She held that position for a long moment until the curtain came down. The applause from an appreciative audience was thunderous as they paid homage to the final performance of a long and successful run of the play, The English Gentleman.
After a moment, the curtain drew open again. The actors rushed onto the stage to take their curtain calls, the minor players first, coming out together. As it moved up the cast in order of importance, the players began to come out one at a time to louder applause. The loudest applause of all was reserved for the two principal actors; Andrew MacCallister bowed deeply to applause and cheers, then stepped aside and with a sweeping motion of his arm saluted Rosanna as she moved quickly and gracefully to the front of the stage. As Andrew had before her, she received thunderous applause from the crowd. Joining hands, brother and sister bowed once more as the curtain closed for the final call.
“Thus endeth the triumphant run of The English Gentleman,” Andrew said.
“And a wonderful play it was,” Rossana said.
“With a wonderful cast,” Andrew said, turning toward the others to applaud them. Rosanna joined him.
“Oh, Mr. MacCallister, Miss MacCallister, I can’t tell you what a thrill it was to appear in a play with you. I shall always remember this night,” a very pretty young woman said.
“My dear,” Andrew replied with a gracious smile. “I have no doubt in my mind but that, one day, and soon, I shall be bragging to my friends that I appeared in the same play as Katrina Kirby.” He reached for the young actress’s hand, then raised it to his lips to kiss it.
“Oh,” the young actress said, obviously flustered by the unexpected attention. “You are—too kind, sir.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“He isn’t kind, my dear, he’s just an outrageous flirt,” Rosanna said, teasingly.
“Why shouldn’t I be flirtatious? After all the young lady is both beautiful and talented.”
“Andrew, will you be available after a while?” Rosanna asked.
At that moment a young man from back stage moved quickly toward Katrina and the two shared an intimate embrace.
“Evidently I will be available,” Andrew said with a thwarted sigh.
“Really, brother, she is much too young for you. Now I want to ask you to get out of costume quickly. I will call on you directly.”
“You know what, Rosanna, I think you should change your name,” Andrew said. “How can I get any young woman interested in me, when they all think you are my wife, rather than my sister?”
“Thank you, no, I like the name I have. You change yours,” Rosanna said with a laugh, throwing the remark over her shoulder as she hurried off-stage to her dressing room.
Fifteen minutes later, Andrew MacCallister was sitting in front of the mirror in his dressing room. Picking up a jar of cold cream, he began applying it over the stage makeup he was wearing, when there was a light knock on his door.
“Andrew, are you decent?” Rosanna called, her voice somewhat muffled.
“Yes, Rosanna, come on in.”
Rosanna was still in costume and makeup when she came in.
“What? Here, you asked me to hurry, but you haven’t changed yet. Are we not going out? Have you forgotten we are to meet Edwin Booth for dinner at Delmonico’s?”
“We will, we will. I just haven’t had time to change yet, because Emma Wellington was in my dressing room when I got there. We’ve been talking,” Rosanna said. “Andrew, I feel so sorry for her. She is very upset.”
Emma Wellington was the wife of Joel Wellington, who had not only financed The English Gentleman, but was also the financier for The Ideal Suitor—the next play in which Andrew and Rosanna were to perform. It was definitely to their advantage to keep the Wellingtons happy. If Mrs. Wellington was upset, they needed to do whatever they could do to make her feel better.
Having applied the cold cream to his face, Andrew used a towel to take it off. “What is troubling her?” he asked, his voice smothered by the towel.
“It’s her daughter, Janelle,” Rosanna said. “You may remember there was some family—difficulty a couple months ago.”
“Yes, I do remember her. Quite an attractive young lady, as I recall,” Andrew said, his face devoid of all stage makeup. “I never knew exactly what the family crisis was, but I figured it was not our business to get involved.”
“You were right, it wasn’t our business to get involved”—she paused for a moment—“then.”
“Then? What do you mean, it wasn’t our business to get involved then?” Andrew asked.
“I mean that at the time it came up, it was none of our business.”
Andrew chuckled. “Something tells me, little sister, that you have now come to believe perhaps this is our business.”
Andrew and Rosanna were actually twins, but she qualified as his “little” sister, by virtue of the fact that he was the first to be delivered. Rosanna followed him into this world by less than five minutes.
“I have indeed. I absolutely, positively, think it is time for us to get involved,” Rosanna said.
“Absolutely, positively, huh? That’s pretty definite.”
“Definitely,” Rosanna replied.
Andrew laughed. “All right, Rosanna, what would you have us do? Give Janelle a good talking to?”
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Rosanna replied. “But first we have to find her.”
“Find her? What do you mean, find her? Where is she?”
“According to a telegram the Wellingtons received, she is in Phoenix,” Rosanna said. “That’s where they have been sending all their mail.”
“Phoenix? As in Arizona?”
“Yes. Phoenix, as in the middle of the desert, Arizona.”
“Well if they know where she is, and if they are exchanging letters, why don’t they just ask her to come home?”
“They aren’t exactly exchanging letters. They’ve sent her several letters, but they have gotten only one letter back from her—written on the train while she was on her way out there, and one telegram saying she had arrived safely in Phoenix. There has been nothing from her since, despite the many letters they have sent her. The Wellingtons feel the only way she is going to respond is if someone else speaks to Janelle personally, on their behalf. That’s where we come in—the someone else.”
“Rosanna, we can’t just hop on a train and go to Phoenix. Remember, we have a new show opening in only four weeks, and rehearsal begins tomorrow.”
“Who said anything about us going to Phoenix?” Rosanna asked, a small smile beginning to spread across her lips.
“You just said that’s where we come in.”
“Yes, but I meant this is where we get involved. I didn’t mean that we had to go to Phoenix ourselves.”
“Well, how else are we going to find her if we don’t—” Andrew stopped mid-question as the smile on his face, mirrored that of his sister’s. “You’re talking about Falcon, aren’t you?” he asked.
Rosanna nodded. “You know how much he likes to come to New York to see our plays. He’s the only one in the family who ever does.”
“Oh, what a devious mind you have, little sister. We’re going to invite him to the grand opening, and then spring this on him, aren’t we?” Andrew asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re going to do this, even though we turned down the invitation to go to MacCallister for the unveiling of Pa’s statue? Which is today, by the way, in case you have forgotten.”
“I have not forgotten and it isn’t unfair, Andrew. You know why we can’t go. We closed this play today, and we have a brand new play opening next Monday on July eleventh. It was impossible for us to be there, unless we could somehow telegraph ourselves there.”
“Telegraph ourselves there,” Andrew said with a little chuckle. “Whoa, now wouldn’t something like that be great? One could go into a telegraph office, somehow be wired up, and then sent, with the speed of light to one’s destination.”
; “Be serious.”
“Me be serious? You’re the one who said we should telegraph ourselves there. Anyway, I understand why we can’t go and you understand why we can’t go, but I’m not sure all of our siblings understand.”
“Falcon understands,” Rosanna said. “And that is enough. He will make the others understand as well.”
Andrew nodded. “I believe he does understand. But, don’t you think what you have planned is a little unfair to Falcon?”
“You do want to keep Joel Wellington happy, don’t you?” Rosanna asked.
“Yes, but not at Falcon’s expense. He is our brother, Rosanna.”
“I know he is our brother. That is why he will do this for us,” Rosanna said confidently. “If we ask him, he will find her, and he will bring her back.”
“Shall we write him a letter, then?”
“I think the situation requires more urgency than a letter.”
“A telegram?”
Rosanna nodded. “A telegram.”
“All right, all right, if you say so. Go now, and change. We’ll send the telegram on our way to the restaurant.”
Superstition Mountain
It had been almost three weeks since Rhoda turned up the little pile of gold nuggets, and in that time Ben Hanlon had dug under every mesquite tree, every saguaro and cholla cactus, and every rock. He had dug into indentations at the base of the mountain and scrambled halfway up the side of the mountain, looking for a washout area that could have dumped the nuggets down to the ground below—all without success.
It was midafternoon. He sat with his back against a large rock and examined what he had found on that first day—forty-six pecan-sized nuggets, each nugget being half to three quarters gold. Hefting them in his hand he figured they weighed about four pounds total. If half of the weight was gold, he had thirty-two ounces of gold. Gold was heavier than the rocks themselves, so if he had four pounds, more than half of it was gold, but he wanted to be cautious, so he figured it at half. At twenty dollars an ounce, that was six hundred forty dollars.
“Whooeee!” he said aloud, throwing his head back. “Rhoda, that’s more money ’n we brung in, in the last five years! That’s fantas—” he stopped midsentence. The shadow of Weaver’s Needle just passed by the face of Superstition Mountain exposing an opening about five hundred feet up the side of the mountain. The opening was shaped like a grinning mouth, not very wide from side to side, and not very high. In fact, he was sure that one could only enter that opening by crawling through.
Why had he not seen that before? He had been on and around Superstition Mountain for more years than he could remember and he had camped right in this very spot more times than he could count, but he had never seen—
It was gone! Even as he stared, it disappeared. How could that be? Unless it wasn’t really there at all. Had he really seen it? Or was it just his imagination?
Hanlon had heard of men going crazy out on Superstition. Maybe they went crazy seeing things that weren’t there. Maybe there was no opening, maybe it was just a mirage.
Hanlon climbed up the side of the mountain the next day, taking the better part of two hours. As he was climbing, he didn’t see the opening until he was right on it. He wriggled inside and, back a little way from the opening saw the gold, flashing in the sunlight.
When Hanlon climbed back down more than an hour later, his stomach was rolling, and his head was spinning with excitement, but he was very careful. What a foolish thing it would be to fall, after having made his discovery.
When he got back down to the foot of the mountain, he looked up and saw nothing, even though he knew exactly where to look. Then, suddenly, the opening appeared to him, as clear as day, though it was visible for less than a minute before it disappeared.
“I’ll be damned, Rhoda. I’ve got it all figured out now,” he said. He knew that talking to Rhoda made no sense. Rhoda was a mule, after all. But he wanted to say the words aloud, he wanted to hear them spoken. Somehow, talking to Rhoda didn’t seem quite as crazy as talking to himself.
Hanlon pointed. “You see, Rhoda, it’s like this. Because of the angle of the opening, and because of the shadow cast upon the opening by Weaver’s Needle, the mouth of that there cave is only visible for a few minutes each day.”
He had no calendar, but, by looking at the position of the sun, he knew it was probably late June or early July.
“In fact,” Hanlon said, continuing with his explanation to the mule, “I’ll just bet that as the sun changes position during the seasons, the actual opening would only be visible for a few minutes each day, and only for few days in early summer. Within another couple weeks you won’t be able to see it again, until next year. No wonder it has been lost for so many years.”
Hanlon drew out a quick claim on a piece of paper, put it in an empty peach can, then buried the peach can under a pyramid of rocks. On the claim he was purposely vague about the location of the mine. In that way he was able to establish his claim, without giving away so much specific information that anyone who might see the quick claim would actually be able to find the gold.
On a second piece of paper, Ben Hanlon drew out an extremely accurate map. He wanted to make certain he could find the cave later, especially since he now knew how hard it was to find.
Then, with a leather pouch filled with enough nuggets to tide him over until he returned, he stashed all of his mining equipment and started the long trek into Phoenix.
Chapter Thirteen
MacCallister
The sun had scarcely risen on the morning of the Fourth of July when the residents of MacCallister Valley started coming into town. By horseback, in surreys, buckboards, and wagons they came, from individuals to whole families, from babes in arms to the very old. Most brought picnic lunches, for this was to be a daylong celebration.
The front of all the buildings, as well as the lantern poles, were decked out in red, white, and blue bunting. Kate MacCallister Boulevard, MacCallister’s main street, ran east and west. Two huge banners were spread across the boulevard, one at each end of the street. The one that greeted visitors who were arriving from the west read
OUR NATION CELEBRATES ITS BIRTHDAY.
At the east end of Kate MacCallister Boulevard, or The Katie as the locals called it, was another banner.
WE HONOR OUR FOUNDER
JAMIE IAN MACCALLISTER
The Katie had been closed off to horse and vehicle traffic so those who were coming into town from out in the valley were directed to park their conveyances in a huge open area behind Shultz Mercantile Store. Leaving their wagons, buckboards, and surreys behind them, they poured into town, joining with the growing throngs.
Already, people were setting off firecrackers and the pops could be heard from all over town, generally followed by squeals of laughter. The town’s children who were running through the street, in and around people, vending booths, and kiosks, were joined by children just arriving from the valley. The Katie was awash with the aromas of grilled sausages, freshly made fudge, baking pastries, and popped corn. Lemonade, sarsaparilla, and beer were being sold at the street booths, though a city ordinance had declared that whiskey could only be sold in the saloons.
Like every other town in the West, MacCallister made a special holiday out of the Fourth of July. But this year the excitement was even greater, because they would also be dedicating a statue to the memory of their founder and namesake, Jamie Ian MacCallister, the patriarch of the MacCallister clan. The bronze statue, commissioned of Frederic Remington, was mounted on its pedestal in a specially constructed median in the middle of Kate MacCallister Boulevard. A stage had been erected just to one side of the statue, which was under a shroud, pending its official unveiling.
The guest of honor for the day was the honorable Frederick Pitkin, Governor of the state of Colorado. As it was Independence Day, several cities and towns in the state had requested the Governor’s presence, nearly all of them larger than MacCallister. It spoke volumes
of the Governor’s respect for Jamie Ian MacCallister and the MacCallister clan that he chose to go there. Governor Pitkin had arrived by train from Denver the day before, and spent the night in the Morning Star Hotel, which was the finest hotel between Denver and San Francisco.
The Governor’s special train, consisting only of an engine, a tender, and a private car, sat on a side track at the depot. The engine was dark green, with brass fittings and gold-painted striping. The spokes of the wheels were red, and it became an object of attention as many of the valley people walked down just to have a special look at the beautiful train. The name painted in gold script on the side of the engine was The Columbine. The columbine was a flower that many wanted to become the official state flower of Colorado.
Across town in the Morning Star Hotel, a special reception was being held in the hotel ballroom. The reception room was absolutely packed with men, women, and children. Except for the Governor, his personal staff, and the employees of the hotel itself, every person present was a member of the MacCallister family—the children of Jamie and Kate, all the way down to their great-grandchildren.
“It is a wonderful day,” the governor said as he stood near the buffet table, holding a cup of coffee.
“Yes, it is,” Falcon said. “I just wish Reverend Powell could be here. I know that he was really looking forward to giving the invocation.”
“Do you think your father is here?” Governor Pitkin asked.
Falcon thought for a moment, then he realized what the governor was asking. He nodded. “Yes, there is no doubt in my mind but that Pa is here.”
“Then so is Reverend Powell. No doubt, they are sitting together over in some corner, catching up on stories of old times.”
Falcon smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I think you might be right.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” someone shouted. “Would you all please come outside? The festivities are about to begin!”
Slaughter of Eagles Page 11
