Pride of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Tooey Keith?” Falcon asked.

  “He is . . . or rather, he was a harmless old soul,” Sheriff Gibson said. “He was the town drunk. He slept in the livery stable most of the time, and he supported himself by doing odd jobs around town. Some of the more generous folks used to feed him.” He nodded toward Frances. “I know Mrs. Martin did.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone being so cruel as to want to hurt a poor old man like Tooey.”

  “Johnny Purvis is that cruel,” Gibson said. “And the bad thing is, if we are to believe his note, it won’t stop with Tooey. He intends to kill again.”

  “What are you going to do about it, Sheriff?” Falcon asked.

  “Well, for one thing, I intend to hire a couple of deputies to patrol the town at night,” Gibson said. “And for another, I’m going to ask you, Mitchum, and Miss Coyle to move in together.”

  “Move in together?” Frances asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Well, sort of together,” Gibson said. “You see, they are the only eyewitnesses to the bank robbery. We’ll need their testimony in court in order to convict Carney. And I figure that Johnny knows this, which means he’ll be trying to stop them.”

  “Where do you plan for us to stay, Sheriff?” Falcon asked. “With all the cattlemen in town, the hotel is filled.”

  “I know,” Gibson said. “I haven’t figured that out yet. I could put you all up at the jail, but I wouldn’t want to have to do that.”

  “They can all stay with me,” Frances said.

  “Why, Mrs. Martin, you don’t have that kind of room, do you?”

  “I can make that much room,” Frances said. “I’ll move in with my son. Miss Coyle can have my room. And I can put a cot up in the parlor for Mr. Mitchum. Mr. MacCallister is already staying with me.”

  “That’s very good of you,” Gibson said. “I will see to it that the county pays you.”

  “I’m not worried about getting paid,” Frances said. “I just want to see justice done.”

  “How soon can they move in?” Gibson asked.

  “I can have everything ready within half an hour,” Frances promised.

  Eighteen

  “I hate putting you out like this,” Kathleen said at the dinner table that evening.

  “I don’t mind,” Frances said. “I just hope that you find your room comfortable.”

  “Yes, it’s quite comfortable, thank you.”

  Gordon reached for the potatoes.

  “Gordon, ask, don’t reach,” Frances corrected.

  “Can I have some more ’taters?”

  “You mean ‘may’ you have some more ‘potatoes,’ and yes, you may,” Frances said, passing the bowl of mashed potatoes to her son.

  “Falcon, I can see now why you were so anxious to stay here instead of taking a room at the Gold Strike,” Kathleen said. “It’s so . . .” She looked at Frances. “Homey, here.”

  “Yes, my stay here has been very pleasant,” Falcon said.

  “Mr. MacCallister, how long do you think we’ll have to be here like this?” Mitchum asked.

  “Just until after the trial, I would think,” Falcon said.

  “I don’t understand what the need was. I have a perfectly good room behind the bank. All of my things are there: my books, my arrowhead collection, my pictures.”

  “I know it’s inconvenient,” Falcon said. “But the sheriff thinks that it will be safer for us if we are all together.”

  “I suppose he’s right, but I, for one, will be glad when this trial is over and we can get back to our normal lives,” Mitchum said.

  “Are you running the bank now, Mr. Mitchum?” Frances asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. Mrs. Frazier hired me,” he said proudly. “I am interviewing people now to come work as a teller. But I’m sure you can understand that not just anyone can be a bank teller. It requires a person of mathematical skill and an even disposition.” He looked at Gordon. “Young man, it is an occupation that you might pursue in your future.”

  “No, sir,” Gordon replied. “I’m sure it’s a good job and all, but I want to be a railroad engineer, just like my pa was.”

  “Well, yes, of course, that is a very admirable position as well,” Mitchum said.

  “Poor Mrs. Frazier, losing her husband like that. I must call on her,” Frances said.

  “Yes, ma’am, given that you lost your own husband, I’m sure you would be a great comfort to her,” Mitchum said.

  “Would you care for some more coffee, Mr. Mitchum?” Frances asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, if you don’t mind,” Mitchum said, holding out his cup.

  “More coffee, Miss Coyle?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I understand you are an entertainer. A singer?” Frances asked as she poured the coffee.

  “Yes. Well, I’m just singing in small places now, but one day I would like to perform in the theaters of New York.”

  “Why New York?”

  “Because that is the center of the theatrical world,” Kathleen explained.

  “Oh. Then, I’m sure you will make it one day.”

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight, and Falcon was asleep when he heard a light tap on his door. Getting out of bed, he moved to the door quickly, then opened it.

  “Frances, do you really think . . .”

  That was as far as he got. The woman in the nightgown, standing just outside his door, wasn’t Frances. It was Kathleen Coyle.

  “Oh, my. Were you expecting someone else?” Kathleen asked. A broad, almost mocking smile spread across her face.

  “What are you doing here?” Falcon asked without answering her question.

  Kathleen faked a pout. “What am I doing here? I don’t recall you asking me that question when I came to your hotel room in Miles City.”

  “We aren’t in a hotel now,” he said.

  “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” Kathleen asked. “No more than I have on now, it’s cold out here.”

  “No,” Falcon said. “I’m not going to invite you in.”

  “You invited me in before.”

  “I know I did. But I shouldn’t have,” Falcon said. “And it’s not something I intend to ever do again.”

  “Oh? What if I forced myself in, Falcon? Would you really make a scene?”

  “Yeah, I would,” Falcon said. He closed the door.

  Kathleen stood just outside the door for a moment, as if shocked that he had closed her out. Then, with a shrug, she turned and started back to her room.

  * * *

  Hearing voices, Frances got out of bed and walked over to the door. Opening it, she peeked out just as the door was closing behind Kathleen. She saw the beautiful young woman, wearing only a nightgown, walking down the hallway to her room.

  “What is it, Mom?” Gordon asked sleepily from the bed behind her.

  “Nothing,” Frances said, wiping a tear as she came back to bed.

  * * *

  “You are awfully quiet this morning, Mrs. Martin,” Falcon said at breakfast.

  “Am I?” Frances replied. “I guess I just don’t have anything to talk about.” Her voice was almost clipped.

  “I can’t stay here all day,” Mitchum said. “I have a bank to run.”

  “I have to go to work as well,” Kathleen said. “Sylvester isn’t going to pay me to hang around here all day.”

  “The sheriff said he would call for us this morning,” Falcon said. “I think he wants to have someone with us all the time, or at least until after the trial.”

  Mitchum took a watch from his pocket and examined it. “I hope he gets here soon. I like to be in the bank at least one hour before it opens.”

  “I’m sure he will be,” Falcon said.

  With breakfast finished, Frances began picking up the plates and silverware. Falcon helped her.

  “No need for you to do this. I can take care of it. I don’t need any help,” Frances said.

  “Have you stopped to think
that I might want to help?” Falcon asked as he continued gathering the settings from the table. He followed her into the kitchen and put the dishes down on the counter. “What is it, Frances? What is going on?” he asked.

  “Why should something be going on?” Frances replied.

  “Come on,” Falcon said. “Your voice is so sharp this morning it could cut paper. Are you nervous about us being here? Because if you are, I can certainly understand, and I’ll talk to the sheriff about it.”

  “No need for that,” Frances said. “I’m not nervous about you being here.”

  “Well, something is bothering you.”

  “Look, why don’t you just go into the parlor and keep Miss Coyle company?” she said. “I’m sure that, after last night, she must be wondering why you are paying so much attention to me.”

  “After last night? What are you talking about?”

  “I saw her,” Frances said.

  “You saw her? What did she say? What did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything,” Frances said. “She didn’t need to. I saw her leaving your room.”

  “Oh. So that’s it.”

  “Yes, that’s it. I know I have no right to interfere with what you do. I mean, I told you that there could be nothing between us. But I do wish you would have more respect for me than to do something like that in my own house, and while my son is here.”

  “You saw her leaving,” Falcon said. “Did you see her go into my room?”

  “What?”

  “Did you see her go into my room?”

  “No, but I saw her leaving your room and . . .”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, don’t tell me what I saw,” Frances said. “I know exactly what I saw.”

  “You saw her leaving, but you did not see her leaving my room,” Falcon said.

  “But I . . .” Frances started. She was interrupted by Falcon raising his finger.

  “You didn’t see her come out of my room, because she was never in it,” Falcon said. “She came to the room and knocked on the door, but I would not let her in.”

  “You didn’t let her in?”

  “No.”

  “I . . .” Frances said. She let the word die on her lips.

  “Frances, you said yourself that there is nothing between us,” Falcon said. “So I’ve no reason to lie to you. If you want, I’ll call Kathleen in here and have her tell you herself.”

  Frances shook her head, then chuckled in embarrassment.

  “I can’t believe that I let a little thing like that upset me so,” she said. “Falcon, I’m sorry. I certainly have no right to question you about anything you do.”

  Falcon chuckled as well. “Falcon, is it, and not Mr. MacCallister? Well, I’m glad you are calling me by my first name again,” he said. “Mr. MacCallister had such a cold ring to it.”

  “Mr. MacCallister?” Mitchum called from the front room. “The sheriff is here.”

  “All right, I’ll be right there,” Falcon said.

  Nineteen

  Sheriff Gibson and one of his new deputies were standing on the front porch when Falcon, Mitchum, and Kathleen stepped outside.

  “Folks, I want you to meet Deputy Edwards,” Gibson said. “He’s going to be in the bank all day.”

  “We don’t have any money in the bank,” Mitchum said. “Nobody is going to rob a bank that has no money.”

  “I’m more interested in keeping you safe for now,” Gibson said. “You are a witness to a murder, remember?”

  “How can I forget?”

  “And Falcon, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to hang around the saloon and keep an eye on Miss Coyle, at least until after the trial.” He smiled broadly. “Now, that’s not asking too much, is it?”

  “No,” Falcon said. “That’s not asking too much.”

  * * *

  With Gibson on one side and Deputy Edwards on the other side, the little party started back toward town from Frances’s boardinghouse. They had gone about two blocks when someone came running up the road, shouting.

  “Sheriff Gibson! Sheriff Gibson! Sheriff Gibson!”

  “Yes, Wales,” Gibson called back. “What is it?”

  “You’d better come down here, Sheriff,” Wales said. “There’s somethin’ you need to see.”

  “Mitchum, you and Miss Coyle stay here with the deputy. Falcon, if you don’t mind, you come with me.”

  “All right,” Falcon said, following the sheriff and Wales.

  Wales led them up the narrow path between Wales’s Dry Goods and Clothing Store and Emma’s Dress Making Shop. They stopped when they reached the back of the buildings.

  “He’s over there,” Wales said, pointing.

  “Who’s over there?”

  “It’s Troy Garrison, Sheriff,” Wales said.

  “Troy Garrison?” the sheriff replied. “He works at the rolling mill, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s a shift foreman there. A good man too,” Wales said. “Mrs. Wales and I have had him over to our place more than once for supper.”

  “I know he’s a good man,” Gibson said.

  Garrison was wearing coveralls and a red flannel shirt. He was lying facedown in the alley almost hidden by a clump of weeds. The way his feet were turned out at an odd angle, and the stillness with which he was lying, clearly indicated that he was dead.

  “When did you find him?” Gibson asked.

  “Just a couple of minutes ago,” Wales said. “I had just swept up the store and come out back here to throw out the sweepin’s. That’s when I saw him’ lyin’ over there.”

  “Did you touch him?”

  “No. I yelled at him a couple of times, just to see if he had passed out back here or somethin’. And when I didn’t get no answer, I came to get you.”

  Sheriff Gibson rolled Garrison over onto his back. Like Keith, his throat had been cut. And like Keith, there was a note pinned to his chest.

  This is number two. If my brother isn’t released by noon today, there will be more.

  Johnny Purvis

  Gibson sighed. “I don’t mind telling you that this is one son of a bitch I would love to see hang. Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Coyle, for the language.”

  “Sheriff, I work in a saloon. I’ve heard such language before,” Kathleen said.

  “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” Falcon said in dry, angry tones.

  “You mean when he robbed the bank?” Sheriff Gibson asked.

  “No. I mean when he broke into Miss Coyle’s room up in Miles City. What I don’t understand is why the sheriff didn’t keep him up there. You’d think breaking and entering would be at least six months,” Falcon said.

  “Oh, well, uh, that’s my fault, I suppose,” Kathleen said.

  “How is it your fault?”

  “I didn’t stop by the sheriff’s office to press charges. I know I should have, but the whole experience was so unpleasant that I just didn’t want to see him again. I guess, in a way, this is all my fault.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. You had no way of knowing how everything was going to turn out,” Gibson said. “And I can understand your not pressing charges. I’ve had trouble myself getting people to press charges, either from fear, or just because they didn’t want to bother with a trial,” Gibson said.

  “Still, I feel responsible,” Kathleen said.

  Come on,” Gibson said to Falcon. “Let’s get Mr. Mitchum and Miss Coyle where they are supposed to be; then I’ll get Nunlee down here to take care of the body.” He sighed. “Nunlee is doing quite a business lately.”

  * * *

  “Did you check the horses?” Johnny asked as Pete came back into the camp.

  “Yeah, I checked them. They’re fine,” Pete said. He sat down on a rock, pulled up a long piece of grass, and began sucking on the root. “Tell me, Johnny, just how much longer do you plan to keep this up?”

  “How much longer do I plan to keep what up?” Johnny
replied.

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about,” Pete said. “This business of goin’ into town ever’ night and killin’ someone. We ain’t goin’ to get away with this forever, you know.”

  “We’ve done fine so far,” Johnny said.

  “That’s ’cause we ain’t been seen. But you been leavin’ them letters, tellin’ the whole world we’re the ones doin’ it. That means we’re goin’ to hang for sure if we ever get caught.”

  Johnny laughed, a short, bitter laugh. “What the hell, Pete? Do you think we won’t hang now if we get caught? We kilt that banker, remember?”

  “Another thing,” Pete said. “I prob’ly got me more money in my saddlebag now than I’ve ever had at one time in my whole life. What’s the good of havin’ all that money if I can’t spend none of it?”

  “What would you spend it on if you was in town?” Gabe asked.

  “I don’t know. Whiskey maybe. And a whore. Yeah, I’d get me a whore, that’s for sure.” He looked at the spitted rabbit that was cooking over the fire. “And a good dinner.”

  “Think about it, Pete. If you just don’t lose your patience, if you stick around and see this thing through to the end, you won’t be spendin’ it on no one whore. Hell, you can buy yourself an entire whorehouse.”

  Pete smiled. “Yeah, I hadn’t thought about it like that, but that’s right, ain’t it? I could buy myself a whorehouse and just have anyone I wanted, anytime I wanted.”

  “And buy your own restaurant too, if you wanted one.”

  “Yeah, well, now buyin’ a restaurant might not be a bad idea. ’Cause I’m sure as hell gettin’ tired of eatin’ squirrel an’ rabbit and the like.”

  Gabe leaned over the fire and stuck the point of his knife into the roasting rabbit. “This here looks about done,” he said.

  “Rabbit is a hell of a breakfast for a rich man to be eatin’ now, ain’t it?” Pete said. “I want a steak.”

  “Hey, Pete, if you don’t want your share of the rabbit, I’ll eat it,” Eddie said.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t goin’ to eat it,” Pete growled. “I just said I was tired of it. And I was just wonderin’ why we’re doin’ all this for Johnny’s brother, when we should be plannin’ to hit the bank again.”