Destiny of Eagles (11 page)

“Oh, yes. Well, your brother was an indigent.”

“He was a what?”

“An indigent . . . a person without means. He was buried at public expense,” Prufrock said. “So that means he is in potter's field.”

“Where is that?”

“The cemetery is at the south end of town. Potter's field is at the back of the cemetery,” Prufrock said.

“I hope you spelled his name right on the marker.”

“Oh, I'm afraid there is no marker,” Prufrock said.

“What do you mean there ain't no marker? How can you bury a man without puttin' a marker over his grave? How can anyone find 'im?”

“As I explained to you, your brother was an indigent. The county will pay to have the body interred, but that is as far as it goes. No marker.”

“It ain't right that he don't have a marker,” Bob insisted.

“If you would like to pay for a marker, I will put one up for you,” Prufrock offered.

“Yeah,” Bob said.

“How much does a marker cost?” Creed asked.

“You can get a very nice marker for ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars?” Creed replied.

“Yes, that would be a very nice one, with a rose carved into the marker and a nice sentiment.”

“Yeah, well, we don't need all that. What's the cheapest one got on it?”

“It has nothing but his name, date of birth, and the date of his death.”

“I don't know the date of his birth,” Creed said. “Do you, Bob?”

Bob shook his head.

“So, don't put nothin' on it but his name. How much would that cost?” Creed asked.

“Two dollars.”

Creed and Bob stepped over into a corner to discuss it between themselves for a moment; then they came back.

“So,” Prufrock said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. “Have you gentlemen decided what you want on your brother's grave marker?”

“Yeah, we decided he don't need one,” Creed said. “Tell us where his grave is at and we'll just go look at it.”

“Yes, well, here is a chart of the cemetery,” Prufrock said, pointing to a chart on the wall. He put his finger on one of the spots. “Your brother is buried here, in the last row, third from the end.”

Without so much as a word of thanks, Creed and Bob left the undertaker's parlor, then rode out to the graveyard.

“You think we should'a paid to get a marker put up?” Creed asked as he and Bob walked through the cemetery, looking for their brother's plot.

“What for?” Bob replied. “Hell, he's dead, ain't he? He won't know, one way or the other. And I can think of a lot of better ways to spend two dollars.”

“Yeah,” Creed said. Reaching Thad's grave, they stood there for a moment, looking down at it.

“Think we ought to say some words?” Bob asked.

“Nah, I can't think of nothin' to say.”

“Then let's go have a few beers.”

As they rode back into town, looking for the saloon, they passed the jailhouse. There was a lot of construction going on at the back of the jail, and they asked about it at the saloon.

“You mean you didn't hear about all the excitement we had here a few weeks ago?” the bartender answered as he set a couple of beers in front of Bob and Creed.

“All we heard was that you hung a fella named Howard here.”

“Oh, yes, that would be Thad Howard. Well, he was hung on the same day the jail got dynamited.”

The bartender began telling the story, aided by a couple of nearby patrons. That was when they heard Falcon MacCallister's name for the first time.

“You say MacCallister fought off the train robbers, brought in Thad to be hung, and took on the bank robbers besides? What is he, a one-man army?” Creed asked.

“Some might say that he is,” the bartender answered. “Others might think he is just a man who seems to find himself in areas where trouble breaks out.”

“Where is he now?” Creed asked. “This MacCallister fella, I mean.”

“Oh, I don't know. When he left here, I don't think he had any particular place in mind,” the bartender said.

“He's in Medora,” one of the bar patrons said.

“Medora? How do you know that?”

“I was there myself a couple of days ago, and I seen him shoot the guns out of the hands of two men who were about to shoot Mr. Roosevelt.”

“Roosevelt? Who is Roosevelt?”

“He's some fella from the East who owns a ranch over near Medora.”

“And you say that MacCallister is over there?” Bob asked.

“He was when I left.”

Bob nodded. Then he and Creed took their beers over to a table where they could talk more privately.

“What you got in mind, Bob?” Creed asked.

“Maybe a little revenge,” Bob said.

“Whoa, wait a minute. You plannin' on goin' after this MacCallister fella, are you?”

“Yes,” Bob said.

“You heard what they said about him. And we know for a fact that he single-handed took out Rufus, Buddy, and Curly. Thad told us that, remember? Only thing is, he didn't know the fella's name at the time.”

“Yeah, he sounds like a one-man army all right.”

“Knowin' all that, you still plan to go after him?” Creed asked.

“Maybe we can get some help,” Bob suggested.

“Get some help? From who? What are you talkin' about?”

“You heard what the man said about MacCallister shooting the guns out of the hands of two men over in Medora.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know that I believe him about that. Shooting a gun out of someone's hand? That's pretty much of a tall tale.”

“Maybe, but somethin' must've happened. And if we could find the fellas it happened to, they might be interested in a little revenge of their own,” Bob said.

Zeb Kingsley and Muley Simpson, the two men Bob was talking about, were nursing drinks and their anger in a little ramshackle saloon in the tiny settlement of Puxico.

“Mr. Montgomery didn't have no right to fire us like he done,” Zeb said. “I mean, when Deekus got all stoved up when he got throwed while he was breakin' horses, why, Montgomery didn't fire him. So, maybe we can't work for a few days while we're on the mend. He didn't have no right firin' us.”

“Yeah, well, he didn't fire us 'cause we got hurt,” Muley said. “He fired us 'cause we jerked a cinch into that Eastern dude. And all the ranch owners stick together, you know that. They all stick together so the cowboys have to work for practically nothin'.”

“Practically nothin' is better'n nothin' at all,” Zeb said. “And nothin' at all is what we got now.”

* * *

At that very moment, Aaron Childers, Dalton Yerby, and Percy Shaw were approaching Puxico. What they saw in front of them was a small settlement of no more than a handful of low-built, chinked-log buildings. A sign out front of one of them read
WHISKEY, BEER, FOOD, GOODS.
Tying their horses to the hitching rail out front, the three men pushed through a canvas hanging that acted as the door, then went inside.

The inside of the building was dimly lit, and cross-shot with sun bars of gleaming dust motes that pushed in through the dirty window and the cracks between the logs. There were six customers inside the building, two leaning on their elbows and nursing rotgut whiskey, the other four sitting around a rough-hewn table.

A young woman was on her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water and a brush, scrubbing the floor. She looked up when Aaron and the other two came in and, smiling at them, brushed an errant tendril of hair back from her face. Her smile showed the gap produced by two or three missing teeth.

The bartender, who had been talking to the two men at the other end of the room, moved down to greet Aaron, Dalton, and Percy when they stepped up to the bar.

“Somethin' I can do for you gents?” the bartender asked, making a halfhearted swipe at the bar with a foul-smelling damp cloth.

“A beer,” Percy said. “And somethin' to eat.”

“You got money to pay for it?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah, we got money,” Percy said, as if irritated by the question. “You get a lot of folks come in here buyin' things without money, do you?”

“Not a lot,” the bartender said. “But we do get 'em from time to time. Often enough that I like to see the color of the money before I put anything in front of anyone”

“By God, mister, you got some sand treatin' your customers like that,” Percy said.

“You ain't my customers till you spend money,” the bartender replied. “And I ain't seen no money.”

“Why, you—” Percy started angrily, but Aaron held his hand out to stop him.

“Hold on,” he said. “The man is runnin' a business here. He has every right to ask whether or not we got money.”

This rather accommodating position was something new for Aaron, and both Percy and Dalton looked at him curiously.

“The truth is, mister, me 'n my partners has run into a bit of bad luck,” Aaron said. “We got money, but we ain't got a lot of what you call cash money.”

“Well, then, your luck ain't gettin' no better,” the bartender said. “'Cause cash money is the only kind of money there is.”

“But we've got a couple of fine horses out front we'd be willin' to sell.”

“This ain't a livery.”

“Two good horses, with saddles,” Aaron said.

“With saddles?”

“Yes.”

The bartender stroked his chin for a moment. “Are these horses stolen horses?”

“They ain't stole. One of 'em belonged to my brother, the other'n belonged to his brother,” Aaron said, pointing to Dalton. “They was killed, both of 'em.”

“How?”

“I don't reckon that's none of your business how they was killed,” Aaron said. “The point is, these here horses ain't stole. So if you'd like to buy 'em, we can make you a good price.”

“I'll take a look at 'em,” the bartender said.

“While you're lookin', we'll be drinkin',” Aaron said. He put fifteen cents on the bar. “Give us three beers.”

The bartender took the money, then drew the beers and set them before the three. When he went outside, Aaron turned his back to the bar and, drinking his beer, listened in on the conversation of the men at the table.

“What'd you say his name was?” one of the men at the table asked. The man who asked was a big man, with long hair and a full, bushy beard.

“His name is Roosevelt. Theodore Roosevelt, but the dandified son of a bitch calls hisself Teddy.” The man who answered had a soiled bandage on his right hand, and he seemed to be favoring it as he held his beer glass.

“Dandified?” the bushy-bearded man asked.

“Yeah, he wears fancy clothes, and these funny-loookin' little glasses that sort of just set on his nose. He's from back East somewhere.”

“Yes, well, he may be some dandy from the East, but I hear tell he handled you and Muley pretty good.”

“Me 'n Muley was caught by surprise. Wasn't we, Muley?”

“Yeah,” the one called Muley answered. “An' by the time me'n Zeb figured out what was happenin', why, he had some hired gun shootin' at us. He shot me through the shoulder and shot Zeb there through the hand.” He put his hand to his shoulder to emphasize his point, though as the wound he described was covered by his shirt, there was no visible evidence to support his claim.

“This here fella Roosevelt has him a hired gun, does he?” the bearded man asked.

“That's what it looked like to me. The fella that shot us is a big fella, with sandy hair and blue eys,” Zeb said.

Up until that point, Aaron had been listening with only half an interest, but the man Muley described sounded a lot like Falcon MacCallister, the man who had been hounding them. He wondered if it was the same person.

Percy interrupted Aaron's musing.

“Hey, Aaron, what do you say that after we sell them horses we get us a whore?” Percy asked.

“Yeah,” Dalton said. “Let's get us a whore.”

“You see any whores around?” Aaron asked.

“What about her?” Percy said, pointing to the woman who was still on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor.

“She don't look like no whore to me,” Aaron said. “Looks like a cleaning woman to me.”

“Yeah, well, she's a woman, though, ain't she?” Percy said. He smiled at the woman, who, all the while she was scrubbing, had been glancing up toward the three.

At that moment the bartender came back into the saloon. “I'll give you twenty dollars apiece for the horses,” he said.

“How much for the saddles?”

“That includes the saddles.”

“The saddles are worth that much without the horses,” Aaron complained.

“You think you can get more for 'em, ask someone else,” the bartender said, indicating the others in the saloon.

Aaron cleared his throat. “Any you gents want to buy a horse and saddle?”

“Not me,” the bearded man at the table said. The other three shook their heads as well.

“What about you two?” Aaron asked the men standing at the end of the bar. “You want to buy a couple of horses and saddles? Sixty dollars will get you both horses and saddles.”

Everyone in the saloon laughed.

“What is it?” Aaron asked. “What's so damned funny?”

“I doubt that either one of these boys has ever even seen sixty dollars,” the bartender said.

Aaron sighed in disgust. “All right,” he said. “I'll take your damn forty dollars.”

“I thought you might come around to seein' things my way,” the bartender said. He smiled. “Now you are my customers. What can I get for you?”

“What you got to eat?”

“Biscuits, bacon, beans.”

“That'll do. We'll be over there,” Aaron said, pointing to the only other table.

“Hey, bartender, what about that woman over there?” Percy asked.

“What do you mean what about her?” the bartender answered.

“Is she your wife or somethin'?”

“She's just a woman that works here.”

“Is all she does is scrub the floors and such?” Percy asked.

“She does a little more'n that,” the bartender replied.

“Does she whore?”

“She whores some.”

“How much?”

“You have to take that up with her,” the bartender said.

Percy went over to talk to the woman while Aaron and Dalton found a table next to the table where the four men were talking.

“What's your name?” Percy asked the scrubwoman.

“Millie,” the woman answered. She raised up on her knees and looked up at Percy, again brushing a strand of hair back from her face. There was dirty water on her hand, and it left a smear. She smiled, showing a mouth empty of teeth; then obviously self-conscious about it, she covered her mouth with her hand.

“Well, Millie, the bartender said you whore some. Is that true?”

Millie nodded. “I'll whore, if the price is right, and if I happen to take a fancy to the man,” she answered.

Percy preened himself a little. “What about me?” he asked. “Do you take a fancy to me?”

“You'll do,” Millie replied.

* * *

“Look at ole Percy over there, struttin' his stuff,” Dalton said. “If he ain't the little rooster in the henhouse, though.”

“Shh,” Aaron said. “I want to listen in on what these folks over at the next table is talkin' about.”

“What for?”

“You can pick up a lot of information by keepin' your ears open and your mouth shut,” Aaron said.

Percy, wearing a broad grin, sauntered back over to the table.

“She said she'll do it for a dollar,” Percy said.

“Is that a dollar apiece? Or will she do us both for one dollar?” Dalton asked.

“I don't know, I didn't ask,” Percy said.

“Well, go find out.”

“What the hell? You go find out,” Percy said.

Dalton shook his head. “Huh-uh,” he said. “You're the one she likes. If she's going to do it, it will be because she's taken a shine to you.”

“Yeah,” Percy said. “Yeah, she does like me. You could tell, huh?”

“I could tell.”

Percy looked back toward the young woman. “All right, I'll go ask her.”

Percy walked back over to the woman. “Will you do me 'an my friend for a dollar?” he asked.

“What? You mean at the same time?” Millie asked in surprise.

Percy thought about the question for a moment, as if actually intrigued by the idea; then he smiled and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Not at the same time. I'll be first, then my friend.”

“Why should I do both of you for one dollar?”

“Well, come on, Millie, look at yourself. Without them teeth, you ain't exactly what someone would call a pretty woman. You'd think you'd be grateful for any man that paid any attention to you a'tall. So, what the hell happened to them teeth anyway?”

“A drunken cowboy knocked them out,” Millie said, hanging her head.

“Yeah, well, me'n Dalton wouldn't do nothin' like that. All we want is a little poke, that's all. But we don't want to pay no more'n a dollar for it. Think about it, it's more'n you got now. And it's got to be better'n bein' on your hands and knees, scrubbin' the floor.”

Millie looked over toward the table toward Aaron and Dalton.

“I'll do two of you for a dollar. I won't do all three of you.”

“That's all right. Aaron, he don't want to do it anyhow. It'll just be me 'n ole Dalton.”

“I've got a room in the back,” Millie said, standing up and brushing her hands together.

“I'll get Dalton.”

As Millie began taking off her apron, Percy hurried back to the table. “She'll do us both for a dollar,” he said.

“Really? Why would she do that?”

“ 'Cause I told her that, with them teeth knocked out, she wasn't goin' to be able to do no better.”

Dalton laughed. “You do know how to talk pretty to a girl.”

“Yeah, I always did have me a way with women,” Percy said. “Come on, let's go.”

“What about our food?” Dalton asked.

“I had me some food just yesterday,” Percy said. “But I ain't had me no woman since I can't remember when.”

“Yeah,” Dalton agreed. “You got a point. The food will still be here when we get back. What about you, Aaron?”

“You boys have your fun,” Aaron said. “I ain't interested.”

As Percy and Dalton followed Millie into the back of the saloon, Aaron turned his attention to the conversation of the men at the adjoining table.

“What's this fella Roosevelt doin' out here anyway?” the bearded man asked.

“He owns Elkhorn,” Muley answered.

“Elkhorn. That's a ranch?”

“It ain't just a ranch. It's a big ranch,” Zeb said. “The biggest in the county.”

“Owns a ranch, huh? Well, they say most of the ranches now is owned by rich men from the East who never even see the land. At least this Roosevelt fella has come out here to run his ranch,” the bearded man said.