Thunder of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Shut up, Jesse,” Belmond said. “That goes for the rest of you, too. Don’t say another damn word, or I’ll throw you into jail myself.”

  “I was just—” Jesse began.

  “You was just nothin’,” Belmond said. Then to Calhoun: “They have now been bailed out of the city jail. That ends your responsibility toward them.”

  “Then get them out of here,” Calhoun growled. He looked at the four men and at the smug expressions on their faces.

  “I reckon you don’t have as much power as you thought you did, huh?” Bart said to the marshal.

  Calhoun held up his index finger. “Here’s how much power I have, sonny,” he said. “If ever I see any of you in my town again, I will throw you in jail again.”

  “For what?” Bart asked defiantly.

  “For breathing without permission,” Calhoun said pointedly.

  “What about our guns and such?” Virgil asked. “You plannin’ on givin’ ’em back to us?”

  “They’re hangin’ over there,” Calhoun said, pointing to four pistol belts, handing from nails protruding from the wall.

  The four cowboys recovered their guns, then looked over at Ike with huge smiles. “Hey, Mr. Clinton, can we stop by the Hog Waller for a bit before we get back home?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just get on your horses and get back to the ranch, or leave your horses—they’re mine, remember—and go off on your own. But we ain’t stoppin’ by the Hog Waller.”

  Falcon had been quiet during the entire episode, but after Clinton, Belmond, and the four men left, Falcon spoke up.

  “You’re going to have trouble with those men,” he said. Calhoun chuckled. “Hell, I’ve already got trouble with them.”

  Falcon shook his head. “No, I mean real trouble.”

  “You goin’ to talk or play checkers?” Calhoun asked.

  The two men returned to their checker game. Calhoun won that one, Falcon won the second one, and they were on the third set to determine a winner for best two out of three.

  “Damn, I’m getting so sleepy I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ my eyes open here,” Calhoun said. He stretched, then stood up. “I’ve got some coffee over there. Would you like a cup?”

  “That would be good, thanks,” Falcon said.

  Calhoun walked over to take two cups down from their hooks; then he picked up the coffeepot.

  “Don’t you be movin’ none of them pieces now, you hear me?” he teased.

  “Hell, Titus, you’ve got me in such a pinch now, I wouldn’t even know what pieces to move to help me,” Falcon replied.

  “Ha! What are you tryin’ to do, lull me into a trap? You’ve got more pieces on the board than I do. I’m not even sure—unhh!”

  Concurrent with Calhoun’s grunt, came the sound of breaking glass. That was followed almost immediately by an entire barrage of shots, smashing through the front window and zinging around the room.

  Falcon dived to the floor behind the desk, just as one bullet penetrated the chair where he had been but an instant before.

  Even as the bullets were flying through the room, Falcon was on his stomach, working his way across the floor to Calhoun’s prostrate form. But, by the way Calhoun way lying, and by the open eyes and slack jaw, Falcon knew, even before he put his hand on the marshal’s neck to feel for a pulse, that the marshal was dead.

  Suddenly, the shooting stopped, and Falcon heard the sound of receding hoofbeats as the assailants galloped away from the marshal’s office. Standing up, Falcon grabbed a Winchester from the gun rack on the wall, then ran out into the street. By now, the two shooters were already more than one hundred yards away, scattering pedestrians as they fled the scene of the assassination.

  Both sides of the street were lined with citizens of the town who, when they heard the barrage of gunshots, had poured out of the houses and businesses onto the boardwalks to see what was going on. There were two people crossing the street between Falcon and the fleeing men.

  “Get off the street!” Falcon shouted, waving his hand. “Get out of the way!”

  Seeing the galloping horses, as well as seeing Falcon standing in front of the marshal’s office with a rifle, the pedestrians were galvanized into movement, and they ran to clear a path between Falcon and the fleeing gunmen.

  Falcon didn’t bother to check to see who might be in the street beyond the fleeing men. He didn’t have to. He knew that the bullets would not be going any farther than his intended targets.

  Jacking a round into the chamber, Falcon raised the rifle to his shoulder, brought the front sight down on the rider on the left, then squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle roared, and kicked back against his shoulder. The rider on the left tumbled from his saddle, and even before the smoke of the discharge had drifted away, Falcon had levered another shell into the chamber and fired a second time, knocking the other rider down. The two horses, now with empty saddles, continued to gallop.

  From the Higbee Journal

  MURDER SO FOUL !

  Marshal Titus Calhoun Murdered.

  ASSAILANTS KILLED WHILE FLEEING !

  On the afternoon of the 15th, instant, Virgil Tate, Bart Gray, Jesse Jimmerson, and Clyde Newbury were arrested by Marshal Titus Calhoun. These four miscreants had busied themselves with the vandalizing and destruction of private property, to wit: this newspaper. Their stated motive for the vandalism was dissatisfaction with an article that had appeared in the Journal two days prior.

  After spending but one night in jail, the four were freed from jail when their employer, Ike Clinton, paid bail. Shortly after being released, Jesse Jimmerson and Virgil Tate returned to the marshal’s office and, firing through the window, killed Marshal Calhoun.

  Falcon MacCallister, who was visiting with the marshal at the time, armed himself with a Winchester .44- .40 and with exceedingly accurate rifle fire slew both assailants as they attempted to flee.

  Funeral for Marshal Calhoun will be held Saturday next.

  The body of Marshal Titus Redfern Calhoun lay in a highly polished black coffin, liberally decorated with shining silver accoutrements. The lining of the coffin was white satin and the marshal, wearing his finest suit, lay in the coffin with his hands folded across his body and his head resting upon a red felt pillow. The undertaker had used clay to cover the bullet hole in his temple, and though he had been quite skillful, a close examination could locate the fatal wound.

  The marshal lay in state in the front of the sanctuary of the Higbee Church of the Redeemer. The top half of the casket was open as mourners filed by to pay their last respects. At the request of the marshal’s two brothers, Travis and Troy, Rachael played the piano.

  The music Rachael chose was from Joseph Haydn’s Mass in G, and as she played, the music filled the church and caressed the collective soul of the congregation. If there was anyone in town who did not know of the talent of the beautiful young pianist who played at the Golden Nugget, they soon realized that they were listening to a concert pianist of great skill.

  Not one person in the congregation had ever read the story in the London Times, written by a British music critic, about Rachael Kirby, but if they had read it, they would have agreed with everything he said:

  Although some may question whether or not a woman can play music of concert quality, no one could question the renderings of Miss Kirby on this night. Her music was something magical, and one could almost believe that the very composers whose music she recreated were looking down upon her with deep appreciation of her skills.

  It rained on the day of the funeral, and the Reverend E. D. Owen stretched out the eulogy and the service in an attempt to wait out the rain. He reviewed every aspect of the marshal’s life, from the time he was a boy back in Ohio, through his military service during the terrible war that had so recently torn asunder the very fabric of civilization as brother fought brother, till his time as a peacekeeper, both in Arizona and there in Colorado. The Rev
erend Owen told about the marshal’s two brothers, Travis and Troy, who had come to Higbee to join him and to begin a restaurant.

  Finally, when it began to grow apparent that the mourners would rather brave the rain than listen to the preacher talk any longer, he brought the service to a close and indicated by a nod of his head that the pallbearers could now close the coffin and carry the body to the waiting hearse.

  It was a measure of the respect that the citizens of the town had for Titus Calhoun that all braved the rain, standing under umbrellas as the coffin was lowered into a grave that was quickly filling with muddy water. After the funeral, many of the mourners gathered in the home of Troy Calhoun, where Troy and his wife had prepared cake, pie, and coffee.

  At the gathering, Mayor Coburn; Carl Moore, proprietor of the general store; Harold Denham; Prentiss and Corey Hampton; as well as Travis and Troy Calhoun, all approached Falcon.

  “We’ve been talking it over,” Mayor Coburn said. “Falcon, we would like for you to become our new marshal.”

  Falcon’s first reaction was to refuse the offer so vehemently that it wouldn’t be repeated, but he knew that they were serious about it, and he knew also that the offer was actually one of honor and respect. He did not want to accept the job, but neither did he want to refuse it in a way that would be discourteous.

  “I appreciate the offer,” Falcon said. “But the truth is, if I accept the position, I would be bound by law to acting only within the city limits of Higbee. As it is now, working for General Garrison, I have a much wider range of authority.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mayor Coburn said. “What authority could you possibly have working for Wade Garrison?”

  “I can explain that,” Garrison said, stepping into the conversation.

  “Please do.”

  “Although not one mile of track has yet been laid, the Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas Railroad has been granted a charter. And because we are a chartered railroad, I am authorized to hire a railroad detective. By the state laws of Colorado and Texas, as well as federal and territorial laws which cover New Mexico and cross state lines, Falcon MacCallister is granted police enforcement authority. Gentlemen, by accepting an appointment as city marshal, you are limiting his jurisdiction to an area of about two square miles. But as a railroad detective, he has jurisdiction over fifteen hundred square miles.”

  “You mean he has jurisdiction over Sheriff Belmond?” Troy asked.

  Garrison shook his head. “No, not over Belmond, but he has concurrent authority with Belmond on anything that pertains to the railroad.”

  Mayor Coburn laughed. “Why, that’s wonderful,” he said. “Mr. MacCallister, no disrespect meant, but the offer to be marshal of Higbee is hereby withdrawn.”

  “What do we do now?” Moore asked.

  “I have a suggestion,” Falcon said. “That is, if you are open to it.”

  “Yes, we’re open to anything,” Mayor Coburn replied. Falcon looked up at Travis and Troy. “Both Travis and Troy have been acting as deputies,” he said. “I would suggest that you hire one of them as the new marshal.”

  “Oh, no,” Lucy Calhoun said, stepping up beside her husband. “We have two children. I don’t want to take a chance of what happened to Titus happening to Troy.”

  “Darlin’, there’s always been that chance,” Troy replied. “Even when I was deputying for Titus.”

  “It’s not the same,” Lucy insisted.

  Troy shrugged his shoulders and looked at the mayor. “Sorry,” he said. “But I guess that lets me out.”

  “I’ll do it,” Travis offered. He looked at Troy. “But that will put more work at the restaurant onto you.”

  “I’ll help at the restaurant,” Lucy said.

  “I think you’d make a fine marshal, Travis,” Troy said.

  “Gentlemen, we have a new marshal,” Mayor Coburn announced.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rose Simpson’s breasts were large and sagging. The sagging wasn’t so bad, but what disturbed the symmetry was the fact that her left breast had only half a nipple, the other half having been carved off by a drunken sailor when Rose lived and worked in San Francisco.

  Sitting up, she reached for a bottle of whiskey and poured a generous amount into a glass. She handed the glass to Ray Clinton, who was lying in bed alongside her. Like Rose, Ray was naked, but from the waist down Ray was covered with a sheet.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Rose said as she poured a second glass for herself.

  “You ain’t as pretty as any of them whores Maggie has, but you’re a heap more friendly.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rose said as she took a drink.

  “Yeah, I mean, Maggie won’t even let Cletus or me near any of her whores.” Ray chuckled. “The only one she’ll let be with her whores is Billy, which don’t make no sense ’cause he don’t want nothin’ to do with any of ’em.”

  “I don’t know Billy,” Rose said. “He never comes into the Hog Waller.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He goes to the Golden Nugget from time to time, but he ain’t much of a drinker.”

  “He don’t whore, he don’t drink, what does he do?” Rose asked.

  “Ha! He sniffs around that Garrison girl is what he does.”

  “I thought the Clintons and the Garrisons didn’t get along,” Rose said.

  “We don’t, only Billy, he ain’t quite learned that yet,” Ray said. “I guess he sees that little ole gal and thinks she’s so pretty that nothin’ else matters. I reckon I’m goin’ to have to learn him a thing or two.”

  “Folks say things is only goin’ to get worse now,” Rose said. “What with the marshal gettin’ hisself killed and all.”

  “Did you go to the marshal’s funeral?” Ray asked.

  “The funeral was in the church.”

  “So?”

  “I’m a whore, Ray, remember? I’m not the kind that would be welcome in a church,” Rose replied.

  Ray laughed. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t reckon you would be. I ain’t welcome in no church neither, I don’t think. Besides which, I wouldn’t of gone to the marshal’s funeral anyway.”

  “Did you go to Virgil and Jesse’s funeral?” Rose asked.

  “Hell, they didn’t have no funeral,” Ray said. “Not so’s you could call it one anyway. We just buried both of ’em out on the ranch alongside Deke Mathers and Seth Parker is what we done.”

  “Looks to me like your hired hands are gettin’ whittled down pretty good,” Rose said. “That’s four of ’em been killed in the last couple of weeks.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “It’s that murderin’ son of a bitch MacCallister. What the hell is he doin’ here anyway?”

  “The way I heard it, General Garrison hired him as a railroad detective to protect the railroad.”

  “The railroad,” Ray said, scoffing. “There ain’t no railroad yet. And truth to tell, I don’t think they’s goin’ to ever be one. You know what I think?”

  “What do you think?” Rose asked.

  “Well, Garrison, he’s gettin’ a lot of money from investors and such to build the railroad, ain’t he?”

  “That’s right, you can’t build a railroad if you don’t have the money,” Rose said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I know. So, what if you told a bunch of investors that you was goin’ to build a railroad, and they all started givin’ you money, but then it turns out you didn’t build it? You’d have all that money and you wouldn’t have to do nothin’.”

  “Oh, he’s building it all right,” Rose said.

  “No, he ain’t. Unless you call buildin’ that depot buildin’ the railroad.”

  “Yes, he is, he’s building the actual railroad,” Rose said. “In fact, there’s a work party out right now leveling the right-of-way and getting ready to build a trestle.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know lots of things, honey,” Rose said. “It turns out that when men are wi
th whores, they do about as much talkin’ as they do anything else.”

  “I’ll be damn. So, what you’re tellin’ me is, they’s actually some men out buildin’ on the railroad now?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Where are they, do you know?”

  “Right now, I think they’re bridging the Thompson Arroyo.”

  “The Thompson Arroyo, huh?” Ray said. “I bet Pa don’t know that. He’s up in La Junta right now.”

  La Junta

  At a table at the rear of the saloon, Jefferson Tyree sat with his back to the wall, playing a game of solitaire. When Sheriff Mullins came into the saloon, Tyree paid him no attention. Mullins had come in several times over the last few days and had not spoken to him. Tyree didn’t know if Mullins had not spoken to him because he didn’t know who he was, or because he was afraid of him. It seemed very unlikely that Mullins didn’t know who he was. The state had been plastered with dodgers on Tyree ever since he escaped prison.

  Tyree started to go back to his card game; then he noticed something that caught his attention, something different.

  Sheriff Mullins was carrying a shotgun. That made Tyree suspicious enough, but when he saw who had come in with the sheriff, he knew that something was up. The man with Mullins was Darrel Crawford. Crawford had been chief of prison guards when Tyree was a convict at the State Prison in Cañon City.

  Tyree knew this was no coincidence.

  “Well, now, if it isn’t Darrel Crawford,” Tyree said.

  “What brings you to a jerkwater town like La Junta? Are you here on a little friendly visit?”

  “Nothing about my visit is friendly,” Crawford replied.

  Tyree chuckled. “Let me guess. You are upset about the little fracas I had with Kyle Pollard back in the prison, aren’t you?”

  “It was more than a fracas. You killed him.”

  “Yes, well, that’s just the way it worked out,” Tyree said. “I wanted to leave, you see, and he didn’t want me to. Killing him seemed the best way of settling our disagreement.”