Pride of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Wait a minute,” he said aloud. “Diablo, who says that I have to get rid of my longhorns? Why can’t I raise both breeds?”

  Falcon knew that talking to Diablo was little more than talking to himself, but sometimes it was effective in helping him think things out. Smiling, he stood up, and walked back over to Diablo. Patting his horse on the neck, he spoke into his ear.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I just needed to talk to someone who could give me a little advice, and you have been very helpful.”

  He remounted, then started back toward the house, his mind made up.

  Falcon packed his bags for the trip, then rode into town to buy a ticket and make arrangements to take his horse with him.

  * * *

  It was very dark by the time the train pulled into Laramie, Wyoming, but the station platform was so brightly lit by nearly a dozen gas lamps that it shined like a golden bubble. Falcon got off the train, then walked up to the stock car to wait for Diablo to be offloaded.

  “Staying in town long?” the stationmaster asked.

  “Staying through the auction,” Falcon replied.

  The stationmaster chuckled. “I thought maybe you were. We’ve got a lot of people in town right now. You lookin’ for a place to stay? Because if you need a place, my sister-in-law rents a room in her house. Meals come with it, and I can attest to the fact that she’s a good cook.”

  “Your sister-in-law?”

  “Yes, she’s a widow woman now. She was married to my brother.”

  “I don’t know,” Falcon said. “It probably wouldn’t work out for your sister-in-law. I like to stay out late. I wouldn’t want to disturb her when I come in.”

  “No problem. The back bedroom you would be using has its own door.”

  Falcon had planned to get a room in the hotel but, for some reason, he found the idea of staying in a private home strangely appealing.

  “Does she have a place to put up my horse?”

  “She has a barn out back,” the stationmaster said. “Clean straw in the stall, fresh hay.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “That’s it, right across the street,” the stationmaster said, pointing to small, single-story wood-frame house. “Her name is Frances Martin. My name’s Cody Martin. Tell her that I sent you. That way, she’ll know you aren’t dangerous.”

  “How do you know I’m not dangerous, Cody?” Falcon asked.

  “Oh, you’re a dangerous man, Falcon MacCallister,” Cody said. “But you’re only dangerous to those folks who cross you the wrong way.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir, I know’d who you was the moment you stepped down from the train. I seen you in action once. Quick as thought, you were. But you was in the right, and the other fella was in the wrong. No, sir, you ain’t no danger to my sister-in-law. Fact is, I’d feel comforted by you stayin’ there.”

  Falcon nodded. “I appreciate your confidence in me,” he said.

  Falcon threw his saddle onto Diablo’s back, but he didn’t cinch it down. Instead, he walked across the street, leading his horse. Tying him off at the hitching post in front, Falcon walked up to the house and knocked on the front door.

  A young boy answered the door. Falcon guessed that he was about fourteen.

  “Yes, sir?” the boy said.

  “I was told by the stationmaster that I could rent a room here,” Falcon said.

  The boy turned. “Mom!” he shouted.

  “Don’t shout so, Gordon, it’s quite rude,” a woman’s voice said from within the house.

  The stationmaster had said that his sister-in-law was a widow and, because of that, Falcon had a preconceived notion of what she might look like. The woman who answered her son’s call wasn’t at all what he had expected. She was probably in her early forties, but her skin had the peaches-and-cream complexion of someone much younger. Her high cheekbones, green eyes, and light brown hair were combined in just the exact proportion to make her an exceptionally pretty woman. Her beauty was what Falcon would describe as classic, rather than the seductive, almost hard-edged look that was common to so many of the younger women he encountered.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Martin. As I told the boy, the stationmaster said I might be able to get a room here during my stay. He said to tell you that Cody Martin sent me.”

  The woman smiled, then opened the door. “Yes, that would be my brother-in-law. Please come in,” she invited.

  Falcon picked up his grip and went inside.

  “The charge for the room and meals will be two dollars per night, payable each day in advance,” Mrs. Martin said. “I do not allow liquor in my house, so if you intend to drink you must go elsewhere to do so.”

  “Fair enough,” Falcon said. “I’m told you have a room that has a private entrance? I wouldn’t want to disturb the house by coming in late.”

  “Yes, there is a private entrance.”

  “I’ll take the room,” Falcon said. He gave her a ten-dollar bill. “I’ll pay for five days in advance,” he said.

  “You don’t have to pay that far in advance,” Mrs. Martin said.

  “I know, but I prefer to, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course I don’t mind, Mister ... I’m sorry, I don’t believe you told me your name.”

  “MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Falcon MacCallister?” the boy said loudly. “Are you really Falcon MacCallister?”

  Falcon nodded. “That’s really my name,” he said.

  “Wow!”

  Mrs. Martin looked puzzled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is this a name I should recognize?”

  Falcon shook his head. “No, ma’am, there’s no reason at all you should recognize the name.”

  “Mom, he is just the most famous gunfighter there is, that’s all,” Gordon said, awestruck by his proximity to Falcon.

  “Gunfighter?” she said.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” Gordon said quickly, seeing that she was beginning to have second thoughts about renting to him. “He only kills bad men.”

  “I see,” she said. “Well, I suppose I should be comforted by the fact that you kill only . . . bad . . . men.”

  Falcon sighed and reached for his luggage. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps I should stay at the hotel. I’ve no wish to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Mom!” Gordon said, obviously disturbed that Falcon was going to go somewhere else.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you are welcome. If my brother-in-law sent you, I’m sure it will be all right. Besides, you won’t be able to get a room at the hotel anyway. Apparently, there is some auction about to take place and a lot of people are in town for that.”

  “Yes,” Falcon said. “I am here for the auction as well.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would a gunfighter be interested in an auction?”

  Falcon laughed out loud. “I’m not what you would call a full-time gunfighter,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Martin said. “That was quite rude of me.”

  “No apology needed. If you don’t mind, I’ll put my horse in the back.”

  “I’ll do it,” Gordon said excitedly.

  “Well, thank you,” Falcon said. He gave Gordon a quarter.

  “Wow! Thanks!” Gordon said, hurrying to tend to the horse.

  “It’s past time for supper,” Mrs. Martin said. “But if you are hungry, I could fix you something.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Falcon said. “If you’ll just show me to the room, I’ll be fine.”

  Nine

  After getting settled in his room, Falcon let himself out the back door and walked down the street to find a saloon. It was easy to find, because of all the golden patches of light that spilled through the windows and doors of the buildings. The brightest patch lay in the street in front of a building that was identified as the Gold Strike. Falcon pushed through the swinging doors and went inside.

>   The piano player was taking a break, sitting with his back to his instrument and drinking a whiskey as he looked out over the customers.

  Falcon stepped up to the bar.

  “What can I get you, friend?” the bartender asked, moving toward him.

  “A beer,” Falcon said.

  With a nod, the bartender drew the beer, then handed the glass to him. A full head was on top of the glass.

  Falcon blew off much of the foam, then, as was his habit when visiting a saloon for the first time, he turned to peruse the room. At one of the tables, a lively card game was in progress. The table was crowded with brightly colored poker chips and empty beer mugs. There were two brass spittoons within spitting distance of the players, but despite their presence, the floor around the table was riddled with expectorated tobacco quids and chewed cigar butts.

  One of the players, shaking his head in disgust, pushed the chair back and stood up. “That’s it for me, boys,” he said. “The cards wasn’t comin’ my way tonight. I ain’t drawed a winnin’ hand in a coon’s age.”

  One of the players looked over toward the bar and, seeing that Falcon was watching them, called out to him.

  “Mister, you’ve been watchin’ our game like you might be interested in playing. Would you care to join us?”

  Falcon tossed the rest of his drink down, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “Thanks for the invite,” he said. “I believe I will join you, if you don’t mind.”

  The person who invited Falcon stood and extended his hand. “The name’s Clyde Puckett,” he said. “I work at the rolling mill.”

  “The rolling mill?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t see the rolling mill,” Clyde said. “It’s just the biggest building in the entire Wyoming Territory is all. We make railroad tracks.”

  “You evidently arrived on this evening’s train,” one of the other players said. “Had you arrived in the daytime, you would have been aware of its presence, not only by its size, but by the noxious smoke it spreads across our community.”

  “That noxious smoke provides employment for two hundred families,” Clyde said defensively.

  “I’m not complaining, just commenting.”

  “Tell him the rules, Clyde,” one of the other players said. He was the player with the most chips.

  “Here’s the rules,” Clyde explained. “What you take out of your pocket and put in front of you is all the money you can play with. And you can’t go back for more.”

  “And you can’t put any more in front of you than the most any of us have,” one of the other men said. “We’ve got a lot of rich folks in town now, what with this cattle auction that’s coming up, and we don’t aim to let anyone come in here and start buying the pot by betting more than anyone can match.”

  “Sounds reasonable enough to me,” Falcon said.

  “And just so you know who to look out for, Mr. Bill Nye here has been the winner so far tonight,” one of the other players said.

  “I must confess to a bene placeto with the cards,” Nye said.

  “As you no doubt gather from his Latin, Mr. Nye is a lawyer, and everybody knows what a foul profession lawyers be.”

  The others around the table, including Nye, laughed.

  “Listen to who’s talking. I ask you, gentlemen, in all sincerity, can you trust a representative of the press? Mr. Hayford here”—Nye pointed to the person who had identified him as a lawyer—“is publisher of The Sentinel, our newspaper.”

  “At least he doesn’t send messages in code,” Clyde said. “What did you say? A benny pleaseto or something like that?”

  “My dear boy,” Nye said. “And to whom would I be sending secret messages? A bene placeto is merely a Latin phrase meaning I have been well pleased with the cards.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t use no more of that. It’s like you’re cheatin’ or something.”

  “Fortunately for you, Clyde, I also believe in absit iniuria verbis.” Nye held up his finger. “And before you fly off the handle, that means that I take no insult from your words.”

  “Mr. Nye is also the postmaster,” Hayford said.

  “Former postmaster, my good man, former postmaster,” Nye said. “On October first of last year, I sent a letter to the President of the United States tendering my resignation. Perhaps you would like to hear it.”

  “I would love to hear it,” Hayford said. His broad smile told Falcon that he had heard it before and had set this up just for Falcon’s benefit.

  “Hey, fellas,” someone in the saloon shouted. “Mr. Nye is going to resign as postmaster again.”

  “I’ve got to hear that,” someone else said, and nearly everyone in the bar, men and women, gathered around the table to listen.

  Nye, who was very aware that he was center of attention, made a big show of removing a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. He slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat, then flattened the paper and looked around at his audience before he began to read.

  “From the Postmaster, Laramie City, Wyoming Territory, to the President of the United States,” he read in a loud, stentorian voice.

  “Sir: I beg leave at this time to officially tender my resignation as postmaster at this place, and in due form to deliver the great seal and the key to the front door of the office. The safe combination is set on the numbers 22,66,99, though I do not remember at this moment which comes first, or how many times you revolve the knob, or which direction you should turn it first in order to make it operate.

  “There is some mining stock in my private drawer in the safe, which I have not yet removed. This stock you may have, if you desire it. It is a luxury, but you may have it. I have decided to keep a horse instead of this mining stock. The horse may not be so pretty, but it will cost less to keep him.

  “You will find the postal cards that have not been used under the distributing table, and the coal down in the cellar. If the stove draws too hard, close the damper in the pipe and shut the general delivery window.

  “Mr. President, as an official of this Government I now retire. My term of office would not expire until 1886. I must, therefore, beg pardon for my eccentricity in resigning. It would be best, perhaps, to keep the heartbreaking news of my resignation from the ears of European powers until the dangers of a financial panic are fully past. Then hurl it broadcast with a sickening thud.

  “Yours sincerely, Bill Nye.”

  * * *

  Nye’s reading of his letter was met with laughter and applause, and he made a great show of bowing to his audience.

  “Friend, I apologize for the interruption, and hope you will forgive us,” Hayford said to Falcon. “But if you know anything about lawyers, you know what hams they are.”

  “Quit wasting the man’s time with bogus apologies,” Nye said. He looked at Falcon. “Do you have any questions about the rules of the game?”

  “I take it I can match the funds of the person with the highest amount of money?” Falcon said.

  “You can indeed, sir,” Nye said. “And that would be me.” The lawyer, who was wearing a black suit, a shoestring tie, and a flat-crown black hat, began counting the chips in front of him.

  “It would appear that I have one hundred and twenty-five dollars here.”

  “Well, I won’t need that much,” Falcon said. He bought seventy-five dollars worth of chips and stacked them up in front of him.

  “Are you here for the auction?” the lawyer asked as he dealt the cards. It was easy to see why Nye was ahead. He handled the cards easily, gracefully, whereas the others around the table looked awkward, even picking up the pasteboards.

  “That depends,” Falcon said.

  “On what?” Hayford asked.

  “On how much I win here.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Well, who knows?” Falcon said. “I might get enough money to buy a few head of prime stock, then get some land just outside of t
own. Then, I’d start looking for a good woman to have my kids. I’d join the local chamber of commerce, and run for mayor. If that works out, I might take a seat in Congress, then, after a few terms, I’ll run for President of the United States. They’ll build statues of me in Washington, and put my picture on money. I can see great things from this one little card game. So you see, gentlemen, I’ve got to win here tonight. Why, the future of the United States may well depend on it.”

  Falcon said the entire speech in complete seriousness, and at first, the others around the table looked at him in complete shock. Then, realizing that he was putting them on, they broke into loud guffaws of laughter.

  “Bill, move over,” Clyde said, slapping the table. “Your position as the town humorist has just been challenged.”

  “Hey, Suzie,” Hayford called to one of the bar girls. “Did you hear this gentleman? If he wins big, he’s going to be President of the United States.”

  Suzie looked back at Falcon, then smiled broadly. “I just heard the part where he would be looking for a wife,” she said. Then, to Falcon: “Honey, you’re a good-lookin’ man. Maybe I had better come over there and bring you luck. And if you do all you say you’re goin’ to do, I’d be happy to be your wife.”

  Suzie’s good-natured response brought more laughter.

  “Don’t you be bringing any more luck to this table, Suzie, unless you bring it to me,” Hayford teased.

  Falcon won the first hand.

  “Better watch it, Nye,” Clyde said. “This fella’s on his way.”

  As the game continued, Falcon won a little more than he was losing, but he wasn’t the big winner. Neither was Nye. It was almost as if, by joining the game, Falcon had changed the rules to the point that everyone seemed to be winning a bit more. That had the effect of improving everyone’s mood. And as their mood improved, they began talking about how much money the auction would generate.

  “Why, before this auction is over, I’ll bet there’ll be more money in this little town than in all of Denver,” Nye said as he picked up the cards. He groaned. “Who is the idiot that dealt this terrible hand?”

  “You are,” Hayford said.

  “I rest my case.”