Destiny of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How did you get the gun away from Falcon MacCallister?”

  “I, uh, asked him for it.”

  “Suppose he had resisted.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Given the ferocious reputation that prosecution has painted for him, if he had resisted, do you think you could have disarmed him?”

  Kelly squirmed in his seat and stroked his chin for a moment. Then, with a resigned sigh, he said. “No, sir, I don’t think I could have.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  Woodward called two other witnesses, both of whom were guests of the hotel. Their story was substantially the same . . . they heard gunshots, ran to the room, and heard Howard’s dying testimony that he had wandered into the wrong room by mistake.

  After questioning his last witness, Woodward turned to the jury.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, as you have heard with your own ears, all four witnesses were present in time to hear Mr. Howard’s last words. And those last words were a statement of surprise that he had been shot merely because he wandered into the wrong room by mistake.”

  “Your Honor, is prosecution giving his summation now, before I’ve even had the opportunity to present my case?” Roosevelt asked.

  “That is a very good question, Mr. Roosevelt. Counselor, are you giving your summation?”

  “No, Your Honor, I am not,” Woodward replied.

  “Then please call your next witness.”

  “I have no further witnesses, Your Honor. Prosecution rests.”

  “Very well, then court stands adjourned until tomorrow morning, at which time we will hear from the attorney for the defense,” Judge Heckemeyer said. He brought his gavel down sharply.

  As Roosevelt started putting papers away in his briefcase, Anna walked over to the defense table. She smiled at the would-be attorney.

  “Teddy, you are doing wonderfully,” she said.

  “I thank you for your vote of confidence, but it’s a little too early to make a valid judgment on my performance,” Roosevelt replied. “All I have done today is parry the thrusts of the prosecution. Tomorrow will tell the tale.”

  “I’m sure you will do very well,” Anna said.

  The sheriff and his deputy came for Falcon then.

  “Oh, gentlemen, before you take him away, please allow me to introduce him to my friend,” Roosevelt said. “Mr. MacCallister, this is Anna Heckemeyer.”

  “We have met,” Falcon said.

  “Indeed we have. Allow me to thank you again, Mr. MacCallister, for your graciousness in sharing your theater box.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Falcon said. He chuckled. “Under the circumstances, I wish it had been your father, rather than you. I’m afraid he doesn’t like me very much.”

  Anna chuckled. “I think you have pegged him correctly, sir,” she said. “On the other hand, I know my father to be an honest man. I can promise you that you will get fair treatment in his court.”

  “Come along, MacCallister,” the sheriff said gruffly.

  “Good luck to you, Mr. MacCallister,” Anna called as he was led away.

  “Thanks,” Falcon called back over his shoulder. “I have a feeling I am going to need it.”

  Chapter 16

  When word reached Aaron Childers that Falcon MacCallister was in jail and being tried for murder, he talked the others into going to Medora to see for themselves.

  “You want to tell me why we’re comin’ into Medora when the fella who’s been chasin’ us all this time is in this town?” Yerby asked. “Seems to me like the smart thing to do would be to stay away from him.”

  “Don’t know why you’re so worried, Dalton,” Childers said. “Ole MacCallister sure as hell ain’t in no condition to do us any harm now. I mean, bein’ as he is in jail and is being tried for his life.”

  “Yeah,” Percy Shaw added. He chuckled. “Besides which, when it comes time for ’em to string ole MacCallister up by his neck, I want to be there watchin’ and laughin’.”

  The three men looked around warily as they rode into Medora. None of them had ever committed a crime in this town, but all three of them were wanted and it could be that someone might recognize them.

  They rode right up Third Avenue until they reached the saloon. The saloon was one of the larger buildings in town, false-fronted like most of the others and with its name, Golden Spur, painted in black letters outlined in gold. Between the word “Golden” and the word “Spur” was a pair of golden spurs.

  Tying their horses at the hitching rail, they went inside, then stepped over to the bar. The saloon was fairly busy, with nearly all of the tables filled. In addition, there were several men standing at the bar. The bartender, who was laughing at something someone just said, tossed a towel over his shoulder, then moved down the bar to greet Childers and the others.

  “Welcome, gents,” he said. “What can I get for you?”

  “Beer,” Childers ordered. The others said the same.

  “We just got some new barrels of beer from St. Louis. It’s a really good beer.”

  “Is it your cheapest?” Childers asked.

  The bartender chuckled and shook his head. “No, sir, it isn’t the cheapest. But wait until you taste it.”

  “I ain’t a-goin’ to taste it if it ain’t the cheapest,” Childers said. “Give us the cheapest beer you got.”

  “Yes, sir, whatever you say,” the bartender replied.

  The bartender drew three beers and set them in front of the three men, then picked up the three nickels.

  “Hey, is it true what they’re sayin’ about Falcon MacCallister?” Childers asked as he blew the foam off and took a drink. “Is he really bein’ tried for murder?”

  The bartender shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not murder. He’s being tried for manslaughter.”

  “Manslaughter? What’s that?”

  “The illegal killing of a human being.”

  “Well, hell, ain’t that and murder the same thing?”

  “No. It isn’t the same thing at all.”

  “What’s the difference?” Childers asked.

  “For one thing, even if he’s found guilty, he won’t hang. The most that can happen to him is he’ll wind up in territorial prison.”

  “Yeah, but he ain’t a-goin’ to be found guilty,” one of the other men at the bar said.

  “Who are you?” Childers asked.

  “The name is Josh Andrews,” the cowboy said. Smiling, he extended his hand. “What’s your name?”

  Instead of taking the cowboy’s hand, Childers raised his glass to his lips. He didn’t answer the inquiry about his name, but asked another of his own.

  “Why do you say MacCallister won’t be convicted?”

  “Because Mr. Roosevelt’s defending him.”

  “Hey, Aaron,” Percy started. “That’s . . .” Before Percy could complete his sentence, Aaron shushed him.

  “You know this here Roosevelt fella, do you?”

  “Know him?” Josh smiled broadly. “Why, I’m proud to say that I work for him. I ride for the Elkhorn Ranch.”

  “So he’s your boss?”

  “He is. And there’s no finer boss in the land,” Aaron said.

  “Is he good at lawyerin’?”

  “Ha,” Josh replied. “Funny thing is, he ain’t even a real lawyer, but he’s better at it than just about any lawyer I ever seen. But the plain fact is that Mr. Roosevelt is good at just about anything he does.”

  “I’ll say,” one of the other patrons said. “He’s sort of a dandif ied-lookin’ fella, but that don’t mean he can’t fight.”

  That started a general discussion of the incident between Roosevelt and the onetime riders for Two Rivers Ranch, Zeb and Muley.

  “Course, ole Zeb and Muley’s both dead now,” one of the others said.

  “Dead? What happened to ’em?”

  “MacCallister killed them.”

  “MacCallister?
”

  “Yeah. Funny, ain’t it?”

  “What’s funny about it?”

  “Well, here MacCallister’s bein’ tried for killin’ a man that there didn’t nobody in town even know. But he ain’t bein’ tried for killin’ Zeb and Muley, and ever’one in town know’d them.”

  “Yeah,” someone else said with a little laugh. “And it’s because ever’one did know them two that MacCallister ain’t bein’ tried for killin’ them. Hell, when you get right down to it, there ain’t nobody who didn’t think but that them two men needed killin’.”

  The others laughed.

  “Look here, are you sayin’ you think MacCallister is goin’ to get off?” Aaron asked.

  “With Mr. Roosevelt defendin’, you damn right he’s going to get off,” Josh said.

  “Yeah, but you know, don’t you, that bein’ good at lawyerin’ ain’t the only reason Roosevelt is goin’ to get MacCallister off?” one of the other saloon patrons said.

  “What do you mean?” Josh asked.

  “Hell, ever’body knows that Roosevelt’s been squirin’ Miss Anna Heckemeyer around. Not only that, I hear tell he’s done got her won over to his side. And if she wants her pa to find MacCallister not guilty, like as not that’s the way it’ll come out.”

  “Are you sayin’ the trial don’t mean nothing, that even if the jury finds MacCallister guilty, the judge would let him go?” Aaron asked.

  “If Miss Anna asks him to, he will.”

  “I don’t believe that,” one of the others said. “I’ve known Judge Heckemeyer for a long time, and I’ve never known a more honest man.”

  “I believe it,” another put in. “I agree with you that the judge is an honest man, but there don’t nobody set more store with the judge than his daughter. He’d do anything in the world for that girl.”

  “Well, that’s ’cause her mama died when she was just a young’n, and the judge had to raise her up all by hisself,” the bartender said.

  “That may be so, but don’t none of that matter none,” Josh said. “I know Mr. Roosevelt, and I know he’s not the kind of man that would use the judge’s daughter like that.”

  “I would,” one of the other patrons said.

  “What do you mean, you would?”

  “Well, think about it. All you got to do to win the bull is bait the calf. Like you said, the judge would do anything his daughter asked him to do. If I was Roosevelt, I’d play that card like it was the ace of spades.”

  “Hey, court’s about to start again,” someone said, sticking his head across the batwing doors.

  “What good does it do to tell us about it?” Josh replied. “Court’s so crowded that nobody else can get in.”

  “Yeah, but they’s some folks standin’ just outside the open windows, listenin’ it. They’re lettin’ ever’one else know what’s goin’ on.”

  “Hey, Aaron, we goin’ to go over there and try to get in?” Percy asked.

  Childers shook his head and slapped a nickel down on the bar, signaling for a second beer.

  “If we hang around here, I reckon we’ll be able to find out what’s goin’ on,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  “Mr. Roosevelt, you may call your first witness,” Judge Heckemeyer said when court resumed.

  “Defense calls Sheriff Walter Merrill of Belfield,” Roosevelt said.

  “I object, Your Honor,” Woodward said. “What possible connection does the sheriff of Belfield have to this case?”

  “Your Honor, it goes to motive,” Roosevelt answered. “Sheriff Merrill can dispute prosecution’s claim that this whole incident was the result of an innocent mistake.”

  “Objection overruled. The witness may testify.”

  Sheriff Merrill was sworn; then he took the witness chair.

  “Sheriff, did you know Creed Howard?”

  “I didn’t know him personally, but I knew who he was,” Sheriff Merrill replied.

  “How so?”

  “A few weeks ago we hung Thad Howard. Creed Howard was Thad Howard’s brother.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Because Creed and Bob Howard come to visit their brother, Thad, a few times before he was hung.”

  “Who is Bob Howard?”

  “Better ask, who was Bob Howard,” Sheriff Merrill replied. “He was Creed Howard’s brother.”

  “Did he ever go by another name?”

  “Yes. He sometimes went by the name of Bob Rafferty on account of he had a different mother from Thad and Creed. But he was a Howard too.”

  “Do you know what happened to Bob Howard?”

  “Yes. He was killed a few weeks ago.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Falcon MacCallister.”

  The courtroom buzzed, and for a moment Anna wondered if perhaps Roosevelt wasn’t making a mistake by calling that to everyone’s attention.

  “Was Falcon MacCallister responsible in any way for Thad Howard’s death?”

  “Yes, sir, you might say that in a way, he was,” Sheriff Merrill replied. “You see, it was him what brung Thad Howard in.”

  “So, on the night Creed Howard went into Mr. MacCallister’s room, both of his brothers were already dead, and Creed Howard blamed their deaths on Falcon MacCallister?”

  “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation. The witness would have to be a mind reader to answer that question.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Let me reword that,” Roosevelt said. “Do you know who killed the man identified as Bob Rafferty, but whom we now know was Bob Howard?”

  “The coroner’s report says that he was killed by Falcon MacCallister,” Sheriff Merrill answered.

  “And though the hangman was ultimately responsible for the execution of Thad Howard, who brought him to justice?”

  “Falcon MacCallister.”

  “All right, I’m not going to ask you who you think Creed Howard believed was responsible for the deaths of his two brothers. But I am going to ask you—”

  “Objection, Your Honor, we’ve already been through this. The question calls for speculation,” Woodward protested.

  “Your Honor, I’m asking the sheriff who he believes is responsible. It is a question he can answer because it goes to his own thought process.”

  Heckemeyer paused for a moment, considering both remarks, then he responded.

  “Objection overruled. You may question the sheriff about his personal belief, but you cannot ask him to speculate on whether or not Creed Howard blamed MacCallister.”

  “Very well, Your Honor,” Roosevelt replied. Then, to the witness, he said, “Sheriff, do you believe that Falcon MacCallister was responsible for the death of the two Howard brothers?”

  “He was responsible for all three of them,” Sheriff Merrill blurted out, and the gallery laughed.

  “Thank you, no further questions.”

  Roosevelt’s next witnesses were experts on Falcon’s accuracy with a firearm. There were three witnesses, all of whom had participated in shooting matches with Falcon. All were expert marksmen, but all conceded that Falcon was better than they were, better, in fact, than anyone they had ever seen use a gun.

  “Tell me this,” Roosevelt asked the first witness. “In a twelve-by-twelve-foot hotel room, is it likely that Mr. MacCallister could discharge his weapon four times in the direction of a man, and yet manage only one hit?”

  “Objection, Your Honor, calls for speculation,” Woodward said.

  “Your Honor, this witness and the succeeding witnesses are all experts in the field of marksmanship. Indeed, when I began reading their qualifications, prosecution stipulated to same. As expert witnesses, they are entitled to speculate. That’s what expert witnesses do.”

  “Objection overruled,” Heckemeyer said. “Witness may answer the question.”

  “It is not likely that in a room of the size you describe, Falcon MacCallister could fire four shots at a man and miss three times. In fact, it is not likely that he
would miss one time.”

  “Let us say that Mr. MacCallister and Creed Howard were both in a twelve-by-twelve room,” Roosevelt said. “Let us say, also, that there are two pistols in the room, both of which are .44-caliber pistols. An examination of the cylinder in the pistol belonging to Falcon MacCallister shows only one empty cartridge. An examination of Mr. Howard’s pistol shows three empty cartridges. There are two bullet holes in the mattress. Who do you think is responsible for the bullet holes in the mattress?”

  “Objection, speculation beyond the scope of this witness’s expertise,” Woodward called.

  “Hell, Counselor, you don’t have to be an expert to figure that out,” the witness replied. “Any six-year-old with half a brain could answer that question.”

  The gallery erupted into loud laughter, and Judge Heckemeyer had to bang his gavel to restore order.

  “Any more outbreaks like that and I will clear this court,” Heckemeyer said sternly when he had finally restored order. Then he glared at the witness. “The witness is ordered to speak only when responding to a direct question. Another spontaneous response such as you just gave will result in a citing for contempt of court. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the witness replied contritely. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not. Now, as regard to the objection, the objection is overruled. You may answer the question.”

  “Your Honor, after all this, I’ve forgotten the question,” the witness said.

  The gallery laughed, but it was a carefully controlled laugh.

  “You may ask the question again,” Heckemeyer said to Roosevelt.

  Roosevelt chuckled. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, I’ve forgotten the question as well.”

  Again the gallery laughed, somewhat louder this time, though they did manage to keep it under control.

  “Clerk will read the question,” Heckemeyer said.

  A thin, middle-aged man, with a prominent Adam’s apple and thick glasses read from his notes.

  “Let us say that Mr. MacCallister and Creed Howard were both in a twelve-by-twelve room. Let us say, also, that there are two pistols in the room, both of which are . 44-caliber pistols. An examination of the cylinder in the pistol belonging to Falcon MacCallister shows only one empty cartridge. An examination of Mr. Howard’s pistol shows three empty cartridges. There are two bullet holes in the mattress. Who do you think is responsible for the bullet holes in the mattress?”