Scream of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hah!” Mary Marie snorted. “The day I marry some damn tightwad Scotchman, leprechauns will play the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ on the pipes.”

  Falcon smiled as the carriage pulled away from the hotel.

  “How interesting,” Ben F. Washington said.

  Ben paid no attention to the three burly men standing across the street, watching him intently.

  7

  Restlessness gripped Jamie, and he could not winter in the cabin. He headed for Fort Bridger.

  “They’ve been here and gone, Mr. MacCallister,” the commanding officer of the fort told Jamie. “Six of the hardest-looking men I ever saw. They bought enough supplies to last the winter, loaded them on packhorses, and left. I heard one of them call another Waddy.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “Straight north. Into the mountains. Give it up until spring, Colonel,” the officer urged, addressing Jamie by his old military rank. “This winter is shaping up to be a bad one.”

  The officer fought away an urge to back up at the sight of Jamie’s grim smile and those cold blue eyes. “I’ll give it up when they’re all dead.”

  Jamie rested his horses for a day while he resupplied, and then pulled out, heading north.

  Jamie found an old campsite on his third day out and spent some time reading sign. When he finished, he knew a lot more about the men he was after.

  After studying the ground for a time, Jamie could now recognize their horses’ hoof marks anywhere. There were six men, and one of them walked with a limp. None of them appeared to be very concerned about personal hygiene. They had tried to hide the campsite, but either weren’t very good at it or had made only a half-hearted effort to do so. He found part of a burned envelope with the name Terry recognizable. That would be Slim Terry, he was sure.

  Jamie hit the saddle and continued north. He put the Muddy behind him and stayed on the west side of Commissary Ridge, heading for the trading post on the Hams Fork. He was closing the distance between them by several miles each day.

  His friends among the Indians had spread the word about his hunt, and he was not bothered by them. He did wake up one morning to find a new set of buckskins lying beside his bed, and a fine tomahawk with the buckskins.

  The Utes, he was sure it was them, were leaving the outlaws alone—leaving them for Jamie.

  Jamie sighted the trading post and swung down from the saddle. He took his field glasses from his saddlebags and studied the place for a moment. The long, half-open lean-to that served as a stable was filled with horses.

  He had found Slim Terry and his bunch.

  * * *

  Ben F. Washington had not noticed the men trailing him, but Falcon had. He’d spotted them several days before. After seeing Mary Marie O’Donnell off on the stage for Valley, Falcon returned to the hotel and sat in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper. As shadows began to creep silently over the city, signaling that dusk was about to turn the day into night, Ben walked through the lobby and out to the street. Falcon laid his paper aside and followed him.

  Falcon had learned that James William and Page had taken the train to New York City the very day that Falcon had arrived in Denver. They would be gone for a month at least, maybe longer.

  And maybe that was a good thing, Falcon thought. That would give him time to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on here.

  Ben was taking his nightly walk before dinner. Falcon knew the route he would take, for Ben had never deviated from it. Staying across the street and half a block behind Ben, Falcon spotted the three toughs when they swung in behind the reporter. Falcon quickly crossed the street and closed the distance just as the three thugs—nicely dressed, but thugs nonetheless—reached Ben and dropped a bag over his head and shoved him into a darkened alley.

  Falcon picked up a broken wheel spoke from the gutter and ran into the alley, swinging the hard wood. He didn’t want to shoot unless it was absolutely necessary, for he wanted some time alone with Ben, without the police.

  Falcon’s attack came as a surprise to the thugs. The heavy spoke rang off of noggins, splitting the skin, sending the blood flying, and dropping the goons to the dirty and trash-littered alley floor.

  Falcon jerked the hood from Ben’s head and slammed the reporter up against a brick wall, a .44 stuck up under Ben’s chin.

  “My name is Falcon MacCallister, mister.” Falcon whispered the words to a very scared Ben F. Washington. “James William Haywood is my nephew. Now, you’ve been snooping around, muttering some damned odd words. You and me, Mr. Washington, are going to have a long talk. And you’re going to level with me about what the Billy-Hell is going on around here. And you’re going to be truthful with me. For if I think you’re lying, I’m going to blow your goddamn head plumb off. You understand all that, city boy?”

  Ben managed to nod his head, the muzzle of the .44 cold against his chin.

  “Fine,” Falcon said, easing the hammer down. “I just knew you’d see it my way.”

  * * *

  Jamie rode up to the trading post from the rear, reining up behind the stable. He broke open and filled the twin barrels of the sawed-off shotgun with buckshot loads. At close range, the Greener was a fearsome weapon, capable of taking out two or three men with a single blast from both barrels.

  Walking around the stable, Jamie paused as the front door to the trading post opened and two old gray-bearded men stepped out. Trappers, from the looks of them. Men whose time had come and gone, but who were still hanging on to a way of life that advancing civilization had forever destroyed.

  The old mountain men spotted Jamie and walked up to him. “They’s a smell of evil in yonder, MacCallister,” one told him, jerking a thumb toward the trading post. “Fairly stinks, it does. They’s six of ’em and they’s waitin’ for ye. You need airy hep?”

  “No,” Jamie said softly. “But I thank you for the offer.”

  “Knowed your grandpere,” the second old mountain man said, a touch of French accent in his words. “And I knowed ol’ Robedeaux what took up with the Cheyenne and bred forth the woman who’s the mama of Gentle Breeze. Your son treatin’ her rat, MacCallister?”

  “That he is.”

  “Figured he must be. The Cheyenne would a-never a-stood for it if he wasn’t a good man.” The old man, who Jamie figured must be eighty if he was a day, looked at the Greener in Jamie’s hands and smiled. “That’s two men a-sittin’ at a table just to your rat as you step in the door. Two more facin’ the door, backs to the rear wall. The other two is along the bar. That’d be to your lef’ as you walk in. Take the two at the right side table out furst, they’s the fastest. Waddy Keeton and Slim Terry. They’s some other folks in there, but they’s moved out of the way. Go in shootin’. Good luck to you, Mac.”

  “Thanks.”

  The old mountain men walked to the hitch rail, swung into their saddles, and were gone.

  The cold winds off the mountains blew harsh against Jamie’s face as he walked to the front door. Pausing for a few seconds, Jamie took several deep breaths. He eared back both hammers to the sawed-off, slammed open the door and went fast and low, turning to his right.

  * * *

  In Falcon’s hotel suite, a pot of coffee on the table, Falcon listened with rapt attention as Ben F. Washington carefully recounted the whole sorry and sordid tale of his family’s history—as much as he knew.

  When Ben had finished, Falcon poured a fresh cup and leaned back in his chair. “Roscoe and Anne Jefferson became Anne and Ross LeBeau, the actors and singers and musicians. I often wondered what happened to them. So Anne is the mother of you and Page?”

  “Yes. She passed for white. Obviously, if you have eyes, you can see I could not.”

  “But you don’t know Page.”

  “No.”

  “She’s done nothing to you personally.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “And she doesn’t know she is a quarter Negro?”

  “No.”
>
  “Then why do you hate her so and want to destroy her life?”

  Ben did not reply to that. He leaned back into his chair and stared at Falcon.

  “Is it jealousy?” Falcon asked. “Is that it?”

  “Quite possibly, that is part of it.”

  “You know, of course, that I will not allow you to ruin my nephew’s life?” Falcon could butcher the English language when he wanted to, and when he wanted to, he could speak with the precision of a teacher.

  “How would you stop me?”

  “That’s easy. I’d kill you!”

  Ben’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But you just saved my life!”

  “Strictly to get information; to find out what in the hell is going on.” Falcon stared hard at the man. “I don’t sympathize with you at all, Ben. Not one bit. You’ve got your own life, so why not just live it, and let others live theirs. You have no right to come along and destroy others just because you’re angry at the hand life dealt you. If you want to live, just settle down and play your cards.”

  “I can’t believe you’d kill me, Falcon.”

  “This is a family matter, Ben. And the MacCallister family sticks together. You poke one of us with a needle, we all feel it. I will stop you from ruining two lives.”

  Ben didn’t believe it. He just didn’t believe Falcon would kill him. The reporter rose from his chair and walked to the door. He paused, turned around. “Thank you for what you did in that alley. Tomorrow, I shall buy a pistol and learn how to use it. Good night, Falcon.”

  Falcon sat for a time, staring at the closed door. He knew what he had to do, but damn sure didn’t look forward to doing it.

  * * *

  Six men in the trading post grabbed for guns when the door burst open. The other men hit the floor.

  Jamie pulled both triggers of the Greener, and Waddy Keeton and Slim Terry got splattered all over the log wall. Dropping the sawed-off, Jamie bellied down on the floor, his hands filled with Colts, and let them bang.

  Bob Perlich took a round in the belly and sat down hard on the floor, screaming and cursing Jamie. Willie Evans’ lights were forever turned out as a .44 slug punched a hole in his forehead. Lonnie Rayburn and Jed Hudson ran out the back door and made it to their horses.

  But they left all their supplies behind.

  Jamie got to his boots and walked over to Perlich. He stood for a moment, then knelt down beside the man.

  “You’re a rotten son of a bitch, MacCallister,” Perlich gasped the words.

  “I’ve been called worse,”Jamie replied, reloading his pistols.

  “Miles will kill you, MacCallister. You’ll not get lead in that man.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  The other men in the large room were getting up, looking warily all around them.

  “It wasn’t in our plans to kill your wife, MacCallister,” Perlich said with a grin. “We had plans to grab her and as many of yourn and hers daughters and use ’em up ’til we got tarred of ’em.”

  Jamie fought back his anger and stared at the man.

  “See, we had us a plant in your town feedin’ us everythin’ that went on. How’d you figure out what we was gonna do?”

  “A lucky guess, I suppose.”

  “I’ll see you in hell, MacCallister. ’Cause you ain’t no better than us’n.”

  “You may be right, Bob . . .”

  “This here one’s still alive! ” a man called from the bloody, buckshot-blasted corner of the room. “But not for long.”

  Kicking Perlich’s guns away, far out of the man’s reach, Jamie walked over to Waddy Keeton and knelt down.

  The man had taken a full load of buckshot in the belly and chest. The pale rider on his death horse was galloping hard toward Waddy, and the man knew it.

  “You have something to say to me, Waddy?”Jamie asked.

  “Yeah,” the outlaw gasped through his pain. He spewed obscenities at Jamie for a moment, then had to catch his breath as the pain from his wounds overcame him.

  Jamie waited. Glanced over at Slim Terry. Terry had received the second blast as the shotgun was lifting from the recoil and Jamie’s body twisting. He had taken the full load in his face and was unrecognizable . . . due to the fact that most of his head was missing.

  “Miles Nelson is shore to be hirin’ the top guns in the country, MacCallister,” Waddy blurted, spitting out blood with every word. “I ain’t gonna be around to see it, but he’ll git the last laugh.”

  Jamie had been hearing words to that effect for nearly five decades. He was still around. He offered no comment. Kneeling there, he watched Waddy die, a curse on the outlaw’s lips as he passed over from life to death. Waddy was blaspheming God with his last breath.

  “I’d not like to go out cussin’ the Almighty thataway,” a trapper remarked.

  Jamie removed the money belts from the men. They were not as thick as when he first started his hunt, but still held a goodly amount of stolen gold and money.

  “The money is stolen,” Jamie explained. “I’m sending it back as I find it.”

  “Drag them heathens out back and plant ’em,” the trading post owner told a couple of men. “Do that and I’ll zero out your bar bill. Somebody open the door and let this damn gunsmoke out. It’s smartin’ to my eyes.”

  “Can I have his boots?” another man asked, pointing to Perlich. “Mine’s plumb wore out.”

  “Hell, I don’t care,” the owner said.

  “How ’bout them pistols?” another man asked. “Them’s fine shootin’ irons.”

  “Take ’em if you want ’em,” the owner told him. “That all right with you, Mr. MacCallister?”

  Jamie shrugged his indifference as to what happened to the personal effects of the dead men. “I’ll take their supplies,” he said. “And the best of the packhorses. The rest of the animals you can sell or give away. I don’t care.”

  “That’s fair,” a man said.

  “Rat nice of you, Mr. MacCallister,” another spoke up, stripping the guns from Willie Evans while another man tugged off his boots. Willie wore no socks, and his feet were filthy, crusted with dirt.

  Jamie viewed the scene without emotion. After a moment, he turned away and walked to the bar, ordering a drink of whiskey.

  He did not turn around as the bodies were dragged out the back and laid on the cold ground. Jamie lingered for a time over his drink. He finished his whiskey and walked to the stable, to inspect the supplies left behind by the two men who’d gotten away. It was more than enough to last him through the winter. He picked out the best of the horses and repacked what he was taking, which included almost a thousand rounds of .44 caliber ammunition. The blankets of the dead men, although just recently purchased, appeared to have various types of bugs crawling and hopping around in them. Jamie tossed the blankets to the ground.

  “You don’t want them blankets?” a man asked.

  “No. You can have them.”

  ’Preciate it, Mr. MacCallister. I shorely do. You done us a good turn, so I’ll do you one. I know where some of the gang is winterin’.”

  Jamie waited.

  “They’s a ramshackle ol’ minin’ town just ’crost the territorial line in Colorodee. It’s in the Medicine Bows. Ain’t much to it now; there never was no vein. But that’s where you’ll find five or six of the gang. Gamblin’ and whorin’, I ’spect. I also ’spect that’s where them two that took out of here like their asses was on far went. So you’ll probably be up agin eight or so hard cases.”

  “I thank you for the information.”

  “Lak I say, you done me a good turn.”

  Jamie was gone within the hour. He rode for several hours, reining up often to check his back trail. When he was satisfied he was not being followed, he made his camp in a snug hollow, where he and the horses would be protected from the wind, and spent the night.

  He would head for Colorado at first light.

  * * *

  “Find him and kill him!”
the man now known as Russell Clay told the Jones brothers. “And when that is accomplished, I’ll have another assignment for you. One that will take you to the West Coast and just might make you both rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “Now you’re talkin’ like we wanna hear, mister,” Bob said with a smile.

  “Your betcha. You just consider ’er done,” Lloyd told the man who wore a muffler across his face and his hat pulled down low over his forehead. The brothers could see only the man’s eyes.

  “Fine. You know how to contact my man.” Russell turned and walked out of the warehouse. A carriage was waiting for him at the corner.

  The brothers exchanged glances, Bob saying, “We do this thing right, brother, we can get that job out in California. Then we’ll forever shake the dust of this territory out of our boots.”

  Lloyd nodded his head in agreement. “Let’s go find that reporter and get it done.”

  “Easy as pie,” the older brother said.

  Together, the brothers walked out into the cold night, killing on their minds.

  8

  Jamie Ian was the first to spot the little redheaded beauty sitting on the bench at the stage depot in Valley. He walked over to her.

  “Could I help you, miss?” he asked, doffing his hat.

  “Sure and b’gorra, you could,” Mary Marie said, the Emerald Isle fairly pouring from her mouth. “If your name be MacCallister.”

  “It is. I’m Jamie Ian.”

  “You’ll be Falcon’s brother?”

  “I am. And you are? . . .”

  “Mary Marie O’Donnell.” She handed him the note from Falcon.

  Jamie Ian read the note, a smile slowly creeping across his lips. Then he laughed. “You can stay with us until we can find you a place.” He spotted his son, Jamie Ian the Third, walking up the street and waved him over. “Pick up the lady’s trunk, boy, and tote it down to our house.”

  Jamie Ian the Third stood staring at Mary Marie, his mouth hanging open.

  She smiled sweetly at him.