Read MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy Online

Authors: William W. Johnstone,J. A. Johnstone

Tags: #Fiction, #Westerns, #General

MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy (18 page)

With a cry of pain, Roy interrupted his draw and put his hands to his nose, which was now bleeding.
“You son of a bitch! You bloodied my nose!” Roy shouted in anger. Once more his hand dipped toward his pistol, but as he started his draw this time, Duff, who immediately after tossing his beer mug had drawn his own pistol, pulled the trigger, putting a bullet through Roy’s hand.
“Ayiieee!” Roy shouted, jerking his hand back. “I thought you said you wasn’t good.”
“I said I could not draw quickly, I did not say that I could not shoot,” Duff said. “I am, in fact, considered to be a rather superior marksman with a handgun.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you!” Falcon called loudly. “Drop it!”
Looking toward Falcon, who had just come back in, Duff saw that he was holding a gun in his hand. He also saw that Billy Ray had drawn his own pistol. At Falcon’s call, Billy Ray dropped his pistol to the floor.
“That’s more like it,” Falcon said. “Piano player?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry about this, I was very much enjoying your piano music. But I’m going to have to borrow your piano for a while.”
“Borrow my piano? Whatever do you mean?”
“Open up the back.”
With a look of confusion on his face, the piano player did exactly as Falcon asked.
“Now my friend and I came in here for a nice, quiet drink. It’s too late for it to be quiet, but we can still have the drink. Only, I don’t want to worry about any of the rest of you getting the idea that you might want to shoot one of us. So, this is what I want you to do. All of you, bring your pistols up here and drop them into the back of the piano.”
“What? Are you crazy? I ain’t goin’ to do that!” one of the other men in the saloon said.
“You have three choices, my friend,” Falcon said. “You can either bring your pistol up here and drop it in the back of the piano like I asked you to, or you can walk out of here right now.”
“That’s only two choices,” Billy Ray said. “What’s the third choice?”
“The third choice is I’ll kill you where you stand,” Falcon said, coldly.
“Damn, Billy Ray, I think he means that,” one of the others said.
Grumbling, every customer in the saloon, one by one, walked up to the piano and dropped his pistol into the back.
“Hey, I can’t play the piano now!” the piano player complained. “How’m I going to make my tips?”
Falcon pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “This ought to cover your tips for the rest of the day.”
“Gee, Mister. Thanks,” the piano player said.
Chapter Eighteen
 
Cheyenne
 
Duff’s room overlooked the street from the top floor of the Inter-Ocean hotel, a three-story brick building on Central Avenue. Though still fully dressed, Duff lay in bed, using the bedside lantern to provide enough illumination for him to read in his guidebook about the area he was going to homestead.
These plains have an average width of forty miles, and are one hundred miles in length. They comprise an area of over two and a half million acres and are regarded as one of the richest grazing areas in the country.
 
When Duff thought of the vast distances he had encountered here in America and compared it with Scotland, he couldn’t help but be amazed. He had left behind two hundred acres and that was considered a very large holding. With a mere stroke of his pen, he would now control twenty-six hundred acres, with access to another ten thousand acres. The sheer size of it boggled his brain.
When someone knocked on his door, Duff put the book down on the bedside table, then walked over to the door. Opening it, he saw Falcon standing in the hall.
“No,” Falcon said, shaking his head. “Don’t ever do that.”
“Don’t ever do what?”
“Don’t ever open the door like that,” Falcon said. “Always ask through the closed door who it is. Never stand behind the door while you are inquiring, and open it only partially until you are satisfied with whoever is on the other side.”
“That seems a bit much, doesn’t it? Am I to check under my bed for goblins as well?”
Falcon chuckled. “Goblins can’t hurt you. But somebody like this fella, Roy, you met today can.”
“Do you think Roy might come knocking on my door?”
“I think it is entirely possible that he might,” Falcon said. “Do you have any idea how many people there are out there who want me dead?”
“I would have no idea how many, nor any idea as to why they might want you dead,” Duff replied.
“I don’t know exactly how many, either,” Falcon replied. “But there are an awful lot of them.”
“Even so, by your own admission it is you that they want dead. You, not me.”
“Uh-huh, I wish that was right, but the truth is, you are in as much danger as I am.”
“I have made no enemies, unless you are talking about Roy. And that was but a chance encounter.”
“It is chance encounters like that that make enemies,” Falcon said. “But even if you had not run into him, you would still be in danger.”
“And why is that?”
“Didn’t you say that this sheriff from Scotland sent people to New York to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he will give up?”
“No. Though he has no idea where I am.”
“It has been my experience that when someone hates enough to want to kill, they have ways of finding out where you are. And, without regard to the sheriff, you are in danger for another reason.”
“What reason would that be?”
“I hate to say it, but it is because your name is MacCallister,” Falcon said.
“
Och
, so if I’m to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life, I’m to blame you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You did not knock on my door merely to give me an object lesson, did you, Falcon?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s nearly supper time. I thought you might like to go grab a bite.”
“Grab a bite,” Duff said, chuckling. “What quaint sayings you Americans have.”
“
Och
, ’tis quaint indeed,” Falcon replied, perfectly mimicking Duff’s accent.
Duff laughed out loud. “Well, pardner, let me just grab my hat, and we’ll mosey on down to grab a bite,” he said, perfectly imitating Falcon’s Western twang.
Falcon laughed as well. “I think I’m bringing you along, cousin. Pretty soon you’ll fit right in.”
Roy Jameson was still angry about what had happened in the saloon earlier today. The doctor had bandaged his hand, but it still hurt. And he wasn’t sure that he would ever have as fast a draw as he once had. Because Roy was someone who made his living by selling his expertise with a gun, this could wind up affecting his livelihood.
He had no intention of letting that go without doing something about it. It was more than just revenge. And as long as that Scottish bastard was free to wander around the streets of Cheyenne, it would diminish his value as a hired gunman.
Roy had once waited for three days for the opportunity to kill someone. He had drunk tepid canteen water and eaten jerky, fighting off mosquitoes, ticks, and fleas while he waited along a trail that he knew his target would take. And he had no personal investment in that killing—it was just a job.
He did have a personal stake in this one. That foreign, funny-talking son of a bitch had put a hole in his hand. So if he had to wait outside for three days until he got a chance at the Scot, then so be it. It was a wait he would do, willingly.
Roy had been here all afternoon, standing in the opening between the apothecary and the leather goods store. Both establishments were already closed, so nobody was curious about him being here and, as darkness began to fall, he couldn’t be seen anyway. He reached up to put his hand on the wall, then winced with pain as it caused the wound to hurt.
“Son of a bitch!” he said aloud, jerking his right hand back from the wall and rubbing the wound gently with his left hand. “Scotsman, you are goin’ to die,” he said. “Yes, sir, you are goin’ to die.”
As it grew darker, the tone and tint of the town changed. The daytime resonance of a town at work, the rolling of freight wagons, the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil, the chatter of commerce, was replaced by the nighttime sounds of a town at rest and relaxation: piano music and laughter from the saloons.
The dining room of the Inter-Ocean hotel was brightly lit with gas lanterns and well decorated with preserved and mounted heads of antelope, deer, elk, mountain sheep, and buffalo. Meat from these creatures was featured on the menu, along with pork and beef.
It was a popular eatery, not only for the guests of the hotel such as Duff and Falcon but for many of the citizens of the town as well. Tonight it was full, as nearly every table was occupied. As was Falcon’s habit, he and Duff took a table in the back corner.
“You’ll have to try the buffalo,” Falcon suggested. “It is very good.”
“Have you ever taken a buffalo?” Duff asked.
“Taken? Yes, I’ve eaten it often.”
“I meant, have you hunted the buffalo?”
“Oh. Yes, I have. But the buffalo are getting very scarce now. I fear we have about hunted them out. During the building of the railroad they hired hunters to provide meat for the workers, and there was almost wholesale slaughter. And that’s a shame. They are really magnificent animals.”
“I should like to see one in the wild.”
“I imagine you will on your land,” Falcon said. He took in all the other animal heads. “All these as well.”
Duff and Falcon both ordered pot-roasted buffalo with potatoes, onions, and corn on the cob.
“This is an ear of corn, isn’t it? How does one eat it?”
“Like this,” Falcon explained, spreading butter on the corn, then adding salt and pepper. He picked it up and began biting the corn off.
“My word,” Duff said. He followed suit, took a bite, then smiled. “It is quite good,” he said.
“Stay here long enough, you’ll learn to eat properly,” Falcon teased.
After supper, Duff declared that he would like to take a walk around town to have a look.
“I’ll come with you,” Falcon ordered.
Duff held up his hand. “There’s no need,” he said. “I mean, I’m not trying to stop you, if you genuinely want to come with me. But don’t feel that you must.”
“All right,” Falcon said. “I tell you what. Take your walk around town, then if you feel like it, drop into the White Horse. We’ll have a drink together before we turn in.”
“I would enjoy that,” Duff replied.
The night air felt good as Duff strolled along the board sidewalk. He could hear piano music from the White Horse. Then, as he walked farther, that piano faded out and he heard another piano from a different saloon. Most of the buildings along the street were dark as the businesses were closed, but there were at least six brightly lit buildings, every one of them a drinking establishment.
As he reached the end of the sidewalk, he could hear the sounds from the houses that were close in. A baby was crying somewhere, a dog was barking, and he heard the loud, complaining voice of a woman berating someone. He assumed it was her husband.
He crossed the street here, and then started back down on the sidewalk on the other side, his boots clopping loudly on the wide plank boards. Toward the middle of town there were a few greenish-glowing gas streetlights, and from the saloons, light spilled through the front windows and doors to project clearly defined gleaming squares on the walk and out into the street.
He heard the clopping sound of a horse coming toward him, but he couldn’t see it as yet. Then the horse passed under the first street lamp and he saw a rider, wearing a duster, slumped in the saddle. He watched the horse until it passed through all the lighted area, then disappeared into the distant darkness.
Roy Jameson saw him when he passed under the first street lamp. He was too far away now, but he was coming closer. He pulled his pistol, wincing with the pain of grasping the handle. The pain was bearable, in fact, almost welcome, as it underscored what he was about to do. He cocked the pistol, then braced it against the wall. Just a few more steps now, and he couldn’t miss.
Duff saw a glint of silver light on the boardwalk and looking down, saw that it was a coin. He bent down to pick it up.
Concurrent with the sound of a pistol shot, he felt the air pressure of a bullet passing but an inch above him. Had he not bent over for the coin, the bullet would have hit him in the head. Pulling his pistol, he instinctively fell, then rolled off the walk into the street. A second shot hit the walk, plunging through the board, but sending out a little shower of splinters into his face.
This time Duff was able to see the flare of the muzzle flash, so he knew where the shot had come from. Keeping as close to the ground as he could, Duff inched forward on his stomach, his movement shielded by the elevation of the walk. When he reached the first watering trough, he moved over to get behind it.
Now, with his position improved, he looked back toward the gap between the two buildings where he had seen the muzzle flash. It was much darker there than out on the walk itself because the buildings blocked out the street lamp. It was so dark that Duff wasn’t even sure that whoever had shot at him was still there. He was going to have to smoke him out, and there was only one way to do that.
Cocking his pistol and taking a deep breath, he stood up.
“Here I am,” he called.
As he hoped he would, his adversary, whoever it was, stepped out onto the walk with a scream of rage. He fired at Duff, and Duff returned fire. Duff saw the man drop his gun, then grab his chest. He fell back against the wall, then slid to the ground.
By now several people had come into the street. The first to approach him was wearing a badge on his vest, and it flashed in the light as he approached with a gun in his hand.
“Drop your gun,” the lawman called.
“Aye,” Duff said, dropping his pistol as ordered.
A hearing was held the next morning in the courthouse to determine the circumstances surrounding the shooting incident on Central Street the night before, resulting in the death of Roy Jameson. The Honorable Anthony Keller, judge of probate, was presiding. Billy Ray Rawles was the first to testify.
“This here foreign feller shot Roy in the hand yesterday for no reason at all. So it ain’t no surprise to me but that he decided to finish the job,” Billy Ray said. “If you ask me, it’s murder, pure an’ simple and I think the son of bitch ought to be took out to a tree and hung.” He pointed to Falcon MacCallister. “And this here feller was in cahoots with him. Yesterday, after the foreigner shot my friend in the hand, this here man pulled his gun and made ever’one in the whole saloon put their guns into the piano.”

Other books

Neurotica by Sue Margolis
Rehearsals for Murder by Elizabeth Ferrars
Hunting Midnight by Richard Zimler
The Silver Chain by Primula Bond
Bike Week Blues by Mary Clay
Shadow by Amanda Sun