MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hell, yes, I killed him,” Pogue replied. “He threatened me.”

  “He threatened you? How did he threaten you?”

  “He told me he was goin’ to break my neck.”

  “That’s right,” one of the other men said. “I heard him say that very thing.”

  “Is there anyone here who didn’t see him draw first?” Pogue asked.

  “No, sir, you give him plenty of opportunity,” yet another saloon patron said. “You not only let him draw first, you was goin’ to let him shoot first.”

  “I want all of you to remember that,” Pogue said.

  “Surely, he will not get away with that,” Malcolm said to Shaw, speaking quietly.

  “Yeah, he will. All the law will ask is who drew first.”

  “But he clearly goaded the other man into a fight.”

  “They was already a’ fightin’ when we come in. The killin’ didn’t commence until that Gentry feller drawed on him,” Shaw said.

  It took about three minutes before a couple of Denver policemen arrived, wearing the blue uniforms, domed hats, and huge badges of their profession.

  “What happened here?” one of the police officers asked.

  Everyone began speaking at the same time, and one of the policemen had to hold up his hand to call for quiet.

  “One at a time. I’ll start with you,” he said, pointing to the bartender. “Who shot this man?”

  “I did,” Pogue said, before the bartender could answer. “If you want to know anything about what happened here, all you got to do is ask me.”

  “All right, I’ll start with you.”

  “This here fella drawed on me,” Pogue said. “I didn’t have no choice but to defend myself.”

  “Are you saying he drew first?”

  “That’s right,” the bartender said. “I’ll vouch for Pogue on that. You can see the gun is still in Gentry’s hand.”

  “Anyone else have anything different to tell?”

  “I . . .” the girl who had been the subject of the fight started to say, but she stopped when Pogue glared at her.

  “What?” the policeman asked.

  “I was just going to say that Pogue is right. Mr. Gentry drew first.”

  The two policemen spoke to each other quietly for a moment, then the spokesman of the two turned back to Pogue.

  “From all we can determine, this was a case of self-defense. I reckon it doesn’t have to go any further than this. But, barkeep, we are going to keep an eye on this place, and if too many things like this happen here, we are going to close you down. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand,” the bartender replied.

  “What did I tell you?” Shaw asked after the two policemen left.

  “You were right. I never would have believed you, but you were right.”

  “Seems to me like this man Pogue would be someone we might want to recruit,” Shaw suggested.

  “Yes,” Malcolm said enthusiastically. “See if he will come talk to us.”

  Shaw got up from the table, walked over to speak to Pogue, then brought him back.

  “Pogue, this here is Deputy Sheriff Malcolm,” Shaw said.

  Pogue was startled by the introduction. “Deputy Sheriff? You didn’t tell me nothin’ ’bout him bein’ a deputy sheriff.” Pogue looked directly at Malcolm. “Look here, you got nothin’ on me. A policeman has already been here.”

  “Oh, I’m not a local deputy, I have no jurisdiction here,” Malcolm said. “Pogue, is that your Christian name, or your surname?”

  “It’s my name,” Pogue answered without being more specific. He wheezed when he talked.

  “I watched your—shall we call it performance? You seem to be quite accomplished with a pistol.”

  Two men were, at that moment, picking up Gentry’s body and putting it on a litter.

  “Put him in the wagon, I’ll drive him down to the undertaker,” someone said. There was considerably more attention being paid to the disposition of the body than to the conversation going on between Malcolm and Pogue.

  “I’m good enough,” Pogue replied.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named MacCallister?” Malcolm asked.

  Pogue’s eyes squinted. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Falcon MacCallister. What about it?”

  “Do you think you are as good as he is?”

  “I may be. Why are you askin’?”

  “Mr. Malcolm has a bone to pick with MacCallister,” Shaw said.

  “Yeah, don’t ever’one?” Pogue replied.

  “In fact, my particular grievance is not with Falcon MacCallister, but with his kinsman, Duff MacCallister.”

  “Duff MacCallister? I’ve never heard of ’im.”

  “It is my understanding that Duff and Falcon will be together, so I cannot hunt for one without hunting for the other.”

  “You goin’ after them, are you?” Pogue asked.

  “Yes.”

  Pogue grunted what might have been a laugh. “Just the two of you?”

  “And you, if we can come to some arrangement,” Malcolm said. “I think three of us might be enough.”

  “Malcolm, let me ask you somethin’,” Shaw said. “Didn’t you tell me that they was three of you tried to take on Duff MacCallister?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He killed the other two,” Malcolm said. “But that was an unusual circumstance. That’s not likely to happen again.”

  “Wait a minute,” Pogue said. “You’re tellin’ me that three of you wasn’t enough to take on this here Duff feller, but you think three of us would be enough for Duff and Falcon? Mister, I ain’t sure three is enough for Falcon alone, let alone iffen he has someone with him. And this here Duff feller you are talkin’ about don’t seem like he’s goin’ to be too easy his ownself.”

  “I thought you said you said you were as good as Falcon MacCallister.”

  “I said I might be,” Pogue said. “But you done brought up someone else, and that changes it a bit. You said somethin’ about comin’ to an arrangement with me,” Pogue said. “Does that mean you’d be willin’ to pay me?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s good. But I’m not goin’ to get myself kilt by goin’ up against Falcon MacCallister and this other feller you’re talkin’ about. You can’t spend money if you’re dead. We’re goin’ to need some more people.”

  “I don’t have enough money to pay for any more people,” Malcolm said.

  “Mister, there’s lots of folks that want Falcon dead. Onliest thing is there ain’t none of ’em got the sand to go up ag’in him alone. But if there was to be a bunch of us all gathered together, they wouldn’t be scared and more’n likely we would get the job done. And it wouldn’t cost you nothin’ ’cept what you are goin’ to pay me.”

  “The only problem is, Falcon is not the one I am interested in,” Malcolm said.

  “That don’t matter none. Iffen they are together like you say, you ain’t likely to get one of ’em, without you get the other,” Pogue said.

  “Do you think you could find such men?” Malcolm asked.

  “I can find ’em. I know lots of people that would like to see Falcon MacCallister dead. Hell, the problem ain’t goin’ to be in findin’ ’em, it’s goin’ to be in decidin’ which ones to take and which ones to leave.”

  Malcolm thought about it for a moment, then he nodded. “All right. Round up the men.”

  “We ain’t talked about gettin’ paid yet.”

  “Suppose I pay you twenty-five dollars?” Malcolm suggested.

  “Fifty,” Pogue countered.

  Malcolm fought hard to suppress his smile. He would have been willing to pay up to one hundred dollars.

  “Twenty-five now, and twenty-five when the job is done,” Malcolm suggested.

  Pogue held out his hand. “Give me the money.”

  As Malcolm counted it out, Pogue started giggling.

  “What is so funny?”r />
  “I was goin’ to say ten dollars, ’till you come with twenty-five. When you said that, I figured I could maybe get fifty. You don’t know it, Mister, but you got took.”

  “You’re just too smart for me,” Malcolm said. “Now, if you would, please start rounding up some more men.”

  “You would’a give him more, wouldn’t you?” Shaw asked after Pogue left.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I mean, you give me a hunnert.”

  “We’ll keep that between ourselves, won’t we?” Malcolm asked.

  “Hell, yeah, you think I want Pogue knowin’ I’m gettin’ more money than he is?”

  “I think he would not be too pleased with that,” Malcolm said.

  Scotland—Donuun in Argyllshire

  Sheriff Angus Somerled read the letter the postmaster brought him. It was another letter from Duff MacCallister, intended for Ian.

  Dear Ian,

  I am writing to inform you that it has become necessary for me to leave New York. Alexander and Roderick Somerled came to New York in the company of Rab Malcolm. They came upon me in the theater one night after everyone else had left. It was their intention not to arrest me, but to kill me. In the ensuing encounter I bested them, killing both of the sheriff’s sons. The deputy ran into the night, but I take no solace in thinking that my troubles are over.

  As I have now dispatched all three of Somerled’s sons, I have no doubt but that he will make every effort to kill me, and feel that, for my own safety, as well as the safety of Andrew and Rosanna, my kinsman, I must leave. I am writing this letter from the railroad depot. From here I shall journey to a place in Colorado which bears the name MacCallister. There, I will meet with the brother of Andrew and Rosanna. His name is Falcon, the selfsame name of a distant ancestor whose blood runs in both of us.

  I think often of Skye, you, and the town of Donuun. With prayers for your continued health, I remain,

  Duff MacCallister

  Sheriff Somerled folded up the copy of the letter and drummed his fingers on the desk for moment or two. Then he got an atlas of the United States and looked up Colorado. He put his finger on the town of MacCallister, between Red Cliff and Wheeler, in Eagle County.

  “You think you are safe, do you, Duff MacCallister?” Somerled said aloud. He pulled his pistol from his holster and held it for a long moment, thinking of his three sons, all dead because of Duff MacCallister.

  Then, putting his pistol back in the holster, he took out a piece of paper and wrote out his resignation. He had sent Malcolm to America to deal with MacCallister, but so far all he had done was get his two sons killed. The old adage “If you want something done, do it yourself,” resonated with him. He was going to America to find Duff MacCallister, and he was going to kill him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MacCallister Valley—Falcon’s homeplace

  “You Americans have tremendously large breakfasts,” Duff said as he split open a biscuit and laid a piece of fried ham between the halves. His plate showed the residue of three eggs and home fried potatoes.

  “That may be so, but you seem to be up to the task,” Falcon said.

  Duff laughed as he took a bite of his ham biscuit. “I didn’t say that I didn’t approve. I was just commenting.”

  “I eat a big breakfast when I can,” Falcon said, “because I’m not always certain I will get to eat again on that day.”

  “Seems reasonable enough to me,” Duff said.

  “Didn’t you tell me that you bought a pistol?” Falcon asked.

  “Aye, that I did. I bought an Enfield Mark 1.”

  “Enfield is it? Hmm, I’ve heard of Enfield rifles. I didn’t know they made a pistol.”

  “Quite a good one, actually,” Duff replied.

  “Do you have a belt and holster set?”

  “Oh, I do indeed,” Duff said.

  “I tell you what. After breakfast, suppose you strap on your pistol and we’ll go outside for a little shooting?”

  “I think that would be splendid.”

  When Duff stepped outside a few minutes later, he was wearing a pistol belt with bullets in every loop. The holster was in front, just over his right leg.

  “Why are you wearing your holster like that?” Falcon asked.

  “’Tis the way I wore it in the regiment.”

  “No, no, pull it around to your side.”

  Duff did as directed.

  “And let it hang low. Look at my gun. When my arm is hanging normally by my side, my hand is even with the pistol grip. See?”

  Duff made the necessary adjustments.

  Falcon began the task with some reservation because he feared that the job of teaching Duff to use a pistol might be more than he could handle. But he knew, also, that if Duff was going to survive his time in the West, he was going to have to be prepared for it.

  “Let’s see what you can do,” Falcon said. He pulled his pistol and pointed at a nearby tree. “You see those three little limbs sticking up there? I’m going to shoot the one in the middle.”

  Falcon fired, and half the twig flew away.

  “Now you try it.”

  Duff fired, and the rest of the twig was blasted from the tree.

  Falcon squinted, then looked over at Duff. “What did you do? Miss your twig and hit that one by mistake?”

  “No, I didn’t miss at all,” Duff said. “I thought that was the twig you wanted me to hit.”

  “Can you hit one of the others?”

  “Which one?”

  “Your choice.”

  Duff fired twice, the shots coming so close together that it sounded almost as if it were one sustained roar. Both of the other twigs were cut by his bullets.

  “Damn,” Falcon said. “You’ll do just fine.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the skills necessary to make a rapid extraction though,” Duff said.

  Falcon had to think for a moment until he realized what Duff was saying. Then he laughed. “You mean a quick draw,” he said.

  “Aye.”

  “Let me tell you something about quick draws,” Falcon said. “Half the people who can draw faster than you, can’t shoot. They depend upon their speed, then just blaze away, hoping they can hit what they are shooting at. Being able to hit your target is much more important than being able to get your pistol out first.”

  “You said half the people,” Duff said. “That means that the other half can draw faster than I can, and can also hit their target.”

  “You might think that,” Falcon said. “But there is still another consideration. If you are going to draw on someone, you must be prepared to kill them, and you must be prepared to do so without the slightest hesitation.”

  “I would imagine that one would not draw upon another if he did not want to kill him,” Duff said.

  Falcon shook his head. “And that is where you would be wrong. It takes a lot of resolve to kill a man. Most will hesitate for just a second trying to fortify themselves to the task at hand. And that hesitation can be fatal. You have killed before, in self-defense, yes. But sometimes the question of self-defense might be a blurry line. Could you do it then?”

  “When I was in Egypt I killed men for no other reason than that they were wearing a uniform different from my own,” Duff said. “As far as I know they were good men, family men, husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers. But I didn’t think about any of that. The only thing I thought of was my duty.”

  On the morning they were to leave for Cheyenne, Morgan MacCallister arrived at the homestead driving a buckboard. Falcon tossed his saddle and saddlebags into the back of the buckboard, then tied Lightning, his big bronze stallion, onto the back. He had made arrangements to ship Lightning up to Cheyenne on the same train he and Duff would take. Morgan put his bagpipes and sea bag into the back.

  “Duff, as you are my guest, you ride up front in the seat with Morgan,” Falcon invited. “I’ll sit back here.”

  “Are you sure? I’m as comfortable in either place,�
� Duff replied.

  “I’m sure. Besides, this will give you and Morgan an opportunity to visit,” Falcon said as he crawled into the back of the buckboard.

  “I appreciate the kind gesture,” Duff said. He climbed into the buckboard and sat beside Morgan.

  “So how have you two gotten along?” Morgan asked as he snapped the reins against the back of the team.

  “Splendidly,” Duff said. “I feel much closer than a fifth cousin.”

  “Fifth cousin? Is that what we are? Fifth cousins?”

  “Yes, our nearest relative is five generations ago.”

  Morgan laughed. “Would that be once removed or something?”

  Duff laughed as well. “It is admittedly, quite distant,” he said.

  Toots Nelson was standing on the depot platform when they arrived, and upon seeing Duff, he made a big show of pulling his cane closer to his body.

  “Young man, I do hope you have no intention of using my cane to subdue another fleeing ruffian.”

  “Your bat is safe from me, sir,” Duff said.

  Duff presented a much different appearance today than he did on the day he arrived in MacCallister. On that day he had worn striped trousers, a white shirt, a frock coat, and a bowler hat. Today he was wearing blue denim trousers, a wine-colored shirt, a broad-brimmed Stetson hat, boots, and a belt with bullet loops, holster, and pistol.

  “However, I should not complain. Thanks to your heroics, I got my name in the newspaper,” Toots said. “And every time someone’s name appears in the paper, they are one step closer to immortality.”

  “Immortality?”

  “Well, not in the flesh, my good man,” Toots said. “But it is by newspapers that we chronicle the sojourn of mankind here upon earth. Why, with your name in the paper, it is quite possible that someone one hundred years or more from now will read your name and, for that moment, you are alive again, if only in the mind of the reader.”

  “I suppose that is so,” Duff said, not really knowing where to go with this conversation.