Crusade of Eagles

by J. A. Johnstone

  “MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon replied.

  Standing at the end of the bar at that moment was a young man whose name was Denny Dunaway. He liked to be called the “Colorado Kid,” though in truth, he was the only one who referred to himself that way.

  He turned with a start when he heard Falcon identify himself.

  Dunaway had never met Falcon MacCallister, but he knew all about him. And he also knew that someday he would meet him in a gunfight, and he would kill him.

  Dunaway had no personal beef with Falcon MacCallister. He just wanted the fame that would come from beating him. In fact, Dunaway had even begun writing his own book about it, a penny dreadful like the ones he had seen about Falcon MacCallister. The Colorado Kid—Duel in the Street, the title would be. The subtitle would read, The Death of Falcon MacCallister.

  For a moment, Dunaway felt such a surge of excitement that it was all he could do to keep from challenging MacCallister right here and right now. His hands began to shake so badly that he couldn’t hold the drink, and he had to put the glass down on the bar in front of him.

  Finley looked up at Falcon as he approached the table. “Do you believe that chairs can be unlucky?” Finley asked. “Because if you do, you can switch that chair with one from another table.”

  “There is no such thing as an unlucky chair,” Falcon said. “There are just players who don’t know what they are doing.”

  “Players who don’t know what they are doing, huh? My, my, Mr. MacCallister, I do believe you have taken a page from my book,” Finley said. “Suppose we just see if you know what you are doing.”

  “That sounds agreeable,” Falcon said as he sat at the table.

  “MacCallister,” Finley said as he shuffled the cards. “I do believe that is a name of some note in these parts.”

  “Yes,” one of the other players said. “The actors were just through here a few days ago. Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister, I believe they were. Husband and wife.”

  “Brother and sister,” Falcon corrected.

  “No, I believe you are wrong, sir,” the player said. “I am quite sure they are husband and wife.”

  “They are brother and sister,” Falcon repeated. “As a matter of fact, they are my brother and sister,” he added.

  “Oh!” the player said. “Oh! Well, dear me, I suppose you would know, wouldn’t you?”

  “Mr. MacCallister, I hate to ask such an embarrassing question, but do you have enough money to participate in this game?” Finley asked.

  “Will this do?” Falcon asked, putting one hundred dollars down on the table.

  “Uh, yes,” Finley said. “Yes, that will do quite well, thank you. Yes indeed, I think you will make a fine addition to the game, and your money a fine addition to my wallet,” he added with a laugh.

  Finley reached for the cards, but Falcon put his own hand on the cards.

  “I would prefer a new deck, if you don’t mind,” Falcon said.

  “A new deck? All right,” Finley said, picking up a fresh box. Using his thumbnail, he broke the seal, then took the cards out. Removing the joker, he spread the deck out on the table, then flipped the cards over expertly, making a little show of it for the others. “Are you satisfied with the cards?” he asked.

  “They suit me,” Falcon said.

  Finley shuffled the cards and the stiff new pasteboards clicked sharply. His hands moved swiftly, folding the cards in and out, until the law of random numbers became the law of the deck. He shoved the cards toward Falcon, who cut them, then pushed them back.

  “Gentlemen, the game is five-card draw,” Finley said. He looked at Falcon. “Assuming that is all right with our new player.”

  “Five-card draw is fine.”

  Falcon could have won with the first hand, but he purposely played it overcautiously, losing ten dollars in the process.

  Finley laughed softly as he dragged in the pot.

  “Are you sure you want to play this game, Mr. MacCallister ?” he asked. “You just folded on a winning hand.”

  “I am a cautious player,” Falcon said.

  “Oh, I love cautious players,” Finley said. “My only regret, Mr. MacCallister, is that you will lose your money too quickly. And where is the fun in that?”

  Once again, Falcon folded on a hand that could have won had he played a bit more aggressively.

  By the third hand, Falcon was down sixty-five dollars, but there was forty dollars in the pot, and he had just drawn two cards to complete a diamond flush. He bet ten dollars.

  “Wow, ten dollars,” Finley teased. “That’s a pretty heavy bet. You sure you want to bet that much?”

  “Yes, I—I think so,” Falcon said hesitantly.

  “All right, then, I tell you what. I’ll just see your ten, and raise it ten.”

  “Damn, Finley,” one of the other players said. “Mr. MacCallister just sat in to play a friendly game of cards. This ain’t no duel. I’m out.”

  “So am I,” the other player said.

  “And it isn’t a game of checkers either,” Finley said. “If this game is too rich for you, you just sit it out until MacCallister and I are finished. Now what are you going to do, Mr. MacCallister? Fold, call, or raise?”

  MacCallister made a big show of studying his hand carefully.

  “I guess—I guess I’ll call,” he said hesitantly.

  Finley was holding three kings, and he clucked his tongue and shook his head when he saw Falcon’s hand.

  “You were holding a flush and all you did was call?”

  “I thought you might have four kings,” MacCallister said. “I didn’t want the betting to get out of hand. And as you can see, it was the right move. I won the hand, and I am now twenty-five dollars ahead.” MacCallister’s smile showed that he was quite proud of himself.

  “And you think you are a big winner because you’re twenty-five dollars ahead in the game?” Finley laughed, a low, mocking, laugh. “So, should I be worried now?”

  “Maybe,” Falcon said. “I’ve been watching you. I think I’ve about got you figured out.”

  “You have me figured out, do you?” Finley said.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I tell you what, MacCallister, I’m tired of dealing with an amateur. I think I’ll just break you this hand. That is, if you are brave enough to stay with me.”

  “Well, I won’t bet good money on bad cards, if that’s what you mean,” Falcon said.

  “You don’t want to bet good money on bad cards,” Finley repeated. He shook his head. “That sounds like something you would hear at a temperance meeting. God help me, what am I doing in this game? I’m opening with twenty dollars, are you in?”

  “Is it all right if I put more money on the table?” Falcon asked.

  “Ha! The more money you put on the table, the more I will walk away with,” Finley said. “Put all the money you want there.”

  “I think another one hundred dollars will be enough.”

  Finley shoved the cards across the table to Falcon. “It’s your deal.”

  When Falcon picked up the cards, he felt of them as he began shuffling, checking for pinpricks and uneven corners, satisfying himself that they were playing with an honest deck.

  Falcon dealt the cards. The betting was quite brisk, and within a few moments the pot was over two hundred dollars.

  “Now, MacCallister, school’s out. It’s going to cost you to see what I have,” Finley said. “I’m going to bet one hundred dollars.”

  “Shit, you ain’t playin’ cards, Finley, you’re trying to buy the pot. Damn, I’m out,” one of the other players said. The remaining player also dropped out, leaving only Falcon and Finley.

  “What about it, mister? It’s just you and me now. You want to pay to see what I’ve got?”

  Falcon looked at his cards; then he looked across the table at Finley. A small confident smile spread across his face.

  “I’ll see your hundred, and raise it a hundred,” Falcon
said.

  “What?” Finley asked in surprise. “What the hell are you holding?”

  “Like you say, you are going to have to pay to look at them,” Falcon answered. He put the cards down in front of him, four to one side, and one off by itself.

  “Son of a bitch, he’s got four of a kind,” someone said.

  “What makes you think that?” said someone else.

  “Well, hell, look for yourself. Did you see the way he put them cards down? I tell you, he’s got four of a kind.”

  By now the stakes of the game were high enough to have attracted the attention of everyone else in the saloon, and there were several men standing around the table, watching the game with intense interest. Many had also come to watch in hopes of seeing Finley get beaten, because he had not only won money from nearly everyone in the saloon at one time or another, he had won it with intense arrogance.

  “He’s bluffin’, Finley,” one of the other players said. “I got me a gut feelin’ that he’s bluffin’. Call his hand.”

  Finley snorted. “You’ve got a gut feelin’, do you, Harry? Well, it’s your feelin’, but it’s my money. I don’t see you still in the game.”

  “Call him,” Harry said again.

  “You ain’t listened to nothin’ I’ve ever told you, have you, Harry?” Finley asked as rubbed his chin and studied Falcon. “You don’t play with your gut, you play with your mind. And don’t forget, this is the fella who wouldn’t even raise a flush.”

  Falcon smiled across the table at Finley.

  “What are you going to do, Finley?” one of the bystanders asked. “Like you told this gentleman a few moments ago, you can’t take all night.”

  “All right, all right, the pot’s yours,” Finley said, turning his cards up on the table. He had a full house, aces over jacks. “What have you got?”

  Falcon looked at his cards, facedown on the table just the way he left them, four in one pile, one in another. He reached out to rake in his pot.

  Normally, he would not show his cards if the player hadn’t paid to see them. But in this case, part of the pleasure in beating Finley would be in letting Finley see just how he had beaten him.

  Smiling, Falcon turned his cards up. He had two jacks and two tens.

  “What the hell is this?” Finley gasped, glancing up from the cards with an expression of exasperation on his face. “Are you telling me you beat me with two pairs?”

  “He ran a bluff on you, Finley,” Harry said. He chuckled. “Ain’t you the one, while ago, who said there weren’t nobody who could ever beat you with a bluff ?”

  Those who had gathered to watch the game laughed out loud.

  For a moment, Finley’s face was clouded with anger; then suddenly, and unexpectedly, he broke out in laughter as well.

  “He didn’t just run a bluff on me, boys, he set me up!” Finley said. “And it was the smoothest job I ever saw.”

  Finley stuck his hand out. “Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “Day after day I sit here, going on and on about running a school to teach these people how to play cards. But I must confess, sir, you taught me a lesson today. It was well worth the money I lost.”

  Falcon took Finley’s hand and shook it. “You’re a good man, Finley. You are all right in my book,” MacCallister said.

  The others, seeing the building tension melt away, laughed, and breathed a sigh of relief. They knew that this was exactly the kind of thing that could erupt in a killing.

  Evidently, there would be no killing here tonight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Falcon went back to the bar and ordered another beer.

  “Where’s the best place to put up for the night?” he asked.

  “Well, if you’re lookin’ for company for the night, we’ve got rooms upstairs,” the barkeep said.

  “I’m not looking for company.”

  “In that case, you’ve got two choices. Ziegenhorn’s if you want to sleep cheap. He don’t have rooms, but he’s got lots of beds upstairs in one big room. You’ll probably have to put up with a lot of snorin’, though.”

  “What’s the other choice?”

  “The Morning Star Hotel. It’s just down the street.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon said.

  “Draw, MacCallister!” someone shouted.

  Instantly, Falcon drew his pistol and turned toward the sound of the voice, seeing a young man reaching for his gun. However, when that man saw how quickly Falcon had drawn, he changed his mind and let the pistol fall back in the holster as he put his hands up.

  “No, no,” he said. “Don’t shoot, Mr. MacCallister! For God’s sake, don’t shoot!”

  “You’re the one that invited me to the dance, mister,” Falcon said.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man said. “I thought I could beat you, I . . .” He let the response die on his lips.

  “Are you with Tate?”

  “What?”

  “Loomis Tate,” Falcon said angrily. “Are you with Loomis Tate?”

  “No, I—I don’t know who or what you are talking about.”

  “If you aren’t with Tate, why did you try to kill me?”

  “Because I thought I could. I’m the Colorado Kid and I thought—I thought I could beat you.”

  “You are the what?” Falcon asked.

  “The—the Colorado Kid. You’ve never heard of me, but someday you will.”

  “What is your name?” Falcon asked.

  “I told you, I’m the Colorado—”

  “What is your real name?” Falcon asked, interrupting him.

  “Dunaway. Denny Dunaway.”

  Falcon holstered his pistol. “Dunaway, have you ever killed a man?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve killed plenty of men,” Dunaway said.

  Falcon didn’t answer. Instead, he just continued to stare at Dunaway.

  “Well, not plenty of men, but some,” Dunaway said.

  Falcon still said nothing.

  “All right, no, I’ve never killed anyone yet. But I’m fast. I’m very fast.”

  “I take it that you’ve never been shot at either,” Falcon asked.

  “Well, no, but I’m not afraid to stand up to anyone,” Dunaway insisted. “I’ve just never had the chance to do it before now.”

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Falcon drew his pistol and shot. Those who were looking directly at Dunaway saw a mist of blood and little pieces of flesh fly away from his right earlobe.

  “Ow!” Dunaway said, slapping his hand to his ear. As he cupped his hand over the ear, blood began to run through his fingers. “What did you do that for?”

  “I want you to know what you are letting yourself in for,” Falcon said. “When you are facing another man with a gun, death can come quick. In your case, you just lost a part of your ear. It was a cheap lesson.”

  Dunaway didn’t answer. Instead, he just stared at Falcon, all the while trying to hold back the blood from the wound in his ear.

  Falcon took one more swallow of his beer, then nodded at the bartender.

  “I reckon I’ll go check out that hotel you told me about,” he said.

  “Tell ’em Jake Conroy sent you,” the bartender suggested.

  “Why? Will it get me a better deal?”

  Conroy laughed. “No, but it will get me a dime,” he said. “I get a dime ever’time I send someone over.”

  “I’ll do that for you,” Falcon replied with a smile.

  “MacCallister, wait!” Dunaway shouted just as Falcon reached the door.

  Falcon whirled around, but saw that Dunaway had made no move to get to his gun.

  Dunaway pointed at him.

  “This ain’t over,” he said.

  Falcon nodded, then picking up his saddlebags, turned and left the saloon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kelly Tate had watched the whole thing unfold between Falcon and Dunaway. Kelly was the one who had come into town to meet Falcon, because he was the only one of Loomis’s gang that Falcon had ne
ver seen.

  Kelly had recognized Falcon from the description provided by Loomis and the others. When a big man came in, carrying saddlebags over his shoulders, Kelly was fairly certain he had the right man. Then, he heard MacCallister introduce himself to the others in the card game.

  Kelly wasn’t supposed to meet him until the following afternoon. He had just come into town ahead of time in order to get the feel of things. He couldn’t say that he was all that surprised that MacCallister had come in early as well.

  No problem, Kelly still had the advantage. He now knew who MacCallister was. MacCallister didn’t know who he was. It gave him a sense of power to be able to observe without being observed. It was like watching a pissant crawl across a rock. Kelly laughed at his analogy. He liked thinking of MacCallister as a pissant.

  Kelly felt as if he was well in charge of the situation, until he saw Dunaway challenge MacCallister. That could have changed everything. If Dunaway had killed MacCallister, then the money would have been lost.

  He was glad that MacCallister wasn’t killed. If anyone was going to kill MacCallister, he was the one who was going to do it.

  It wasn’t until that moment that the idea of killing MacCallister came into Kelly’s mind. There would never be a better opportunity for him to do it. If he killed MacCallister tonight, everyone would think that Dunaway did it.

  A broad smile spread across Kelly’s face. He would kill MacCallister, then show up back at the way station with the money already in hand. He’d like to see the expressions on their faces then when he . . .

  Wait a minute, he thought. Why go back to the way station at all? After all, if he killed MacCallister, wouldn’t the money rightly be his? Yes, they would be pissed with him, but they had no right to be. Hell, if it hadn’t gotten them out of jail, they would’ve been hung. They’d all be worm food by now. By damn, this money was rightly his, and they had no right to be pissed at him.

  Twenty thousand dollars. What could a man do with twenty thousand dollars?

  He could go back East, maybe to someplace like St. Louis or New York or Boston. He didn’t know much about any of those places, but he had heard of them. He had heard of something called a Boston Tea Party. He wasn’t sure what you did at a tea party, but if he was going to be rich, then he would probably need to go to one.