Destiny of Eagles (9 page)

“Lord,” he said. “Take care of these two, put them back together. And if you need any help in seeing to them, why, I reckon my Marie would be glad to give you a hand.

“And if you've a mind to, you might help me track down the murderin' bastards who did this. It doesn't look like there's anyone else around to settle the score, so I'm goin' to do it. Amen.”

Falcon put his hat back on. He didn't know how reverent the prayer he just said was, but if saying words from the heart counted for anything, then he was pretty sure the Lord had heard him.

The buzzards had been circling around all afternoon. They'd never been too far away while Falcon went about the grizzly business of pulling Mrs. Douglass from the smoldering remains. He buried her and her husband, then rode off, noticing that the birds had come closer, emboldened by the fact that Falcon was leaving.

“You boys have yourselves a feast,” Falcon said as the buzzards settled on the two bodies he left unburied.

Falcon had not stayed in town for the hanging. He had seen hangings before, and he didn't care for them, not even for people who deserved to die. A firing squad was better.

Although Falcon wouldn't admit it, even to himself, one reason he didn't like hangings was because it wasn't all that unreasonable to think that he might wind up on the gallows someday.

Falcon lived life on his own terms, never looking for trouble, but never backing away from it either. He had killed before, and sometimes the difference between killing in self-defense and murder was a very fine line. Falcon had never crossed that line, but he had crowded it so closely that a wrong perception from an eyewitness could make him a wanted man.

Although all the wanted posters that had been put out on him had been officially rescinded, there might still be some around, faded yellow on some sheriff's bulletin board somewhere.

 

WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
FOR MURDER
FALCON MacCALLISTER
REWARD
$5,000

 

It was the size of the reward and the “Dead or Alive” part that made the posters dangerous. That meant that some well-meaning, law-abiding citizen could shoot Falcon first, and ask questions later. If put into that position, Falcon would have no choice but to shoot back. If his adversary happened to be a lawman, then he would have a difficult time making a case of self-defense.

When Aaron, Dalton, and Percy reached the top of the pass, they stopped to give their horses a breather.

“Here,” Aaron said, handing the reins of his horse to Dalton.

“What are you handin' those to me for? I'm already leadin' one horse beside my own.”

“Hold him,” Aaron said. “I want to see if the son of a bitch is still back there.”

“What? What son of a bitch back where?”

“If you didn't have your head stuck up your ass, you would know that we're being followed, and have been for the last two hours.”

“Damn, no. I didn't know that,” Percy said.

“Hold my horses too,” Dalton said, handing the reins of the horse he was riding, plus the one he was leading, to Percy.

“What the hell? Do I look like a hitching rail?” Percy asked.

“Nah. Every hitching rail I've ever seen is better-lookin' than you are,” Dalton replied with a hoarse chuckle. He stepped over to the side of the trail and began urinating on a bush. “Hah!” he said. “I just pissed that grasshopper off his limb.”

Aaron lay on his stomach on a flat rock and looked back down the trail. He saw a lone rider coming slowly and, from the way he was acting, Aaron knew he was trailing them.

“Hand me my long gun,” Aaron said.

Dalton, finished with his own business now, pulled Aaron's rifle from the saddle sheath and handed it to him.

“He's too far away,” Dalton said. “Even with a rifle.”

Aaron jacked a round into the chamber. “I just want the son of a bitch to know he ain't foolin' nobody,” he said.

Raising the rifle to his shoulder, Aaron pulled the trigger.

* * *

Falcon happened to look up just as Aaron fired. He saw the muzzle flash, then the puff of smoke, followed three seconds later by the sound of the report. The bullet wasn't even close enough for Falcon to determine where it struck.

Falcon smiled, not so much because the gunman had missed widely, but because it told him that he was on the right track. Of course, that also told the people ahead that they were being followed. And he knew that he would not be able to go through the pass as long as they held it. For the time being, he was stopped.

Falcon dismounted and led his horse over to a clump of rocks to get him out of the way of any lucky shot. That was when he heard the sound of thunder for the first time, rolling deep in the hills. He had been so busy trailing the three men that he had not paid any attention to the sky. Now, as he looked up, he saw heavy black clouds building up in the west.

Within minutes it began to rain, just a few drops at first, but they were large, heavy drops. Then the intensity increased and the rain started coming down in a deluge. Falcon took his poncho from saddle roll, put it on, then hunkered down under an overhang, trying to find some shelter from the rain. His horse stood nearby with large, soulful eyes, clearly miserable in the downpour.

“Sorry, Diablo,” Falcon said to the big, black horse he was riding.

Diablo whickered and shook his head in protest.

“I know you're not liking it much, but I've got no place to put you to get you out of this.” Falcon pulled the poncho around himself more tightly. “But then, I don't have anyplace to get myself out of it either.”

As the rain continued, the water started pouring down the mountainside, turning the trail into a sluice. Brown, muddy water, sometimes as much as a foot deep, cascaded down the mountain path. Not only did it prevent Falcon from going up the trail, but he knew that it would also erase all tracks, making it more difficult to follow.

* * *

“Come on,” Aaron said. “Let's go.”

“Let's go? What, are you crazy?” Dalton asked. “In case you ain't noticed, it's rainin' like pourin' piss out of a boot.”

“Yeah,” Aaron said, as he mounted his horse. “And in case
you
ain't noticed, the rain is washin' out all the tracks. If we go now, we can be well out of here before the fella that's followin' us knows we're gone.”

“Why don't we just wait here and kill the son of a bitch?” Percy asked.

“I don't believe he's going to be all that easy to kill,” Aaron said. “I think I've figured out who he is.”

“Who?”

“Falcon MacCallister.”

“Son of a bitch! You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Who is Falcon MacCallister?” Percy asked.

“He's the one come out shootin' back in Belfield when we held up the bank. You might remember, he shot Ethan and Cory, and when Frank went back after them, why, he got caught too.”

“I ain't never heard of him. What kind of a fella is he?” Percy asked.

“Who he is depends on who is doin' the tellin',” Aaron said. “Some call him a gunfighter, some say he's just a drifter. One thing is sure, he is a dead shot, he's good with a knife, and he can track a buzzard's shadow.”

“Seems to me that a fella like that would make a lot of enemies,” Dalton said. “I mean, you seen the way he butted into our business back there.”

“Oh, he's made a lot of enemies all right,” Aaron said.

“And there ain't nobody ever gone after him yet?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What happened?”

“The lucky ones didn't find him,” Aaron answered. Without waiting for the others, he rode off into the rain. Dalton and Percy had to scramble, quickly, to get mounted and follow him.

* * *

Falcon forded the Little Missouri River, then crossed the railroad track. The depot was a small red-painted wooden building, surrounded by a wide plank platform. A white sign with the black letters MEDORA identified the little town. Three freight cars sat on one of the sidings, and a large-wheeled baggage cart was tucked up against the side of the depot.

A couple of young boys were playing mumblety-peg on one corner of the platform. One of them did a “spank-the-baby” move, but the knife got away from him and flew through the air, landing at the feet of Diablo.

“Jimmy, what are you trying to—” one of the boys began, but he interrupted his question when he saw Falcon dismount to pick up the knife.

“I'm sorry, mister, I didn't mean nothin',” Jimmy said, obviously frightened.

Falcon held the knife for a second, then flipped it around so he could grasp it by the point. Then, in a sharp, snapping motion, he threw at a narrow post near the two boys, sticking the knife in at the very center.

“Wow!” Jimmy said in awe, looking at the knife. “Did you see that?”

Remounting, Falcon crossed Third Avenue, then, seeing a livery down at the corner of Third Avenue and Sixth Street, turned south. When he stopped in front of the livery, he was greeted by Chance Ingram, the owner of the business.

“That's a good-looking horse you have there, mister,” Ingram said, patting the horse's neck.

“Thanks.”

“You lookin' to board him?”

“Yeah. Give him some oats tonight. And a good rubdown. Clean straw in his stable.”

“I'll do it,” Ingram said. “A horse like this one needs good treatment. Glad to see you do right by him. This your first time in Medora?”

“Yes. Where can a man get a good meal?”

“Well, ordinarily, I'd say Bessie's Café,” Ingram said. “But she went over to Posey to help her sister birth a baby, so her place is closed for a few days. Only other places to eat are Ma Perkins's boardin' house and the Golden Spur Saloon. But Ma Perkins only sets one table for supper and, like as not, she's done fed.”

“Well, then the Golden Spur it is,” Falcon said.

“Ed cooked up a ham yesterday. I think he's still feedin' offen it. It ain't bad, I had some myself for lunch.”

“Thanks,” Falcon said. He snaked the rifle from the saddle holster, then tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder. He didn't have to ask where the Golden Spur was; he had ridden past it as he was coming in. It was the largest and most brightly lit building in town.

He could hear the sounds of the saloon from half a block away. A piano player was banging away, and the slightly out-of-tune music could be heard above the loud guffaws of the men, the high-pitched, trilling laughter of the women, the steady drone of conversation, and the tinkling of glasses.

Pushing through the batwing doors, Falcon stepped to one side, placing his back against the wall and taking himself out of silhouette from the street. He wasn't on the run from the law, nor did he have any known enemies at the moment, but a lifetime of caution governed his behavior.

With his saddlebags draped over one shoulder, the butt of his rifle on the floor, and his left hand holding it just behind the sight so that it was kicked out a little way, Falcon studied the saloon. Such establishments had become a part and parcel of his being, and his life was defined by the saloons, liveries, and false-fronted streets of the dusty cow towns he had been in over the years. He could not deny these places without denying his own existence. He had already put the last town out of his mind, and he had no idea where he would go next. He was here, now, and that was all that mattered.

The saloon was full, but no more than half a dozen of the patrons looked up at him. Most looked toward him only to see if they knew him and, seeing that they did not, returned to their conversations at hand.

Several bar girls flitted about the room like bees going from flower to flower. Heavily made-up and garishly dressed, they were using their charms to push drinks. Falcon always enjoyed watching the reaction of the men to such girls. A few were shy, and some actually even blushed when the women stopped to flirt with them. Others were more brazen, and many would reach out to try and grab the girls, but the girls were not only used to such behavior, they knew who to avoid and what to do, and they managed to dance, adroitly, out of the way while maintaining some composure.

Toward the back of the room, Falcon saw a table so small that it could accommodate only two chairs. The table was empty, perhaps because it made no allowances for socializing. But since Falcon was more interested in getting something to eat than in socializing, the table was ideal for him.

Shortly after he sat down, a young woman came over to his table. Although she was a very pretty girl, her modest dress, the hair pulled back into a severe bun, and the lack of makeup told Falcon that she wasn't one of the bar girls. And indeed, as she wiped the table with the towel she had draped across her shoulder, she asked what he wanted.

“The livery man told me you had a pretty good ham. Any of it left?”

“Yes, sir, there's a mite left,” the girl said shyly.

“Good. Bring me some ham . . . you got 'ny beans?”

“Yes, sir,” the girl said. “Ham, beans, greens, and cornbread.”

“The cornbread any good?”

The young girl smiled broadly. “I hope to say it is,” she said. “I made it myself.”

“You made it yourself, huh? And just who would you be?”

“My name is Ella,” the girl said shyly.

“All right then, Ella, fix me up a plate. And two beers, one now to kill the thirst, and the other to enjoy with my dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” Ella replied, hurrying back to the kitchen to prepare his order. As she passed the bar, she said something to the bartender. He nodded, drew a beer, then held the mug up toward Falcon.

Falcon walked over to get it.

“You just visitin' Medora, or passin' through?” the bartender asked.

“I haven't made up my mind yet,” Falcon answered as he blew away some of the head. He took the beer back to his table and drank it slowly as he waited for his dinner.

“Well, now, if you ain't the dandy,” someone said in a loud, obnoxious voice.

“Leave 'im alone, Muley,” another voice said. “He ain't done nothin' to bother you.”

“The way he looks bothers me,” Muley replied. “Tell me, Mr. Easterner. How come you didn't buy yourself a whole pair of glasses?”

Looking toward the commotion, Falcon saw a couple of rough-looking cowboys accosting someone. The recipient of the gibes was a young man wearing an Eastern-style suit, complete with jacket and vest. He was standing at the bar, staring straight ahead, trying to avoid his antagonists.

“Look at them funny-lookin' little glasses, Zeb,” the one called Muley said to his partner. “They ain't got nothin' to wrap around the ears. How the hell you think he keeps 'em on?”

“You'd think a man what owned a ranch—” Zeb started, but Muley interrupted him.

“Mr. Teddy Roosevelt owns two ranches, from what I've heard,” Muley said.

“Two ranches,” Zeb continued. “You'd think a man what owned two ranches could afford a whole pair of glasses, 'stead of them things that's just pinchin' the end of his nose like that.”

“Interesting you would make that observation,” Roosevelt said, turning away from the bar and speaking for the first time. He took the glasses from his nose and held them out. “Because, you see, that is exactly how they are held on. That's why these are called pince-nez glasses, which means ‘pinched nose.' I guess you aren't as dumb as you look after all.”

The others laughed at Roosevelt's observation, but Muley and Zeb scowled at him.

“Don't get funny with me, tenderfoot. I'll knock them stupid-looking glasses offen your ugly face,” Muley said.

“You fellas got no call to be raggin' Mr. Roosevelt like that,” Josh Andrews, one of Roosevelt's cowboys, said. “Lay off him.”

“Who do you fellows ride for?” Roosevelt asked.