Free Ride With the Devil by Robert Vaughan Page A

again.
    “I’m beggin’ you, Colonel, let me go settle scores with this man.”
    “Try it, and you’ll be dead,” Culpepper said.
    “I can’t believe you would go that far to defend him against one of your own men.”
    “Oh, I don’t mean you’ll be dead by my hand,” Culpepper said. “Hawke would kill you.”
    “What if all three of us went up against him?” Hooper asked.
    “Don’t you understand? I’m talking about all three ofyou,” Culpepper said. “If all three of you go against him, all three of you will be dead.”
    “Wait a minute,” Jarvis said. “He can’t possibly be that good.”
    “Oh, he can, and he is,” Culpepper said. “If you know what is good for you, you’ll stay the hell out of his way.”
     
    It was four o’clock in the morning, and the saloon was dark except for the small golden bubble of light that came from the single candle on the open key lid of the piano.
    Hawke sat at the piano playing “Les Jeux d’eau a la ville d’Este,” a composition of his old piano instructor, Franz Liszt. The music filled the darkened room and spilled out into the street.
    Abner Poindexter, a hostler for the West Texas Stage Company, was on his way to work when he heard the music. He stopped in front of the saloon and sat on the front porch to listen.
    Maurice Baldwin, the baker, also heard the music, and after he got his dough rolled out and in the oven, he came over to join Abner.
    Ken Wright had risen early to get the fire going in his forge. Hearing the music, he walked down the street to join the other two.
    When the concert was over, the three men sat for a moment longer on the porch, then Poindexter stood up and brushed off the back of his pants.
    “I reckon I’d better get that team put together or the folks plannin’ on takin’ the stage out this mornin’ won’t be able to make the trip,” he said.
    “You think he’ll do this again tomorrow mornin’?” Baldwin asked.
    “Oh, he be here tomorrow,” Ken answered.
    “What makes you think so?”
    “Because he got the gift,” Ken explained. “When the Lord give a man the gift, He also give him the need to use it. The music Mr. Hawke play in the daytime don’t satisfy that need.”
    “Then I’m going to bring my wife tomorrow morning,” Baldwin said.
    “Yeah,” Poindexter replied. “I think I’ll tell my neighbor about it. He was in the saloon the day this fella arrived when he played that real pretty song. I bet he’d like to hear it.”
    With the music finished, the three men returned to their respective occupations.
    Ken checked on his fire, then went back to his room to look at his latest work in progress. When Ken told the others that an artist had to practice his art, he knew what he was talking about.
    Ken was a painter. He had never sold any of his paintings, had never even thought about selling them, because he was an artist for art’s sake. Picking up the palate, he dipped a brush into a dab of ochre, then applied it to the canvas.
     
    Flaire’s thirteen-year-old brother Paul sounded the alarm, and when Flaire opened her eyes, she saw that her bedroom was as bright as day, illuminated by the burning barn.
    “Everyone turn out! We’ve got to save the animals!” Flaire’s father shouted.
    Within seconds the family dashed out through the front door. They were still in their sleeping gowns, not taking the time to get dressed because every second lost decreased their chance of saving any of the trapped animals.
    When they reached the front porch, they came to a sudden stop, shocked to see three mounted men out front. Backlit by the burning barn, they were in silhouette, as if they were ghost riders from hell. Their faces could not be seen.
    “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Flaire’s father asked.
    “Delaney, you have a boy ridin’ with the Yankee army?” one of the men called.
    “I do,” Flaire’s father answered.
    Flaire shielded her eyes against the glare of the fire, trying to see