also gave the population as 956. But Duff believed there were at least that many people moving about, walking up and down the planked sidewalks, crossing the crowded street, moving in and out of the stores, and riding on horseback or in wagons, surreys, and buggies. He commented on it.
“That is because we are the only town for several miles around,” Falcon replied. “Many of the people you see live out in the country on farms and ranches, or in some cases, as prospectors and miners. They come into town about once a week and when they do, it is a big occasion for them. This is Saturday, that is their day to come into town.
“Let’s go in here,” Falcon suggested.
The painted sign on the glass window in front of the building read:
It was the newspaper office, and inside was the smell of ink, fresh-cut paper, and oil to keep the press operating smoothly. A somewhat overweight man, wearing a green visor, was sitting at a desk, selecting type from the type boxes as he composed a story. He looked up as Duff and Falcon entered the building.
“Falcon!” the editor greeted them with a broad smile. “How good to see you. I was just about to look you up.”
“Look me up for what?”
“I wanted to get your story about what happened at the depot yesterday when a through passenger tripped up George Stripland by throwing a cane at his feet. Was it really Toots Nelson’s cane?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder what made the man decide to use a cane in such a way.”
“Why ask me, when you can get it straight from the horse’s mouth?” Falcon replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Larry, this is my cousin from Scotland, Duff MacCallister. Duff, this is Larry Fugate, editor of the
MacCallister Monitor
, as good a newspaper as you will find between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.”
“’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fugate,” Duff said.
“Good to meet you as well,” the editor said. He turned back to Falcon. “What do you mean, getting my story from the horse’s mouth?” he asked again.
Falcon chuckled. “I just introduced you to the horse, so to speak.”
“It was you?” Fugate asked Duff. “You are the one who threw the stick at the thief?”
“Aye.”
“Well, then I shall need the full story from you.”
“There is no story to tell,” Duff said. “He snatched the lady’s purse and commenced to run, I borrowed a gentleman’s bat and hurled it at him with an unexpected degree of success.”
“Ha,” Fugate said. “Something there is that tells me that the success of your maneuver wasn’t all that unexpected.”
Despite Duff’s reticence, Fugate managed to get the story from him, though his reluctance to be self-aggrandizing made it necessary for Falcon to introduce a few comments here and there to add the necessary color.
After the interview, Falcon called upon the newspaper editor for a favor.
“Larry, suppose a fellow wanted to homestead some land. Where would be the best place to go?”
“You mean here in Colorado?”
“Colorado, yes, that would be fine, but it isn’t necessary. We are looking for the most available, as well as the best quality of land for raising livestock.”
“Oh, well, in that case, if you don’t just have to be in Colorado, Wyoming would be the best place, I think.”
“Wyoming?”
“Yes. Up there they are so eager to have settlers that when you homestead, the territory of Wyoming will make additional land available.”
“Where in Wyoming?” Falcon asked.
“Oh, just about anywhere in Wyoming. You could practically throw a dart at the map and settle wherever the dart hits. But of course, you would want the land to be fertile and well watered, so that does somewhat limit your possibilities.”
“What about Cheyenne?”
“Cheyenne? Yes, I think Cheyenne would be a good place to start.”
“Then what do you say, cousin, that we take a trip to Cheyenne in a couple of days?”
“I would not want to put you out any,” Duff said. “’Tis not necessary that you come.”
“Nonsense. You are still new to the country. I’m sure I can be of some assistance to you. Besides, I would enjoy the trip.”
“Then your company would most assuredly be welcome,” Duff said.
It was Falcon’s routine to drop in at the post office anytime he was in town, and this morning the postmaster handed him a letter.
“It is addressed to Duff MacCallister, care of you,” Pleas Terrell said as he handed Falcon the letter. “It’s from your brother in New York.”
Falcon took the letter from Terrell. “Thank you. This is my cousin, Duff MacCallister, the man to whom the letter was addressed. Duff, this is Pleas Terrell, our postmaster.”
“’Tis an honor to meet you, Mr. Terrell,” Duff said.
“Will you be with us for a while, Mr. MacCallister? The reason I ask is because if I should get any further mail addressed to you, I shall know what to do with it.”
“I shan’t be here for too much longer. But if you should receive another letter for me, please feel free to give it to Falcon.”
“Thank you, that is how I will handle it, then,” Terrell said.
From the post office they went to the City Pig Restaurant, and there, as they waited for their meal to be served, Duff read his letter.
I hope this letter finds you, for I am writing to impart some information that I believe to be of great importance to you. Percy Fowler, whom you will remember as one of the stagehands, has betrayed a confidence. As a result, Fowler has lost his position with the theater. However, it is an act of closing the door after the horse has left the barn for I have learned, upon good authority, that Fowler provided information to Deputy Sheriff Malcolm from Argyllshire County in Scotland. Malcolm has learned that you are in Colorado and I am certain that he will be coming out there to find you, so please be on the lookout for him.
“The Highlander” continues to run with naught but glorious accolades from the newspapers. The “New York Tribune” said of Rosanna: “Rosanna MacCallister portrays Lady Margaret in the play ‘The Highlander,’ and such a luminary is she that Mr. Edison’s electric lights, by which the theater is illuminated, are scarcely needed. Miss MacCallister brightens the stage by her mere appearance.” I report this to you in all great pride of my twin sister’s accomplishments, though I dare not say this to Rosanna, lest her head grow too large.
With regards and affection from your American cousin, I remain yours faithfully.
“The New York newspapers speak well of Rosanna,” Duff said as he finished reading the letter.
“They always do,” Falcon said as he spread butter on a biscuit. “They praise Rosanna and Andrew alike, and I agree. I have seen them perform and think it is more than mere brotherly pride that makes me believe them to be players of great talent.”
“’Tis no mere brotherly pride, for I have seen them, too, and they are very good.”
“What else did my brother have to say?”
Duff hesitated for a second before he responded because he didn’t want Falcon to think that he would be asking for help in dealing with Deputy Malcolm. Then he thought that to hold back anything Falcon’s brother may have said would seem impolite, so he passed the letter across the table.
Falcon read it quickly, then glanced up at Duff.
“This man, Malcolm, would be the deputy who came for you in the theater?”
“Aye.”
“Then Andrew is right, we should be on the lookout for him.”
“I thank ye kindly, Falcon, but this isn’t your battle.”
“Duff, do you really think this deputy will come after you by himself?”
“I don’t know,” Duff answered, though not too convincingly.
“He will find as many men as he can,” Falcon said.
“But how will he be able to recruit so many?” Duff asked. “He knows no one in America.”
“He knows that you have come to join me,” Falcon said. “He will use that as his means of recruiting. Believe me, Duff, he will be able to round up an army just by collecting men who want to see me dead.”
“Och
,” Duff said, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I did not think of that. I left New York so no’ to bring danger to Andrew and Rosanna, and here, I have brought it to you instead. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Falcon said. “I’ve been in danger before. And this may be a good way of bringing my enemies out.”
After they ate, they went to the depot, where they bought tickets to Cheyenne. They would leave on the train the next day, then change trains in Denver for the northbound to Cheyenne. After making their travel arrangements, Falcon took Duff around the town, introducing him to the sheriff, the doctor, and several of his friends. They participated in a game of horseshoes, in which Duff did poorly, and a game of darts, which Duff won handily.
Then they went to the saloon, where Duff was introduced to Argus Fincher, the saloon keeper.
“You’re Scottish?” Fincher asked.
“Aye.”
“I’ve something to show you,” Fincher said.
Fincher went into the back room, then reappeared a moment later, gingerly carrying something.
“Pipes!” Duff said. “Sure an’ I haven’t heard that sweet sound since I left Scotland.”
“Can you play the bagpipes, Duff?” Falcon asked.
“Aye, and would I be Scot if I couldn’t?”
“How did you come by this, Argus?” Falcon asked.
“A couple of years ago a drummer sold them to me for ten dollars,” Fincher said. “I thought I might learn to play them, but they are the devil’s own device. I can barely get a sound from them.”
“May I?” Duff asked, reaching for them.
“What is all that sticking out of the bag?” Fincher asked.
“This is the tube you blow into in order to inflate the bag,” Duff explained. “This is the chanter. You move your fingers over the holes in the chanter to play the notes. And these are the drones, two tenor and one bass.”
Duff took the bag, inflated it, then began to play. At first the strange sound coming from the instrument surprised the others in the saloon, but then they heard the melody, sweet and harmonious over the steady thrum of the three drone tubes.
When Duff finished the impromptu concert, every person in the saloon applauded. He thanked them, then handed the pipes back to Fincher.
“No, sir,” Fincher said, holding his hand out. “That thing belongs to someone who can play it. You keep it.”
“I can’t do that,” Duff said. “But I’ll buy them from you. How much did you pay for them?”
“Ten dollars.”
Duff took out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the bartender.
“Thank you,” Fincher said.
“No, Mr. Fincher. Thank you.”
“Play us another tune, would you, Mr. MacCallister?” one of the saloon patrons asked.
“I’ll play for you, ‘Scots Wha Hae,’” Duff said. “That means, ‘Scots Who Have.’”
Duff played the song, a stately slow melody, then afterward he spoke the words.
“Scots, who have wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, whom Bruce has often led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to Victory.
“Now’s the day, and now’s the hour:
See the front of battle lour,
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and Slavery.
“Who will be a traitor knave?
Who will fill a coward’s grave?
Who will base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee.
“Who for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fall,
Let him follow me.”
That evening Duff and Falcon sat on the front porch of the old MacCallister homestead. It was on this porch that Kate Olmstead, Falcon’s mother, had died. And now she and Falcon’s father lay buried twenty-five yards away.