MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy

by William W. Johnstone

  “You knew Wild Bill Hickock?”

  “I knew him,” Falcon said.

  “I’m told that you are as well known as Hickock was, and that you are as good with a pistol.”

  Falcon chuckled. “Andrew tell you that, did he?”

  “Aye, but he was only the first,” Duff replied. “I heard from many others as well.”

  “You are new to America and new to the West,” Falcon said. “You don’t want to believe everything you hear. People in the West—I don’t know, maybe it’s because we tend to be a little isolated from the rest of the world—but people tend to exaggerate.”

  “I’ve no way of knowing if all I have heard of you is true,” Duff replied. “But, cousin, I have heard of you.”

  Falcon smiled. “Then do me a favor, and believe only the good things you have heard.”

  Duff chuckled and nodded. “Aye, that I can do.”

  “Now, Duff, what’s your story? What brings you out here?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Denver

  Rab Malcolm and Clyde Shaw stood on the brick platform of the Union Pacific Railroad Depot. The platform was filled with people, arriving and departing passengers, as well as the townspeople who were here to greet arriving passengers or to see off departing family or friends.

  “Well, we are here in Colorado,” Shaw said. “Now what?”

  “I suggest we locate the nearest pub. It has always been my experience that one can find out much information in a pub.”

  “What is a pub?”

  “I’m sorry,” Malcolm said. “I believe you would call it a saloon.”

  “A saloon? Yeah, now you are talking my language,” Shaw said as a broad smile spread across his face.

  “What do you mean I am talking your language? ’Tis English, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve been speaking all the while.”

  “No, I just mean . . . never mind. Let’s go find us a saloon.”

  The first saloon they came to was Aces and Eights, and it identified itself by a hand of cards showing black aces and eights, and a red nine of diamonds. It also had its name painted in red, outlined with gold, as well as a large, cut-out beer mug depicting a full mug of beer with a high, foamy head.

  Inside the saloon, behind the bar, was a glass-enclosed box on the wall. Inside the box was the same hand of cards depicted outside the building, black aces and eights, and a nine of diamonds. The center card, the nine of diamonds, had a bullet hole in it, and underneath was a professionally painted sign.

  ACTUAL HAND OF CARDS

  held by

  WILD BILL HICKOK

  when he was murdered by Jack McCall.

  “Is that real?” Shaw asked, pointing to the hand.

  “Indeed it is, sir,” the bartender answered. He was wearing a low-crown bowler hat, a striped shirt with detachable collar, and with the sleeves held up by garters. He had a full, handlebar moustache. “Our proprietor bought it from the owner of the Number Ten Saloon in Deadwood.”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  “What will it be, gents?” the bartender asked, as he smoothed his moustache.

  “Whiskey, neat,” Malcolm said.

  “I’ll have one as well.”

  The bartender served them. Malcolm tossed his whiskey down, then turned his back to the bar and called out loud.

  “Gentlemen, I am Rab Malcolm, deputy sheriff of county Argyllshire in Scotland. I am in pursuit of a felon by the name of MacCallister and would greatly appreciate any information anyone might give me.”

  “Mister, you wouldn’t be talkin’ about Falcon MacCallister, would you now?” one of the saloon patrons asked.

  “Aye, ’tis possible that the man I seek would be with Falcon MacCallister, being as the two men are cousins.”

  “Mister, from what I’ve he’erd tell of him, Falcon MacCallister is as good a man as God ever put on this here earth. Even iffen I know’d whereat you could find him, I don’t think I would let you know.”

  “That was a waste of time,” Malcolm said, grumbling as they left the saloon.

  “Yeah, well, I reckon you are a real smart man. I mean, bein’ as you are a foreigner and all, but you sure didn’t go ’bout that right,” Shaw said.

  “You have a better way of securing information than asking for it?”

  “Well, no, you got to ask for it,” Shaw said. “It’s just that you ain’t goin’ to get nowhere askin’ the way you was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know how you do it in Scotland, but here you don’t just shout it out like that. You have to kind of sneak up on it.”

  “Sneak up on it?”

  “Yeah, sneak up on it,” Shaw said. “You know, get the feller into a conversation, then you ask.”

  “All right,” Malcolm said. “Suppose we let you do the talking at the next pub.”

  “Saloon,” Shaw corrected. “And that’s another thing. The saloon we was just in is too highfalutin. We need one that’s more down to earth, so to speak.” He pointed to one that had a totally different exterior. Unlike the Aces and Eights, there was no false front to this building, no cutout, or even a drawing of a mug of beer, and no beautifully lettered and brightly painted sign. This one had crudely lettered words scrawled in whitewash across the front of the unpainted building. The name of the saloon was The Black Dog.

  MacCallister homestead

  The house was filled with people and they were all MacCallisters, either by blood or name. Falcon’s brothers Jamie Ian, Jr., Morgan, and Matthew were there with their wives, along with his sisters, Joleen, Megan, and Kathleen, and their husbands. They were already in the house when Falcon and Duff arrived. Falcon introduced them to Duff.

  “My word, I had no idea I had so many cousins in America. All of you, plus Andrew and Rosanna.”

  “What you see here are just a few of us,” Joleen said. “This house isn’t big enough to hold all of us.”

  “How many are there?”

  “One hundred and three.”

  “Soon to be one hundred and four,” Matthew said. “You forgot Mirabelle.”

  “I didn’t forget her, Matthew. I know she is pregnant,” Joleen said. “But the question was how many are there, not how many will there be.”

  The others laughed.

  “Tell us, Cousin Duff, how are Andrew and Rosanna doing?” Megan asked. “We see them so seldom now that they are famous in the New York theater.”

  “They are doing well. When I left New York they were the principal players in a play called The Highlander.”

  “The Highlander? What an odd name for a play. What does it mean?”

  “It refers to someone who lives in the Highlands. It is rather like calling an American who lives in the West a Westerner.”

  Duff answered many more questions: how he met Andrew and Rosanna, and about his family back in Scotland, though, as he explained, he was the only one left.

  “With my departure, there is not one MacCallister left in all of Scotland, or if there be, they are cousins so distant that they are not known by me.”

  “What brought you to America?” Jamie Ian asked.

  “Andrew and Rosanna invited him,” Falcon answered quickly, with a glance toward Duff cautioning him not to go any further with the answer. Falcon was now aware of all the details of Duff’s flight, first to New York, and then from New York to Colorado.

  The rest of the family had brought food, and they had an enormous dinner that evening. Then, as the ladies cleaned up from the meal, the men gathered in the parlor for drinks and cigars.

  “The drink is fine,” Duff said. “But I’ve never caught on to smoking.”

  “Ahh, it’s a nasty habit anyway,” Matthew said.

  “Jamie, Morgan, Matthew, it was more than a mere invitation from Andrew and Rosanna that brought Duff to America,” Falcon said.

  Jamie took a puff of his cigar and nodded. “I thought it might be,” he said.

  “What was it?” Morgan asked.
r />   “I’m going to let Duff answer,” Falcon said.

  “I’ve killed a few men,” Duff said.

  “Haven’t we all?” Jamie Ian replied.

  “What do you mean by a few?” Matthew asked.

  “Five. Well, more if you count those I killed in war. But five that I killed were my own countrymen.”

  “I take it they needed killin’,” Jamie Ian said. “Or else you wouldn’t be telling of it so easily.”

  “One of the men I killed, the son of the sheriff, was trying to rape Skye. And because he was the son of the local sheriff I decided to go to the sheriff to tell him my side of the story. Skye would not have it any other way but that she go with me, being as she was a witness. But on the road we were met by the sheriff and three of his deputies. Before I could say a word to explain the situation, and to tell them that I was voluntarily coming to the sheriff’s office, they began shooting. They were shooting at me, but they killed Skye. I killed the two deputies.”

  “Who was Skye?” Matthew asked.

  “Skye was my fiancée.”

  “I thought as much,” Morgan said.

  “Then I was right,” Jamie Ian said. “The sons of bitches needed killin’.”

  “I was still in Scotland when I killed those men, but knew that the sheriff was never going to let it go to trial. And without Skye’s testimony as to what happened, I would not have been able to prove that the killing was justified, even if it had gone to trial. I knew that I was going to have to leave the country, so I boarded ship that very night and worked my passage to America.”

  “You said you had killed five men. That’s only three,” Morgan said.

  “Aye, there is more to the story,” Duff said. “Once I arrived in America the sheriff sent his other two sons and his remaining deputy after me—not to arrest me, but to kill me. They caught up with me in the back of the very theater where Andrew and Rosanna were appearing. I killed the sheriff’s other two sons, but his deputy escaped.”

  “If he’s got any sense, he’s on his way back to Scotland now,” Jamie Ian said. “You’ve certainly shown that you can take care of yourself.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” Duff said. “But I know this fellow, Rab Malcolm. He is evil incarnate, but there is a thoroughness about him that, were he to apply it to more noble pursuits, would be admirable. There is no doubt in my mind but that he is still here, probably recruiting more men for his nefarious scheme.”

  “So you think he is still here?” Matthew asked.

  “Aye, more than likely he is still in New York. That’s why I left New York. I was afraid that if he tried again it might be dangerous for Andrew and Rosanna, and I have no wish to get them involved. Andrew suggested that I come here.”

  “Which I think was a good idea,” Falcon said.

  “What are you going to do now?” Morgan asked.

  “I’m going to find some way to make a living,” Duff said. He smiled. “I’ve already made two hundred and fifty dollars, just since arriving here today.”

  “You have made two hundred and fifty dollars in one day? I would say that is a good day’s wages. How did you come by it?” Morgan asked.

  “It was easy. I turned over to the sheriff someone for whom a reward had been posted,” Duff said.

  “Wait till you hear how it happened,” Falcon said, and he proceeded to tell the story of Duff “borrowing” a cane and using it to trip up a thief.

  “And here is the best part,” Falcon said. “You know who he borrowed the cane from?”

  “No idea,” Jamie Ian said.

  “I’ll give you a hint. The man he borrowed the cane from doesn’t need it to walk.”

  “Ha! You are talking about Toots Nelson, aren’t you?” Morgan said. “He’s always so prim and proper. I would love to have seen his face.”

  “It was something to behold all right,” Falcon said. “But the expression on Stripland’s face when he went ass over elbow was even better.”

  The men were still laughing when the women, their work in the kitchen completed, returned.

  “What’s so funny?” Joleen asked.

  A moment later, after hearing the story of Duff using a cane to trip up a purse snatcher, the women were laughing as well, and they were still laughing as they left the house and climbed into the various conveyances for the trips back to their own homes.

  “Good-bye, Duff, and welcome to Colorado!” Kathleen called.

  “Good-bye!” the others called, and Duff and Falcon responded in kind.

  As the teams pulled the surreys and buggies away, Duff stood for a long moment at the front door watching. Noticing a contemplative look on his face, Falcon asked about it.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, there is nothing wrong. ’Twas thinking, I was, what a wonderful family ye have, Falcon MacCallister,” Duff said.

  “You are thinking of Skye, aren’t you?”

  “Aye, and the family we would have had.”

  “These people, my brothers and sisters, and my brothers- and sisters-in-law, are your family, too,” Falcon said.

  “I much appreciate your sharing them with me.”

  “It’s not my doing, cousin. It’s a fact of life. But I can understand your thinking about Skye. We’ve all lost people that we love, Duff,” Falcon said. “But we go on with life.”

  “And I will as well,” Duff said. “Though I’ve no idea as to what my new life will be.”

  “What did you do in Scotland?”

  “I had land. I raised cattle.”

  Falcon laughed.

  “What is it?”

  “You are a cattle rancher. There’s no need for you to have a new life,” Falcon said. “You’ll have your old life; you’ll just be having it in a new place.”

  “I don’t know how it is in America. But in Scotland, one needs land to be a rancher.”

  “You can homestead.”

  “Homestead. Aye, Andrew mentioned something about that, but I’m not sure what he was talking about.”

  “It’s an easy way of getting land,” Falcon said. “All you have to do is file on it, build on it, and live on it for five years.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “I’ll tell you what, cousin. We’ll go into town tomorrow and find the best place for you to go, to file on some land.”

  Duff smiled. “Ha. I’ll be an American landowner. Imagine that.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Duff and Falcon went into town the next day, Duff was fascinated with how busy it was. The sign at the depot that gave the elevation of MacCallister as 8,750 feet also gave the population as 956. But Duff believed there were at least that many people moving about, walking up and down the planked sidewalks, crossing the crowded street, moving in and out of the stores, and riding on horseback or in wagons, surreys, and buggies. He commented on it.

  “That is because we are the only town for several miles around,” Falcon replied. “Many of the people you see live out in the country on farms and ranches, or in some cases, as prospectors and miners. They come into town about once a week and when they do, it is a big occasion for them. This is Saturday, that is their day to come into town.

  “Let’s go in here,” Falcon suggested.

  The painted sign on the glass window in front of the building read:

  MacCallister Monitor

  It was the newspaper office, and inside was the smell of ink, fresh-cut paper, and oil to keep the press operating smoothly. A somewhat overweight man, wearing a green visor, was sitting at a desk, selecting type from the type boxes as he composed a story. He looked up as Duff and Falcon entered the building.

  “Falcon!” the editor greeted them with a broad smile. “How good to see you. I was just about to look you up.”

  “Look me up for what?”

  “I wanted to get your story about what happened at the depot yesterday when a through passenger tripped up George Stripland by throwing a cane at his feet. Was it really Toots Nelson�
��s cane?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder what made the man decide to use a cane in such a way.”

  “Why ask me, when you can get it straight from the horse’s mouth?” Falcon replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Larry, this is my cousin from Scotland, Duff MacCallister. Duff, this is Larry Fugate, editor of the MacCallister Monitor, as good a newspaper as you will find between the Mississippi River and the Pacific Ocean.”

  “’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fugate,” Duff said.

  “Good to meet you as well,” the editor said. He turned back to Falcon. “What do you mean, getting my story from the horse’s mouth?” he asked again.

  Falcon chuckled. “I just introduced you to the horse, so to speak.”

  “It was you?” Fugate asked Duff. “You are the one who threw the stick at the thief?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, then I shall need the full story from you.”

  “There is no story to tell,” Duff said. “He snatched the lady’s purse and commenced to run, I borrowed a gentleman’s bat and hurled it at him with an unexpected degree of success.”

  “Ha,” Fugate said. “Something there is that tells me that the success of your maneuver wasn’t all that unexpected.”

  Despite Duff’s reticence, Fugate managed to get the story from him, though his reluctance to be self-aggrandizing made it necessary for Falcon to introduce a few comments here and there to add the necessary color.

  After the interview, Falcon called upon the newspaper editor for a favor.

  “Larry, suppose a fellow wanted to homestead some land. Where would be the best place to go?”

  “You mean here in Colorado?”

  “Colorado, yes, that would be fine, but it isn’t necessary. We are looking for the most available, as well as the best quality of land for raising livestock.”