Showdown at Dead End Canyon

Chapter 7

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 music 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.

Bailey examined the rock for a moment, then looked up. “I don’t see anything.”

“Turn it around and look up in the crevice. Hold it up to the light and you’ll see it.”

Bailey did so, and saw a glitter just where she was told it would be.

“Oh, yes, I see it now,” she said.

“That’s gold,” Luke said, a broad smile spreading across his face.

“Where did this rock come from?”

“The Little Sandy River in the Sweetwater Mountains,” he answered.

“How many rocks like this are there?”

“They’s quite a few of ’em around, ain’t they, Percy?”

His partner, who had been quiet so far, now said, “Yeah. They’s a lot of these here rocks up there.”

“Just lying around on the ground to be picked up?” Bailey asked.

“Oh, no ma’am, they ain’t like that,” Percy said. “You can’t just go up there ’n’ start pickin’ up rocks thinkin’ ever’ one of ’em is goin’ to show color. A fella is goin’ to have to hunt around some.”

Bailey turned her attention back to the rock. “Did you get an assay report?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Luke said. “It will prove out at eighty dollars per ton.”

“Well, now, gentlemen, what do you think of those numbers?” Bailey asked.

“Eighty dollars a ton is going to start a rush like the one they had in California,” Jason White said.

“Is that good enough for you, Mr. Ford?” Bailey asked.

“It’s more than good enough,” Addison said. “I will telegraph the Secretary of Interior tomorrow that I have approved your application for operational status under the provisions of the Railroad Land Grant Act of 1862.”

“Mr. White, how soon can you start the survey?”

“Right away,” he replied.

“Gentleman,” Bailey said, “the Sweetwater Railroad is in business.

The piano player in the Royal Flush saloon was bad. The only thing worse was the piano he was playing. Though in a way, Hawke thought, the fact that the piano was so badly out of tune might be a blessing in disguise. It made it difficult for the average person to be able to differentiate from a discordant note badly played and the harsh dissonance of the soundboard.

Hawke stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.

“Ain’t seen you around,” the bartender said as he held a mug under the beer spigot.

“I haven’t been around.”

“Well, welcome to the Royal Flush.” The bartender set the beer in front of Hawke. “My name is Jake.”

“Good to meet you, Jake. My name is Hawke.” Hawke put a nickel on the bar, but the bartender slid it back and shook his head.

“No sir, the first beer is on the house. That’s the owner’s rule.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. The reason is, Mr. Peabody won this-here saloon in a game of cards. Fact is, he was holdin’ this very hand,” he said, pointing to a glass-encased box. There, fanned out for display, was a royal flush, exactly like the one depicted on the sign out front. “That’s how come he came to change the name of the saloon from Red’s Place to the Royal Flush. And to show his gratitude, well, first time anyone comes into the saloon, their first drink is on the house.”

“That’s very generous of Mr. Peabody.”

At that moment the piano player hit a note that was so discordant it raised the hackles on the back of Hawke’s neck, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.

“Where did you get your piano player?” he asked, nodding toward the bald, sweating man who was pounding away at the keyboard.

“That there is Aaron Peabody,” the barkeep replied.

“Peabody? The owner?”

The barkeep shook his head. “The owner lives back in Cheyenne. Aaron is his younger brother.”

That was all the information Hawke needed. The guy could be playing with his elbows, but if he was the owner’s brother, his position was secure.

In the mirror behind the bar Hawke saw someone come into the saloon. The man moved quickly away from the door, then backed up against the wall, standing there for a long moment while he surveyed the room.

Hawke noticed this because he had made the same kind of entrance a few moments earlier. It was the entrance of a man who lived by his wits, and often by his guns. It was the move of a man who had made enemies, some of whom he didn’t even know.

Hawke had never met Ethan Dancer, but he had heard him described, and from the way this man looked and acted, he would bet that this was the gunfighter. Even as he was thinking about it, Jake bore out his musings.

“Donnie,” Jake said to a young man who was sweeping the floor. “Mr. Dancer is here. Go into the back room and get his special bottle.”

“All right,” Donnie said. He bent down to pick up the little pile of trash he had swept up.

“Quickly, man, quickly,” Jake said. “Never mind that.”

Dancer walked over to an empty table. By the time he sat down, Donnie had returned with the special bottle, and he handed it to Jake. The barkeeper poured a glass, then took it and the bottle to the table.

“Here you go, Mr. Dancer,” he said obsequiously.

Dancer said nothing. He just nodded and took the glass as Jake set the bottle in front of him.

“Call me if you need me, Mr. Dancer,” Jake said, wiping his hands on his apron.

Again Dancer just nodded.

Jake returned to the bar, then, seeing that Hawke’s beer was nearly empty, slid down the bar to talk to him.

“Do you know who that is?”

“I heard you say his name was Dancer.”

“Yes. Ethan Dancer. I reckon you have heard of him, haven’t you?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“They say he’s kilt hisself more’n fourteen men,” Jake said, not to be denied the opportunity to impart the information.

“Fourteen, huh?” Hawke replied.

“Yes, sir, at least that many. And truth to tell, they don’t nobody really know just how many he’s kilt. He mighta kilt a lot more’n that.”

“You don’t say,” Hawke said. “That’s quite a reputation to be carrying around.”

“Yes, sir, I reckon it is,” Jake said.

For the next few minutes Hawke just stared at Dancer’s reflection in the mirror. After a while Dancer sensed that he was being stared at and glanced up. The two men’s eyes caught and locked in the mirror.

Dancer stared back at the man in the mirror, and was surprised to see his stare returned with a similar unblinking gaze. There were very few men who could meet his gaze without turning away, whether in revulsion from his looks or out of fear of his reputation.

Dancer continued to glare at the image in the mirror, giving him his “killing” expression. It was a glare had made men soil their pants, but it looked to him as if the man at the bar actually found the moment amusing.

“Hey, you,” Dancer called, his words challenging.

All conversation in the saloon stopped and everyone looked at Dancer.

Hawke did not turn around.

“You, at the bar,” Dancer said. “Quit looking at me in that mirror.”

This time Hawke did turn, still with a bemused expression on his face.

“Do you know who I am?” Dancer asked.

“I heard the bartender say your name was Ethan Dancer,” Hawke replied.

“Does that name mean anything to you?”

“I’ve heard of you,” Hawke said easily.

“If you’ve heard of me, then you know I’m not a man to be riled.”

Hawke smiled and lifted his beer. “I’ll try to remember not to rile you,” he said.

This wasn’t going the way it should, Dancer thought, finding the situation disquieting. Clearly, this man knew who he was…and clearly, he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t used to that.

“Ya hoo!” someone shouted, coming into the saloon then. He was holding a rock in one hand and his pistol in the other. He fired the pistol into the ceiling.

The others in the saloon were startled by the unexpected pistol shot.

“Luke! What the hell are you doin’, coming in here shootin’ up the place?” Jake scolded.

“Gold!” Luke replied. “Me ’n’ Percy’s done discovered gold!”

“What? Did you say gold?” one of the other customers asked.

“That’s what I said all right. Gold, and a lot of it too. Why, they’s enough gold up there to make ever’ man in Green River rich as a king!”

“Up where?” Jake asked. “Where is this gold?”

“Yeah, where is it?” another asked.

“Up in the Sweetwater,” Luke said. He waved the rock around. “I done had this assayed. Eighty dollars a ton, boys! Eighty dollars a ton!”

By now everyone in the saloon, including Jake, was crowding around Luke, trying to get more information from him. Where, exactly, in the Sweetwater Range was the gold? How did he find it? Did anyone else know about it yet?

As the discussion of gold was taking place, Hawke continued to stare at Dancer, who had quit returning the gaze and was now staring pointedly into his glass of whiskey.

One of the patrons slipped out of the saloon, and a second later those inside could hear the clatter of hoofbeats as he rode away.

“Hey, boys, some have already started. If we don’t get up there now, we’re goin’ to be left suckin’ hind tit!” someone shouted, which started a rush for the door. Within moments nobody was left in the saloon but Jake, the piano player, Hawke, and Dancer.

Hawke picked up his beer and turned his back to the bar. He lifted his mug to his lips as he studied Dancer.

“You ain’t goin’ after the gold?” Jake asked Hawke.

“No.”

“I’d be out there with them right now if I didn’t have this here job,” Jake said.

“The man who discovered gold…I think you called him Luke?”

“Yes sir. Luke Rawlings is his name.”

“Why do you think Luke came in here like that?”

“Well, wouldn’t you be excited if you’d discovered gold?”

“Yes,” Hawke said. “But I don’t think I’d be telling everyone exactly where I found it.”

“I’ll be damned. I never thought about that. Why do you reckon he did tell?”

“I don’t know,” Hawke replied. “It is puzzling.”