Slaughter of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

Forbis touched the brim of his hat. “Sorry to bother you folks,” he said. “Let’s go, Appleby.”

  With one last glare at the Buckners, Appleby holstered his pistol, then left the store with Forbis.

  “I don’t care what the marshal says, I don’t believe it,” Nellie said after the deputy left. “Why, a sweeter girl never lived than Janelle Wellington.”

  “Yes, but still…” Ken said, letting the sentence hang.

  “Still what?”

  “You have to wonder why she came here from New York.”

  “She said she wanted to see the West. Do you doubt that?” Nellie asked.

  “No, it’s just that…” Again, he let the sentence hang.

  “Just that what?”

  “There are those letters. The ones she gets from home, but never opens. There is something in her past that she’s running away from.”

  “Yes, I forgot about those,” Nellie said. “Still, I don’t believe for one moment that she killed Mr. Montgomery. Oh, poor Mrs. Montgomery. Here we have been concerned about Janelle and haven’t even thought about Mrs. Montgomery.”

  The bell on the door tinkled again and looking toward it, they saw Mrs. Poindexter coming in. “Did you hear?” she asked, an expression of horror on her face. “Deputy Forbis was just over at my place asking about Janelle. He said she is wanted for murder. It can’t be true, can it?”

  “No, it isn’t true. I don’t believe it for a minute,” Nellie said.

  “But practically the whole town is out looking for her.”

  “If you ask me, the marshal is behind this,” Ken said.

  “But why would Marshal Cairns do such a thing?” Mrs. Poindexter asked.

  Ken shook his head. “I don’t know why,” he said. “But there’s not the slightest doubt in my mind but that he is behind it.”

  It had been at least two hours since Janelle climbed into the back of the freight wagon. She figured they were far enough away from town that she was probably safe from the sheriff. She had no idea where she was, or what was outside but she was getting hungry and thirsty. However she dare not show herself as long as the wagon was in motion. Finally, the wagon stopped.

  With the creaking of the wagon wheels silenced, she could hear the two men talking.

  “What you stoppin’ for, Bob?” the driver of her wagon called out to the driver in the lead.

  “I’m goin’ to walk over there and water the lilies,” Bob called back.

  “Yeah, I’ll go with you. I’ve had to pee for the last half hour or so.”

  “Well hell, Frank, why didn’t you say somethin’? I would have stopped.”

  “I don’t know. I reckon I was just goin’ to see how long it would take you to stop, is all.”

  Bob laughed. “If I had know’d it was a contest, I never would have stopped.”

  “You’d do that too, wouldn’t you, Bob? You’d sit right up there in your wagon and piss in your pants a’ fore givin’ in.”

  The conversation drew more indistinct as the two men walked away from the wagon.

  One of the horses whickered, and stamped its foot, and Janelle heard the harness rattle.

  Satisfied that she was alone, she stuck her head out from under the canvas, and looked around. Both men were standing about ten yards away from the road, their backs to the wagons as they urinated. Janelle had to urinate as well, and for a moment she envied the fact that men could accomplish that operation so quickly and easily.

  Moving as quietly as possible, Janelle slipped out from under the white canvas covering. She started to move away from the two wagons when she saw a sack marked DRIED APPLES.

  She didn’t relish a diet exclusive to dried apples, but that was better than starving, so she took the sack, then stepped down into the ditch that ran parallel to the road. Seeing that the men were starting back, she lay down in the bottom of the ditch and stayed there quietly, until she heard the wagons drive away.

  Not until the wagons were nearly out of sight did Janelle stand up and look around. She saw nothing but rolling desert land, dotted with saguaro and prickly pear. A hot, dry wind whistled though the mesquite and it suddenly dawned on her that, while she had some dry apples, she had no water. She could die of thirst before she died of hunger.

  She should not have left the wagon. She had no idea where they were going, but wherever they were headed, she was sure there would be water there. And there would be food too, other than the sack of dried apples she was carrying.

  She was not dressed for an extended excursion in the desert. She had put on her best dress and her best shoes in order to meet with Mr. Montgomery, and while they would have been perfectly appropriate for working in the bank, they were extremely uncomfortable, to say nothing of impracticable, under her present circumstances.

  By her estimate, plodding along at a steady rate of about five miles per hour, she had come about ten miles from Phoenix while still in the wagon. She debated with herself as to whether or not she should go back to Phoenix. It was a finite distance, it was civilization where there would be food and water, and it was a town she knew.

  She thought about Mrs. Poindexter’s Boarding House. They were probably sitting down to a lunch of fried ham and potatoes. There would be tea, too. Cooled in a ceramic crock, the tea would be served sweetened. Janelle’s mouth would have watered at the thought of the tea, if she had not been too dry to form saliva.

  She decided that it would be too dangerous to return to Phoenix. She couldn’t face Mrs. Poindexter, nor anyone else in town. She was sure Marshal Cairns had spread the word that she was the one who killed poor Mr. Montgomery, and that the accusation had taken on a life of its own.

  Janelle didn’t know where the wagons were headed, but she was certain they were going toward civilization of some sort, so she resumed the journey, walking, rather than riding, in the same direction the wagons had been heading.

  Early in the afternoon she ate a few of the apples, and though they assuaged her hunger, they did nothing for her thirst. In fact, eating them made her even thirstier, and she considered throwing the sack away, just so she wouldn’t have to deal with the bother of carrying it. But if she did, she would have no food at all, and while she might be lucky enough to find water somewhere, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to find food.

  She walked for the rest of the day, having no idea where she was, or how far she had gone. Her feet were sore from dozens of needle pricks, her dress was soiled and torn by interaction with cactus, and her lips were swollen from lack of water. Finally, thankfully, the sun got lower, providing her some relief from the heat, and giving her an absolute bearing. The sun was setting in the west—behind her. She was walking almost due east.

  “Ha! I’m going east!” she said, speaking the words aloud just to hear a human voice, even if it was her own. She was surprised at how hoarse her voice sounded. “If I keep going this way long enough, I’ll just walk back to New York.” She laughed at the absurdity of her statement, and though it wasn’t really that funny, it did provide her with a bit of comic relief.

  Comic relief.

  She thought of her father, and of the many stage productions he had sponsored. She enjoyed them, especially the plays and musicals in which Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister performed. Oh, why couldn’t she have fallen in love with someone like Andrew MacCallister, instead of Boyd Zucker?

  MacCallister. Could Andrew MacCallister be related to the Falcon MacCallister she had met, oh so briefly, on the train?

  Why was she thinking that? Were the sun and the thirst causing her to lose her senses?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Janelle felt water running into her mouth and she coughed and choked, then began swallowing deeply.

  “Easy, now, miss, easy,” a man’s voice said. “You don’t want to be drinkin’ too fast now.”

  It was not until that moment she realized a man was holding a canteen to her lips. He pulled the canteen away but she reached for it and pulled it back.

  “H
ere now, miss, go easy like I said, otherwise you’re a’ goin’ to be pukin’ your guts out.”

  Janelle took a few more swallows, and when he pulled the canteen away again she didn’t fight him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “How did a fine dressed lady like you get here?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know,” Janelle said.

  “Yes, well, it ain’t all that unusual you bein’ kinda dizzy and out of sorts like that. Happens to lots of people when they start wanderin’ around in the desert like you done. One minute you’re bright eyed and bushy tailed, and the next moment you’re lyin’ on the ground, just a’ wonderin’ where you are.”

  “That’s what I’m doing now,” Janelle said, “wondering where I am.”

  “You’re in the Sonoran Desert, is where you are. The question I’m askin’ is, how did you get here?”

  “I’m not sure,” Janelle answered, though as she spoke the words, she had a vision of herself being in the back of the wagon.

  What was she doing in the wagon?

  “Sounds to me like you got what they call the amneasy,” the man said. “Do you think you can walk?”

  “I-I don’t know. I suppose I can, now that I have had some water.”

  “Let me help you up.”

  It wasn’t until she stood up that she got a close look at the man who had come to her rescue. He had long stringy white hair and a long, scraggy white beard. She couldn’t begin to guess his age, though she suspected he might look older than he actually was. Even in the dark, she could see a warm and inviting sparkle in his eyes, so she wasn’t frightened.

  It was dark!

  When had it gotten dark? The last thing Janelle could remember was wandering around in the bright sun.

  “Where did you come from?” Janelle asked.

  “I have a place not too far from here,” the man said. “I was out takin’ an evenin’ stroll when I seen you. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was I was lookin’ at, then when I seen you was a young woman, I wasn’t sure you was alive. But you are alive.”

  “Yes, I’m alive.”

  “Let’s see if you can walk.”

  Janelle took a couple steps then stumbled, and would have fallen had the man not kept her up.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Well, there’s your problem,” the man said, pointing to her feet. “I don’t know how you got this far wearin’ them shoes like that.”

  “I can’t very well go barefoot,” Janelle said.

  “You would probably be better off iffen you was barefooted. Sit down and take them shoes off.”

  “You aren’t going to make me go barefoot, are you?”

  “No. What I’m goin’ to do is make you shoes you can actually wear. They won’t be nothin’ pretty that you can wear someplace fancy, but they’ll help you walk through the desert.”

  Janelle chuckled.

  “What is it? What’s so funny?”

  “I’m not likely to be going anyplace fancy right away, am I? But I am in the desert.”

  The old man chuckled as well. “You’re all right, missy, if you can laugh at yourself. Let’s get them shoes off and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Janelle sat down and watched as the man removed both her shoes. He began cutting on them and within moments, the stylish shoes were redone as comfortable, if unattractive moccasins.

  Janelle laughed again.

  “You found somethin’ else funny, have you, girl?”

  “I was just wondering what my sister would think right now if she saw what was happening to these shoes. She bought them on Fifth Avenue at Madam Demorist’s Fine Fashion Mart for my birthday.”

  “I’ve never been to the place,” the old man said. After another moment he tied the little strips of leather onto her feet. “Here, try to walk now.”

  Once again Janelle stood up and when she began walking she noticed the difference immediately. “Oh, this is wonderful,” she said. “Thank you. It is so much easier to walk now.”

  “What’s your name, girl?” the man asked.

  “Ja—” Janelle started, then stopped midsentence. The man had been very nice to her—more than nice, he had saved her life. But if the sheriff back in Phoenix really did make the claim that she had murdered Mr. Montgomery, there was likely to be a reward out for her. It could be the old man would keep her alive just long enough to take her back to Phoenix and claim the reward.

  “Ja? Your name is Ja?”

  “It’s Jo.”

  “Joe? That seems like a funny name for a woman.”

  “It’s spelled without the e,” Janelle said.

  “What e?”

  “Never mind. I suppose it is a strange name,” she said. “What is your name?”

  “Cornbread.”

  Janelle laughed out loud. “Cornbread? You tease me about my name, and your name is Cornbread?”

  “Well, it ain’t the name I was borned with,” Cornbread said. “The name I was borned with is Cornelius. But I reckon Cornbread is what I been called purt’ nigh all my life. It seems I liked it a lot when I was a wee one, and Cornelius and Cornbread kinda goes together. Besides which, I make the best cornbread you ever et. Fac’ is, I got a pone back at the house now, and unless I miss my guess, you’re probably right hungry.”

  “I am hungry,” Janelle admitted.

  “Got some bacon and beans, too. It’ll be good to have someone to eat with.”

  They walked through the desert, much more comfortable with the blazing sun and the heat of the day gone. Without the maddening thirst that had plagued her, she almost found the situation pleasant. Looking up into the sky she saw a display of stars unlike anything she had ever seen before. They were so bright and so close she felt as if she could reach up and grab one. The magnitude of the stars gradually decreased from the brightest to those so distant they could only be viewed in total. They seemed to spread a luminous powder that made the night sky glow.

  “Purty, ain’t they?” Cornbread said.

  “What?” Janelle replied, surprised by his comment.

  “I seen that you was lookin’ up at the stars. That’s one of the reasons I sometimes take me these walks at night. In the daytime the desert can be awful bothersome hot, but at nighttime, it can be powerful purty.”

  Though Cornbread’s description fell short in its grammatical construction, Janelle was moved by the passion of his words.

  Janelle awakened the next morning to the smell of frying bacon. For just a moment she thought she was back at Mrs. Poindexter’s Boarding House. Then she remembered the ordeal of the day before—recalling in great detail everything that had happened—from seeing Mr. Montgomery killed, to being accused of the killing by City Marshal Cairns, the very man who had actually committed the murder. She remembered her escape from the marshal. She remembered vividly the sound of the hammer falling when he pulled the trigger as he tried to shoot her. She remembered crawling into the back of a wagon to flee Phoenix, and finally, she recalled nearly dying of hunger and thirst, only to be rescued by a strange man.

  It had been the middle of the night when she was taken to the cabin. It was too dark and she was too exhausted to see much then. In the light of day, she was able to peruse her surroundings. She was lying in bed and, for a moment, wondered if she had anything to be concerned about. Almost as quickly as she had that thought, she put it away as being ungrateful. If she had not been found, she might very well be dead. As to whether or not she had been compromised in any way, she knew that wasn’t a worry. She was still wearing her dress, and as she looked over in the far corner of the room, saw a mussed blanket which suggested her rescuer had slept there during the night.

  Though the cabin was quite rustic, it was exceptionally neat and well cared for. The floor was swept clean, there was no clutter anywhere, and the walls were covered with newspapers. With a start, she saw her father’s name on one of the papers, then saw that it had to do with his shipping line.

  Her eyes l
anded on her rescuer. What was the name he had told her? Cornbread? Yes, Cornbread, she was sure that was it. Examining him more closely, she saw that he was about five feet eight inches tall, and was wearing a red and black plaid shirt and denim trousers. Unlike many of the men she had seen in the West, Cornbread was not wearing a pistol strapped to his belt.

  He had his back to her, unaware she was awake. He opened the door to the oven on the small stove to check on its contents and Janelle saw a pan filled with rising and browning biscuits.

  “I thought your specialty was cornbread,” she said.

  He jumped, startled by her words. “Lord ’a mercy, girl, don’t go a’ scarin’ me like that,” he said. “I plumb forgot there was anyone else in here.”

  Janelle laughed out loud. “Surely you didn’t forget I was here? Or do you always cook that much breakfast?”

  Cornbread shook his head. “No, you just scairt me for the moment is all. I didn’t actually forget you was here, that’s why I’m cookin’ a big breakfast. As far as my bakin’ biscuits is concerned, well truth is folks could have just as easy commenced to callin’ me Biscuit, ’cause my biscuits is ever’ bit as good as my cornbread. As you are about to see.”

  “It smells heavenly,” Janelle said.

  From a cupboard, Cornbread took down plates and cups, as well as knives, forks, and spoons.

  “Oh, my, these plates are beautiful,” Janelle said.

  Cornbread ran his finger around the silver and blue trim of one of the plates. “My wife picked ’em out,” he said, pensively. “When Sherman’s troops come through they burned our house and most of our things, but Marthy Lou saved these plates by buryin’ ’em in the barnyard. I wasn’t there, seein’ as I was off fightin’ in the war my ownself, but folks told me she stood on the porch holdin’ a shotgun, just darin’ Sherman’s men to dig up them dishes. She put a big store in ’em, and it was purt’ nigh the only thing we brought with us when we come out here from Georgia.”

  “Your wife is—” Janelle didn’t want to say the word dead.

  Cornbread understood the implied question and nodded, then pointed outside. “Marthy Lou is lyin’ buried on that little hill out back. The fever took her some four, maybe five years back.”