Slaughter of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Still, he was incredibly cruel”

  “Yes, he was, and he is,” Nellie agreed. “I certainly hope you don’t think everyone is like the marshal. I would hate for you to get a bad impression about Western men.”

  “How could I have a bad impression of all Western men?” Janelle asked. “Mr. Donovan is a Westerner, isn’t he? And he certainly seems like a very good man.”

  “Yes, I believe he is, as well.”

  “And I met a man named Falcon MacCallister on the train,” Janelle continued. She hugged herself and smiled.

  “You met Falcon MacCallister?”

  “Yes. Why, do you know him?”

  Nellie shook her head. “I don’t know him, but I have heard of him. His name is quite well known throughout the West.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Oh, dear,” Janelle said. “Is he an outlaw?”

  “An outlaw?” Nellie laughed. “No, my dear, quite the contrary. Although he is not a full-time lawman, he has the reputation of being the nemesis of all outlaws. Some even call him a genuine Western hero.”

  “I knew it!” Janelle said. “I knew that someone like that couldn’t be a bad man.”

  “Someone like that? My, it sounds as if you did more than just meet him.”

  “He came to my rescue on the train.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  Janelle laughed self-consciously. “Well, it was nothing so dramatic; a young man was being a bit more persistent than I wanted. He continued to the point that it was getting quite uncomfortable for me. Mr. MacCallister asked him to leave me alone and the man got quite belligerent. In fact, I honestly believe he intended to draw his gun against Mr. MacCallister but—” she paused midsentence and laughed.

  “What?” Nellie asked, confused by the laughter. “I hardly think drawing a gun would be cause for laughter.”

  “It was funny,” Janelle said. “You see, he tried to draw his gun—I have no idea how he did it—but somehow when the young man went for his gun his holster was empty, and his gun was in Mr. MacCallister’s hand.”

  Nellie chuckled. “Yes, I can see how that would be funny. I would like to have seen that. Evidently Falcon MacCallister made quite an impression on you.”

  “He did, I admit. I do believe he is the most handsome man I’ve ever met. No, I can’t say that, exactly. I’ve seen some very handsome men in New York of course, but most of them are, I’m not sure what expression to use, but, they are what I would call dandies. Mr. MacCallister was handsome, but he was sort of rough looking, too.”

  Nellie smiled. “Oh my. I think if you stay in our West long enough, you will meet just such a man and stay out here.”

  “Who knows?” Janelle replied. “I might. When one begins a new adventure, one never can tell what lies ahead.”

  Every afternoon at two o’clock, Nellie’s husband, Ken Buckner, and a few other businessmen met in the Boar’s Head Saloon for one beer. Nellie didn’t mind Ken’s visits. He never abused the situation, he never stayed more than one hour, and she had her own ritual—a morning tea with some of the other ladies in town.

  Most of the time Ken’s visits were pleasant, with friendly conversation and good-natured bantering. At the moment, Corey Minner, a saloon patron and known bully, was having fun at Ken’s expense. He called himself a cowboy, but he had been fired from three outfits already. He was currently unemployed, and nobody knew exactly how he was making a living, though he had coerced some of the cowboys he had worked with in the past to lend him money. He sometimes did odd jobs, and many suspected he was responsible for a string of petty burglaries that had taken place recently.

  “Hey, Buckner!” Minner called out, tauntingly. “How come you ain’t wearin’ a dress?”

  Ken didn’t answer.

  “You heard me,” Minner said. “You work in a store for ladies, how come you ain’t wearin’ a dress?”

  Ken started to stand up, but one of the other businessmen put his hand on Ken’s arm. “Pay him no never mind, Ken.”

  “Yes, sir,” Minner said. “I think you’d look just real purty in a dress.”

  Ken stood up then, and turned to face Minner. Minner was a young man, in his early twenties, and Ken was in his late fifties.

  “You like thinking about men in dresses, do you, Minner?” Ken said. “I find that interesting. I never knew that about you. Of course, you may find Phoenix too small a place for someone like you. You might be better off in Denver or San Francisco where there are others of your kind.”

  The other businessmen laughed and while Minner didn’t know exactly what Ken was saying, he realized that somehow, his taunting had been turned back on him, and he was now the butt of the joke.

  “You son of a bitch!” Minner said. “You talk to me like that, you better draw your gun!”

  “I don’t wear a gun, Minner,” Ken said calmly.

  “Yeah? Well that’s your mistake, Buckner, because I do wear a gun!” Minner said.

  “So do I,” another voice said and looking toward the door, the saloon patrons saw Deputy John Forbis standing there, with his gun in his hand.

  “This ain’t none of your business, Forbis,” Minner said, angrily.

  Forbis nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it is my business. You see, I’m the deputy marshal. Now, you’ve got two choices. You can either unbuckle that gun belt and let it fall to the floor, or you can get out of here.”

  “You can’t arrest me, I ain’t done nothin’,” Minner complained.

  “I’m not arresting you,” Forbis said. “I’m just telling you to get rid of your gun, before you get yourself into trouble, or get out of here.”

  Minner glared at Forbis for a long time, then his face broke into a smile. “You don’t have to get all mad about it,” he said. “I was just funnin’ Buckner, that’s all.” He turned toward Buckner. “No hard feelin’s, Buckner. I was just funnin’.”

  “No hard feelings,” Ken replied.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Corey Minner left the saloon.

  “Wally, everything goin’ all right in here?” Forbis asked the bartender.

  “It’s goin’ fine, Deputy,” the bartender replied.

  Forbis took a quick glance around, then nodded at everyone before he left the saloon.

  “Damn,” one of the businessmen said. “Why the hell didn’t the city council pick him as the new marshal instead of Cairns?”

  Chapter Nine

  The Sonoran Desert, Arizona Territory

  Luke Mueller had stumbled on a small, intermittent stream of water. It was the Agua Fria River, though he had no idea what the name was. The water was alkaline and relatively bitter, but it was drinkable, so he wasn’t in any danger of dying of thirst.

  Hunger was another thing. Two days ago he had made four biscuits and cooked four pieces of bacon from the last of the food he had stolen from Blum. He had eaten the bacon and two of his biscuits at the river the day before and one that morning, leaving only one biscuit remaining. He had a decision to make. Should he eat his last biscuit or save it? Even if he saved the biscuit for later, he would still have the next day to contend with. Eating it now might assuage the hunger a bit. If he waited, he would be so hungry the biscuit would do little to take the edge off the hunger.

  The question was answered for him when he saw some sort of structure ahead of him, rising from the ground like another hillock. As he drew closer he saw it was a man-made structure, built of adobe brick and sun bleached wood. The question as to whether it was empty or occupied was answered when he got closer, for a crude, hand-lettered sign nailed to the roof read

  Pa Bakers Way Stop

  Beer – Eats

  Mueller smiled broadly at the sudden, and unexpected improvement of his situation. He had eaten all the food he stole from Blum, but he had not spent one penny of the money he took. He still had all thirty-six dollars in his pocket.

  When he reached the other side of the building, he was surpris
ed to see two freight wagons parked out front. Tying his horse off, he pushed through a hanging piece of canvas and stepped inside. For a moment, he thought he had gone blind. Outside the sun was so bright that he had been keeping his eyes at a squint. Inside, he could barely see.

  The room was illuminated only by the light that streamed in through two windows and the space between the roof and the top of the walls. He stood for a long moment, trying to adjust his eyes.

  “Hee, hee. It do be dark in here when a feller first comes in out of the bright sunlight, don’t it?” a man’s voice said. Although Mueller’s eyes had not yet adjusted enough for him to see who was speaking, the man’s high, squeaky voice gave him a very good mental image.

  “Don’t be worryin’ none about it, you ain’t gone blind,” the voice said. “Just stand there a minute, and you’ll see again, soon enough.”

  True to the scratchy voice’s promise, Mueller’s eyesight did return, and he saw that, in addition to the bartender, there were two other men in the room.

  Mueller walked over to the bar, which consisted of a few boards laid across a couple empty beer barrels.

  “What can I do for you, sonny?” the bartender asked.

  “Anything wet,” Mueller said.

  The other two men laughed. “Hell, Pa Baker, don’t you have a wet washrag there? Give that to him,” one of the men said.

  “I wouldn’t do that to man or beast,” Pa Baker said as he drew a mug of beer from the beer barrel. “If I ever seen me a feller that needed him a beer, it’s this here feller. Here you go, mister.”

  Mueller took the beer without so much as a word of thanks. He had hoped to find the place deserted except for the proprietor. That way he could have done to Pa Baker exactly what he did to David Blum and his wife.

  Picking up the mug, Mueller blew off some of the head before he took a swallow.

  “I didn’t expect there would be anyone here,” Mueller said after he pulled the mug away.

  “Oh yeah, bein’ as I’m on the road between Phoenix and Tempe, I get a lot of business in here,” the bartender said. “Mostly from freight wagon men like Frank and Bob over there. That’ll be a nickel.”

  “What?”

  “The beer. That’ll be a nickel,” Pa Baker said. “I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout it before, seein’ as you had quite a thirst on.”

  Mueller paid for his beer, then turned to the other two men. “Them your wagons parked out front?”

  “Yeah,” one of the men said.

  “Well, they ain’t exactly our wagons,” the other said. “They belong to the Phoenix Express Company. We just drive ’em.”

  “Phoenix? What’s that?” Mueller took another long, soul satisfying swallow of his beer.

  “You ain’t never heard of Phoenix?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Mueller replied.

  “Well, it just happens to be the biggest city in all of Arizona, is all.”

  “Big? How big?”

  “I’d say nigh on to three thousand or so live there. Wouldn’t you say that, Bob?”

  “Three thousand a least,” Bob replied. “Or close to, anyways.”

  “What they got there?” Mueller asked. He took another long swallow, finishing every drop in the mug. He slapped the mug on the bar and another nickel on the bar. “I’ll have another,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Pa Baker replied. He chuckled. “I knew you was powerful thirsty when you come in here.”

  “I was. And I’m hungry too. I’d like you to fix me somethin’ to eat.”

  “Yes, sir, you just go over there to one of them tables and I’ll bring it out to you directly.”

  Mueller went over and sat down, then he looked back at the two drivers. “I asked what they got in Phoneix?”

  “Why, they got near ’bout anything a man would want,” Bob answered. “They got liquor, food, women—”

  “And the meanest son of a bitch of a city marshal you ever seen,” the other man said.

  “City marshal?” Mueller grew instantly alert. “What about the marshal?”

  “Are you an outlaw?”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by askin’ was you an outlaw. It’s just that, if you was an outlaw, you wouldn’t have nothin’ to worry about. He don’t go after outlaws. ’Bout the only thing our marshal goes after is free drinks at the saloons.”

  “And findin’ ways to get decent folks in trouble so’s they have to pay a fine. For things like spittin’ in the street,” one of the drivers said.

  “Frank, you wasn’t exactly spittin’ in the street,” Bob said.

  “Well, it was the same as,” Frank insisted.

  “No, it warn’t the same as. What you was doin’ was pissin’ in the street,” Bob said, laughing.

  “Well, I was standin’ around the corner so’s nobody could see me,” Frank protested. “He didn’t have no call to arrest me. What he was wantin’ was the fine. That’s what he was wantin’.”

  “So what you done is, you paid a dollar, just to take a piss,” Bob said, and again he laughed.

  “It ain’t all that funny,” Frank said.

  “Here’s your food, Señor,” a Mexican girl said, bringing the plate to Mueller’s table.

  He paid for the food, then for the next several moments, he was busy eating. The two drivers returned to their private conversation, and Mueller returned to his own private thoughts.

  He had never been to Phoenix. He had never even heard of it, so even if there was anybody there who had ever heard of him, there was for sure nobody there who would recognize him on sight. Ever since he had left Colorado, he had been wandering around with no specific purpose or destination. That had all changed. Luke Mueller was going to Phoenix.

  MacCallister Valley

  In the town named for him, the bronze statue of Jamie Ian MacCallister had arrived by train nearly three weeks ago and was being stored in the Foster-Matthews warehouse. The intent was to keep it out of sight of the public until the actual unveiling on July Fourth, less than a week away.

  Falcon and most of his siblings were given a private viewing and, from there, went out to the old homestead. It belonged to all of them but, by consensus of all the others, was occupied by Falcon. He and his brothers, Jamie Ian IV, Morgan, and Matthew, were standing over the graves of their parents. Falcon’s sisters, Joleen, Megan, and Kathleen were on their knees tending to the flowers on the graves.

  “I wish Andrew and Rosanna were going to be here,” Joleen said.

  “They can’t,” Falcon said.

  “I know that’s what they said. I’m just not sure why they can’t, is all.”

  “Because they’re closing one play on the fourth, and they’ve got a new play opening on the eleventh,” Falcon said. “It would be almost impossible for them to be here.”

  “They could postpone the play, couldn’t they?” Morgan asked.

  Falcon shook his head. “There is no way they could do that. Those plays cost thousands of dollars to produce. You can’t just postpone them.”

  “Still—” Morgan started but Joleen interrupted him.

  “There is no still to it,” she said. “Falcon has been to New York, he has seen them on stage, we haven’t. If Falcon says it’s impossible for them to get away, then I’m inclined to believe him. You know full well they would be here if they could.”

  “I wasn’t doubting him. I was just saying that it’s too bad Andrew and Rosanna won’t be here, that’s all.”

  “Wait, you ought to put those purple ones over there,” Morgan said, pointing to a batch of flowers.

  “If you think you can do it better, brother, feel free to pitch in,” Megan said.

  “All right, I will.”

  Morgan knelt down, repositioned the flowers he was talking about, then grunted, and held his hand up toward Falcon. “Oomph. Help an old man up, will you, little brother?” Morgan said.

  “Old man? You are only fifty-three,” Falcon said.

 
; “Wait until you are fifty-three,” Morgan said, grunting again, as Falcon helped him stand.

  “Ha,” Falcon said. “When Pa was sixty, he single-handedly wiped out Layfield’s entire gang.”*

  “It wasn’t quite single-handed,” Morgan said. “He had a few men with him.”

  “A few good men,” Jamie Ian added. “Preacher and Smoke Jensen among others.”

  “And a pretty good Shawnee woman as I recall,” Megan added. “Hannah was there.”

  “They’ve called Bell City, Hell City ever since, because of that fight,” Morgan said.

  “And Pa’s name will forever be linked with it,” Matthew added.

  “Now, little brother, your name is as well known as Pa’s name ever was,” Jamie Ian said to Falcon.

  “Not quite,” Falcon said. “In fact, not even close.”

  “Never the less, the way you took out the Mueller gang, four to one, is the stuff of legends,” Matthew said.

  “Here, the rest of us have gone to ground, so to speak,” Morgan said. “Ranching, farming, raising kids and grandkids, while you carry on the MacCallister name.”

  Falcon laughed. “While I carry on the family name? It seems to me like you folks have been doing well enough in carrying on the family name with the number of nephews and nieces I have. Good Lord, half of the people in the valley are MacCallisters. Well, not half maybe, but there are what? Fifty, sixty, by now?”

  “One hundred and three,” Joleen said as she put the last flower in place. As Morgan had before her, she held her hand out and Falcon helped her up, while Jamie Ian helped Kathleen.

  “One hundred and three?” Falcon replied. “Can that be right?”

  “If Joleen says one hundred and three, you can count on it,” Kathleen said. “She is the family historian.”

  “For a couple of young people barely of age when they came out here, Jamie and Kate made quite a life for themselves,” Joleen said, speaking of their parents.

  “And for the nine kids they produced,” Matthew added.

  “Ten, actually,” Joleen corrected.

  “Yeah, but I’m talking about the nine of us who made it to adulthood.”