MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing

by William W. Johnstone

  Just inside the depot, there was a big chalkboard with the schedules of east- and westbound trains. One column had the name of the train; the next, whether it was west- or eastbound; the next the time it was due; and the final column was labeled “Latest telegraphic intelligence on train schedule.”

  Next to the blackboard with the train schedules was another, smaller one, with information on stagecoaches.

  The train Duff would be taking was the “Western Glory,” and according to the “latest telegraphic intelligence on train schedule,” it was on time.

  There was also a stagecoach schedule there and, in the corner, a booth for stagecoach ticket sales. This might seem contradictory, as the two transportation systems were competitive; but in another real way, as recognized by the stagecoach ticket booth in the railroad depot, they were also symbiotic.

  Duff stepped up to the railroad ticket window.

  “Yes, sir, where to?”

  “Kansas City, Missouri.”

  “Would that be one way? Or round trip?”

  “Round trip.”

  The ticket agent got out a long string of connected tickets, then began writing on them. After that he picked up a stamp, pushed it down into an ink pad, then affixed the stamp to the four tickets.

  “These two are the ones you will use going out,” he explained. “You will change trains in Fremont, Nebraska, and you’ll need this one. When you come back, you’ll change trains there again, and you’ll need this one when you board in Kansas City and this one when you change in Fremont.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you be wanting a roomette on the train?”

  “What time will I get to Fremont?”

  “About eleven-thirty tonight. And the train from Fremont to Kansas City will leave at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No, I don’t need a roomette. But a sleeper berth would be nice.”

  “Very good, sir,” the ticket agent said. “That will be five dollars extra for the berth.”

  “Is there a dining car?”

  “Yes, sir, you will need lunch and dinner, that will be seventy-five cents.”

  Duff paid the fare.

  “Will you be checking your luggage through?”

  “Just the suitcase,” Duff said. “I have some work in my satchel that I shall need to attend to.”

  Duff had no intention of letting the briefcase get out of his hand.

  “I need to send a telegram,” Duff said.

  “Yes, sir, the telegrapher’s window is at the end,” the ticket agent said.

  Duff stepped up to the Western Union window, then filled out the telegraph form.

  MR. JAY MONTGOMERY, KANSAS CITY CATTLE

  EXCHANGE

  DEPARTING KANSAS CITY AT 8:30 A.M. ON THIS DAY. WILL ARRIVE IN KANSAS CITY AT 9:30 P.M.

  TOMORROW. WILL COME TO YOUR OFFICE ON THE DAY FOLLOWING.

  DUFF MACCALLISTER

  With his tickets in one hand and his briefcase in the other, Duff walked through the cavernous waiting room, his footfalls echoing back from the marble floor and the arched ceiling until he was out on the depot platform.

  There was a snake-oil salesman standing out on the platform of the depot, pitching his wares to a captive audience.

  “Yes, sir, this here extract of buchu can be used in treating any disease known to man. Men, do you suffer from catarrh, or problems too delicate to be mentioned in public company? Women, are you afflicted with bearing down feelings, or private problems? Then extract of buchu is for you. It will cure cancer, consumption, and dropsy. But don’t go askin’ any doctor for it, ’cause you ain’t goin’ to get no doctor to give it to you.”

  “Why is that?” someone from the gathering crowd asked.

  “Why, Mister, I can answer that question for you in a heartbeat,” the medicine salesman said. “There ain’t no doctor goin’ to give this to you ’cause if he did, and if word got around as to how wonderful this here miracle drug is, why, doctors would just naturally be out of business.”

  Duff smiled at the spiel as he walked over and sat on a bench to await the arrival of the next eastbound train.

  “Oh, Mama! Here comes the train!” a young girl said excitedly, and the crowd on the platform moved expectantly toward the track. Even from his position on the waiting bench just outside the depot, Duff could hear the approaching train, first the whistle, then the sounds of puffing steam. As the train moved into the station, two more sounds were added: that of a clanging bell, and the squeak of brakes being applied. The train rushed by with steam pouring from the actuating cylinder as the operating rod moved back and forth, powering the driver wheels. The train was so heavy that as it passed by, Duff could feel it in his stomach.

  Finally, the train came to a halt and the conductor stepped down from one of the cars, then stood there as the arriving passengers disembarked. In the year Duff had been in America, he had gone twice, by train, back to New York. He had learned from such trips that the composition of the passengers was different, depending on which way you were going.

  Most of the westbound passengers were embarking upon new adventures, and they were high of spirits and eager with anticipation to see what their new lives would present. The passengers going east consisted of two groups: those who had succeeded in their ventures and were now going back in triumph, and the much larger group who were returning dispirited and frustrated by their lack of success.

  When all the arriving passengers had disembarked, the conductor looked at his watch importantly; then, just as importantly, called out his order.

  “All aboard!”

  Duff waited as all the other passengers stepped aboard, then he boarded as well. He chose a seat facing forward; and just across from him, facing to the rear of the train was an elderly gentlemen with white hair, a beard, and wearing a three-piece suit. He introduced himself.

  “Henry Pollard is the name, sir,” he said, holding his hand out.

  “Duff MacCallister.”

  ‘I’m going back to Boston,” Pollard said. “I spent most of my adult life away from the place, and now that I am retired, I intend to go back to Boston to live out the rest of my days in the city of my youth.”

  “I hope you have a pleasant trip,” Duff said.

  “I intend to, sir, I intend to, thank you very much.”

  Duff kept his answers pleasant, but did nothing to initiate any further conversation. He much preferred to make the trip alone, with his own thoughts.

  Pollard obliged Duff until lunch, at which time they found themselves seated at the same table in the dining car.

  The tables were already set, and little flashes of light bounced off the shining silverware, the sparkling china, and the softly gleaming stemware. Here, Pollard resumed his conversation.

  “Mr. MacCallister, have you ever stopped to consider what a marvelous time we live in? I mean, think of all those people who came west by wagon train. The trip was arduous, dangerous, and months long. Today, one can go by train from coast to coast in but a week’s time, enjoying the luxury of a railroad car that protects them from rain, snow, beating sun, or bitter cold. They can dine sumptuously on meals served in dining salons that rival the world’s finest restaurants. They can view the passing scenery, while relaxing in an easy chair, and they can pass the nights in a comfortable bed with clean sheets.

  “And not only that, we enjoy electric lights, and in all of the cities in the East, and an increasing number of cities in the West, one can use the telephone to talk to a friend or a relative in some distant location. Yes, sir, the times are mar velous.”

  “They are, indeed,” Duff said.

  “Mama, how fast are we going?” a little girl sitting at the table across the aisle from them asked.

  “One moment, young lady, and I will tell you,” Pollard said. He pulled out his pocket watch, opened it, and stared at it for a short while. “We are doing eighteen miles to the hour,” he said.

  Duff chuckled. “That sounds about right,
” he said. “But how can you say with such certainty?”

  “It’s quite easy,” Pollard said. “One need only count the clicks made as the train passes over the rail joints. The number of clicks you can count in twenty seconds, represents the speed in miles per hour.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was my business, young man,” Pollard said. “Until last month, when I was retired because of my age, I was a railroad engineer for Northern Pacific.”

  Kansas City

  When Denman got the telegram from Duff saying that he was on his way, he checked the rail schedule so he would know when MacCallister would arrive in Fremont. Then, in accordance with a pre-arranged code, he sent a telegram to Kingsley, letting him know when MacCallister would be arriving. After that, he returned to his desk, then began contemplating what he would do with all the money he would be getting. Even after Kingsley’s share, he would still have enough money to pay off all his debts and save his father-in-law’s property.

  But more and more, another thought began entering his mind. He could pay off his debts and save his father-in-law’s property, that was true. But, he would also have the money to leave Kansas City, leaving his debts, father-in-law, and wife behind him. He could start new, somewhere else. He could change his name, get a job in a bank somewhere, and live comfortably.

  It was certainly something worth considering.

  Fremont

  Because it would be the middle of the night when Duff left the train, he had purposely not taken a Pullman parlor car. He did take a sleeper car, and though the porter came through to make up all the beds when it got dark, he waved the porter off, instead sitting in his seat looking out into the dark as the train raced across the prairie. His seat companion, who had chosen the top bunk “because up there, there is no window to distract me,” bade Duff good night and went to bed.

  Nearly everyone else in the car went to bed as well, leaving Duff and the porter, who sat in a chair at the front of the car, as the only two people who weren’t in bed. And, because the porter was napping in his chair, Duff was the only one in the car who was still awake.

  Once, he thought of the little yellow ribbon Meghan had given him, and he stuck his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled it out. He had a small electric reading light between the windows, and he turned it on to look at the ribbon. He ran his fingers over the little lock of hair, then he lifted it to his nose to smell the perfume.

  About half an hour later, the porter came back to his seat. “You want me to make your bed now, sir?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no. I will be getting off just before midnight, so I won’t be going to bed.”

  “Very good, sir,” the porter said. He walked away and Duff began looking through the window. It was a cloudless night, and the moon was full and high. Because of that, he could see more of the scenery outside than one might expect, though nighttime had robbed the world of all color except for silver and black.

  A few minutes later, the porter returned.

  “Seein’ as you ain’t sleepin’ like all the others, I went up to the dinin’ car and brung you back a cup of coffee. Hope you likes it black, ’cause I didn’t put nothin’ in it.”

  “Aye, black is just fine, thank you,” Duff said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out half a dollar.

  “Oh, no, sir, no need for you to be tippin’ me none just for doin’ a good deed,” the porter said, waving the money away. “I just thought you might want some coffee.”

  “I’m much obliged to you,” Duff said.

  “You ain’t from here, are you?”

  “No, I’m from Scotland.”

  “I ain’t never been to Scotland, don’t even know where that is. I don’t think we have any trains that go through there.”

  Duff chuckled. “There are trains in Scotland,” he said. “But not the Union Pacific.”

  “You said you wasn’t goin’ all the way through. Where you gettin’ off?”

  “I’ll be changing trains at Fremont.”

  “Fremont, is it? Well, you don’t have much longer to be on the train. We’ll be pullin’ in to Fremont in just about an hour.”

  “Thanks.”

  The porter walked on to the back of the car and Duff killed the light, then sipped his coffee as he continued to look out into the blackness beyond the window.

  When he left the train in Fremont an hour later, it was nearly midnight, a great dark emptiness, quiet under a panoply of very bright stars. From Fremont, he would leave the Union Pacific Railroad and take the Missouri Pacific Railroad to Kansas City.

  He reached for the attaché case on the seat beside him and thought of the money in it, and how lucky he was to have it. He knew that he would not have it, had it not been for the mine he and Elmer, and to be honest, mostly Elmer, had been working for the last year.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As he had every day since he arrived in town, Crack Kingsley went to the Western Union Office to see if there was a telegram for Carl Butler. When he walked in today, a smiling telegrapher handed it to him.

  “Here you go, Mr. Butler. You must be a happy man today.”

  Crack read the telegram.

  BABY BOY BORN THIS MORNING. MOTHER IS DOING WELL.

  That was the agreed-upon code, and it meant that MacCallister would be coming through Fremont tonight.

  “It’s tonight,” Kingsley told Clem Crocker when he met him at the OK Saloon.

  “Let me get this straight,” Crocker said. “All I have to do is spot him, then come back and tell you. Right?”

  “That’s all you have to do.”

  “And I get a hundred dollars for it?”

  “You’ll get a hundred dollars for it,” Kingsley said. “Meet me back here tonight at eleven o’clock.”

  Despite the coffee the porter had brought him earlier, Duff had drifted off to sleep while sitting up in his seat, his head resting against the window.

  He was sitting on the front porch of his house at Sky Meadow. In front of him he could see cattle: Black Angus for as far as the eye could see.

  “They are beautiful. You were right to insist upon Black Angus. We do have the finest ranch in all of Wyoming.”

  Duff reached across the gap between them and took Skye’s hand in his. Standing, she bent over him.

  “I love you, Duff Tavish MacCallister,” she said.

  As she leaned over to kiss him, Duff looked up and saw not Skye McGregor, but Meghan Parker!

  “Sir! Sir,” the porter said, shaking his shoulder gently. “We’re comin’ in to Fremont.”

  Duff sat up and looked around. He wasn’t on the front porch of his house; he was on a train. And neither Meghan nor Skye was with him. No, that isn’t true. They were both with him now, so much a part of him that they peopled his dreams. And that just made everything even more confusing for him.

  “Thank you, Porter,” he said, yawning and stretching before getting out of his seat, then walking to the back of the car to step out onto the platform.

  Only six more people left the train: a preacher in liturgical dress, a man, his wife, and their three sleepy children.

  Duff, with his attaché case in hand, went into the depot.

  “Yes, sir, can I help you?” the night agent asked.

  “I’m going on through to Kansas City; I just want to make certain that my luggage goes through as well.”

  “You can go out and stand by the baggage car to make certain it gets off,” the depot agent said.

  “Good idea.”

  Duff stood by as the baggage was taken off the train and loaded onto a large pushcart. He saw his suitcase, and saw that it was transferred over to another cart marked “Missouri Pacific.” Satisfied that his luggage was accounted for, Duff inquired as to the location of a hotel and, given directions, left the depot with briefcase in hand.

  Clem Crocker had been told to look for a man carrying a small satchel, and he saw a man getting off the train carrying one. That really didn’t
matter, though. Only three men had stepped down from the train: one was a preacher, and the other was a father and family man, so this had to be him.

  As the man made arrangements for his luggage, Crocker hurried on up South Union Street to Dodge Street. The hotel was on Dodge between Clarkson and Irving, and Kingsley was waiting there in the space between Watkins’ Mercantile and Freeman’s Hardware store.

  At least, he was supposed to be waiting there, but when Crocker got there, he didn’t see him.

  “Kingsley?” he called. “Kingsley, you here?”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Kingsley called from the dark shadows between the two buildings. “Don’t be shoutin’ my name out like that.”

  “I seen ’im. He’ll be comin’ along in a few minutes.”

  “Is he carryin’ a satchel?”

  “Yep, just like you said.”

  “Go across the street and wait. When you see him comin’, step back in between them buildin’s so’s he can’t see you, then light a match. Whenever I see the match, I’ll know he’s near here.”

  “What are you goin’ to do?”

  “What difference does it make to you, as long as you get your hundred dollars?”

  “You’re right. It don’t make no difference to me at all,” Crocker said.

  Crocker hurried back across the street, stepped in between White’s Drugstore, and Wong’s Laundry, then looked back toward Union. It was dark here, and he had to urinate, so he did. He was just finishing when he saw the man he was looking for turn off Union onto Dodge, then pass under the street lamp.