Thunder of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  When Rachael went downstairs to prepare to leave the hotel the next morning, the clerk gave her two envelopes.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “You must be quite a popular young lady,” the clerk said. “They are letters to be delivered to you.”

  “Thank you,” Rachael said. Paying her bill, she walked out into the lobby and sat on one of the circular couches to read her mail. The first was from Mary Buffington.

  Rachael opened the envelope and began to read:

  Dear Rachael,

  We learned of a train leaving at three o’clock this morning, so we decided to take it. I thought about waking you, and telling you good-bye, but given the blow we all received yesterday, I thought that sleep might be better for you.

  Hugh said he is not going to let J. Garon get away with stealing our money, and he intends to recover it. I don’t know how he plans to do this, but you know that Hugh is a very determined man, once he sets his mind to it.

  If he is successful in recovering the money, I will try to see that you receive what is due you, but in order to do that, you must keep in touch with me, so I will know where you are.

  You will always be able to reach us at the Players’ Guild in New York. Good luck to you in your Western adventure.

  Love,

  Your friends, Mary and Hugh

  P.S. The rest of the troupe sends their love as well.

  Putting that letter aside, Rachael opened the other one.

  Dear Miss Kirby,

  My name is Corey Hampton. My brother Prentiss and I own a saloon in Higbee, Colorado. Let me assure you, it is a saloon of the highest repute.

  Last night I attended the performance you and the others gave, and I enjoyed it very much. But what I enjoyed most was your piano playing. It was beautiful, and it held me spellbound for the entire evening.

  Then, later, I enjoyed a late dinner, only to discover that you and the other players were at a table very near mine. I intended to come introduce myself to you, but I overheard your conversation, and realized that you had been stranded by an unscrupulous thief who took all your money.

  As I understood the conversation (and I beg you to forgive me for my eavesdropping), you and the others are now without employment. Also, if I understood correctly, the others are returning, but you plan to say out here.

  I would be very pleased to offer you a job playing the piano in the Golden Nugget. If you are interested in such a position, please meet me for breakfast at Two Tonys Restaurant on Santa Fe Avenue. I will stay there until ten o’clock, at which time I must catch a train to return to Higbee.

  Sincerely,

  Corey Hampton

  When Rachael stepped into the restaurant a few minutes later, the maitre d’ came up to her.

  “Yes, madam, are you alone?”

  “No, Mr. Deckert, the lady is with me,” a man said, getting up from a nearby table.

  “You are Mr. Hampton?” Rachael asked.

  “I am.”

  Rachael smiled. “I am a pianist,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In your letter, you said you wanted to hire me as a piano player. I am not a piano player, I am a pianist. Do you still want to hire me?”

  Corey Hampton smiled, and nodded. “Oh, yes, ma’am, I want to hire you, Miss Kirby,” he said. “I think Higbee is ready for a pianist.”

  Chapter Four

  As Falcon rode down the street in Boulder, Colorado, the hollow clumping sound of his horse’s hooves was interrupted by a clang, then a cheer.

  “You’re goin’ to be workin’ against a leaner there, Jimmy,” someone said. “Better be careful you don’t knock it down so that it becomes a ringer.”

  “You boys don’t be worryin’ none about that,” Jimmy said. “I’m goin’ to knock that one off and drop mine in, clean as a whistle.”

  By then, Falcon was even with the contest, and he heard the sound of the shoe hitting the steel stob, then shouts and laughter.

  “I told you, you was goin’ to knock that into a ringer,” someone said.

  “You jinxed me. If you hadn’t said nothin’, I would’a knocked that horseshoe plumb away from there.”

  “Yeah, and if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump ’is ass ever’time he jumps,” someone else said, and everyone laughed.

  Falcon continued on until he pulled up in front of the saloon. Dismounting, he went inside, stepped up to the bar, and slapped a silver coin down in front of him.

  Looking around, the bartender broke into a wide grin. “Well, I’ll be damned, if it isn’t Falcon MacCallister,” the bartender said, smiling at him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Hello, Ed,” Falcon said. “How cold is your beer?”

  “I’m running a little low on ice,” Ed said. “But I can promise you that it’s colder than horse piss.”

  Falcon laughed and slid his coin across the bar. “That’s good enough,” he said.

  The bartender shoved the coin back to Falcon. “Your money’s no good here, Falcon. The first one is on me.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon said.

  “By the way, did you hear that the son of a bitch who kilt the Poindexter family escaped prison?”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Falcon replied without elaboration.

  “I still don’t see how it is that they didn’t find him guilty of murder. If they had just gone ahead and hung the bastard, he wouldn’t be loose now.”

  “There’s no arguing with that,” Falcon replied.

  “I hope they find the bastard, that’s all I can say,” the bartender said. “I heard you are the one who brought him in.”

  “I am.”

  “Too bad you didn’t kill him.”

  Falcon took a swallow of his beer to keep from answering. He had killed his share of men—more than his share, if truth be known. He had never backed down from a fight and never would, but he didn’t have a lust for killing.

  The bartender, realizing Falcon didn’t want to talk about it anymore, slid on down to the far end of the bar and began polishing glasses.

  “MacCallister, you are a no-count, back-shooting son of a bitch!”

  The loud, angry words silenced all conversation in the saloon, and the piano player halted his song in mid-bar, the last few notes hanging discordantly in the air. Except for the loud tick-tock of the Regulator Clock that hung from the back wall, a deathly quiet came over the room.

  Falcon looked into the mirror behind the bar. The mirror was distorted so that, although he saw his challenger, he could not see him clearly enough to make out his features.

  “Turn around, real slow,” the man said. “I ain’t a back-shooter like you. When I kill you, I want you to be lookin’ right into my eyes.”

  Falcon took another drink of his beer, doing so slowly and deliberately.

  “I said turn around, you son of a bitch!” the man repeated, his anger reaching a fever pitch.

  When Falcon turned around, he saw an older man with graying red hair and a scraggily red beard. The man was pointing a Remington rolling-block .45-70 at him.

  “I’ve never shot a man with one of these before,” the man said. “But seein’ as it’ll leave a hole in a bear big enough to stick your fist into, well, I’ve got me a pretty good idee what it’ll do to a low-assed polecat like you.”

  Falcon noticed that the hammer was not pulled back on the rifle. “Mister, you seem to have something stuck in your craw,” he said calmly.

  “You killed my boy,” the man said. “You shot him in the back. And now I’m going to kill you.”

  “What was your boy’s name?” Falcon asked.

  “What the hell?” the old man sputtered. “Have you done kilt so many men that you can’t even keep track of ’em?”

  “What was his name?” Falcon repeated.

  “His name was Manning. John Nathan Manning. I’m Carter Manning. That boy’s mama died when he was just a pup and I raised him all alone.” Tears welled up in the man’s eyes
. “And I didn’t raise him up just so someone like you could come along and shoot him in the back.”

  “Well, Mr. Manning, I hope I don’t have to kill you, I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain something to you.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t want to have to kill me? I’m the one that’s holdin’ the gun, or ain’t you noticed? And what is there to explain about shootin’ someone in the back?”

  “That’s just the point, Mr. Manning,” Falcon continued in a calm, quite voice, “I’ve never killed anyone named Manning, and I’ve never shot anyone in the back.”

  “Oh, no?” Manning said, shaking his head. “I may be nothin’ but a dirt farmer, but I ain’t so far out of it that I’m goin’ to let you lie your way out of this. I got me a letter from a man named Tyree. He said he seen the whole thing.”

  “Would that be Jefferson Tyree?” Falcon asked.

  “Ah-hah! So, you know him, do you? Then I reckon that proves he was tellin’ the truth.”

  Manning raised his rifle, but before he even got it to his shoulder, Falcon had his own pistol out and cocked. He stuck his arm out with his pistol pointed right at Manning.

  “Don’t make me do it, Manning!” Falcon said sharply. Manning stopped midway through raising his rifle and stared in shock and fear at the big hole in the end of Falcon’s pistol. Nervously, he lowered the rifle. “How’d you do that?” he asked in an awestruck voice. “How’d you get your gun out so fast?”

  “Mr. Manning, Jefferson Tyree is an escaped convict. He has killed dozens of people, including an entire family,” Falcon said. “He killed more than half of them by shooting them in the back. If he says he saw your son shot, then it’s better than even odds that Tyree is the one who shot him.”

  “MacCallister is right, Manning,” the bartender said. “Jefferson Tyree is a murderer.”

  Manning stared at Falcon, but said nothing.

  “You have a cartridge in that piece?” Falcon asked.

  Manning nodded.

  “Take it out.”

  Slowly and deliberately, Manning rolled open the block and removed the cartridge.

  “Have you had your dinner?” Falcon asked.

  “What?”

  “Dinner,” Falcon repeated. “Have you had your dinner tonight?”

  “Uh, no. I had me some deer jerky while I was ridin’ down here,” Manning replied.

  “Deer jerky’s not much of a dinner.”

  “It’s all I had.”

  “How about having dinner with me? I’ll buy.”

  “Mister, what kind of man are you?” Manning asked.

  “I come here to kill you. You could’a kilt me, but instead, you’re askin’ me to have dinner with you.”

  “I want you to get to know me,” Falcon said. “I want you to know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that I didn’t have anything to do with killing your boy. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder to see if you are trailing me somewhere.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Manning said. “You could’a kilt me fair and square, and you would’a been in the right, but you didn’t do it. I don’t reckon whoever back-shot my boy would be doin’ that.”

  “Then you will have dinner with me?”

  Manning smiled for the first time since coming into the saloon. “You reckon I could get me a piece of apple pie with that dinner?”

  Falcon returned the smile. “I know a place that serves the best apple pie in Colorado,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  “Well, I thank you,” Manning said. “I thank you right kindly.”

  The saloon remained quiet as a tomb until Falcon and Manning were gone. Then one of the cowboys said aloud what most of the others were only thinking.

  “Damn! In all my borned days, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that, no way, no how.” Dozens of loud and excited conversations broke out throughout the saloon then, while at the back of the saloon the piano player resumed his music.

  “Why is it, you reckon, that Tyree wanted me to think you was the one that kilt my boy?” Manning asked as he forked a piece of apple pie into his mouth.

  “Tyree wants me dead,” Falcon said. “And if he can get someone else to kill me, all the better for him. And if that person gets himself killed trying to kill me, well, that’s no loss to Tyree. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t pick a fight with your son just to set this up.”

  “It takes one evil son of a bitch to do somethin’ like that,” Manning said.

  “You just described Jefferson Tyree.”

  “You know, I should’a known better than to think you was the one who shot my boy,” Manning said as he forked a piece of apple pie into his mouth. “I’ve heard tell of you, and I ain’t never heard nothin’ bad about you before. I reckon I was just so heartbroke over losin’ my boy that I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I hope you don’t hold that a’gin me.”

  “I understand,” Falcon said. He chuckled. “By the way, Mr. Manning, if you ever decide to actually use that rifle on someone, may I give you a little advice?”

  “A man’s a fool that ain’t willin’ to listen to a little advice,” Manning replied.

  “Make sure you have the hammer pulled back,” Falcon said.

  Manning laughed as well. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Yes, sir, I’ll remember that.”

  “And, don’t go after Tyree. Believe me, he has made enough enemies in his life. Someone is going to take care of him for you. That is, unless you’re just burning to do it yourself.”

  “I ain’t necessarily burnin’ to do it myself,” Manning answered. “I don’t care who kills him. As far as I’m concerned, dead is dead.”

  Higbee, Colorado

  Marshal Titus Calhoun was sitting at the desk in his office, going through wanted posters, when his brothers Travis and Troy came in.

  “Titus, we got us a problem down at Maggie’s place,” Travis said.

  Titus didn’t look up from his posters. “I told Maggie that if some cowboy doesn’t pay for his whore, that’s her problem, not mine. I can’t be wastin’ the city’s time or money collecting for her.”

  “This ain’t nothin’ like that, Titus,” Troy said. “It’s the Clintons. The Clintons and a couple of their cowboys.”

  “I thought Maggie said she wasn’t goin’ to let them in anymore.”

  “That’s just it. She met them at the door and told them they couldn’t come in, but one of ’em cut her face pretty good; then they went in anyway. All the girls ran upstairs and have locked themselves in one of the rooms, and the Clintons are raisin’ hell down in the parlor.”

  “How do you know all this?” Titus asked as he stood up and reached for his hat.

  “There was three or four customers in there when this all started,” Travis said. “They come runnin’ out into the street. I seen ’em and asked what was goin’ on, and they told me.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Hell, not more’n a minute or two ago,” Travis said. “I yelled over at Troy, then we came down here.”

  “All right,” Titus said. “Let’s get down there.” Maggie’s place was at the opposite end of the street from the city marshal’s office, but by the time Titus and his two brothers, both of whom were his deputies, were halfway there, they could hear what was going on.

  They could hear the angry exchange of shouts between men and women.

  “Go away!” a woman called.

  “What do you mean go away? Our money’s as good as anybody else’s money!”

  “I wouldn’t split the sheets with any of you if you paid five times as much as the others.”

  “You whores better get down here now! You got one minute to get down here,” another man’s voice shouted. “We got Maggie. We’ll start cuttin’ her up if one of you don’t come down.”

  “Go away!” the woman’s voice shouted again.

  “We’ll go away after we’ve had our fun.”

  There was a crowd gathered around outside Maggie’s pl
ace, and Titus had to push them aside to open up a path so he and his brothers could get inside. When the three of them were on the porch, Titus placed his finger over his lips in a signal to his brothers to be quiet. Then he looked in through one of the windows.

  He saw Ray Clinton sitting on the parlor sofa. Ray was a very big man, at least six feet four inches tall, and weighing well over two hundred pounds. Cletus Clinton was standing at the foot of the stairs, yelling up at the women. Ray and Cletus Clinton were sons of Ike Clinton, whose La Soga Larga ranch was the largest spread in Bent County. Titus also recognized Deke Mathers and Lou Reeder, who were two of the cowboys who rode for the Clintons.

  Cletus was holding a bottle and he turned it up for a long, Adams’ apple-bobbing drink before he shouted again.

  “I’m not teasin’,” he said. “If one of you whores don’t get down here in the next minute, we’re goin’ to start carvin’ Maggie into little pieces.”

  Titus looked around the parlor for Maggie, but didn’t see her.

  “Any of you see Maggie?” he asked the other two, speaking quietly enough not to be heard. “I don’t want them to start cuttin’ on her when we go in.”

  “I’m down here, Marshal,” a woman’s voice said.

  Turning, Titus saw a heavyset, bleached-blond woman standing just behind the hydrangea bush. She was holding a handkerchief to a cut on her face, though there was very little blood on the handkerchief, and, when she pulled it down, he saw that the face wound was light.

  “They’re so drunk they think I’m still in there,” she said. “They didn’t see me leave.”

  Titus looked in through the window one more time, just to make certain none of them was holding a gun.

  “All right,” he said to Travis and Troy. “Are you boys ready?”

  “Ready,” Troy said, pulling his pistol.

  “Say when,” Travis said. He was also holding a pistol.