Thunder of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  As Cletus stood up, he saw Falcon staring disapprovingly at him.

  “What are you lookin’ at?” he asked.

  Falcon shook his head. “I’m not really sure,” he said. “But if I were to guess, I’d say I was lookin’ at a pile of cow manure.”

  “Mister! Do you know who you are talkin’ to?” Cletus asked, his eyes flashing with anger.

  “I suppose I’m talking to that pile of cow manure,” Falcon answered, his calm, low-key voice contrasting with Cletus’s increasing hysteria.

  “By God, I’m going to teach you a lesson,” Cletus shouted. He reached for his gun, only to discover that the holster was empty.

  “What the hell! Where’s my gun?” he shouted.

  “I have it,” Billy said.

  “What the hell are you doing with it?”

  “I’m trying to keep you from being killed,” Billy said.

  “Now get back here.”

  Cletus pointed at Billy. “Look, you may be my brother, but I don’t let nobody order me around, do you understand? Nobody.”

  Billy walked over to the open window of the train, and stuck his hand through, holding Cletus’s gun just above the ground that was moving swiftly beneath.

  “Get over here and sit down, or say good-bye to your gun,” Billy ordered.

  Cletus turned to Falcon. “Mister, I don’t know who you are,” he said. “But this here ain’t over between us.”

  “Cletus?” Billy called again.

  Grumbling, Cletus returned to the end of the car, then sat down in the seat beside Ray, who was already asleep. Within moments, Cletus was also in alcohol induced slumber. Billy waited until both brothers were snoring before he got up. He stopped at the seat of the woman Cletus had groped.

  “Miss, I’m sorry about my brother. He don’t really mean nothin’, he’s just drunk,” Billy said.

  The young woman nodded, but said nothing. Billy then walked back to Falcon. “Mister, I hope you don’t hold no grudges,” he said.

  “Your brother has a mean streak about him,” Falcon said.

  “Yes, sir, he does,” Billy said. “I try and look out for him, but I can’t always be there.”

  “Why do you even try?”

  “Because he’s my brother,” Billy said, as if that explained everything.

  By now, the train was fully under way and the excitement was forgotten as nearly everyone on the car went back to sleep.

  About an hour later, Falcon walked to the water barrel at the front of the car. As he did so, he passed the three brothers. Cletus and Ray were asleep, or passed out, in the back-facing seat. Billy, who was sitting across from them in the front-facing seat, was awake and looking through the window at the passing desert. Falcon took down a tin cup and held it under the spigot, then filled the cup with water.

  “Mister?” Billy called quietly.

  Falcon drank the water before he replied.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to apologize again for my two brothers. They ain’t like this all the time. They just got drunk back there in Pueblo, that’s all.”

  “Looks to me like you have your hands full just keeping up with them,” Falcon said.

  “Yes, sir, I reckon I do. But they’re sleepin’ it off now. Chances are, when they wake up, there won’t neither one of them even remember seein’ you.”

  Falcon hung the cup back on the hook, then started back to his seat. Before he left, though, he turned back toward Billy. “You’re a good brother to them,” he said. “You’re a hell of a lot better than either one of them deserves.”

  By mid-morning it was very hot in the train car, and though the raised windows did allow air to come in, the air felt as if it were coming off a blast furnace. In addition, smoke and cinders often flew in, and one cinder, which was still white-hot, set fire to a seat and the fire had to be patted out.

  By now, both Ray and Cletus were awake. It was obvious that they were suffering the effects of a hangover, because they both sat very quietly, staring morosely at the rest of the car. It also appeared that Billy had been correct in his assessment, because neither one of them showed any recognition of Falcon.

  “La Junta!” the conductor called, passing through all the cars of the train. “Next stop is La Junta!”

  Stepping down from the train, Falcon took in the sunbaked town with a slow, all-encompassing sweep of his eyes. Behind Falcon, the locomotive relief valve vented steam in loud, rhythmic puffs, while wheel bearings and journals popped and snapped as they cooled. The wheels of a utility cart squeaked as an old Mexican man pushed it up to the baggage car to receive the luggage that had been checked through. A team and carriage waited alongside the station, the horses standing in harness with their heads lowered to escape the sun. A Mexican man sat in the shade near the carriage, apparently waiting to meet one of the passengers. The railroad dispatcher was just outside the door of the depot, wiping the sweat from his face as he looked on at the few departing passengers. The train conductor was standing at the foot of the boarding steps examining his pocket watch as the three cowboys left the train.

  “Señor Billy!” the Mexican said, standing then to call out.

  “Manuel, thanks for meeting us,” Billy answered.

  “What do you mean, thanks?” Cletus asked with a low growl. “We pay the son of a bitch, don’t we? Don’t seem to me like thanks is needed.”

  Falcon scratched a match on a post and held it to his quirley, squinting through the smoke as he watched two of the young men climb into the carriage. Billy walked over to the baggage cart with Manuel to help him retrieve the luggage.

  “Hey, Manuel, how about stopping by the saloon for a bit?” Cletus asked as the Mexican climbed back onto the driver’s seat and picked up the reins.

  “I’m sorry, señor, I no can do,” Manuel said. “Señor Clinton say I must bring you back to La Soga Larga.”

  “The ranch can get along for half an hour without us,” Cletus said.

  “I’m sorry, señor. You pa will fire me if I do this.”

  “And I’ll fire you if you don’t,” Cletus said angrily.

  “You cannot fire me,” Manuel said. “Only Señor Ike Clinton can fire me.”

  “Yeah? Well the ole man ain’t goin’ to live forever, you know,” Cletus said. “And when he dies, I’ll fire you.”

  “Cletus, enough,” Billy said. “Manuel is only doing his job.”

  “All right, if we’re going home, then let’s go home,” Cletus said. “I’ll drive.”

  Cletus crawled into the front seat, took the reins from Manuel, and removed the whip from its stand.

  “Hyyaah!” he yelled as he lashed out at the team. The horses broke into a gallop from a standing start and, with Cletus shouting warnings and curses, the carriage raced down the main street, scattering pedestrians as it did so.

  La Junta had not changed since the last time Falcon was here. The little town was built along the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, the steel ribbons that gave it life. By horseback, it would have taken Falcon at least four days to ride to La Junta from his ranch just outside MacCallister. But by rail, it took only sixteen hours.

  A stagecoach was drawn up on the street behind the railroad depot and, retrieving his luggage, Falcon walked over to it. The driver of the stage was stretched out on top of the coach. His hands were folded across his chest, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. Because Falcon once had had a business investment in Higbee, he had made this trip a few times before, and he recognized the driver.

  “Wake up, Sam,” Falcon called up to him.

  “Yeah, I’m awake,” the driver said, sitting up and stretching. Then, recognizing Falcon, he smiled. “Well, Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Falcon held up his bag. Attached to the bag was a Winchester rifle.

  “Where do you want this, Sam? On top, or in the boot?” he asked.

  “The boot’ll be fine,” Sam replied. He climbed down from the coa
ch, then undid the straps and buckles in order to open the boot.

  Other passengers arrived then, a woman with a young boy of about twelve and a short, very rotund, bald man who was carrying a case of samples.

  “Billings is the name, and notions is my game,” the man said, extending his hand to Falcon.

  “Notions?” Falcon asked, taking the drummer’s hand.

  “Thimbles, needles, thread, lace, and yard goods,” Billings explained.

  Seeing the woman struggling with her bag, Falcon moved toward her and, with a smile, relieved her of the burden. He put it in the boot alongside his own bag. The drummer kept his case with him.

  The woman and her son sat on the back seat, facing forward. Falcon and the drummer took the front seat, facing the rear.

  The coach tilted slightly as the driver climbed into his seat up top. “You folks ready down there?” he called.

  “We’re ready, Sam!” the drummer replied. “You may wonder why I called the driver by his first name, but I take this trip at least once every two weeks,” Billings explained to the others. “Why, Sam and I are old friends by now.”

  The coach started forward with a lurch then, and within a few minutes was out of town and moving at a faster-than-a-walk clip on the road leading to Higbee.

  The twelve-year-old boy took a book from his back pocket and began reading. On the cover of the book, a man held blazing guns in each hand and had a knife clenched between his teeth.

  Falcon MacCallister and the Polecat Bandits was the title of the book.

  Falcon shook his head slightly, then looked out the window at the passing countryside.

  “Say, young man,” Billings said. “I see that you are reading about Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Yes,” the boy replied.

  “Jimmy,” his mother said.

  “I mean, yes, sir,” Jimmy said.

  “Jimmy, huh?” the drummer said. “What’s your last name?”

  “Ellis, sir,” Jimmy replied. “Jimmy Ellis.”

  “Well, Jimmy Ellis, you can read about Falcon MacCallister if you want to. Or you can listen to a story about him from someone who knows him well.”

  Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. “You know Falcon MacCallister?”

  Falcon looked over at Billings, but Billings didn’t notice it.

  “Do I know him?” Billings replied. “Why, Jimmy, I used to ride with him.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. In fact, most of the adventures me ’n’ him had were so big and so dangerous that they ain’t even been wrote about yet, ’cause truth to tell, I don’t think folks would believe them.”

  Smiling, Falcon resumed his study of the passing countryside.

  “Wow,” Jimmy said. He put the book back in his pocket. “Would you tell me about one of them adventures?”

  “It’s one of ‘those’ adventures,” Jimmy’s mother corrected. “And don’t bother the gentleman by asking him to tell you stories.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother, ma’am,” Billings said. “Believe me, it’s no bother. And I’d love to tell the story. That is, if you’d like to hear it, Jimmy.”

  “Yes, sir! I would love to hear it!” Jimmy said.

  Mrs. Ellis sighed, then, like Falcon, turned her attention outside the coach.

  “Well, sir, this here story happened down on the Pecos,” the drummer began. “That’s a river,” he explained.

  “Anyway, me ’n’ Falcon—I call him that and he calls me Fred, bein’ as we’re good friends’n all—we was down on the Pecos, lookin’ for some men that robbed a bank in Santa Fe. Next thing you know, we was jumped by more’n twenty bandits.”

  “What did you do?” Jimmy asked.

  “Well, sir, that’s exactly what Falcon asked. ‘What do we do now, Fred?’ he asked. So, I put the horse’s reins in my teeth, pulled both my guns, then turned my horse toward the outlaws and fed him some spur. ‘Follow me!’ I yelled.”

  “Wow!” Jimmy said. “And did he?”

  “Oh, yes, Falcon held up his end just real good that day,” Billings said. “I didn’t get no more’n fourteen or fifteen of ’em myself, and Falcon got all the rest of ’em.”

  “How come they ain’t never wrote no books about you, like they do about Falcon MacCallister?” Jimmy asked.

  “Well, Jimmy, it’s like this. Some folks sort of crave publicity, and I reckon Falcon, for all that he is a good man, sort of likes all the fame and such. But then there’s also folks like me. I figure it’s best to just do your duty when you see it, then be quiet about it.”

  “Would you autograph my book for me?” Jimmy asked.

  “Why, I’d be proud to do it,” Billings said, taking out a pencil and signing his name to Jimmy’s book.

  “Whoa, hold it up there!” they heard the driver call. Sam pulled back on the reins and put his foot on the brakes, bringing the coach to a halt.

  “What is it, Sam? What’s going on?” Billings called up to the driver.

  “There’s some folks in front of us, wantin’ us to stop,” Sam called back.

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. Just drive on through.”

  “I don’t think I can do that,” Sam said.

  “You folks in the coach, climb outta there now!” a gruff voice called from outside.

  “What? My word, what is going on?”

  There was the sound of a gunshot, followed by a sharp cry of alarm from Mrs. Ellis. The bullet penetrated the coach, but it was obvious that it was meant to be a warning shot only.

  “I guess we’d better do as they say,” Falcon said, opening the door.

  “Mr. Billings, do something,” Jimmy whispered.

  “Do something? What do you mean do something?”

  “You know, like when you was down on the Pecos with Falcon MacCallister,” Jimmy said.

  “That was—uh—a long time ago,” Billings said. “I think this gentleman is right. We should do what they say.”

  The four passengers stepped out of the coach, then stood on the road.

  “Driver, throw down your pouch,” one of the bandits ordered.

  “What do you want the pouch for? There ain’t no money in it,” Sam called back. “Can’t you see that I ain’t even got a shotgun guard with me? I ain’t got nothin’ for you to steal.”

  “Then climb down from there. We’ll take what we can from the passengers.”

  “Mr. Billings, there’s just two of them,” said Jimmy.

  “They have guns,” Billings answered, his voice shaking with fear. “I think the smartest thing to do is to do just what they say.”

  “If you robbers know what’s good for you, you’ll leave before it’s too late,” Jimmy said. “Mr. Billings used to ride with Falcon MacCallister.”

  One of the two stagecoach robbers laughed out loud. “Ha! You been tellin’ the boy tall tales, have you, Billings?”

  “Please, don’t hurt us,” Billings said. “Just take what you need and go.”

  “I think you boys are going to find that this wasn’t a very good idea,” Falcon said.

  “Not a good idea, huh?” one of the bandits said. “And why do you think that?”

  “First of all, it’s like the driver told you, he isn’t carrying a money pouch. Secondly, you aren’t going to get one cent from any of us, and third, if you don’t do what I tell you to do, you could get killed,” Falcon said.

  “Mister, maybe you ain’t noticed, but we’re both holdin’ guns, and you ain’t.”

  In a draw that was so fast as to be a blur, a gun suddenly appeared in Falcon’s hand.

  “Now I’m holding a gun as well,” Falcon said.

  “What the hell?”

  “Bring your guns over here and put them in the boot of the stage,” Falcon said.

  “Mister, this here gun cost me twelve bucks, I ain’t goin’ to—”

  The protest was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot. A little spray of red mist flew from the earlobe of one of the bandits.

  “Ow!�
� the bandit shouted, slapping his hand to his ear. “You shot my ear off!”

  “No, I just clipped your earlobe,” Falcon said. “If I had wanted to take your ear, I would have done so. Now I’m only going to say this one more time. Bring your guns over here and put then in the stage boot.”

  Meekly, both bandits complied with Falcon’s request.

  “Take your boots off,” Falcon said.

  “Why do you want us to do that?”

  Falcon didn’t answer. Instead, he just made a motion with his pistol.

  Reluctantly, the men sat on the road, then took off their boots. The socks of both men were full of holes.

  “Bring them over here and put them with your guns.”

  “Mister, I only got me them one pair of boots,” one of the would-be robbers said. “Without them boots, I ain’t hardly goin’ to be able to get around none a’tall.”

  “You should’ve thought of it before you came up with a plan to hold up the stage,” Falcon said. “Be thankful that I’m planning on letting you go instead of taking you in town to jail or, better yet, killing you. Now, get, both of you.”

  “Get? Get to where?” one of the robbers asked.

  “I don’t care where,” Falcon said. “Just don’t try to sneak back, because if I see you on this road again, I’ll shoot you.”

  “Yes, sir, yes, sir,” the smaller of the two said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. This was a dumb fool thing to do in the first place.”

  The driver laughed as they watched the two bandits limp away on stocking feet.

  “I tell you the truth, Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “That’s ’bout the funniest thing I ever seen.”

  Billings looked sharply at the driver. “What—what did you call him?”

  “I called him MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister,” Sam said. “You mean you folks ain’t introduced yourselves yet?”

  “Y—you’re Falcon MacCallister?” Billings asked in a weak, choked voice.

  “Yes,” Falcon said. He chuckled. “I guess I’ve changed a lot since that time we were together down on the Pecos.”

  Billings saw Jimmy and Mrs. Ellis looking at him with challenging eyes.

  “Uh, yes,” Billings mumbled. “Yes, I expect we have all changed.”