Showdown at Dead End Canyon (7 page)

“It is Miss Pamela Dorchester, Miss McPherson,” the conductor said. “As I’m sure you know, she disappeared from the
Chicago Limited
a few nights ago.”

“Yes, I read about it in the paper. Well, how delightful that she has been found safe and sound. She is all right, isn’t she?”

Marshal sighed. “I assure you, Miss McPherson, she is quite all right.”

“Well, in that case, Addison, Mary, you, and your son-in-law and daughter are certainly welcome to join Mr. Dancer and me. Isn’t that right, Mr. Dancer?”

Ethan Dancer made no direct response.

“I, uh, thank you for the invitation,” Addison said.

“Do make yourselves at home,” Bailey invited. “But I ask you to excuse me for a few minutes while I go pay my respects to Miss Dorchester.”

“I can’t believe you are actually going to go speak to that horrid woman,” Mary Ford said.

“My dear, that ‘horrid woman’ is Pamela Dorchester.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“Well, for one thing, her father owns one hundred thousand shares of this railroad, as well as six hundred thousand acres of land. You might have heard of his ranch, Mr. Ford. He calls it Northumbria.”

“Northumbria?” Addison said. “You mean, the eminent domain section?”

“That is exactly what I mean.”

Addison smiled. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s almost worth getting thrown out of the car for that.”

“I thought you might appreciate the irony.”

Hawke and Pamela were just finishing their meal when Pamela looked up to see the small woman come into the car.

“Bailey,” Pamela said. “What a…surprise.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Bailey McPherson replied. “Ever since we heard you disappeared from the train to Chicago we have been worried to death about you.”

Hawke had stood when Bailey came into the car, and when she approached the table, he towered over her.

“I’m sure you were. But as you can clearly see, I’m fine,” Pamela said.

“I am so relieved.” Bailey looked up at Hawke. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your handsome gentleman friend?”

“Bailey McPherson, this is Mason Hawke. Mr. Hawke is my knight in shining armor.”

“So, I take it we have you to thank for Pamela’s rescue.”

“Nothing heroic,” Hawke said. “I just happened to stumble into the cabin where she was.”

“Oh, it was much more than that,” Pamela said. “He killed the two desperadoes who kidnapped me.”

“Killed them?” Bailey said with a gasp. She turned toward Hawke. “Oh, my, you must be very brave to take on two men in a fierce gun battle.”

Hawke chuckled. “It wasn’t like I had a choice,” he replied. “They forced the fight on me.”

“Yes, I’m sure they did.”

Bailey turned toward Pamela again.

“How fortunate you were to have this gentleman come to your rescue. Well, you will have a story to tell to your grandchildren, won’t you, my dear?”

“I will indeed,” Pamela said. “Won’t you join us for tea?”

“No, thank you, but I have people waiting for me in the other car.” She laughed. “In fact, they happen to be the very people you displaced from this car.”

“Oh. Do you mean Mr. Addison Ford, Administrative Assistant to Secretary of Interior Columbus Delano?”

“Then I see that you do know who he is.”

“He informed us of his identity. He was quite put out, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind about Mr. Ford. I will do what I can to soothe his ruffled spirits,” Bailey promised. “I’m glad you survived your ordeal. And, Mr. Hawke, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hawke said with a slight nod. He waited until she had left the car before he sat down again.

“What did you think of her?” Pamela asked.

“Your friend is rather small,” Hawke said. He could think of nothing else to say.

Pamela laughed out loud. “She is small. But I would hardly call her my friend. She is a scheming opportunist who doesn’t let a little thing like ethics stand in the way of her goal.”

“Oh,” Hawke said. “Well, you can understand my confusion, I’m sure, but you two were carrying on like best friends.”

“Women aren’t like men, Mr. Hawke, anxious to settle differences with fisticuffs. We can hide our most bitter disagreements behind disingenuous smiles.”

“So I see,” Hawke said.

HAWKE WAS ASLEEP WHEN PAMELA SHOOK HIM
gently by the shoulder. Opening his eyes, he saw her smiling down at him.

“Have you always been able to fall asleep so quickly?” she asked.

“Yes,” Hawke said. He yawned, then rubbed his eyes. Feeling the train’s speed diminishing, he asked, “Where are we?”

“We are coming into Green River,” she said. “This is where I get off.”

“I guess I’ll get off here as well.”

“You needn’t detrain unless you wish to. I’ve made arrangements with the conductor. You can travel all the way through to California if you want.”

“Thank you, but this is good enough.”

Hawke looked out the window. There was nothing to see but a black, seemingly empty maw, interspersed with low-lying brush that grew alongside the track, illuminated for a brief moment by light cast from the windows of 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.

Fifteen hundred people filled the Crystal Palace in London, England, to hear the latest musical sensation from America. When the curtain opened, the audience applauded as Mason Hawke walked out onto the stage, flipped the tails back from his swallow coat, then took his seat at the piano.

The auditorium grew quiet, and Mason began to play Beethoven’s Concerto Number Five in E Flat Major. The mu
sic filled the concert hall and caressed the collective soul of the audience. A music critic, writing of the concert in the
London Times,
said:

“It was something magical. The brilliant young American pianist managed, with his playing, to resurrect the genius of the composer so that, to the listening audience, Mason Hawke and Ludwig Beethoven were one and the same.”

“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?”

“It’s a long story,” Hawke said.

Dorchester stared at Hawke for a long moment, as if stupefied by what he had just heard. Then, shaking his head as if to clear it of such distressful information, he sighed.

“Very well, sir. I will respect your privacy.” Abruptly he smiled. “Wait a minute. You want a job playing the piano, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me look around a bit. I may be able to come up with something for you. In the meantime, I would like to invite
you to my home on Saturday next. I should have the piano in place by then. You would honor me, greatly, by attending?”

“And playing the piano for you?”

Dorchester chuckled. “Of course I would be thrilled if you would play for us.” He held up his hand. “But the invitation is for you, personally, not for someone to entertain me. Whether you choose to play or not will be up to you.”

“I’m sorry, it was rude of me to suggest that you had that in mind,” Hawke said. “Please forgive me for that insolence. I would be glad to come.”

Dorchester smiled happily. “Good, good. And maybe by then I will have something for you.”

Hawke took a room in the Morning Star Hotel. When he awoke the next morning, he heard the ringing sound of a blacksmith’s hammer. Because the blacksmith’s shop was at the far end of the street, the hammering, though audible, was not particularly intrusive. He could also hear the scrape of a broom as the storekeeper next door swept his front porch.

The blacksmith’s hammer fell in measured blows, so that after each ring of the hammer, he could hear the scratch of the broom.
Ring, scratch, scratch. Ring, scratch, scratch.

As a counter melody, the hotel sign, which was suspended from the overhanging porch roof just below Hawke’s window, was squeaking in the morning breeze, while across the street in the wagon yard, someone was using a sledgehammer to set a wheel. The result, in Hawke’s musical mind, was a symphony of sound.
Ring, scratch, scratch, sqeak, thump. Ring, scratch, scratch, squeak, thump.

Hawke lay in bed for a full minute until the storekeeper stopped sweeping, thus breaking up the composition. Then he finally got up, stretched, and walked to the window to look out over the street of the town he had thus far seen only at night.

Directly across the street from the hotel was the saloon,
advertised by a huge wooden sign. On the left side of the sign was a painted mug of golden beer, over which was a large
5¢
. Across the center of the sign, in large red letters, was the name:
ROYAL FLUSH SALOON
. On the right side of the sign was a painted hand of cards, a royal flush in spades.

A single-story office building was next to the saloon. The sign in front read:
MCPHERSON ENTERPRISES
. Next to that was the wagon yard. The wheel, now set, was being packed with grease. Beyond the wagon yard he saw an apothecary, a hardware store, and, finally, a Chinese laundry. The depot and railroad were at one end of the street, a church at the other end. On his own side of the street, he couldn’t see all the buildings.

When he’d taken the room last night, he paid an extra quarter to be able to take a bath. Now, he decided to avail himself of that luxury.

Across the street in the McPherson Enterprises’ office, as Hawke was taking his bath, Bailey McPherson was standing in the front room with Addison Ford. In the back room, Ethan Dancer and Jason White were sitting at a large conference table.

“Must Ethan Dancer attend this meeting?” Addison asked quietly.

“Mr. Dancer is my personal bodyguard,” Bailey replied. “He goes everywhere I go.”

“But the way he looks, that terrible scar. He makes me feel uneasy.”

“Good! That is what makes him so effective as a bodyguard.” She laughed. “That, and his skill with a pistol.”

“But surely you don’t think you need a bodyguard with me?”

“He goes where I go, Mr. Ford. If you are going to do business with me, I suggest you get used to that.”

The front door opened then and two men came in. One of them was carrying a bag, and as far as Addison was concerned, that was about the only way to differentiate the two. Both men needed a shave, and the clothes they wore looked as if they had come from an odds and ends charity barrel. The fact that they also needed a bath was immediately apparent to Addison, who had to turn away from the smell. Amazingly, neither their appearance nor the odor they exuded seemed to bother Bailey.

“Ah, Luke, Percy, come in,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” She led them back into the conference room, where she took a seat next to Dancer. Addison sat next to Jason White.

There were no chairs around the table for Luke and Percy, and Bailey made no offer to provide any. Instead, she got right into the purpose of the meeting.

“Gentlemen,” she said, by inference addressing only those who were seated, “this is Luke Rawlings and Percy Sheridan. These two men have been doing some…prospecting of late, and I invited them here this morning to give us their report. Suppose we begin, Luke, by you telling us what you have in the bag?”

Luke, who had blotchy red skin, reached down into the bag and pulled out a fist-sized, irregular-shaped rock. He handed it to Bailey.

“Take a gander at that,” he said, revealing that he had no upper teeth.