it. Two bullets hit the wood then, one shattering the window and another tearing a whole in the left sleeve of Fallon’s expensive coat. Fallon saw the horse holder, standing, aiming, touching the trigger of his Smith & Wesson, realizing it was empty, and pulling another gun from a second holster. The man across the street fired again, but his bullet dug a furrow into the boardwalk. Fallon triggered the shotgun again and saw the horse holder catapulted four feet into the street.
He rolled over then, tossing the shotgun away, grabbing the Winchester, and diving as far as he could. Another bullet whined off the street. Fallon saw the man, halfway in the street, levering the rifle. Fallon came up and dived again, this time landing behind the water trough in front of the grocery next door to the bank. A bullet tore through the heavy wood, showering Fallon with water. He rolled onto his back, levered a round into Mabry’s .44-40, and caught his breath.
The lookout in the slicker fired again. The plate glass window to the grocery shattered.
Fallon swallowed, tried to figure out his best action. Which side to go to or come up over the top.
Then, a woman’s voice cried out, “You gol-dern hoodlum. Take this.”
What sounded like a cannon roared, and then all Fallon heard were the shrieks of men and women, and someone ringing a fire bell, and horses and feet clattering down the boardwalks and on Cheyenne’s paved streets of its main business district.
Fallon used Mabry’s rifle to push himself up, and he saw the man in the rain slicker lying spread-eagled on the street. Fifteen feet away, in front of the saloon, stood the owner of the saloon, red-headed and rouge-faced Ma Recknor, holding a smoking Greener shotgun in her hands, her yellow teeth clamped on her favorite brand of cheroot.
“Want a drink, Marshal?” Ma Recknor called out. “It’s on the house.”
Fallon tried to say, “no thanks,” but nothing came out. He shook his head instead. “If you change your mind, I’ll be having mine,” Ma said, and pushed her way through the batwing doors.
He reached for his hat that wasn’t there, leaned Mabry’s rifle against the water trough, picked up his hat, stuck a finger through one of the holes the bullet had made, and examined the carnage.
Mabry was dead on the boardwalk. Three feet away lay Whit in a pool of blood. Two men were crumpled on the street in front of the bank. A trail of blood and brain matter on the stones led to the corpse in front of the funeral parlor, and the sixth was blown to pieces in front of the saloon.
What was that question one of the kids had asked at the Abraham Lincoln Academy? What had Fallon thought about answering, “I’ve never killed any man as a United States marshal”? . . . Well, that couldn’t be his answer from here on out.
* * *
The city’s street department was busy at work cleaning up the carnage. Chief of Police Derrick McGruder snuffed out his cigarette on the splintered hitching rail in front of the bank and asked, “Harry, how the hell could you kill all six of these outlaws and wind up with just a scratch on your cheek?”
Fallon sipped the coffee the banker had brought him.
“Ma killed the one across the street,” Fallon told him. “Not me. I didn’t kill the one the horse dragged to death, either. The fellow I blasted with the shotgun accidentally knocked him out of the saddle. The kid there, ripped to pieces with that Smith & Wesson, he got killed by his pard, but I guess I killed his pard.”
“So three men instead of six?”
Fallon swallowed. “Hell, Derrick, I don’t know. It happened so fast.”
A deputy held a Pinkerton National Detective Agency description to Mabry’s face, and looked at McGruder. “It fits Big Burl Mabry to a T, Sheriff. Man, this’ll be something to tell my wife about tonight.”
“Speaking of which,” Fallon said, “can you send someone over to my house, let Christina know I’m all right?”
“Your wife shouldn’t be worried, Harry,” McGruder said. “This wasn’t a job for the U.S. marshal.”
“Any gunfight, Christina will likely figure I’m in the thick of it.” He smiled without humor.
“Richard, go over to the marshal’s house. Tell Mrs. Fallon that her husband is fine, that there’s no danger, that everything’s all right.”
“Should I tell her everything?” the deputy asked as he rose and handed the Pinkerton paper to his boss.
McGruder looked at Fallon, who hooked a thumb toward the Cheyenne reporters running all over the street, talking to witnesses. “She’ll find out soon enough.”
“You heard him,” McGruder told the deputy, and added, “But tell her she has permission to shoot any newspaper reporter in the buttocks if they bother her.”
The deputy was gone. McGruder shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “There will be a coroner’s inquest, you know. But I can assure you it’ll end there. You’ll be due some reward money, too.”
“No,” Fallon said. “Give it to Ma Recknor. Hadn’t been for her, I’d be among the dead, too, most likely.”
“Hell of a thing,” McGruder said.
“Hell of a thing,” Fallon agreed. “You done with me? I need to get back to work.”
“Work?” McGruder laughed. “Harry, you’re a wonder. I was thinking if it’s too early to drink.”
Fallon tilted his head across the street. “Ma’s buying. Have one for me.” He shook McGruder’s hand and headed toward the courthouse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Helen was talking into the telephone when Fallon stepped back inside his office, and as Fallon removed his hat, he heard her say, “Christina, he just walked through the door. On his own two feet.” She held the earpiece to him, and Fallon closed the gap and moved closer to the big box on the wall.
Another sign of the new century about to unfold, the telephone felt strange in Fallon’s hand. He cleared his throat to let his wife know he was on the other end.
“Hank.” The voice didn’t sound like Christina, just some mechanical crackle, and the line hummed in the background. “The Widow Walkup just rushed to the door, and told me that you were involved in a bloody gunfight in Recknor’s beer hall.”
Of course. The Widow Walkup. Biggest gossip in the neighborhood, probably in all of Cheyenne, perhaps the entire state of Wyoming.
“You should confirm her report with an eyewitness,” Fallon said. “Mrs. Walkup being one of Carrie Nation’s most ardent supporters.”
“That is what I am doing now.”
Fallon sighed. “Well, they were robbing the bank, not the saloon.”
“Rachel Renee thought someone was shooting firecrackers, asked if it were the Fourth of July. I told her firecrackers and Roman candles only look pretty at night. And, since I can tell the difference between firecrackers and rifle, pistol, and shotgun blasts, somehow, I figured you were right in the thick of it.”
“Yeah.” Christina had a lot of experience with the American Detective Agency. “Is Rachel Renee all right?”
“She’s coloring.”
“On the walls again?”
“The floor. In her bedroom.”
Fallon smiled. “Good. It’s cheaper than a new rug.”
The line buzzed. He could picture Christina leaning against the foyer wall. The U.S. solicitor and the governor had insisted that Fallon have a telephone installed in his home, being an important man and all. Fallon didn’t even know how to work the damned thing.
“Are you all right?”