Dead Before Sundown

by William W. Johnstone

  “It wasn’t for nothing,” Frank had pointed out. “We helped save a lot of people from being massacred today.”

  “Well, yeah, I reckon. But I’m still broke.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” Frank assured the old-timer now as they sat in the hotel lobby. “I’ve got enough for both of us.”

  “You’re gonna have to tell me sometime how come a driftin’ gunfighter’s got plenty of dinero,” Salty said.

  Frank smiled. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  He looked up and grew more solemn as Sergeant McKendrick came through the hotel’s front door. The sergeant looked around, spotted them, and came across the lobby to join them.

  “What was the final tally, Sergeant?” Frank asked as McKendrick sat down.

  McKendrick sighed. “Six dead—not counting the Métis—and upwards of thirty wounded. Terrible, just terrible. But it would have been much, much worse if not for you and your friends, Mr. Morgan.”

  “I’m glad we were around to lend a hand.”

  “What are your plans now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Is that an official question?” Frank asked with a grin.

  “Well … it might be. I’ve spoken to some of my superiors about you. They tell me that you have quite a reputation down in the States. It’s said that trouble follows you wherever you go.”

  “So you’d probably just as soon I went somewhere else besides Canada.”

  “Indeed. The North West Mounted Police are charged with keeping the peace, you know. I have a feeling that would be much easier without the, ah, Drifter in our midst.”

  Frank didn’t take offense. He had heard it all before. He said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be moseying on pretty soon. Salty and I have been talking about going down to Mexico.” He turned to the old-timer. “In fact, I was thinking about seeing if I can send a wire to Seattle and see if the fella who’s been looking after Stormy, Goldy, and Dog could put them on a train and ship them over to White Sulphur Springs in Montana. I’ve got a friend named Bob Coburn who owns a ranch near there. It’s really not all that far from here, as the crow flies. If we could pick them up there, we wouldn’t even have to go back to Seattle.”

  Salty nodded. “Sounds like a mighty fine plan to me. I wouldn’t mind takin’ a pasear down through that Montana cattle country.”

  “If I can assist you in any way in making your plans, Mr. Morgan, please let me know,” McKendrick said.

  “I’ll do that,” Frank promised. “We’ll be outfitted and on our way in a day or two, more than likely.”

  McKendrick said his farewells and left. Frank and Salty resumed their sitting and musing.

  “Reckon they’ll ever have another ro-day-o here, after all the hell that broke loose at this one?” Salty asked.

  “I expect they will. Reb says they’re the coming thing, that they’ll be holding rodeos all over the country before you know it.”

  “Hmmph. Why in tarnation would they do that?”

  “Because it won’t be long until the frontier that we knew is gone, Salty. Hombres like the two of us are the next thing to relics already. People will want to remember the way things were, though, and rodeos and Wild West shows and things like that will be the only way.”

  “It won’t be the same,” Salty warned.

  “Nothing ever is,” Frank said.

  From bestelling authors William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone comes a blazing new saga of the MacCallisters. One family, forging a destiny. One legacy, sworn to justice. One name, branded in the heart of America …

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW OF

  MACCALLISTER: THE EAGLES LEGACY

  The Scottish Highlands, 1885. Two men, brandishing knives, attack a young woman outside a pub. Duff MacCallister steps in and saves her—killing one of the assailants. Big mistake. The attacker was the sheriff’s son, and now MacCallister is marked for death. His only hope: America. Here, in the sprawling land of dreams, Duff hopes to start a new life with his American cousins. Unfortunately, the sheriff’s deputies are tracking him down—with nine of the deadliest cutthroats money can buy. Blazing a trail of blood and bullets all the way to the Rockies, Duff has to kill his enemies one by one—or die trying. But this time, Duff is not alone. He has a new ally by his side. A living legend of frontier justice. The gunslinger known as Falcon MacCallister …

  MACCALLISTER: THE EAGLES LEGACY

  On sale April 2011

  Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold

  Chapter 1

  Scotland—Donuun in Argyllshire

  The White Horse Pub in Donuun had an island bar, Jacobean-style ceiling, beautiful stained-glass windows, and etched mirrors. Despite its elegant décor and clientele of nobles, it was primarily a place for drinking and most who came behaved with decorum, enjoying the ambiance and convivial conversation with friends. But some, like Alexander, Donald, and Roderick Somerled, sons of Angus Somerled, Lord High Sheriff of Argyllshire regarded their station in life not one of seemliness, but one of privilege. They drank too much, considered all others to be beneath them, and behaved with little restraint.

  Duff Tavish MacCallister, a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders, and muscular arms was sitting on a stool at the opposite end of the bar from the Somerleds. This wasn’t by accident; there was a long-standing feud between the MacCallister and Somerled Clans, going back to the time of Robert the Bruce. And although the killing of each other had stopped a hundred years ago, their dislike of each other continued.

  Ian McGregor, owner of the tavern, was wiping glasses behind the bar and he stepped over to speak to Duff.

  “Duff, m’lad, I was in the cemetery the other day and I saw marked on the tombstone of one of the graves, ‘Here lies Geoffrey Somerled, an honest man.’ So this, I’ll be askin’ you. Think ye now that there may be two bodies lyin’ in the same coffin—Geoffrey and an honest man?”

  Duff MacCallister threw back his head and laughed out loud. He was wearing a kilt and he slapped his bare knee in glee. McGregor’s daughter, Skye, a buxom lass with long red hair, flashing blue eyes, and a friendly smile, had been filling three mugs with ale as her father told the joke. She joined in the laughter.

  Duff and Skye were soon to be married, and their banns were already posted on the church door. Most of the customers of the White Horse Pub appreciated Skye’s easy humor and friendly ways and treated her with respect due a woman. But some, like the sheriff’s three sons, treated her with ill-concealed contempt.

  “Bar girl!” Donald shouted. “More ale!”

  “You know her name, Somerled,” Duff said. “And it isn’t bar girl.”

  “’Tis a bar girl she is and her services we’re needin’,” Donald said.

  “I’ll not be but a moment, Mr. Somerled,” Skye replied. She had just put the three mugs on a carrying tray. “I’ve other customers to tend now.”

  “You’re carrying three mugs—there be but three of us,” Donald said. “Serve us first. You can get more ale for them.”

  “I’ll not be but a moment, sir,” Skye replied.

  Donald was carrying a shillelagh, and he banged it so loudly on the bar that it startled Skye, and she dropped her tray.

  “What a clumsy trollop ye’ be!” Donald said. “If you had brought the ale here, as I asked, this no’ would’a happened.”

  “I told you, sir, I had other customers.”

  “Your other customers can wait. Be ye daft as well as clumsy? Do ye know who I am?” Donald asked.

  “Donald Somerled, that is my fiancée you are talking to and if you speak harshly to her again, I will pull your tongue out of your mouth and hand it to you,” Duff said, barely controlling his voice, so intense was his anger.

  “We’ll be seeing who is handing who their tongue,” Duff said, hitting his open hand with his shillelagh.

  Duff put his mug on the bar, then stepped away to face Donald. “I’m at your service,” he said.

  With a defiant yell Donald charg
ed Duff, not with his fists, but with a raised shillelagh. Duff grabbed the same bar stool he had been sitting on, and raised it over his head to block the downward swing of the club. The clack of wood crashing against wood filled the entire pub with a crack almost as loud as a gunshot. The noise got the attention of everyone in the bar and all conversation stopped as they turned to watch the confrontation between a MacCallister and a Somerled.

  Donald raised his staff for a second try, but as he held his club aloft MacCallister turned the stool around and slammed the seat into Donald’s chest so hard that he let out a loud whoosh as he fell to the floor with the breath knocked from his body.

  “You’ll be paying for that, Duff MacCallister!” Alexander said, and even as Donald writhed on the floor trying to recover his breath, his older brother charged Duff.

  Duff tossed the bar stool aside, then put up his fists to meet Alexander’s charge. He parried a wild, roundhouse right, then countered with a straight left that landed on Alexander’s chin, driving him back. With a yell of anger, the third of the Somerled brothers, Roderick, joined the fray.

  Duff backed up against the bar, thus preventing either of them from getting behind him. He sent a whistling blow into Roderick’s nose and felt it break, causing the big man to grab his nose and turn away from the fight. Now only Alexander was left, but he was the biggest and the most dangerous of the three. Shaking off the blow to his chin, he raised both fists, then advanced toward Duff.

  The two men danced around the barroom floor exchanging blows, or rather, attempted blows. Duff learned early in the fight that he could hit Alexander at will. That was because Alexander was so big and so confident of his strength that he made no attempt to block Duff’s blows, willing to take them in order to get into position to return the blow. And, he seemed to be taking them with no ill effect.

  Duff, on the other hand, bobbed and weaved as Alexander tried roundhouse rights, straight punches, and uppercuts. Finally Alexander connected with one of his attempts, a straight shot that Duff managed to deflect with his left shoulder, thus avoiding a punch to his head. And, even though it was not a direct hit, there was so much power in the blow that Duff felt his left arm go numb, which meant he could no longer count on that arm to ward away any more of the big man’s punches.

  Duff knew he was going to have to end the fight soon, so he bobbed and weaved, watching for an opening. The opening came after Alexander tried another roundhouse right. Duff managed to pull back from it, and as Alexander completed his swing, it left the opening Duff was looking for. Duff pulled the trigger on a straight whistling right that drove his fist into Alexander’s Adam’s apple.

  Alexander gagged, and put both hands to his throat. When he did so, Duff followed with a hard right to the chin that sent Alexander down to join Donald, who was just now getting up but showing no interest in continuing the fight.

  For a long moment everyone in the bar looked on with shock and amazement. The Somerleds had a reputation for fighting, something they did frequently. And, because they were the sons of the sheriff, they never had to pay any of the consequences that others of the county had to pay when they engaged in the same activity.

  They seldom lost a fight and yet here, in front of an entire inn full of witnesses, one man, Duff MacCallister, had taken the measure, not just of one of them, but of all three, and at the same time.

  “Hear, hear, let’s give a hurrah for Duff MacCallister!” someone shouted, and the bar rang with their huzzahs.

  “Now, gentlemen, I believe you called for more ale?” the bartender said, speaking to the Somerleds as if nothing had happened, as if he were merely responding to their request. Donald and Roderick responded with a scowl, helped their oldest brother to his feet; then the three men left.

  Everyone in the pub wanted to buy Duff a round, but he had already drunk his limit of two mugs, so he thanked them all, accepting their offers to buy for him when next he came in.

  “Skye, would you step outside with me for a moment?” Duff asked.

  “Ian, best you keep an eye on them,” one of the other customers said. “Else they’ll be outside sparking.”

  Skye blushed prettily as the others laughed at the jibe. Duff took her hand in his and walked outside with her.

  “Only four more weeks until we are wed,” Skye said when they were outside. “I can hardly wait.”

  “No need to wait. We can go into Glasgow and be married on the morrow,” Duff suggested.

  “Duff MacCallister, sure and m’ mother has waited my whole life to give me a fine church wedding now, and you would deny that to her?”

  Duff chuckled. “Don’t worry, Skye. There is no way in the world I would start my married life by getting on the bad side of my mother-in-law. If you want to wait, then I will wait with you.”

  “What do you mean you will wait with me?” Skye asked. “And what else would you be doing, Duff MacCallister? Would you be finding a willing young lass to wait with you?”

  “I don’t know such a willing lass,” Duff replied. “Do you? For truly, it would be an interesting experiment.”

  “Oh, you!” Skye said, hitting Duff on the shoulder. It was the same shoulder Alexander had hit in the fight and he winced.

  “Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry. You just made me mad talking about a willing lass.”

  Duff laughed, then pulled Skye to him. “You are the only willing lass I want,” he said.

  “I should hope so.”

  Duff bent down to kiss her waiting lips.

  “I told you, Ian! Here they are, sparking in the dark!” a customer shouted and, with a good-natured laugh, Duff and Skye parted. With a final wave to those who had come outside to “see the sparking,” Duff started home.

  Three Crowns

  Duff Tavish MacCallister was the fifth generation to live on, and work Three Crowns, the property that was first bestowed by King Charles II upon Sir Falcon MacCallister, Earl of Argyllshire and Laird of Three Crowns. Falcon was Duff’s great-great-great-greatgrandfather. The title passed on to Falcon’s eldest son, Hugh, but died when Hugh migrated to America. The land stayed in the family, passing down to Braden MacCallister, who was Duff’s great-great-greatgrandfather. The land passed through the succeeding generations so that it now belonged to Duff.

  Three Crowns got its name from three crenellated hills that, with imagination, resembled crowns. The family cemetery was atop the middle crown where Sir Falcon MacCallister and all succeeding generations, down to and including Duff’s father, mother, and only brother, lay buried. Duff was the last MacCallister remaining in Scotland.

  Duff raised Highland cattle on Three Crowns. He liked Highland cattle, not only because they were a traditional Scottish breed, but also because they required very little in the way of shelter, enjoying conditions in which many other breeds would perish. Cold weather and snow had little effect on them and they seemed to be able to eat anything, getting fat on what other cattle would pass by.

  Duff had read of the great cattle ranches in the American West, and how they required many cowboys to ride herd on the huge herds across vast areas. But because the Highland cattle were so easy to manage, and he had only three hundred acres, Duff was able to manage his farm all alone. He did have something in common with the cowboys of the American West, though. He managed his herd from the back of a horse, and this morning he saddled his horse, then, as the sun was rising, took a ride around his entire three hundred acres, looking over his cattle. It was a brisk morning and both he and his horse blew clouds of vapor into the cool air.

  His horse whickered as he rode through his small herd of cattle, distinctive with their long hair and red coloring. The cattle were grazing contentedly, totally unresponsive to the horse and human who had come into their midst.

  As Duff rode around his herd, he imagined what it would be like when he had a son to help him run the ranch. He and Skye had spoken often of it.

  “What if our first child is a girl?” Skye teased.

  “
Then we shall make her a princess, and have a son.”

  “But if we have only girls?”

  “Then I will make them all tomboys, and they will smell of cattle when they go to school.”

  “Oh, you!” Skye said, hitting him playfully.

  Duff also planned to build a place for Skye’s parents so they could live on Three Crowns with them. For now, Skye’s father, Ian McGregor, enjoyed a good living running the White Horse Pub, but there would come a time when he would be too old to work. When that time came, Duff promised Skye, Ian could retire in comfort in his own house, right there beside them.

  As Duff reached the southern end of his property he saw a break in the fence. Ten of his cattle had gone through the break and were now cropping the weeds that grew on the other side of the Donuun Road. Duff slapped his legs against the side of his horse, then rode at a quicker pace until he reached the break in the fence.

  “Who told you cows you could be over here?” Duff said as he guided his horse through the break and across the road. He began rounding the cattle up and pushing them back across the road toward the break in the fence. It wasn’t a particularly hard thing to do—Highland cattle were known not only for their hardiness, but also for their intelligence and docile ways. He had just gotten the last cow pushed back through the break when Rab Malcolm rode up. Malcolm was one of Sheriff Somerled’s deputies.

  “Your cows are trespassing on county property,” Malcolm said. “You could be fined for that, you know.”

  “My cows were keeping the weeds down along the side of the county road,” Duff said. “I should charge the county a fee for that.”

  “Making light of the offense does not alter anything,” Malcolm said. “I saw your cows on the road. That is a violation and you could be cited.”

  “Cite me or ride away Rab Malcolm,” Duff said. “I’ll not be listening to your prattle.”

  Malcolm removed his billy club from his belt and pointed it directly at Duff.

  “With your wild carryin’ ons last night, ‘tis an enemy you have made of the sheriff,” Malcolm said. “And in this county, ‘tis not a smart thing to make the sheriff your enemy.”