LITMIR.BIZ

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Falcon could promise anything, they were startled by the sound of hoof-beats. Not on the ground outside. On the floor. It must be somewhere on the floor of that one-story building. It seemed in their very ears.

      Then came shouts.

      A tremendous sound of ripping and tearing.

      A colossal crash.

      The floor on which they lay heaved.

      More shouts.

      The frightened whinnying of a horse.

      Still more uproarious shouting.

      Then —

      Crack — crack — crack!

      Above all the stupendous hubbub a forty-five barked out.

      One — two — three — four — five — six — seven — eight shots.

      It must be a pair of forty-fives talking closely together.

      Now, the sound of one man cheering!

      The two wrestlers disentangled themselves, leaped to their feet. The other cowboys were crowding pell-mell out of the bar-room, like a mob of steers trying to squeeze through the gate of a corral. Falcon and Cud Browne followed after. All were heading for the main hall of the hotel, towards the shouting and the shooting.

      As Falcon jostled with the others, pushing through the long, dark corridor that led from the barroom to the main hall, he was able to distinguish the cries that alternated with the shots.

      “More like Texas every day!”

      Crack!

      “Cowboys in town!”

      Bang!

      “More like Texas every day!”

      Crack!

      Browne said: “That’s Gyp Callahan shouting. What put him on the war-path?”

      But as the crowd of cowboys burst into the main hall, they, for a moment, could see no sign of Callahan.

      Before them stood only the red-faced, furious hotel proprietor.

      “Hey, Murphy, what have you done to Callahan?” Cud Browne, at the back, shouted threateningly over the heads of the cowboys as he shoved his way forward.

      “What have I done to Callahan?” Murphy, the red-faced hotel proprietor, stuttered with rage. “What has Callahan done to me?”

      Then Falcon and Browne, breaking through to the front of the crowd, saw Callahan … all that was left of him.

      In the centre, not of the floor but of an enormous hole in the middle of the floor, was the head of Callahan.

      A yard in front was the head of his horse.

      “More like Texas every day!” roared the head of Callahan.

      Click! click! went his now empty forty-fives as he aimed them at the ceiling.

      A door slammed. Spurs jingled. A voice thundered:

      “Who’s been doing all this shooting?”

      The cowboys turned their heads. A tall constable of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police had just closed the main door of the hotel behind him.

      “Constable Brazenose,” whispered Cud Browne to Falcon.

      Falcon looked at Constable Brazenose. He thought he had seen him before, a month ago. Eagle nose, spaniel eyes, and a most magnificent moustache, double corkscrewed, so that each end of it described a complete circle before shooting off into a formidable waxed point. Both his moustachios and his eyebrows were of that distinguished but rarely encountered colour — jet black. Last time Falcon had seen Constable Brazenose, those moustachios and eyebrows had been a comfortable, everyday brown.

      “What is he like?” whispered Falcon.

      “We call him ‘Wild Willie,’” said Browne.

      “This fellow Callahan ought to be placed under arrest.” Murphy, the red-faced hotel proprietor, talked loud and fast to the constable. “He rode his horse right into my hotel — right through the doorway there …”

      “More like Texas every day!” shouted the bleary-eyed Callahan.

      “Shut up, will you? You’re going to be put where you won’t talk so much,” shouted Murphy. Then, turning again to the policeman: “This new pine flooring was never meant to bear the weight of horses. You can see for yourself what a mess he’s made. Crashed right through into my cellar.…”

      “More like Texas every day!” thundered Callahan.

      “And then, look at those holes he shot in the roof. He ought to know he can’t get away with that stuff up here in Alberta …”

      “More like Tex —”

      “Callahan!” Constable Brazenose addressed the head that stuck out of the floor, “I’ll have to arrest you on three charges.”

      Cud Browne shoved himself in front of the constable. “What’s that about arresting Callahan?”

      The constable glared at Browne. “What business is that of yours?”

      “It’s the business of all of us.” The bronc’ twister waved his hand towards the other cowboys. “We’re all in the same party — crew of the Bar Ninety-Nine. Having a little drink.”

      “I don’t mind your having a little drink,” cut in Murphy, “but …”

      “No, I guess you don’t mind our having a little drink,” snorted Browne. “That’s where your profit comes in. Have you figured, Mister Murphy, what will happen to you and to your hotel if you have Callahan arrested?”

      “What do you mean?” asked Brazenose boldly.

      Cud Browne stepped closer, smiled into Brazenose’s face.

      “I mean,” he said quietly, “you’d better forget about arresting Callahan. You’d better come along and have a little drink.”

      “I’m not afraid of Callahan,” blustered Brazenose.

      “No? We all know you, Wild Willie. Reg’lar hellraiser, ain’t you? If you gotta fight, try me.… Just a few friendly wallops,” Browne said. Then to Murphy he called, “Don’t worry about your floor, Mike, we’ll pay the damages. Come on in and have a little drink.… Come on, Brazenose.”

      * * *

      Oscar Wilde was guilty of an understatement, Falcon thought to himself as he leaned against the bar, when he said that life was an imitation of literature. It would have been much nearer the truth, this evening at any rate, to say that life is a burlesque of a penny shocker.

      Here he had come two thousand miles in search of adventure. And all he had found was this.… The cowboys in their dark woolen shirts, old waistcoats, baggy corduroy trousers, didn’t look very different from farm hands. Of course there were, for distinction, the big floppy felt hats, the high-heeled riding boots, the large-roweled spurs. And the cowboys were more lithe in their movements than farmers. Still, these were hardly the trappings, this was hardly the atmosphere — he sniffed the smell of stale beer which was all around him — for romance.

      “Have a beer, Alec?” The little weazened foreman, a human walnut, with two short, very bowed legs attached, addressed him.

      “If you’ll allow me, Mr. Bent” — Falcon spoke with the elaborate courtesy of the slightly inebriated — “I’ll stick to my simple regimen of whisky and water.”

      “Sounds good to me,” said Mr. Bent. “Here, boy, two whiskies. Long. And make it snappy.”

      “You don’t drink very often, Mr. Bent.”

      “You’ve never seen me drink before, Alec. My wife made me swear off drinking on the first day of

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