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  “And get yourself shot? You saw how fast this Emile person is,” Walker said. “Yeah, maybe Kennedy got a little humiliated, but at least he didn’t get hisself killed.”

  “There’s the boss,” Dale said, nodding toward the batwing doors just as Duff came in.

  Chapter Seven

  When Duff MacCallister stepped into the Fiddler’s Green Saloon, he was greeted warmly by at least a dozen customers, in addition to receiving a personal greeting from Biff Johnson, the proprietor of the watering establishment.

  “Duff, my boy!” Biff called. “How goes the struggle?”

  “Good prevails, lad, as always,” Duff replied. “I’ll be for havin’ a wee drop of scotch if ye nae mind. I’d like a bit of the mist of the moors on m’ tongue.”

  “The scotch is bad stuff, but I’ve a new supply of bourbon that I’m sure you would like,” Biff said.

  “Sure ’n’ away with ye now,” Duff said. “Aren’t you for knowin’ that bourbon is the devil’s own brew?”

  Such banter was normal between the two, for Biff Johnson had been one of Duff’s first friends when he’d come to Chugwater from his native Scotland. In addition, Biff was married to a Scotswoman, which helped to cement the bond between them.

  Duff lifted his glass and gave his toast. “Here’s to the heath, the hill and the heather, the bonnet, the plaid, the kilt and the feather!”

  “And while goin’ up the hill of fortune, may we never meet a friend comin’ down,” Biff replied.

  “Aye, m’ lad, well spoken,” Duff said.

  Duff took a sip of the drink, and held it on his tongue for a moment to enjoy the flavor before swallowing.

  Turning, Duff saw five of his cowboys sitting at a table, and he raised his glass in greeting to them.

  “Biff, won’t you introduce me to your friend?” Cindy asked.

  Duff took a deep breath when he saw her long red hair, her flashing blue eyes, and a figure that was well displayed by the provocative dress she was wearing. She looked so much like Skye McGregor that she could be her twin. Skye McGregor was the woman he had planned to marry. It had been Skye getting murdered by a dishonest sheriff that had caused Duff to seek revenge, then leave Scotland.

  “Duff, I’ve hired a new girl to help squeeze an extra coin from some of the tightwads who frequent my establishment. Cindy Boyce, meet Duff MacCallister.”

  “Well now, and what a foine-lookin’ lass ye be. ’Tis no doubt but that you’ll be able to entice the boys to buy another drink.”

  “If they were all as handsome as you, I’d take pleasure in my job,” Cindy said.

  “Handsome, you say? Now tell me, lass, how is that eyes as beautiful as the sky over Scotland could be so blind?” Duff replied.

  Cindy and the others laughed.

  “Would you be for doing me a favor, lass, and find out what each of the men at that table would want for a drink and provide it, on me?” He pointed to the table where his men were sitting. “They all work for me, and a more noble and loyal group of lads one is nae likely to find.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Cindy said.

  “You just missed a bit of excitement,” Biff said, speaking in a quiet voice. “Although, I wouldn’t exactly call it excitement. More like a bit of ignominy, I would say.”

  Biff told Duff about the exchange between Emile and Burt Kennedy.

  “The poor man peed in his pants before he left,” Biff concluded. “I doubt I’ll ever see him in here again, and I don’t blame him. Nobody did anything to stop it. Hell, I didn’t do anything.”

  “What could you have done?”

  “I’ve got a shotgun back here,” Biff said.

  “Aye, but from the way you were telling the story, you could nae have shot the little man without hitting Kennedy as well.”

  “Yes, that’s probably true,” Biff agreed.

  The piano player finished a song, then stepped up to the bar to get a refill on his beer.

  “You seem to be in good tune today, Mr. Bailey,” Duff said by way of greetings.

  “Well, now, I consider that a fine compliment coming from you, Mr. MacCallister,” Mickey Bailey said. “Say, Biff, why don’t you pick up the pipes and have our friend give us a tune?”

  “Would you be willing to do that, Duff?” Biff asked.

  “Aye, ’n’ what kind of Scotsman would I be now, if I refused a request to play the pipes?”

  Although Duff had his own pipes, Biff’s wife, Rose, had inherited a set of pipes from her father and after Duff and Biff had become friends, Biff had begun keeping them under the bar just for such an occasion as this.

  Cindy had not returned to Emile Taylor’s table since the incident with Burt Kennedy several minutes earlier. No one else in the saloon had shown any interest in joining Emile and Schumacher either, so the two men sat at their table talking quietly. Because they were engaged in their own private conversation, neither of them noticed as Duff took the pipes, filled the bag with air, and began playing “Scotland the Brave.”

  The music filled the saloon, and Emile Taylor looked around in irritation.

  “Who the hell is that? And what is that contraption he is blowing into?”

  “His name is Duff MacCallister,” Schumacher said. “He owns a big ranch north of here. He’s from Scotland and that thing he is blowing into is a musical instrument that’s called bagpipes. That’s somethin’ they play over there.”

  “I ain’t never heard nothin’ so loud.”

  “First time I heard it, I thought it was kind of strange too,” Schumacher said. “But truth is, I kind of like it now.”

  “How can anyone like that? If you ask me, it sounds just like a train blowin’ its whistle or somethin’. Someone needs to teach that son of a bitch some manners,” Emile said. “Ain’t he got better sense than to start makin’ noise like that when folks is talkin’?”

  Schumacher chuckled. “Well, there’s the problem, my new friend. Duff MacCallister is not the kind of man you can teach anything to.”

  “Really? It has been my experience that if you use the right tools, you can teach anybody, anything.” Emile loosened his pistol in his holster. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Schumacher responded. “Well, I said you couldn’t teach MacCallister anything, but seeing the way you gave Burt Kennedy his comeuppance, I might just change my mind. It could be that you might just be the one who could talk to MacCallister.” He chuckled. “MacCallister is such an arrogant son of a bitch, I wouldn’t mind seeing him drag his ass out of here the same way Kennedy did.”

  “Mayhaps I’ll just do that for you,” Emile suggested.

  When Duff finished, he handed the pipes back to Biff. There was a polite applause from most of the people present, as well as several comments as to how good it had sounded. The comments for the most part were from people who now understood and appreciated the music of the bagpipes. But there was one dissenter.

  “What do you call that?” he shouted.

  Duff knew that this was Emile Taylor, because Biff had pointed the diminutive man out to him. And from the tone of Emile’s voice, Duff realized that the question wasn’t actually being asked for information. However, he purposely ignored the animosity and answered as if the question had been friendly.

  “Ah, ’tis called ‘Scotland the Brave,’” Duff said. “A song that is dear to every Scotsman’s heart.”

  “I wasn’t talkin’ about the name of the song, I was talkin’ about that caterwaulin’ sound you was makin’. It sounded like cow bellowin’ for its calf.”

  “There’s some that say you have to develop an ear for the pipes, I’ll admit,” Duff said. “But to me, the sound of the pipes is like m’ own mither’s voice.”

  “Then you mother must’ve had a voice like a screechin’ tomcat,” the man said.

  The smile left Duff’s face. “Sure now, friend, and I’d take it kindly if you wouldn’t be for talkin’ about my mither in such a tone.”

  “Is that a
fact? Well, mister, I don’t really give a damn what you take kindly,” the man said. Getting up from the table, he walked to within a few feet of Duff and let his hand hang loosely near the handle of his pistol. “Of course, you are a big man so it could be that you would like to do something about it.”

  “Would I be talking to Emile Taylor, now?” Duff asked.

  Emile smiled. “Yeah, you are. I reckon you’ve heard of me.”

  “I’m afraid I have nae heard of you. Mr. Taylor, I am Duff MacCallister, and I tell you my name, because I have found that when two civilized gentlemen learn each other’s names, then there is apt to be less hostility and more comity between the two. I was rather hoping that would be the case here.”

  “What is comity?”

  “It just means a more harmonious relationship.”

  “You mean like as if we was friends?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I tell you what. You apologize to me for hurtin’ my ears like you done with that screechin’ contraption you was makin’ noise on, and maybe I won’t shoot you.”

  “Oh, I have nae intention of apologizing to you for that, or for anything else,” Duff said. “I gather, from your demeanor, that you consider yourself quite skilled in the art of quickly extracting your pistol from its holster.”

  It took Emile a moment to comprehend what Duff was talking about; then he laughed.

  “You do have a strange way of asking me if I’m fast with a gun, mister, but yeah, you might say that.” By way of demonstration, as he had done with Kennedy, Emile snatched his pistol from his holster, brought it up to Duff’s face, and glared at him for a moment. Then, with a self-satisfied and arrogant laugh, he put the pistol back in the holster.

  “If you had been here a little earlier, why, you would have seen me in action. Right, fellas?” he called aloud to the others in the saloon.

  Not one person responded. Everyone in the saloon knew Duff, and knew he could not be buffaloed as Kennedy had been. They watched the drama unfold with increasing interest.

  “And tell me, lad, is it your skill with the pistol that gives you license to be so unpleasant? Or is it that you are just naturally such an arse?”

  Everyone in the saloon laughed at Duff’s remark.

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” Emile said.

  “Mr. Taylor, it would seem that he already has,” Biff said. “I should have said something to you earlier when you were tormenting poor Mr. Kennedy, but I wasn’t sure how far you were going with it. But I’ll not let you do something like that a second time. So now, I’ll be asking you to leave.”

  “And if I’m not ready to leave?” Emile challenged.

  “Then I’ll just have to have you thrown out.”

  “Oh?” Emile turned toward Biff and lifted his right hand to shake his finger in the man’s face. “And just who do you think you can get that can throw me out?”

  Taking advantage of the fact that Emile’s attention was diverted, and his right hand was no longer close to his pistol, Duff quickly closed the distance between them.

  “Sure now, lad, ’n’ that would be me,” Duff said.

  With his left hand he grabbed the back of Emile’s collar. With his right hand, moving so quickly that Emile didn’t even realize it had happened, Duff pulled Emile’s pistol from its holster and stuck it down in his own waistband. Then he grabbed Emile by his collar and the seat of his pants and, picking him up, hurried toward the batwing doors, where he threw Emile bodily into the street.

  Duff’s action was met with a loud cheer and applause.

  “You son of a bitch! You’re going to die for . . .” That was as far as Emile got with his challenge, because when his hand went to the holster, he discovered that the pistol wasn’t there.

  “What the hell?” he shouted. “Where’s my gun?”

  “Would you be lookin’ for this now?” Duff asked, throwing Emile’s pistol into the street.

  Emile ran to pick it up and, swinging it toward Duff, pulled the trigger. The hammer made a clicking sound, and that was when Emile noticed for the first time that the cylinder was missing.

  “Oh,” Duff said. “And you’ll be needing this.”

  Duff was holding the cylinder in his hand and he threw it out into the street as well. But when Emile started to reach for it, Duff shot at it and the bullet sent the cylinder farther down the street. Emile ran after it, and Duff shot again, sending it even farther down the street.

  “Hey, Taylor, turns out maybe you ain’t the only one can shoot a gun around here!” shouted one of the many saloon patrons who had come out front to stand on the porch.

  Duff stood in the doorway with the pistol in his hand watching Emile Taylor, who, hesitantly, reached for the cylinder. Duff let him pick it up this time and watched as Emile put the cylinder back in his gun. Once his pistol was reassembled though, Emile made no further demonstrations toward Duff. Instead, he just put it back in his holster, then turned and walked away.

  Chapter Eight

  “Bravo!” Biff said when Duff came back in to the bar. Everyone in the bar cheered, and Cindy sidled up to him again.

  “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  “Let me get you a fresh drink,” Biff offered.

  “No need,” Duff said. He held up the half-empty glass of scotch. “Sure ’n’ you know that it only gets better with age. But I’ll be for buying a glass of tea for the little lady.”

  “Tea?” Cindy asked.

  “Lass, I know ’tis tea the ladies drink in establishments such as this,” Duff said. “For sure ’n’ if you drank whiskey every time a man bought a drink for you, you’d be a sot.”

  Cindy laughed, leaned against him, and put her hand up on his neck.

  Gently, Duff took her hand and moved it.

  “Don’t be for wastin’ your time on a Scotsman like me,” he said. “I know there are many others in here that would welcome the attentions of a lass as winsome as yourself.”

  “Yeah, Cindy, how come you ain’t never tried to put your arm around my neck?” one of the customers asked in a good-natured complaint.

  “Because you’ve never thrown a bully out in the street,” Cindy said, and her reply drew laughter.

  Cindy left Duff and began mingling with the others.

  “Honey, I could have told you you wouldn’t get anywhere with him,” Nell said. “There’s already a woman in this town who has him staked out, and she doesn’t work in a saloon. Her name is Meagan Parker, and she owns the dress emporium that’s right next door.”

  “She might have him staked out. But there have been claims jumped before, so my advice to Miss Meagan is to hang on tight if she doesn’t want to lose him.”

  “Duff MacCallister is a good and honest man. You are makin’ a big mistake if you think you can get him away from Meagan Parker.”

  “We’ll see,” Cindy said.

  “What do you think about the new girl?” Biff asked, speaking so quietly that only Duff could hear him. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?”

  “Aye, that she is,” Duff agreed. “She reminds me of a lass I once knew.”

  Duff grew quiet then, and Biff, knowing that Duff was having a moment of recall, moved down the bar to attend to someone else, leaving Duff with his thoughts.

  Duff was remembering another young woman, one who, like Cindy, had had long red hair and flashing blue eyes.

  “Skye, would you step outside with me for a moment?” Duff asked.

  “Ian, best you keep an eye on them,” one of the other customers said. “’Else they’ll be outside sparking.”

  Skye blushed prettily as the others laughed at the jibe. Duff took her hand in his and walked outside with her.

  “Only four more weeks until we are wed,” Skye said when they were outside. “I can hardly wait.”

  “No need to wait. We can go into Glasgow and be married on the morrow,” Duff suggested.

  “Duff MacCallister, sure an
d m’ mother has waited my whole life to give me a fine church wedding now, and you would deny that to her?”

  Duff chuckled. “Don’t worry, Skye. There is no way in the world I would start my married life by getting on the bad side of my mother-in-law. If you want to wait, then I will wait with you.”

  “What do you mean you will wait with me?” Skye asked. “And what else would you be doing, Duff MacCallister? Would you be finding a willing young lass to wait with you?”

  “I don’t know such a willing lass,” Duff replied. “Do you? For truly, it would be an interesting experiment.”

  “Oh, you!” Skye said, hitting Duff on the shoulder.

  “Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry. You just made me mad talking about a willing lass.”

  Duff laughed, then pulled Skye to him. “You are the only willing lass I want,” he said.

  “I should hope so.”

  Duff bent down to kiss her waiting lips.

  “I told you, Ian! Here they are, sparking in the dark!” a customer shouted and, with a good-natured laugh, Duff and Skye parted. With a final wave to those who had come outside to “see the sparking,” Duff started home.1

  That had been four years ago. Skye had been killed shortly after that, and Duff had killed the man who had killed Skye. It was for that reason he’d left Scotland.

  The piano player returned, and the music brought Duff out of his reverie.

  After he finished his drink, Duff stepped next door into Meagan’s dress emporium. She was sitting at a sewing machine, working the treadle briskly.

  “Duff,” she said with a bright smile. “How nice to see you.”

  “You look busy,” Duff said.

  “Yes, I’m making a dress for Juanita Guthrie.”

  “Well then, I’ll nae be bothering you.”

  “It’s no bother, Duff, you know that. By the way, what was the shooting earlier? I heard two shots, but by the time I looked out there was nothing to see but a bunch of men who seemed to find it amusing.”