Dreams of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Miles braced himself for the blow-up, but it did not come. Ben was silent for a moment. He took several deep breaths and clenched and unclenched his big fists. “You know he’s been filin’ on land that I claim, don’t you, Miles?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Some of the boys who left with Nick, they goin’ to work for him, eh?”

  “Probably.”

  “What do you think about this situation, Miles?”

  “I ride for the brand, Big Ben.”

  “Come hell or high water?”

  “That’s about it, I reckon.”

  “You think that I’ve been wrong in some of the things I’ve done, Miles?”

  Miles gave that some thought. “I think we could have backed off some, yeah.”

  “You ever had any children, Miles?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Then you wouldn’t understand about a man and his sons. Besides, there are two kinds of people in this world, Miles. Just two kinds, and that’s all. Big dogs and little dogs. Call it leaders and followers. I’m a big dog and I damn well intend to stay that way.”

  Miles almost told the man that big dogs get buried in the same ground as little dogs but thought better of it.

  “At first good light we go into town and call the MacCallisters out, Miles. Pass the word. Hell, it’s sixteen to four, man. We use our heads, we can’t lose.”

  “Right,” Miles said, with about as much enthusiasm as a man about to stick his hand into a den of rattlesnakes.

  Nine

  Jamie and his sons had each caught a few hours of good sleep and several additional cat-naps, and all felt refreshed. They met with Morgan on the second floor, and over many strong objections from Jamie, Morgan’s leg was rebandaged by Dr. Medina and Morgan limped down the steps and over to a table. During the night, four of the wounded Bar-B men had died and the rest of the wounded had been taken to another location where they could receive better care. The saloon floor had been mopped and the tables put back in some sort of order.

  Jamie had breakfast sent over from a nearby cafe, and he and the boys ate well and drank two pots of coffee. Then they checked their guns and stood up. A local rushed into the saloon and said, “Most of the men Big Ben had left done pulled out, Mr. MacCallister! But they’s still fourteen or fifteen of them ridin’ in right now. They’ll be puttin’ their horses up at the south livery. Least that’s what they usually do.”

  “Thanks,” Jamie said. “Have a beer on me.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Another citizen rushed in. “Ben and his boys and some of his hands is comin’. On both sides of the street, huggin’ the buildin’s close.”

  Jamie tossed money on the bar on his way out. “Give him a beer, too,” he told the bartender.

  As soon as he had pushed open the batwings and stepped outside, Jamie pulled his Colts and drilled the first two men he saw coming his way with rifles. Morgan threw a chair through one of the front windows and dropped two more, just as Ian and Matt, who had gone out the back way, reached the front of the alley and opened up.

  Miles Swift caught a .44 ball in the hip that turned him around and sent him crashing into a dress shop. He got all tangled up in bolts of cloth and spools of thread and ladies bloomers and other unmentionables and was fighting and cussing to get clear when the owner of the shop bopped him on the head with a flatiron and Miles was out of it. The only thing that prevented him from suffering a fractured skull was his hat.

  Jamie took aim and plugged Andy Barlow in the belly. Andy sat down hard in the middle of the street and started squalling. Hugh ran over to help his baby brother and Ian drilled him through and through. Ben, Jr. screamed his outrage and ran toward Matt, who lifted a .44 and dropped him gut shot in the street. Jamie put two .44 caliber balls in Royal at the same time Morgan turned his shotgun loose on Chris and almost blew him in two. Guy lifted his guns and Jamie brought the last of the Barlow boys down just as a shotgun boomed off to his left. He turned to see Big Ben Barlow’s face disintegrate from the blast. He fell back headless onto the street. The farmer whose family had been killed and whose legs had been broken by Ben and his boys had shot the big man at nearly point-blank range with a goose gun, using both barrels.

  “The son of a bitch finally got what was due him!” the crippled man said.

  It was over.

  * * *

  Jamie did a little fast work (call it cold intimidation) at the land office and arranged for the survivors of those who had been run off their land to receive about a thousand acres each of what had been the Bar-B. Since there were no heirs, that was easily done, once Jamie got his point across to the man at the land office. Then Bar-B cattle started disappearing. Within a week, the range was bare of cattle. No one seemed to know what in the world happened to all those cattle.

  Then the great house that Big Ben Barlow had built caught fire one night, and the next morning, only the rock walls remained. When the army came in to investigate, no one in the town seemed to know just what had happened to Big Ben and his sons, or where they were buried. Since few people liked Ben Barlow anyway, the army investigating team closed the book on the incident and forgot about it.

  But for years afterward, in homes and quiet corners of saloons, people spoke of and chuckled about the MacCallisters and the Battle of Taos.

  * * *

  Jamie and his sons waited until Morgan was able to ride then headed back to their valley. Kate immediately put Morgan to bed in his old bedroom and fussed over him for a time, even though Morgan was ninety-nine percent healed by the time he arrived back in the valley.

  Morgan pulled out in the middle of the summer, heading back to his job with the army, after a long visit with family and friends. Wagon trains continued to roll westward, with a few angling south off the Oregon Trail to settle in MacCallister’s Valleys. And the twin towns of Valley, Colorado, were officially established. During the summer of 1852, an election was held and Matthew was voted in as sheriff. The trail between the two valleys was widened and became a road. In 1853, Indian wars flared all over the west as more and more settlers poured westward. But the wars were hardly noticed in Valley. Indians came into the twin towns to trade, and there was never any trouble, due in no small part to the fact that both sides respected the other’s way of life and made no attempts to change it. Valley was one of the few areas in the west that never experienced a single Indian attack in all the years of its existence.

  In 1854, Jamie and Kate MacCallister would celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. They were both forty-four years old and still looked fifteen years younger. Early that same year Morgan was named Chief of Scouts for the Army. In the spring of 1854, just after his fifteenth birthday, Falcon MacCallister killed four men in a stand-up shoot-out in Wyoming.

  * * *

  Falcon was born in the high country and was as much at home in the mountains as a puma or an eagle. True to his word, shortly after his twelfth birthday, he never went back to school, but he still loved reading and always carried a couple of books in his saddlebags wherever he roamed, which was all over the new territory. Like all his brothers, except for Andrew, Falcon was well over six feet with a heavy musculature. His eyes were a cold pale blue. He wore his blonde hair long and favored buckskins. He carried two Colt Navy revolvers, .36 caliber, around his waist, two more on specially made holsters on his saddle, left and right of the horn, butt to him for a quick grab, and two more in his saddlebags. Falcon roamed at will and got along with most Indians, adopting their ways and learning the languages. Falcon was heading home to see his folks for the first time in over a year when he paused at Fort Laramie in Wyoming to buy supplies and catch up on news.

  He paid a courtesy call on the commanding officer to inquire about his brother Morgan.

  The commanding officer smiled at Falcon as he sized him up. He pegged Falcon at about twenty or so. “You’re a MacCallister, all right, lad,” he said. “The family resemblance is uncanny. Bu
t you missed Morgan by a week. He’s out on an expedition.” The commanding officer’s smile faded. “You going to stay long around here?”

  “Just long enough to buy supplies and rest for a time and eat food I didn’t cook. Why, sir?”

  “You ever hear your dad tell the story about a man named Jack Biggers?”

  Falcon laughed. “Oh, yes, sir. That’s the fool who tried to ride Horse.”

  “He and some of his men are in this area. They frequent the trading post about three miles south of here, on the river.”

  “I thought Biggers was a known outlaw.”

  “Oh, he is. But I have no warrants on him. He’s a slick one, Falcon. He’s smartened up considerably since his early days out here. Claims he has a gold mine and is just a law-abiding, hard-working man.”

  “You believe that, sir?”

  “Hell, no. But I can’t prove otherwise. Jack Biggers hates your father, Falcon. So do yourself a favor and stay away from that trading post.”

  “No disrespect meant, sir, but I go where I please.”

  The officer smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. You see, I knew your father when I was in Texas years ago. No, that is exactly what I thought you would say.”

  * * *

  Falcon rode up to the trading post on the Laramie River and loosened his guns in leather. Falcon, like Morgan, didn’t exactly look for trouble, but he wouldn’t back away from it, either. He knew that Jack Biggers and his brothers hated his father and had sworn to kill him. Falcon just figured he might be able to take some of the strain off his dad’s back, that’s all.

  He stepped inside the log building and let his eyes adjust to the dimness before moving toward the bar. He ordered coffee and a plate of food.

  The man behind the counter narrowed his eyes as he stared at Falcon. “Boy,” he whispered. “You be a MacCallister for shore. That’s Jack Biggers and some of his gang over yonder at the far table.”

  “I thought I smelled something rank in here,” Falcon said, deliberately raising his voice.

  “Shit!” the man behind the counter said.

  “That’s the odor, all right. Seems to be coming from over yonder.” He pointed toward the four men at the far table, who by now were looking at him.

  The counterman moved swiftly to one side, out of the line of fire.

  “Got to be another one of them goddamn MacCallisters,” Jack Biggers said, standing up. “That whore you call a mother drops you whelps like the bitch dog she is.”

  Falcon shot him twice, one ball taking Biggers in the chest and the next one tearing out a large part of his throat. The three men with him grabbed for their pistols and the old trading post rocked with the heavy reports of gunfire.

  The counterman would later say, “That there young feller, he just stood there, both hands filled with them Colts of his’n and he didn’t bat airy eye. He just quick as lightnin’ hooked and drawed and ’fore I knowed it, all four of them men was dead on the floor. And I’d just swamped out the place ’bout an hour ’fore the shootin’. I thought I never would get all the blood up.”

  Falcon walked over to the mess in the corner and looked down at the bodies. He stood there for a moment and calmly reloaded. Then he turned and walked to the counter.

  “Bacon and beans and coffee and flour,” he told the badly shaken counterman.

  The counterman, who had spent the better part of twenty years in the wilderness and had survived Indian attacks and had witnessed the acts of both the best and the worst of men, later told the commanding officer of the fort, “I never seen nothin’ like that young man. Cold as ice, he was. I’d not like to have that young man as an enemy.”

  Falcon paid for his goods, walked out of the store, mounted up, and rode away without looking back.

  After listening to the man’s comments about the shooting, the commanding officer of the post looked south for a time. “And another legend begins,” he muttered.

  Sitting with his dad on the front porch of his parents’ home, Falcon told his father what had happened up in Wyoming. Falcon was not aware that his mother was standing in the doorway listening. Jamie did not immediately reply. He finished his coffee and set the cup on the floor.

  “Jack Biggers has brothers and other kin. They’ll be coming after you, son.”

  “I reckon so,” the boy replied.

  “What are you going to do?”

  The young man looked at his father. “You mean will I run? You know better than that, Pa.”

  “Maybe I’ll take a ride with you, Falcon. Would you like that?”

  “Sure would, Pa.”

  “That’s settled then. You stick around here for a couple of weeks, and if the wind is blowing wrong, word will get to us. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

  “Leave Ian and Matt out of it, Pa. They’ve got kids to raise.”

  “All right. Falcon, How did you feel after you shot those men?”

  “Truthful, Pa?”

  “Yes.”

  Falcon gave that a long moment’s thought. “I guess satisfied, Pa.”

  Jamie expected any one of a whole host of replies, but certainly not that one. It took him aback for a moment. “Satisfied, son?”

  “They were murderers and outlaws.” Then he told Jamie what Jack Biggers had said about Kate.

  Jamie sat in silence for a moment longer. “He really said that about your mother?”

  “Yes, sir. And he was right ugly-soundin’ when he said it, too.”

  “Then I reckon satisfied is a good way to feel about it, son.”

  Ten

  Even Cort had to admit that Page was a beautiful child. But he would never permit himself to touch her, which suited Anne just fine, especially since she had caught her brother and her husband naked in the same bed in Ross’s home. There had been no big screaming scene. Anne had known for several years that Cort and Ross were having a homosexual affair, and during those years, she had planned and schemed and done it very well indeed.

  While Cort had been busy scrambling for his clothes and her brother laughing at the whole situation, Anne had told her husband how it was going to be and would brook no argument unless Cort wanted his reputation ruined.

  The upshot of it was Anne was now probably the richest woman in all of Virginia . . . and it was all going to be in writing. With Cort’s parents now deceased, the entire plantation, the small town not far from the plantation, the saw mills, grist mills, horses, cattle, everything now was split right down the middle. Anne and Page would never want for anything.

  Cort had, unbeknownst to Anne, seen to it that the second baby, adopted by Georgia and named Ben Franklin Washington, was cared for . . . and cared for well. He had quietly shifted Georgia and her husband Rufus to easier work and better quarters. The boy might well be a nigger, but to Cort’s fair mind, he was his nigger . . . the phraseology something only a Southerner of the time would understand.

  It scared Georgia and Rufus half to death to know that Master Cort knew the boy was his own, but Cort, in his gentle way, quickly put them at ease. Cort also felt that war was looming in the not too distant future, and he was realistic enough to know that when it erupted, the south would lose. Cort had traveled extensively in the north and was awed by the population, the factories, and the spirit of those above the Mason/Dixon line.

  Cort had matured much since the death of his parents and the shock of knowing he had married a half-breed. But he also knew what he was and had accepted his sexuality. Anne’s brother had not done so and because of his indecision was in no small degree of constant torment.

  “You watch my sister, Cort,” Ross had warned him. “She’s a viper. If you’re not careful, she’ll strip you bare and leave you without a penny.”

  “I am well aware of that, Ross. More than you realize.”

  “What about your quarter-breed son?”

  Cort looked at his friend and lover. “He’ll be taken care of.”

  “Would you like h
im on the railroad?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The underground railroad to freedom up north.”

  Cort sat down on the edge of the bed. “What do you know about that, Ross?”

  “Oh, a bit.”

  “I couldn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You wouldn’t even know when it happened.”

  “Then do it.”

  “You’ll never see the boy again,” Ross said.

  “That would probably be a blessing for all concerned.”

  “Then consider it done.”

  * * *

  Sparks had not visited Valley for almost a year, and Jamie was beginning to wonder if anything had happened to the man when early one morning he rode in. He was tired and so was his horse. He swung down from the saddle and gratefully took the cup of coffee Kate handed him.

  “I’ll bring out a plate of biscuits and a bowl of gravy,” she told him.

  “Obliged, Kate.” Sparks took a swallow of coffee and said, “We been riding relays to get here, Jamie. What do you know about a man named Louis Layton?”

  Jamie shook his head. “I never heard of the man.”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “Lawrence Laurin,” Jamie said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “That’s the true name of the lawyer who was all tied in with that big shot rich man from New York, Maurice Evans, the one I killed in San Francisco. Lawrence Laurin, Louis Layton. If I had to take a guess, I’d guess it was the same man. Why?”

  “Well, word I get is that he’s now a wealthy and powerful man in Washington, D.C. He’s in cahoots with some fancy-pants politician out of Louisiana name of Jubal Olmstead. They’ve contested your right to claim these valleys. The fellers I talked to who just come out here from Washington say that Layton and Olmstead don’t have a leg to stand on, but it’s going to cost you a lot of money to defend your claims. They aim to bankrupt you and ruin you that way. And if they can’t do it that way, they’ve bankrolled a gang to try to kill you—again.”