MacCallister, The Eagles Legacy: The Killing

by William W. Johnstone

  All conversation stopped as everyone in the room stared up at the man and woman who were standing at the railing.

  “Polly, what is it? What’s going on?” the bartender shouted.

  “Please help me,” Polly said, her voice quivering in fear. “I’m so scared.”

  “Who is that with her?” someone asked.

  “I know him,” another said. “His name is Camden.”

  “Polly, where is Cindy?” the bartender asked.

  “She—she’s dead! He just killed Cindy. He cut her throat.”

  “Is that true, Mister? Camden, is it? Did you kill Cindy?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah, the name is Camden. And yeah, I killed the other woman.”

  “What did you go and do that for?” one of the saloon customers asked.

  “I killed her ’cause I wanted to. And I’m goin’ to kill this one, too, unless all of you empty your pockets and put your money there in the piano player’s hat. Piano player, once they do that, you bring it on up to me.”

  “I’ll just take my tips out first,” the piano player replied.

  “Huh-uh,” Camden said. “Them tips you got in your hat will be your contribution.”

  One of the men near the front of the saloon started toward the door.

  “Hold it right there, Mister!” Camden yelled. “Unless you want to see me cut this woman now.”

  “Stay there, Ed. I think he means it,” the bartender said.

  “You damn right, I mean it. Now, all of you, do like I said,” the man shouted down to the others. “If I don’t see some money goin’ into that hat right now, I’m goin’ to start cuttin’!”

  Slowly and deliberately, Duff drew his pistol and pointed it up toward the man who was holding the knife.

  “Mr. Camden,” Duff called. He voice was neither loud nor nervous. On the contrary, it was as calm as if he were inquiring about the time. “I’ll be for asking you now to let the woman go,” he said. Though his voice was quiet, it was possessed of a deep resonance that made it easily heard and understood. Somehow, the others in the room sensed the danger in this man.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Camden asked. “Are you crazy, Mister? Ain’t you got eyes? Can’t you see that I am holding a knife to this woman’s throat?”

  “Aye, I can see that. But if you will lower your knife and let her go, I’ll let you live,” Duff said as calmly as before. “If you do not lower your knife, I am afraid I shall be forced to kill you.”

  “You’re goin’ to shoot me from down there? Hell, if you was to try, you’d more’n likely hit the woman.” Camden chuckled, an evil-sounding cackle. “Truth is, they ain’t nothin’ none of you can do.”

  “I’ll not be for asking you again.”

  “No? Well, that’s good. Now, put down the pistol or I’ll ...”

  Nobody had any idea what the rest of Camden’s sentence would have been, because that was as far as he got. Duff squeezed the trigger right in the middle of the man’s bluff and bluster.

  The pistol roared in Duff’s hand, and the woman screamed as blood spewed onto her face.

  “You son of a bitch! What did you do that for? You shot her!” someone shouted angrily.

  “No, I did not hit her,” Duff answered calmly. He slipped his smoking revolver back into his holster. It was only now that the others noticed that the man who had been holding the knife was no longer behind the girl, but was lying on his back.

  “Look at that! Camden’s lyin’ on his back!”

  “Polly! Are you all right?” the bartender shouted.

  “I ...” Polly started. She felt around on herself, then, realizing she was unharmed, let out a little cry of relief. “Yes, I’m fine!” She ran her hand across her face, then pulled it down and looked at the blood on it. “Ohh,” she said. “His blood! I’ve got his blood on me! I’ve got to get it off, I’ve got to get it off!”

  Turning, she ran back down the hall of the upper balcony so that she could no longer be seen by those below. Several of the saloon customers hurried up the steps then to examine the man who had been holding the knife. Duff didn’t watch them. Instead, he turned back to the bar and continued to drink his beer. One of those who had gone upstairs stepped over to the railing to call down to the others.

  “He’s dead! He’s shot clean through his right eye!”

  “Damn! How long of a shot was that?” someone asked. Immediately, the saloon was a bedlam with everyone talking at once. Ironically, there were as many condemning Duff as there were those congratulating him.

  “Mister, that was a hell of a chance you took with Polly’s life,” someone said. “Don’t you know you could have hit her?”

  “Yeah, did you even give it a second thought before you fired?” another asked.

  “No, I dinnae need a second thought,” Duff said. “If I dinnae think I could hit him without hitting her, I would not have fired.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that standing here, shooting up like you done, with a target no bigger’n a man’s hand and it bein’ better ’n a hundred feet away, that you knew you would hit him, and not her?”

  “Aye.”

  “Mister, you are lying. You took a dumb chance, and you know it.”

  Duff’s eyes narrowed. “I do not think I like it being said that Duff Tavish MacCallister tells lies.”

  “Duff MacCallister?” One of the others said. “Wait a minute. Are you Duff MacCallister?”

  “Aye.”

  “Conley, if I was you, I wouldn’t be calling Mr. MacCallister a liar,” the man said.

  “Oh, yeah? Well now, suppose you tell me why not.”

  “Because in the first place, when you think about it, Mr. MacCallister isn’t just runnin’ a bluff here. He said he thought he could hit that feller without bringin’ any more harm to Polly, and that’s just exactly what he did.”

  “That’s pure, dumb luck, Stewart, and you know it,” Conley said.

  “And in the second place, this is the same Duff MacCallister who cleaned house up in Chugwater ’bout this time last year,” Stewart said. “Mr. MacCallister went up against eight outlaws who were holding the town hostage, and he killed every one of them. No sir, I expect he is a man who is good for what he says.”

  “’Tis thanking you I am for the vote of confidence, Mr. Stewart. But with a foine Scottish name like you have, ’tis no surprise that you be a man of integrity,” Duff said.

  It had been over a year since Duff MacCallister had left Scotland, but even now, when he spoke, he sounded as if he had just walked in off the moors.

  “No, Mr. MacCallister, it’s you that deserves thanks, not just from me, but from all of us,” Stewart said. “You killed a monster. And there is no doubt in my mind that he was prepared to, and probably would have, killed Polly.”

  “Aye,” Duff said. “From the moment he held the knife to the lass’s neck, she was all but dead. He could not let her go before he left the pub, or he would have been fair game for any of us. And ‘tis not likely that he would keep her with him while he was running from the law, so I’m thinking the only thing he could possibly do is kill her once he got out of our sight. I did the only thing that could be done for savin’ the poor lass.”

  “Here, here!” the bartender shouted. “Drinks are on the house!”

  A few minutes later a couple of Cheyenne’s finest, two police officers in uniform, complete with badges and high-domed hats, came into the Tivoli.

  “You fellas are too late; it has already been taken care of,” Stewart said.

  After that, everyone started talking at once until, finally, the police officers were able to restore enough calm to get the story straight.

  What happened was made evident soon enough, and the police left without so much as issuing a warrant or citation.

  “But I wouldn’t be so quick to use that pistol if I were you,” one of the policemen said before leaving. “You were lucky this time.”

  “Thank you, Constable. I’
ll consider that,” Duff said, not wanting to argue.

  When Nathan Baker, the editor of the Cheyenne Leader, heard about the shooting in the Tivoli, he delayed putting out the paper until he could write the story himself. There were frequent shootings in Cheyenne, and though the newspaper reported all of them, no shooting prior to this one had justified holding up a printing. This story was special because, while shootings were relatively common in the Eagle and other saloons of similar ilk, the Tivoli was rarely involved in such a thing.

  The other reason the story was worth delaying the print run was the skill it took to make the shot. This was the kind of shot that people would be talking about for some time.

  Baker set the last letter of type, then made a quick read for his final edit. The fact that the letters were backward, and the sentences and paragraphs also ran backward, caused no impediment, for he had worked with the reverse settings needed for printing for many years. He could read the copy backward as quickly and with as much comprehension as the average person could when reading it forward.

  He made a quick check of all the pages, making certain that he had every ad in its proper place: Coleman’s Drugstore, Dace Leather Goods, Union Mercantile. People read the newspaper for the news, but it was the advertisers who paid the bill.

  The editor put the first form in, adjusted the platen, applied the ink, and made the first impression. He held the page up for perusal, smiling in satisfaction at the way the lead story dominated the page.

  Magnificent Shot Fired From Thirty Yards

  THE BALL HAD DEADLY EFFECT.

  Tyler Camden, a man of known disreputable character, met his end last night in a most memorable way. A habitué of the soiled doves, Camden was known to ply the saloons and cheap hotels of Fifteenth Street. Last night he came instead to an area of town that was far above his poor station, and while there attempted to practice his debauchery with one of the young serving women he encountered. To his dissatisfaction, he learned that the ladies who are employed by the Tivoli are not of the same low character as the denizens of his normal haunts. When his advances and entreaties were denied, Camden became angry and murdered Cindy McPheeters, a young lady hired for serving and genteel conversation only. He then stepped to the head of the balcony with Polly Fenton as his hostage, holding a knife to her neck.

  Camden demanded as payment for her safe release the contribution of money from everyone in the saloon, said donations to be deposited in the hat of the piano player. However, Camden did not consider the presence of one Duff MacCallister, a resident of Chugwater who is visiting our fair city. Mr. MacCallister, from a distance of over one hundred feet, didst raise his revolver and fire, the ball entirely sparing Miss Fenton, while striking Camden with deadly effect. Many witnesses who have observed skillful shooting before have stated that never had they seen so skillful a demonstration of marksmanship as that displayed by Duff MacCallister in his heroic rescue of Miss Polly Fenton.

  The current hot spell not being conducive to a prolonged delay of interment, Miss McPheeters’s funeral will be conducted at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church on Nineteenth and Central at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. It is expected that much of the city will attend.

  Laramie

  Dingus Camden and Lee and Marvin Mosley were downstairs in the Rocky Mountain House after having enjoyed some time with some of the establishment’s “companions for gentlemen,” as the house described them.

  “Say, Dingus, why do you think Tyler didn’t want to come with us?” Lee asked.

  “Why you askin’ me?” Dingus asked.

  “I’m askin’ you, ‘cause you’re his brother. Me an’ Marvin ain’t nothin’ but his cousins.”

  “Well, you know him as well as I do. I don’t know why he didn’t want to come with us.”

  “I know why,” Marvin said.

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t want to come with us ’cause he’s stuck on that whore back at the Eagle. What’s her name?”

  “Libbie,” Lee said.

  “He ought to know better ’n to get stuck on a whore,” Marvin said. “All whores is the same.”

  “No, they ain’t,” Dingus said.

  “What do you mean, they ain’t the same?”

  “Some whores is better’n others. When we get there, I think I’ll get me a little black-eyed Mexican girl. I like them the best.”

  “Not me, I like my whores to be American,” Marvin said.

  “With big tits,” Lee added. “Besides, there ain’t no difference between a Mexican whore and a Injun whore.”

  “Yeah,” Dingus said. “Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference. I got me a woman one time back in Arizona Territory ... thought she was Mexican but she turned out to be Injun. You ever had a Mexican whore?”

  “Nope, never had one. Had me a Injun once, though,” Lee answered.

  “Really?” Marvin said. “I never knew you had you no Injun woman.”

  “You don’t know ever’thing I’ve ever done,” Lee replied.

  “Well, how was she?”

  “What do you mean how was she? She was Injun,” Lee replied, as if that explained what he’d said without elaboration. “Why don’t you ask Dingus how his Injun woman was?”

  “She pissed me off. She told me she was Mexican, but I knew better. That’s why I kilt her.”

  “Ahh, you’re lyin’. You didn’t kill her.”

  “Yeah, I did. And I can prove it.”

  “How you goin’ to prove it?”

  “I’ve got her tit,” Dingus said.

  “You’ve got her tit?” Lee asked. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t believe it, huh? What do you think this is?”

  Dingus reached down into his pocket and pulled out a dry, leathery- looking bag and handed it over to Lee.

  Lee took it, thinking at first it was simply a rawhide bag. But then he saw a spongy little nub and realized that he was looking at a nipple. This really was a woman’s breast.

  “I’ll be damn! Look at this, Marvin,” Lee said, handing it to his brother. “It really is a tit!”

  “I told you it was.”

  “What are you goin’ to do with it?” Marvin asked, as he examined it more closely.

  “I don’t know. I was goin’ to make a tobacco pouch, but I don’t think I’m goin’ to.”

  “Would you sell it?”

  “I reckon I would. What will you give me for it?”

  “Two dollars?”

  “Yeah, all right, give me two dollars and it’s yours.”

  One of the girls came over toward the table, carrying a newspaper. “Honey,” she said to Dingus. “Don’t you have a brother named Tyler?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You might want to read this,” she said, handing the paper to him.

  The headlines jumped out at him.

  Magnificent Shot Fired From Thirty Yards

  THE BALL HAD DEADLY EFFECT.

  “Son of a bitch!” Dingus said.

  “What is it?”

  “We have to go back to Cheyenne.”

  Chapter Eight

  Back in Cheyenne, Duff continued to take care of his business. He went into Union Mercantile, where he bought a hay mower.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister, you are buying the finest hay mower on the market,” Elliot Whipple said. “This one machine, pulled by a team of horses, can do more in one day than a whole field full of farmhands can do in a week.”

  “I will need to have it transported to Chugwater,” Duff said. “Can you disassemble it for me?”

  “I can disassemble it, and have it shipped for you. I have an arrangement with Rollins Freight.”

  “Thank you, but I will make shipping arrangements from Chugwater.”

  “Very well. I will see that it is ready for shipment,” Whipple promised.

  Duff’s very good friend, R.W. Guthrie, owned not only the lumberyard and building supply company in Chugwater, he also owned the town’s only freight-wagon com
pany. But it wasn’t only because R.W. was Duff’s friend that he wanted to use him. Duff believed that because he lived in Chugwater it was incumbent upon him to patronize the Chugwater business establishments, and he did that whenever it was possible.

  After buying the hay mower, Duff visited the Cheyenne office of the Kansas City Cattle Exchange, where he intended to make arrangements to buy a herd.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Terry Conn said. “Most of the business I do is with the local cattlemen, arranging to buy their herds. I’ve not had to deal with selling cattle before.”

  “But your company does this, do they not?” Duff asked. “I was informed by the American Aberdeen Angus Association in Chicago that I could make arrangements to purchase a herd of Angus cattle through the Kansas City Cattle Exchange company.”

  “Oh, yes, we can do that. It is just , as I say, a little unusual. Though, as you want a specific breed, I suppose it isn’t all that unusual. Black Angus, you say? Well, I know they are doing well back in Missouri and down in Mississippi. I think you would be the first to run them out here. They aren’t as hardy as Longhorns, you know. Could be you are biting off more’n you can chew.”

  “Aye, they can be a bit troublesome, ’tis true, but this won’t be the first time I’ve raised the breed.”

  “You’ve raised Angus before?”

  “Aye. I did so back in Scotland.”

  Conn smiled. “Scotland, is it? Well, I’m not all that surprised. I thought you sounded like a foreigner. All right, how many do you want?”

  “I’d like five hundred head: four hundred and eighty cows and twenty bulls.”

  “That’s quite an order. Let me see what that would cost,” Conn said. He walked over to the ticker-tape machine, a glass half-globe that enclosed the device itself. It made a constant clicking sound, all the while spitting out a long, narrow strip of paper. Conn picked up the paper and ran it through his hands as he looked at the symbols printed thereon.