Slaughter of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “This—” he started, then stopped. Opening a drawer to his desk, he pulled out a knife and began digging at the yellow metal. After a couple probes, he gasped. “This is gold!” he said. “This is real gold!”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I been a’ tryin’ to tell you all along,” Ben said. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Montgomery, I reckon you might say that I’m a rich man. Only I ain’t quite figured out how a rich man’s s’posed to act, I mean, all high falutin’ and sech.”

  “How much gold do you have, Mr. Hanlon?”

  “Right now, all I got is what’s in this here bag, but like I said, there’s a heap more where this come from. I figure the rest of it would be safer where it is, rather than me bringin’ a lot of it into town. That is, seein’ there don’t nobody but me know where at the gold is. ’Ceptin’ now, maybe you, you havin’ the map an’ all.”

  “Yes, I think you may be right,” Montgomery said. “All right, Mr. Hanlon, I’ll take the map as collateral, and I’ll make you that loan.”

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Falcon stared through the window as the train crossed the bridge over the Mississippi River. At that moment the conductor was passing through the car, and seeing Falcon staring so intently, he stopped beside his seat.

  “I’ll bet you never thought the Mississippi River could be bridged, did you?” the conductor asked.

  “It is quite a feat,” Falcon replied, although it was not his first time to cross the river at St. Louis.

  “Yes, sir, this is some bridge,” the conductor said, enjoying his role as the purveyor of technical information. “What you are looking at is a true marvel of modern engineering and science. It’s called Eads Bridge, and it’s the longest arch bridge in the world. Over sixty-four hundred feet it is. Why, that’s almost a mile and a quarter. Think of it. Here we are, riding comfortably in a train that is propelled by its own means of locomotion, crossing such a bridge. Yes, sir, we live in a marvelous age.”

  “We do indeed,” Falcon replied, responding in a way that was courteous, but offering the conductor little opportunity to expand the conversation.

  “Yes, sir, a marvelous age,” the conductor repeated, then satisfied that Falcon was suitably impressed, he moved on through the train to find another audience for his accolades of Eads Bridge. Falcon settled back in his seat to read the newspaper he had picked up at Union Station in St. Louis. He was slightly less than halfway through his journey and began reading, his attention drawn to one of the articles.

  Luke Mueller and Egan Drumm Still Missing

  Word has reached the Dispatch of the involvement of Luke Mueller and his brother Clete, in a bank robbery in MacCallister, Colorado. Subsequent to the robbery, the thieves were hunted down by Mr. Falcon MacCallister who, while not normally a lawman, was apparently acting as some sort of deputy at the time. In a confrontation between Deputy MacCallister and the four brigands, MacCallister discharged his pistol but four times, each shot however finding its mark with devastating effect, killing all four outlaws. Among those killed was Clete Mueller. However, Luke Mueller, who is known to have been part of the bank robbery and double murder, was not present at the time of the confrontation. Because of that, the brigand escaped his due, and remains at large, a scab on humanity.

  Informed readers of the Dispatch will remember that the Mueller brothers, as well as Egan Drumm, are wanted for a murder and robbery most foul in Jackson County, Missouri where they did shoot down Mr. Chris Dumey, his wife and two children, all for the purpose of stealing the money Mr. Dumey had just received from the sale of his hogs. Dumey lived long enough to write on the floor, using his own blood, the names of those who killed him.

  Egan Drumm is not believed to have been a part of the MacCallister bank robbery, and indeed has not been seen since leaving Missouri. There is an unsubstantiated claim that he may have been killed somewhere in Kansas, but most believe that the brigand is still at large, and some believe he may still be keeping company with Mueller.

  It is hoped that justice will soon be brought to these evil men, perhaps the same kind of justice which Deputy MacCallister delivered to Clete Mueller.

  Falcon spent four nights en route. On the morning of the fifth day his train reached the Hudson River, swept down its eastern bank for 140 miles, flashed quickly by a squalid row of tenement houses, then dived with a roar into the tunnel which passed under the glitter and swank of Park Avenue before emerging at Grand Central Station. Once the train reached the track complex in the depot rail yard, it stopped, then began backing up. Falcon watched through the window as they slipped in between two other trains on adjacent tracks. The bright sunlight disappeared when the car in which Falcon was riding passed under a long roof into the car shed. Finally the train came to a halt with a rattling jerk of fittings and connectors.

  “New York, folks,” the conductor said, passing through the car. “This is Grand Central Station in New York. Everyone out here.”

  When Falcon stood, he reached toward his side in an automatic gesture to check for his pistol. For just a second he was disturbed that the familiar weight of the revolver wasn’t there. Quickly, he realized guns weren’t worn in New York as if they were a part of his anatomy.

  Seeing an attractive young mother struggling to control her rambunctious child while also trying to retrieve something from the overhead storage rack, Falcon moved quickly to her assistance.

  “Thank you, sir” she said, flashing him a smile as he handed the bag to her.

  With a polite nod of his head and an inviting sweep of his arm, Falcon indicated that she could go before him.

  “Hurry up, lady,” an irritated male voice said from behind. “I don’t intend to spend the entire day standing here, waiting for you to get off the train.”

  Falcon turned and looked at the man. Though he made no overt threat, not even in the form of his facial expression, the fact that someone as powerfully built as Falcon was looking at him, caused the man to look aside, sheepishly.

  It was a warm, muggy, summer day and the smoke and the steam from the dozens of engines working the tracks in the huge, cavernous car shed rose to the roof, only to be forced down again in swirls of smoke and steam that burned the eyes and irritated the throat. Sounds were amplified and magnified—the ring of steel wheels rolling on steel track, the clanging of bells, the hollow puffing of vented steam, and the yells of railroad men, shouting instructions for the various switch tracks.

  Once inside the terminal he saw the young mother he had helped and her child being greeted by a tall, well-dressed man. The little boy opened his arms wide, and the man, who Falcon presumed was the boy’s father, picked him up.

  There was much to be said for Falcon’s lifestyle, his freedom of movement without the constraint of a family. Since his Indian wife, Marie, and their two children had died, he had never seriously contemplated remarriage. But there were times, like that moment as he watched the obviously happy reunion, when he thought it might be good to have a family.

  Ahh, what am I thinking? I do have a family. Andrew and Rosanna are my family. That’s why I am here in New York.

  Stepping onto the street, Falcon saw a glut of hansom cabs and horse-drawn jitneys lined up outside the four-story redbrick building that was the Grand Central Depot. He stretched to work out the kinks in his body wrought by spending the better part of a week on the train. The bright sunshine caused him to blink a few times as he looked around to take in the scene. Across the street from the depot was the Park Avenue Oyster House, and the aroma of fried oysters hung in the air. Omnibuses, trolleys, and pedestrians made a kaleidoscope of movement and color on East Forty-second Street.

  “Falcon! Over here!”

  Looking toward the sound of the woman’s voice, Falcon saw his sister and brother, standing beside a carriage. Smiling, he picked up his luggage and walked toward them.

  “Oh, it is good to see you,” Rosanna said, giving him a big, welcoming hug. Andrew shook his hand.

  “We
appreciate you coming to see us,” Andrew said.

  “Heck, I didn’t come to see you, I came to see the new play you are in,” Falcon teased.

  Brother and sister laughed.

  “Whatever it takes to get you here, brother,” Rosanna said.

  The driver of the carriage put Falcon’s suitcase into the boot as the three MacCallisters climbed in.

  “I have something to show you,” Falcon said, and from his bag he removed an envelope.

  “What is it?” Andrew asked.

  “Look inside.”

  Andrew opened the envelope, then pulled out the photograph. “Oh, my,” he said. “Look at this, Rosanna.”

  For a long moment, Andrew and Rosanna stared at the photograph of the bronze statue of their father.

  “I wish we had been able to be there,” Rosanna said, as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. What a wonderful tribute to Father.”

  Falcon smiled. Everyone in the family referred to him as Pa. Only Andrew and Rosanna had ever called him Father.

  “I do hope everyone understood why we couldn’t come,” Andrew said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Andrew, everyone understands perfectly,” Falcon said. “There were no hard feelings.”

  That wasn’t quite true, but Falcon saw no need to tell them otherwise. It was obvious they very much wanted to come, and would have come had they been able to.

  It took only ten minutes to go from Grand Central Station to Shoemaker’s Dining Salon on Sixth Avenue, located next door to the Eagle Theater, where Andrew and Rosanna would star in the premiere performance of The Ideal Suitor.

  “Mademoiselle and Monsieur MacCallister, what a delightful treat it is for us to serve you on the day before your opening,” a rather effeminate maitre d’ said by way of greeting when they stepped into the dining room. “C’est un honneur pour accueillir tel thespians du distinguised à notre resturant.”

  “Merci Jacques. C’est notre frère, Falcon, venez nous visiter de l’Ouest.” Andrew said. Then, continuing in English, “And I would advise you not to anger him. He is a man of no small repute in the Wild West.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Jacques said, continuing in English. “He is as powerful looking as he is handsome.”

  Sensing that the maitre d’s effusive compliments of Falcon were making his brother uneasy, Andrew spoke up quickly.

  “Have Mr. and Mrs. Wellington arrived yet?”

  “Ah! Indeed they have,” Jacques replied. “They are waiting for you in the private dining room.” Jacques snapped his fingers and a young man approached. “Jefferson, please show the MacCallisters to the Golden Room, would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jefferson replied.

  The Golden Room was a private dining room located on the top floor of the three-story building. There was no mystery as to how it got its name, for the textured ceiling was overlaid with a thin layer of real gold. The walls were wainscoted; cherrywood below and textured wallpaper above with a pattern of fleur-de-lis in green and gold. A rich green carpet covered the floor, while the table was covered in a gold-colored cloth. Expensive gold-rimmed china, silverware, and crystal sparkled in the light from the gas lantern chandelier.

  A man and woman rose to greet them as they entered. Both were late middle age, though they looked much younger.

  “Falcon, this is Joel and Emma Wellington,” Andrew said. “And this is my brother, Falcon,” he concluded, directing the latter remark toward the middle-aged couple.

  “It is so good to see you, Andrew and Rosanna, and a great privilege to meet your esteemed brother,” Joel said. He smiled at Falcon. “I have heard so much about you. Your brother and sister are convinced you hung the moon.”

  “My brother and sister tend to exaggerate,” Falcon said.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that,” Joel said. “They make their case brilliantly.”

  “Falcon, Mr. Wellington is the angel for our new play,” Andrew said. “In fact, if truth be told, he is responsible for our very careers.”

  “I’d hardly say I was responsible for your careers,” Joel said, dismissing Andrew’s comment. “You two are the most talented couple in New York. All that was needed was the opportunity for you to show others what you could do. After that, you were both on your own.”

  “But who provided us with that opportunity? It was you, and the many plays and performances you backed.”

  “I consider it an investment,” Joel said. “With the way you two bring theatergoers to the plays, the investment has more than paid off.”

  The mutual compliments shifted to other subjects, then Joel cleared his throat and looked at Andrew. “Have you mentioned it to him?”

  “No,” Andrew replied. “Not yet.”

  Falcon noticed that all four were looking directly at him and he put down the glass of wine he had just picked up. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I told Joel you would help him,” Andrew said. “I mean, considering how much he has done for Rosanna and me, I figure we owe him.”

  “We owe him?” Falcon asked.

  “Well, by we, I meant that Rosanna and I owe him,” Andrew said, clarifying his comment. “But we have always stuck together as a family, have we not? And you, especially, have always gone out of your way to help others.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, you may be our only hope,” Emma Wellington said, and her eyes misted over with the sincerity of her plea.

  Falcon smiled pleasantly at the attractive woman. “Well then, if I am your only hope, I had better do all that I can, hadn’t I?”

  “I will pay you any amount—” Joel started, but Falcon held up his hand to interrupt him.

  “If I understand my brother and sister, you have already contributed more than enough in helping their careers. If it is something I am capable of doing, I’m more than willing to give it a try, and no pay is necessary.”

  “Bless you, Mr. MacCallister,” Emma said.

  “And thank you,” Joel added.

  Again, Falcon smiled. “It’s about time I found out what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it?”

  “It’s our daughter,” Joel said.

  “We want you to find her,” Emma added.

  “She’s somewhere out West,” Andrew said. “That’s why I suggested you would be the right person to look for her.”

  “Somewhere out West? That covers a lot of territory.” Falcon said.

  “We received a telegram from her, informing us that she was in Phoenix, in the Arizona Territory. Do you know that area?”

  “Yes, I’ve been there a few times,” Falcon said.

  “Do you think you can find her?” Joel asked.

  “Do you think she is still in Phoenix?” Falcon asked him.

  “I have no reason to think otherwise.”

  Falcon nodded confidently. “Phoenix is not that large a place. If she is still there, she shouldn’t be very hard to find.”

  “Yes, well, finding her is not the only problem,” Joel said.

  “There’s another problem?”

  Joel nodded. “You may have a problem in getting her to come home.”

  “Mr. Wellington, I’ll do what I can to talk her in to coming home,” Falcon said. “But I hope you don’t expect me to force her to come back, because I won’t do that.”

  “No, nor would I expect you to,” Joel replied.

  “Perhaps if you tell her she has nothing to be ashamed of, that her mother and father love her, and that we want her, she’ll come back,” Emma suggested.

  “You say she has nothing to be ashamed of?”

  “Not a thing,” Joel said, and Emma shook her head in general compliance.

  “Why would she think she should be ashamed?”

  “I-I hesitate to say,” Joel said.

  “Nonsense, Joel,” Emma scolded. “On the one hand you say she has no need to be ashamed, then on the other, you are too ashamed to speak of it.”

  “I suppose you are right,” Joel said. He took a deep breath. “The th
ing is, Mr. MacCallister, Janelle had a child out of wedlock. She thought she loved the father, and she thought he loved her. The scoundrel’s name is Boyd Zucker. He was a business partner of mine, younger than I, but substantially older than our daughter and I don’t think he ever had the slightest idea of marrying her. When the rogue learned of Janelle’s, uh, confinement, he claimed to have no part in it. He refused to marry her.”

  “If it’s any consolation to you, I’m sure that isn’t the first time an evil man took advantage of an innocent young woman, then abandoned her,” Falcon suggested.

  “I tried to tell her that, but her shame knew no bounds,” Joel said.

  “Shortly after her baby was born, she gave him to her sister, then she went West, claiming she could not face the shame,” Emma said.

  “We could have done more to stop her,” Joel said. “It is true she left without our knowledge, but I think if he had been more—understanding—we could have prevented her from leaving. But the truth is, I think we were feeling a little shame as well.”

  “Please, Mr. MacCallister, say that you will find her,” Emma said, her anguish showing in her eyes. “I can’t imagine how she must feel, abandoned first by the evil Mr. Zucker, and then by her own parents.”

  “We didn’t abandon her,” Joel said resolutely.

  Emma reached across the table to put her hand on Joel’s. “Yes, my dear, we did abandon her,” she said.

  “I-I suppose we did,” Joel agreed reluctantly. “Mr. MacCallister, please say that you will help us.”

  “I’ll—” Falcon started, then stopped. He almost said he would do what he could, to find her, but he knew that would be scarce comfort. “I will find her,” he promised.

  “I hope you can,” Emma said.

  “Mrs. Wellington, if my brother says he will find Janelle, you can count on it,” Rosanna said. “Falcon never goes back on his word.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. MacCallister,” Emma said, relief evident in her eyes and her voice. “I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

  Falcon knew he had just declared an absolute—something he rarely did. But he knew, also, that he could not let these people down, and he derived a great satisfaction from seeing their reaction to his promise. It was one of contentment—and he made a promise to himself to see to it their confidence in him was not misplaced.