Destiny of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Are you going to stay around for the proceedings?” Billy asked.

  “What? You mean the hanging?” Falcon asked. He shook his head. “Watching a man’s neck stretch isn’t my idea of a good time.”

  “Damn,” Billy said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, damn, I’m sorry, Falcon, I wasn’t thinking. You would be thinking about Captain Ward and your men, wouldn’t you?”

  Falcon shook his head. “Well, now that you mention it, I guess I was. But truth to tell, I’d as soon see them come up with some other way of executing folks.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Shooting them, I suppose. They say the French have a guillotine, a big blade that whacks the head off. Folks die quick that way. It’s got to be better than hanging.”

  “Yeah, well, if somebody does murder, then I’m not all that particular about how they die,” Billy said. “Maybe if a few more people would stop and think about what it’s like to get hung, wouldn’t be so many of ’em committin’ crimes that lead ’em to the gallows.”

  Chapter 6

  The little town of Belfield sat baking in the late summer sun. To the six riders approaching from the east, the collection of sun-bleached wooden buildings were so much a part of the land that the town could’ve been the result of nature, rather than man.

  Percy Shaw, the youngest of the riders, slipped his canteen off the pommel and took a drink. The water was sour and tepid, but his tongue was dry and swollen. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, then recorked the canteen and hooked it back onto his saddle.

  “Hey, Aaron, what do you say we stop in to the saloon and get us a few beers? I gotta have me somethin’ to wet this here dust we been chewin’ on for the last ten days.”

  “You just had a drink of water,” Aaron answered. Aaron Childers was the oldest, and the acknowledged leader of the six riders, which also included his two brothers, Frank and Corey, and their cousins, Dalton and Ethan Yerby.

  “Yeah, but the water in this here canteen is beginnin’ to taste like piss,” Percy complained.

  Frank Childers laughed. “Well, now, just how the hell would you know what piss tastes like, Percy? You been drinkin’ a lot of it lately, have you?”

  “Well, I ain’t exactly drunk no piss, but I can guess what it tastes like. It tastes just like this water. What do you say, Aaron? Can we get us a couple of beers afore we take care of our business?”

  “We ain’t a-goin’ into no saloons in this town,” Aaron said. “Iffen we was to start drinkin’ with the locals, the next thing you know, ever’ one’s goin’ to have a good description of us.”

  “Hell, you think they ain’t goin’ to have a description of us anyway?” Percy asked. “The moment we rob the bank, ever’ one there’s goin’ to know what we look like.”

  “They ain’t goin’ to recognize us if we do the job right,” Aaron said. “You just do what I tell you. We’ll be in that bank, have the money, and then be out of there again before anyone in town knows what hit ’em. Then when we ride into the next town, we can go in style. Why, we’ll have enough money to swim in beer if we want to. Women, hotels, restaurants, gamblin’ money. We’ll have enough to do anything we want.”

  “Yeah,” Percy said, smiling broadly. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  “You’re through bellyachin’ about beer then, are you?”

  “Yeah, I’m through,” Percy said.

  “Good. Now, let’s get on with it. You boys check your pistols.”

  The men pulled their pistols and checked the cylinders to see that all the chambers were properly charged. Then they slipped their guns back into their holsters.

  “Ready?” Aaron asked.

  “Ready,” Percy replied.

  “Yeah, me too,” Corey said.

  “We’re ready,” Ethan said, speaking for himself and his brother.

  * * *

  Falcon MacCallister was sitting at a small table in the back of the Blue Dog Saloon. On the table in front of him was a meal of vegetable soup and biscuits. Admittedly it wasn’t the best fare, but at least it wasn’t trail-cooked.

  As Billy had instructed, Falcon had taken his voucher to the bank and now in his pocket was five hundred dollars in cash. This was the reward money paid for the capture of Thad Howard.

  Falcon hadn’t even known about the reward when he turned Howard over to Sheriff Puckett. It was Puckett who’d brought it up, and Puckett who’d authorized immediate payment.

  Because it was midday, the saloon was nearly empty. As a result, Cait Smathers was the only bar girl working. The others would come tonight, when the saloon was busier.

  Cait was standing at the end of the bar, nursing a sarsaparilla.

  “Sure is quiet in here,” she said.

  “Yeah,” the bartender replied. He was washing and wiping glasses. He nodded toward the table where Falcon was having his lunch. “That fella over there is Falcon MacCallister. Why don’t you go talk to him?”

  “Why? Looks like all he is interested in is eatin’. I’m not likely to make any money from him.”

  “Maybe you will and maybe you won’t,” the bartender said. “But I do know that he is flush right now.”

  Cait’s interest perked up. “Oh? And how do you know that?”

  “He brought in Thad Howard this morning,” the bartender said. “Sheriff Puckett paid him the reward money.”

  “He already paid the reward?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come him to pay so fast?”

  “Turns out the sheriff and MacCallister are old friends,” the bartender said.

  Cait looked over toward Falcon. What she saw was a big man concentrating on his meal. His long hair was the color of winter straw.

  The bartender drew a beer and handed it to Cait. “He’s already paid for this,” he said.

  Cait took the glass over to Falcon’s table, then sat down without being invited. She pasted a big smile, on her face, but when he looked up at her, his eyes, like blue steel, were hard and cold. For a moment she felt a twinge of fear . . . she had infringed upon his privacy and the expression on his face indicated that he did not appreciate that.

  Then he relaxed and the coldness fell away, to be replaced by a face that was, at a minimum, interesting and could even be considered handsome. It was at least inviting, and her smile returned.

  “Frank said you ordered this,” she said, putting the beer in front of him.

  “Thanks.”

  “He also said you brought in Thad Howard.”

  Falcon nodded. “I did,” he said. He took a drink of the new beer.

  “And you already got your reward?”

  “Yes.”

  Falcon was proving to be a man of few words, and that was making it difficult for Cait. Falcon used the back of his hand to wipe the foam away from his lips.

  “So, what are you going to do with all that money?” Cait asked.

  “Spend it,” Falcon said.

  * * *

  The boardwalks were filled with men and women, moving from store to store in Belfield, attending to their daily commerce. A farmer parked his wagon in front of the mercantile, and his wife and two children jumped down to run inside the store, even as six men rode by in the street out front.

  The six men, all of whom were wearing long white dusters, continued on into the town until they reached the Bank of Belfield. There, Aaron, Percy, Ethan, and Dalton dismounted, and handed their reins to Corey.

  Corey and Frank remained in the saddle and kept their eyes open on the street out front. The other four looked up and down the street once, then pulled their kerchiefs up over the bottom halves of their faces and, drawing their guns, pushed open the door and barged inside.

  There were six customers in the bank when the four men rushed in. Because of the masks on their faces and the guns in their hands, the customers and the bank teller knew immediately what was going on.

  “You men, get your hands up and stand over against the wall!�
�� Aaron shouted.

  The customers complied with the orders.

  While the other three kept everyone covered, Aaron hopped over the railing to go behind the teller cage. Pulling a cloth bag from his pocket, he held it out toward the teller. “Put all your money into this here bag,” he ordered.

  Trembling, the teller emptied his cash drawer.

  * * *

  Across the street from the bank, young Marcus Wise was standing at the window of the mercantile store. He had come into town to go shopping with his mother and, as a reward for “being a good boy,” she had bought him a licorice whip. Eating the licorice, he was staring at the bank across the street.

  Marcus saw the men pull kerchiefs up over their faces, then go inside. Then he saw the people inside put up their hands. He laughed.

  “Mama, look across the street at those funny men,” Marcus said. “They sure are funny.”

  “You look, dear, I’m busy right now,” his mother answered. She picked up an apple peeler. “Mr. Dunnigan, are you telling me this will peel an apple?”

  “It will indeed, Mrs. Wise,” Dunnigan answered. “It will automatically peel and core an apple just as slick as a whistle.”

  “My, my,” Mrs. Wise said, studying the mechanical marvel. “What will they think of next?”

  Marcus laughed again. “Now everyone is holding their hands up in the air.”

  This time, Marcus got the grocer’s attention. “What did you say, Marcus?” Dunnigan, the store owner, asked. “Something about people in the bank with their arms up?”

  “Look over there. See? All those people in the bank are holding their arms in the air,” Marcus said.

  Dunnigan walked over to the window and looked across the street toward the bank.

  “The boy is right,” he said. “Oh, my God! They are robbing the bank!”

  Another customer was in the store and when he heard Dunnigan, he ran outside and started shouting.

  “They are robbing the bank! They are robbing the bank!”

  “Mrs. Wise, grab Marcus and get to the back of the store. Get down behind the counter,” Dunnigan warned. Even as he spoke, he grabbed a double-barrel shotgun from beneath his store counter and broke it open to slip two shells into the chambers.

  * * *

  Inside the bank, the teller’s hands trembled as he took money from the teller’s drawer to drop into the sack Percy Shaw was waiting for. In a surprisingly short time, he handed the bag to Percy.

  Percy looked down into the bag and saw just a few bills and some change.

  “What the hell?” he said. He handed the bag back. “What are you trying to pull, mister? Put it all in there!” he demanded.

  The teller nodded, and pointed to his empty drawer. “It is all in there,” he said. “Do you see? The drawer is empty.”

  “Why, there’s not enough here to have a good drunk,” Percy said gruffly. He handed the sack back to the teller. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put more money in here.”

  “Please, mister, you see the drawer,” the teller said. “I’ve put everything in there.”

  “Hurry up, Percy! What the hell’s the holdup?” Aaron asked anxiously.

  “This son of a bitch is holding out on us,” Percy said. He showed the sack to Aaron. “This is all we got.”

  “The hell with that,” Aaron said angrily. He came around behind the teller’s counter and stuck the end of his pistol into the bank teller’s nose, pushing so hard that it began to bleed.

  “Are you telling me this is all the money there is in this bank?”

  “N-no,” the teller stammered. “There’s more money in the safe.”

  Aaron looked over at Percy. “Can’t you do a damn thing right?” he asked. “Do I have to do everything myself?” Then, looking back at the teller, he demanded, “All right, mister, get the money out of the safe.”

  “I can’t,” the teller answered.

  “What do you mean you can’t? I’m the one holding the gun here, and I say you can.”

  The teller shook his head desperately. “No, sir, I can’t. I can’t open the safe. I don’t know the combination.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know the combination. You work here, don’t you?”

  “Ye-yes, sir,” the teller replied. “But Mr. Harkins owns the bank and he’s the only one who knows the combination.”

  “All right, get him.”

  “He’s out of town for the day,” the teller replied. “He won’t be back till late this evening.”

  Suddenly the front door opened and Frank, who didn’t have the bottom half of his face masked, stuck his head in.

  “Aaron, you better come quick!” he shouted. “Somebody seen these fellas with their hands up and went runnin’ down the street yellin’ that the bank was bein’ robbed. We got to get out of here!”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I get the rest of the money,” Aaron replied. He pointed his pistol toward the teller and cocked it. “Open the damn safe!”

  The teller began to shake uncontrollably. “Mister, don’t you think I would if I could? I sure as hell don’t want to die! I can’t open that safe.”

  “Ha!” Percy said, pointing to the teller. “Lookee there. He just pissed in his pants. You know what, Aaron? I believe him.”

  Shouting in frustrated rage, Aaron brought his pistol down on the teller’s head. With a groan, the teller dropped to the floor.

  “What are we going to do now?” Percy asked.

  Aaron looked around the bank, and at the terrified faces of the customers, all of whom were standing against the wall with their hands still raised. Then, with the sack of money clutched firmly in his hand, Aaron vaulted back over the teller’s counter.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  * * *

  Dunnigan came running out onto the front porch of his store, his shotgun loaded and raised. As soon as he saw the men emerging from the bank, he let go with both barrels. The gunshot was as loud as a thunderclap, and the recoil of both barrels being fired kicked back so hard that the gun went almost straight up.

  He missed, but saw the result of his double-aught buckshot as it hit the front window of the bank, bringing it down with a loud crash.

  “You son of a bitch!” Frank shouted. He fired back at Dunnigan, and the bullet hit the pillar that was supporting the porch overhang. Dunnigan’s face was peppered with the splinters of wood that were raised by the impact of the bullet, but he wasn’t injured.

  Realizing then that he had fired both rounds and had nothing left to shoot with, Dunnigan darted quickly back into the store, just as another bullet slammed into the wall close by.

  * * *

  As he reached the front door of the bank, Aaron saw someone from across the street shoot at them with a heavy-gauge shotgun. The charge of double-aught buckshot missed him and the others, but it did hit the front window, bringing it down with a loud crash. Aaron shot back, and though he missed the man with the shotgun, he at least drove him back inside.

  “Come on! Come on! Get mounted! Get mounted!” Corey shouted, trying to hand the others the reins to their horses. Corey’s own horse started twisting around with him.

  Aaron and the others leaped into their saddles, then started at a gallop down the street.

  There had been several citizens out on the street and the sidewalks when the shooting erupted, and now they stood there watching in shock as the men who had just robbed their bank were getting away. They were too shocked by the suddenness of the event to dive for cover. On the other hand, either none of them were armed, or else none of them wanted to be a hero, because no one attempted to engage the bank robbers.

  * * *

  Falcon heard the roar of the shotgun first, then the shout of the man who was running down the street.

  “They are robbing the bank! They are robbing the bank!” the man shouted.

  Quickly, Falcon got up from the table and, gun in hand, hurried to the door, arriving just as the six mounted men t
hundered past him. It was strange. They were at a full gallop, and yet he could see each of them with such crystal clarity that it was as if they were on stage, performing a tableau.

  He could see their jaws set, the muscles in their necks standing out, the raw, wind-burned brown of their skin, the flared nostrils, and their eyes, desperate eyes, staring straight ahead.

  The hooves of the horses were throwing up large clods of dirt from the street as they passed by in full gallop.

  * * *

  It looked to Aaron as if they were about to get away cleanly. Other than the one attempt with a shotgun when they first emerged from the bank, no one made any attempt to stop them.

  Then, ahead of them, a man stepped down off the boardwalk and out into the street. A flash of sunlight revealed the fact that a star was fastened to his vest.

  “It’s the sheriff!” Aaron shouted.

  * * *

  Falcon watched as the retreating bank robbers raised their pistols toward Billy.

  “Billy, look out!” Falcon shouted, even as the sheriff raised his own pistol.

  There was a ripple of gunfire and a cloud of smoke as the bank robbers fired a volley toward the sheriff.

  * * *

  After the first volley Billy grabbed his shoulder, then staggered back a step. Aaron followed up with a second shot, as did the others, and the sheriff went down under the fusillade of bullets.

  With a shout of rage, Falcon fired at the bank robbers. He saw a puff of dust rise from the impact of his bullet.

  “Dalton, I’m hit! I’m hit!” Ethan shouted. He grew unsteady in the saddle, then tumbled to the ground.

  Corey went down next.

  “Corey! Corey!” Frank shouted. Turning his horse, he headed back toward Ethan.

  “Frank, keep up!” Aaron shouted.

  “I ain’t a-goin’ to leave Corey and Ethan.”

  Frank rode back toward the two wounded men, but the others continued on out of town.

  “Come back here!” Frank shouted in desperation. “Aaron, come back here! We can’t leave them like this!”

  Frank leaped from his saddle, then knelt beside the two wounded men.

  The man who had shot them came running up with his gun drawn and pointed directly at Frank.