Falcon laughed. “Don’t let Toots climb too far into your mind, cousin. He is a—what is it you call yourself, Toots?”
“I am a gentleman out of time, a frustrated poet whose words of wit shall never receive the accolades they deserve.”
“But it’s my understanding that you have never actually written anything,” Morgan said.
“The fact that I have not written anything does not mean I am not a poet,” Toots said. “I am afraid, however, that that is a concept few men can actually grasp.”
“I have no trouble with it,” Duff said.
“Oh? You mean that you can accept that I am a poet, even though I have not written one word of poetry?” Toots asked.
“Aye,” Duff replied. “After all, a drum is a drum, whether someone beats upon it or not.”
Toots smiled broadly, and nodded his head. “Morgan, my good man,” he said. “You should heed your cousin, for he is a man of uncommon genius.”
The whistle of the arriving train broke up the conversation as Falcon hurried to make arrangements for his horse. Duff took his sea bag from the back of the buckboard, and Morgan, with a good-bye wave, drove away.
Duff walked toward the train. The next chapter of his adventure was about to begin.
Denver
Rab Malcolm was a structured man who didn’t like to be in any situation that wasn’t well thought out in advance. He had tried to tell the Somerled brothers that going to the theater after Duff MacCallister without a plan wasn’t a good idea. But, even though Sheriff Somerled had told his sons that Malcolm would be in charge of the expedition, the Somerled brothers had insisted upon having their own way. As a result of that insistence, their hasty actions had gotten them both killed.
After agreeing to be a part of Malcolm’s entourage, Pogue found six more men who were willing to join in pursuit of the MacCallisters. Their motivation was to find and kill Falcon MacCallister, but as Falcon and Duff would probably be together, Malcolm had no problem with the arrangement.
Being the kind of man he was, Malcolm found out as much as he could about each of the men who had joined him.
Clyde Shaw had been his first recruit, and had come west with him on the train. Shaw was in his early thirties, a sometime cowboy, sometime handyman, and sometime rustler. He had been fired from his last job because the rancher for whom he worked suspected Shaw of stealing ten head of cattle and selling them for ten dollars apiece.
“It ain’t so much that you stole from me,” the rancher told him, “as it is that you sold the beeves for only ten dollars apiece. That makes it harder for an honest cowman to get a fair price.”
Pogue (Malcolm still didn’t know if that was his first name or last name), was one of the ugliest men Malcolm had ever seen. He had seen Pogue in action when he shot and killed the man named Gentry. He since learned that Pogue had done some time in the Colorado Prison at Cañon City, the result of a failed bank robbery. The bank robbery failed because Falcon MacCallister happened to be in the bank at the time. Pogue killed another prisoner while he was incarcerated, but had beaten the charge because it had been self-defense. Malcolm didn’t have any idea how many men Pogue had killed, but if he was to succeed in finding and killing Duff MacCallister he would need someone with the ruthlessness of a man like Pogue.
The other six men were Liam Pettigrew, Asa Moran, the brothers, Carter and Johnny Hill, and two men, McKenna and Garcia, who, like Pogue, had given only the one name. All six men had reason to want to go after Falcon MacCallister, and while none of them had the courage to try it alone, they welcomed the opportunity to do it as part of a larger group. Pettigrew, reputed to have killed nine men, was the most dangerous of the group, and Malcolm considered not taking him because of that. On the other hand, he wasn’t that eager to tell Pettigrew that he didn’t want him.
Asa Moran was the smallest member of the group. Swarthy, with dark brown eyes, black hair, and beard, he was almost rodentlike. Moran had served five years in prison because of Falcon MacCallister.
Carter and Johnny Hill were brothers who had once ridden with Nance Noonan, but were away when Falcon MacCallister went on a killing rampage in revenge for the killing of his father. Their other brother, Pen, wasn’t so lucky and was killed by Falcon. Now they wanted to kill him.
McKenna and Garcia’s reason for going after Falcon MacCallister was more business than personal. Martin Mueller, the father of Clete and Luke Mueller, had put up a reward of $1,000.00 to anyone who would kill Falcon MacCallister to avenge Falcon’s killing of his two sons.2 No one but McKenna and Garcia knew of the reward, and they had no intention of telling anyone else about it. Once Falcon MacCallister was killed, they would claim the reward, no matter who killed him.
And they would throw in the killing of Duff MacCallister as a bonus.
“Tell me about this man Duff MacCallister that you are after,” Pettigrew said. “Is he anything like Falcon MacCallister?”
“I can’t answer that, because I know nothing of Falcon MacCallister,” Malcolm said. “I will say, though, that even if he were alone, Duff MacCallister would present a most formidable adversary. He has killed five men that I know of, and has often bested his opponents, even when placed in the most precarious of circumstances.”
“What makes you think he will be with Falcon MacCallister?”
“Falcon is his cousin, and he came west specifically to be with him.”
“All right, I don’t mind killin’ this feller Duff for you, as long as I get a shot at Falcon.”
“Do you have any idea where they are?” Moran asked.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I was hoping that I could find someone out here who might help me find him.”
“MacCallister,” Johnny Hill said.
“Yes, MacCallister, that’s who we are after,” Malcolm replied.
“No, I mean MacCallister the town. It’s named after Falcon MacCallister’s old man, and there’s a whole heap of MacCallisters that live there, includin’ Falcoln hisself,” Johnny Hill said. “And if this feller Duff is with Falcon, then that’s more’n likely where we are goin’ to find him.”
“Yes, that’s right,” McKenna said. “I recollect now that there is a town by that name.”
“Then that is where we shall go,” Malcolm said.
“We ridin’, or we goin’ by train?” Shaw asked. “’Cause if we’re ridin’, I ain’t got no horse and you don’t neither.”
“We’ll go by train.”
“That’s fine,” Pettigrew said. “Only thing is, the MacCallisters ain’t likely to be a standing right alongside the railroad tracks, which means we’re goin’ to have to have our horses with us when we get there.”
“All right,” Malcolm said. “Shaw and I will buy a couple of horses, then we will ship all of them on the train along with us.”
“Señor, where you goin’ to get the caballos?” Garcia asked.
“I beg your pardon. The what?”
“Caballos, uh, horses. Where will you get them?”
“I don’t know. The stable, I suppose. Where does one ordinarily get horses?”
“I can get you two horses, with saddles, I think, for one hundred dollars.”
“Where?”
“You don’t need to worry. I can get,” Garcia said.
“All right. Get them, and have them here at the depot in time to ship them with us when the train leaves.”
Two hours later, Garcia showed up with two horses, complete with saddles.
“Better you put these horses on the train rapido, I think,” Garcia said.
Malcolm was reasonably sure then, if he had not been before, that the horses were stolen. But they looked like good animals, and this search was beginning to eat into his funds, so it was better to pay one hundred dollars for horses without bills of sale than it was to pay up to four hundred dollars for two horses with bills of sale.
Thus it was that nine men, well mounted, well armed, and with a common purpose in mind, boarded the tra
in in Denver for the town of MacCallister.
Cheyenne
As Duff and Falcon journeyed by train to Cheyenne, Duff read of the city in his copy of Williams Pacific Tourist Guide.
MAGIC CITY OF THE PLAINS
516 miles from Omaha; elevation, 6,041 feet, Cheyenne is at present the most active and stirring city on the entire line. Cheyenne is well laid out, with broad streets at right angles to the railroad and has an abundant supply of pure water.
Travelers will here take a dinner in comfortable style at one of the best kept hotels between the two oceans. It is a good place to rest after a tiresome journey, and it will pay to stop a few days and enjoy the pure air and genial sun in this high altitude. The Inter-Ocean Hotel is owned by the railroad company and is 150 feet long by 36 feet wide, with a wing 25 feet square. It is two stories high, the upper floor being well furnished with sleeping rooms for guests.
The first place Falcon and Duff went after arriving in Cheyenne was the land office. A small bell attached to the top of the door tinkled as it was pushed open. The land clerk, a very thin man with white hair and glasses, was sitting at a table behind the counter that separated his area from the front.
“Yes, sir, can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, looking up as Duff and Falcon entered.
“I have come to file a claim on some land,” Duff said.
“And you are?”
“MacCallister. Duff MacCallister.”
“Have you picked the land out yet, Mr. MacCallister?”
“I have not. I have just arrived on the train.”
“Well, then, welcome to Wyoming. It is always good to get new people in the territory. What do you say you come back here and we’ll take a look at the map and find some property for you?”
Falcon and Duff both stepped around the counter, then up to the wall whereupon was attached a large map. The map was of Laramie County, which stretched from the Colorado border more than halfway up the eastern part of Wyoming.
“Now here is a piece of land you may like, Mr. MacCallister,” the clerk said. “It is quite near the town of Chugwater. The land is situated between the Little Bear and Bear Creeks, starting at the confluence of the two creeks and extending for three quarters of a mile to the west, bordered on the north by the Bear and on the south by the Little Bear.”
“Do the creeks have water year around?” Duff asked.
“Very good question, Mr. MacCallister, and the answer is, yes, they do. And the land between the two streams is gently rolling grassland, so it is ideal for farming or ranching. You can homestead six hundred and forty acres of federal land and two thousand acres of Wyoming territorial land. And, as it is free range there with no adjacent claims, it means you will have an additional ten thousand acres of grazing land available to you.”
“What do I have to do to make this come about?” Duff asked.
“Just sign these forms, then occupy and improve the land,” the clerk replied. “It is vital that you improve it.”
“And that means?”
“You must build and occupy a structure.”
“I shall be in need of a horse,” Duff said as he signed the papers the clerk put before him. “Have you any suggestions?”
“Beeman’s Barn sells horses,” the clerk said. “You might start there.”
The clerk took the application form from Duff, examined it, then pulled a pre-printed form from his desk. He signed it with a flourish, then picked up a stamp, inked it, and pressed the stamp onto the form. Then he pulled out a second form and did the same thing.
“This is a provisional deed to the six hundred and forty federal acres,” he said. He handed the second form to him. “And this is a provisional deed to the two thousand acres of Wyoming Territory land.”
“Provisional?”
“The land is yours in all respects,” the clerk said. “Provisional just means that if you abandon the land in the first five years, it reverts back to the government. But if you occupy it for that whole time, it is yours without reservation.”
Duff took the documents, looked at them, then smiled at Falcon. “How quickly I have improved my lot from pauper to landowner,” he said.
“Welcome to America.”
“I believe I am going to like my new country.”
“My name is Depro. Dennis Depro. If you have any questions about your land, feel free to call on me,” the clerk said.
“Mr. Depro, ye have my gratitude, sir,” Duff said.
Chapter Seventeen
Falcon had brought his horse on the train to Cheyenne, but Duff was without a mount. Since the only way to the land he had just claimed was by horseback, it was necessary for him to buy one. Taking the land clerk’s advice, Duff walked down to Beeman’s Barn, a large livery that sat at the end of the street. The two men stepped inside the barn through the big, open, double doors. It was considerably darker inside the barn as it was illuminated only by the sun that spilled in through the doors, or slashed down through the cracks between the wide, unpainted boards. There were little bits and pieces of hay drifting down from the overhead loft, and the barn was redolent with the pungent aroma of hay and horseflesh and horse droppings.
“Yes, sir, can I do somethin’ for you gents?” a man asked, coming toward them from the back of the barn. He was wearing bibbed coveralls over a red flannel shirt and had the stump of a pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Are you Mr. Beeman?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Beeman, I should like to make the purchase of a horse,” Duff said.
“You are a foreigner, ain’t you?”
“Have you an ordinance against selling horses to foreigners?”
Beeman laughed. “No, sir, none at all. Your money is as good as anyone else’s money.” Suddenly the expression on his face changed. “I mean, you will be using American money, won’t you?”
“I thought I might effect the purchase with Japanese yen.”
“Say what?”
“I am teasing you, Mr. Beeman. Of course I will use American money.”
Beeman’s smile returned. “Then in that case I reckon we can do business. I have a horse that you might be interested in. Wait here and I’ll bring him to you.”
Beeman walked out into the corral and Falcon called out to Duff, “He has saddles and rigging here. You might take a look.”
“Aye, it’s for sure I’ll be needing such,” Duff said.
Duff picked out a saddle, saddle blanket, saddlebags, and bridle and had them pushed to one side when Beeman came back in, leading a horse.
“I think you’ll like this one,” Beeman said.
Duff began examining the horse, not only with his eyes, but with his hands. After a moment, he shook his head.
“No, this animal is too fat,” he said. “There is a crease down his back, you can’t even feel his ribs, and his withers are fat. This one won’t do.”
“Would you like to step out back and look for another one?” Beeman invited.
“Aye, thank you.”
Duff and Falcon walked to the rear of the barn with Beeman and looked out over a gathering of about thirty horses. Duff saw one that he liked and pointed to it. “That one,” he said. “The golden one.”
“Gary! Bring the palomino over!” Beeman shouted to one of his employees.
Gary, a boy still in his teens, led the horse over. It stopped and stood quietly as Duff examined it. The horse was just over sixteen hands high, and Duff saw a lot of intelligence and a bit of whimsy in the horse’s eyes. As he had before, he began running his hands over it.
“This is more like it,” Duff said. “His back is flat, you can’t see his ribs but you can feel them, the withers are rounded, and the shoulders and neck blend smoothly into the body. I’ll take this one.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll get the bill of sale ready,” Beeman said.
“You know horses,” Falcon said to Duff as the two waited for Beeman to return with the bill of sale.
Duff chuckled. “We do
have horses in Scotland,” he said. He began saddling the horse with the saddle he had selected.
When Beeman returned with the bill of sale for the horse, Duff negotiated for the saddle as well and, fifteen minutes later, rode out of the barn on his own horse.
“We’ll have to go to the general store and get some supplies,” Falcon said. “But before we do that, how about dropping in at the saloon for a drink?”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” Duff replied.
Both men now mounted, they rode down the street to find a saloon. Duff stopped when he saw the sign hanging in front of one of the buildings. He stared at it, dealing with a lot of memories and feelings as he did so.
WHITE HORSE
Falcon, at first not realizing that Duff was no longer riding alongside him, rode on for another few feet before he noticed that he was riding alone. He stopped and turned around to look back toward Duff. Duff was staring at the sign.
“Is something wrong?” Falcon asked.
Visions of the White Horse Pub, Ian McGregor, his friends, and especially Skye, were dancing in Duff’s head.
“No,” Duff said. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Is the White Horse all right with you?”
“Aye, ’tis fine with me.” Duff clucked at his horse and rode up alongside Falcon, keeping pace with him for the last few yards.
The two men dismounted in front of the saloon and tied off their horses at the hitching rail out front. Duff had his sea bag tied to the horse’s saddle, but he took the bagpipes in with him. When they pushed through the swinging doors they saw a saloon that was filled with people, mostly men, and a piano player who was grinding away at the back of the room. There were half a dozen bar girls flitting about the room, carrying drinks to one table, taking orders at another, and flirting with the customers at still another table. Duff and Falcon stepped up to the bar.
The bartender was wearing a low-crown straw hat with a band that read: ASK US ABOUT OUR BITTERS.
MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy Page 15
