MacCallister, The Eagles Legacy: The Killing Read online

  “Duff!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

  Ian’s shout alerted the others to Duff’s presence, and so many swarmed toward him that he was immediately surrounded. All wanted to shake his hand or pat him on the back. Duff smiled and greeted each of them warmly as they escorted him over to one of the tables. He had just taken his seat when Ian placed a glass of Scotch in front of him.

  “And would ye be for staying here now, Lad?” Ian asked.

  “Nae, ’tis but a visit,” Duff replied.

  “For remember, ’tis no charge being placed against you. Three witnesses there were who testified that you acted in self-defense.”

  “Aye, ’twas explained to me in a letter,” Duff said. “But I’ve started a ranch, I’ve made friends, and I’ve begun a new life in America.”

  “Then what brings you to Scotland?”

  “As you recall, I had to leave very quickly,” Duff said. “I had no time to say a proper good-bye to Skye. ’Tis ashamed I was that I was not here for her funeral.”

  “You were here, Lad,” Ian said. “Maybe not in the flesh, but there wasn’t a person in the church, nae, nor in the cemetery when she was lowered into the ground, that did not feel your presence.”

  Duff nodded. “Aye. For with all my heart and soul, I was here.”

  Ian had to get back to work, but for the next two hours, Duff was kept busy telling his friends about America. Finally, when the last customer had left, and the young woman, whose name was Kathleen, told the two of them good night, Duff and Ian sat together in the pub, dark now except for a single light that glowed dimly behind the bar.

  “Have ye made friends, Duff?” Ian asked.

  “Aye. Good friends, for all that they are new.” Duff told Ian about Biff Johnson, whose wife was Scottish, and Fred Matthews and R.W. Guthrie. He told him about Elmer Gleason too.

  “As odd a man as ever you might meet,” Duff said, “but as loyal and true a friend as you might want.”

  “Have ye left anything out, Lad?” Ian asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve made no mention of a woman. Is there no woman that has caught your fancy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ye dinnae know? But how can it be that you dinnae know?”

  “I have met a young woman, handsome, spirited, gritty.”

  “Handsome, spirited, gritty? Duff, ye could be talking about a horse. Surely there is more.”

  “I don’t know,” Duff said. “I—Skye, it’s just that ...” he was unable to finish the sentence.

  “Skye isn’t here, Laddie,” Ian said. “And if she could speak from her grave, she would tell you nae to be closing your heart on her account.”

  “Aye,” Duff said. “I believe that is true. But Skye is in a corner of my heart, Ian, and I cannae get her out.”

  Ian reached across the table and put his hand on Duff’s shoulder. “There is nae need for ye to get Skye out of your heart, but keep her in that corner, so ye have room to let another in.”

  “You’re a good man, Ian McGregor. ’Tis proud I would have been to be your son-in-law.”

  “Duff, sure ’n you are my son-in-law, in my eyes and in the eyes of God, if not in the eyes of the law.”

  Chapter Two

  The next day, Duff visited Bryan Wallace. Wallace was one of the most knowledgeable men about cattle that Duff had ever met, and he was the same stock breeder who had provided him with the cattle he’d used to start his own small farm before he’d left Scotland. After a warm greeting, Duff filled him in on where he had been for the last two years.

  “I’ve built a nice ranch, with good grazing land, water, and protection from the winter’s cold blast,” Duff said. “And now the time has come for me to put cattle upon the land. Most would say I should raise Longhorn, for surely they are the most common of all the cattle there, and they are easy to raise. But there are some who are raising Herefords, and ’tis said that I might try that as well.”

  “Aye, Herefords are a good breed, and they do well in the American West,” Wallace replied.

  “But I’m remembering with fondness the Black Angus I was raising here, and ’tis wondering I am if you could be for telling me a bit o’ the background of the Black Angus.”

  “Aye, would be happy to, for ’tis a story of Scotland itself,” Wallace replied. “A man by the name of Hugh Watson was raising hornless cattle in Aberdeenshire and Angus. Doddies, they were called then, and good cattle they were, but Watson thought to improve them. So he began selecting only the best black, polled animals for his herd. His favorite bull was Old Jock, who was born 1842 and sired by Grey-Breasted Jock. Today, if you look in the Scottish Herd Book, you’ll be for seeing that old Jock was given the number ‘one.’

  “In that same herd was a cow named Old Granny. Old Granny produced many calves, and today, every Black Angus that is registered can trace its lineage back to those two cows.”

  “And how would the cows do in America?”

  “Ye’d be thinkin’ of raising Black Angus on the new ranch of yours, are ye?” Wallace asked.

  “Aye, if I thought they would do well there.”

  “Ease your mind, Laddie, they do just foine in America, for they are there already.”

  “Really? In Wyoming?”

  “Nae, I think there be none in Wyoming. But they are in Kansas, Missouri, and Mississippi. And there is already an American Aberdeen Angus Association, which has their headquarters in Chicago. If ye be for wanting information about the breed in America, I would say that’s where you should go.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wallace.”

  “You’ll be going back to America then, will you?”

  “Aye. I’ve set down my roots there, now.”

  “What do you think of the country?”

  “’Tis as big and as wonderful as you can possibly imagine,” Duff replied enthusiastically.

  “Do me a favor, Lad, and drop me a line when you get your herd established. I have been keeping track of where all the Black Angus have been started. ’Tis a thing I do for the Scottish Breeders Association.”

  “I’ll be happy to,” Duff said.

  Chugwater, Wyoming Territory

  When Meghan Parker checked her mail, she was surprised and pleased to find a letter from Duff MacCallister. Excitedly, she started to open it, then just before opening the flap, she hesitated.

  What if it was a letter telling her that he was not coming back? What if he was writing to tell her that he was going to stay in Scotland?

  No, surely he wouldn’t do that. He has a ranch here. He has made friends here.

  But, he is from Scotland. And though Meghan didn’t know all the particulars, she did know that he had been in love there and that the love, for some reason, was unrequited.

  Of course, she was just being silly thinking about all this anyway. In the past year, Duff had made no overtures beyond being just friendly to her. He had even come to a few of the dances and, while there, had danced with her. But even then, he had been somewhat reticent, refusing to occupy too much of her time because the single men so outnumbered the single women that she was always very much in demand.

  Still, it did seem that he went out of his way to speak to her or to find some reason to see her on his infrequent visits to town.

  Was this a letter of good-bye?

  There was only one way to find out, and that was to open it. Closing her eyes and breathing a little prayer of petition, Meghan opened the envelope and withdrew the letter. The writing was bold and neat, but she would have expected no less from him.

  Dear Miss Parker,

  Even as I pen the words upon the page of this missive, I am gazing out over the moors, lochs, and highlands of my beautiful Scotland, and I find myself wondering why I ever left its shores.

  Meghan dropped the letter down and held it to her breast, afraid to read any further. Was he about to tell her that he wasn’t coming back to America?

  Then I think of the
beauty of my ranch, Sky Meadow, and the joy of the friends I have made since I came there, and I know that America is truly my new home.

  Again, Meghan dropped the letter to her chest, this time not in fear, but in joy.

  “Yes!” she said aloud.

  Looking around then to make certain that no one was observing her odd behavior, she continued to read the letter.

  I will be back within one month of your receipt of this letter. My visit here has been both personal and for business, and I now know the next step I am going to take with my ranch. I hope your memory of me has been kept green in my absence.

  Yours Truly,

  Duff MacCallister

  The last time Duff had crossed the Atlantic from Scotland, he had done so as a crewman onboard the Hiawatha, a three-masted, square-rigged sail ship. This time, he was a paying passenger on the HMS Adriatic, a steamship that had already set a record in crossing. The trip was fast and pleasant, with good weather and good food. When he put in to New York, he visited with Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister, the famous brother-and-sister team of stage players, who were his cousins.

  “You simply must tell me about your ranch,” Rosanna said. They were having dinner at Delmonico’s. Duff’s train was due to leave Grand Central Station at eleven that same evening.

  “Truly, it is a beautiful place,” Duff said. “It sets between timbered hills that stretch down to the rolling green plains below, through which the Bear and Little Bear creeks run, shining like strands of polished silver.”

  “Oh, it sounds lovely,” Rosanna said. “I should love to visit it someday.”

  “And I would love to have you as my guest,” Duff replied.

  “How many head of cattle are you running?” Andrew asked.

  “Counting my milk cows,” Duff said, pausing for a moment, then added, “two.”

  “Two? You have two cows on the entire ranch? Well, are you raising sheep?”

  “Sheep? Oh, heavens no,” Duff said, laughing. “I’ve taken enough teasing from the others for having no cattle. But I wanted to get the ranch exactly right before I introduced cattle, and also, ’tis a certain breed of cattle that I want. A breed that is not now in Wyoming.”

  “What breed would that be?” Andrew asked.

  “Black Angus.”

  Duff explained what he considered to be the plusses of raising Black Angus, adding that he had raised the breed back in Scotland.

  “And you will be the first to introduce them to Wyoming?” Andrew asked.

  “Aye, as far as I know, I will be.”

  Andrew smiled and put his hand on Duff’s shoulder. “Then you will be making history, cousin,” he said.

  Andrew and Rosanna went to the train station with Duff and waited with him until it was time for his train. With a final wave good-bye, Duff passed through the door that read TO TRAINS. Out under the train shed, he could smell the smoke and the steam and feel the rumble of the heavy trains in his stomach as he walked toward track number eight. Then he walked down the narrow concrete path that separated the train on track number eight from the train on track number nine. Half an hour later, the train pulled out of the station and began its overnight run to Chicago.

  Chicago, Illinois

  In Chicago, Duff looked up the address of the American Aberdeen Angus Association, and after a few preliminary questions, was directed to a man named Eli Woodson.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister, we are absolutely encouraging the expansion of Angus cattle in America,” Eli Woodson said, when Duff told him what he had planned. “And you say that you have been around them before?”

  “Aye. When I was in Scotland, I was growing the breed.”

  “Good, good, then I won’t have to be selling you on them, will I? You know what a fine breed they are. Tell me, where will you be ranching?”

  “In eastern Wyoming, a place called Chugwater Valley. It is just north of Wyoming.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Woodson said. “Wyoming is a big cattle area. It would be good to have the noble Angus represented there.”

  “My question now is where do I purchase the animals?”

  “Well, I can set you up with a bull, and maybe ten heifers from here. You can ship them back on the train.”

  “Thank you, but I would like to start with a much bigger herd.”

  “How large is much bigger?”

  “I want at least five hundred head,” Duff said.

  Woodson blinked. “You intend to start your herd with five hundred head?”

  “Aye.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, do you have any idea how much something like that would cost?”

  “I think no more than thirty dollars a head. Maybe a little less,” Duff said. “And I can do the math.”

  Woodson smiled. “Well, now. If you are fully aware of the cost of starting a herd with such a number and nevertheless want to pursue it, I’m sure we can find enough cattle for you. How long will you be in Chicago?”

  “I plan to take the train to Cheyenne tomorrow.”

  “Do you have a hotel for tonight?”

  “I do. I will be staying at the Palmer House.”

  “Good. Enjoy your stay there, while I do some research. I will telephone the front desk at the Palmer House and leave a message for you when I get the information you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Palmer House was seven stories high. The room, compared to all the other hotel rooms Duff had occupied, was quite large and luxuriously decorated. It also had a private bathroom with hot and cold running water.

  After taking a bath, Duff went downstairs, and into the barbershop to get a haircut. The marble tiles of the barbershop floor were inlaid with silver dollars. It, like the entire hotel, was well illuminated by electric lights. A wax recording machine sat in the back of the barbershop and one or more of the barbers kept it playing all the time Duff was in the barber chair.

  From the barbershop he went into the restaurant, where he saw Angus steak on the menu, and ordered it. By the time he finished dinner, it was dark but still too early to go to bed, so Duff decided to take a walk around the city. He wound up at the Chicago River and stood there by the bridge for a while, watching the boat traffic.

  “No! Please, no!”

  The voice was that of a woman, and she sounded frightened. The sound was coming from under the bridge, but when Duff looked underneath, it was far too dark to see.

  “Oh, please, don’t hurt me. I am but a poor woman, I have done you no harm.”

  Moving quickly, Duff climbed over the railing of the bridge, then down the embankment.

  “Miss?” he called. “Miss, where are you?”

  “Help, oh please help!”

  Duff started toward the voice.

  “We’ve got one, Percy, don’t let him get away!” a woman’s voice said excitedly. It was the same woman who had been calling for help.

  Duff realized at once that he had fallen for a trap. And in the time it would take others to figure out what was wrong, Duff was already reacting. He knew that where he was standing would make him stand out in silhouette against the reflections off the Chicago River. He moved quickly to step farther under the bridge, and to put the dark part of the embankment behind him.

  “Where the hell did he go?” a gruff voice asked.

  Duff looked toward the sound, using a trick he had learned when fighting on the desert in Egypt at night. By not looking directly at an object, but slightly to one side, a person could see better at night. Duff saw a shadow moving toward where he had been but a moment earlier.

  “Find him, Percy!” the woman’s voice said. “Don’t let him get away!”

  Percy was holding one arm out in front of him.

  “I’m going to cut him up good,” Percy said.

  Duff breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that it wasn’t a gun. He wasn’t armed, and under the circumstances, he thought it would be a lot easier to deal with someone who was holding a knife, than it would be to deal with someone with
a gun.

  “I’m over here, Percy,” Duff said.

  “What?” Percy said. He moved quickly toward where Duff had been when he spoke. But Duff had stepped to one side, and he felt, heard, and saw Percy make a wild, unsuccessful swipe with his blade.

  Duff reached out at the exact moment when Percy’s arm was most extended. Putting one hand on Percy’s elbow, and the other on Percy’s wrist, he jerked the arm back, breaking it in the elbow.

  “Ahhh!” Percy screamed in pain.

  Duff heard the knife hit the ground and reaching down quickly, he picked it up, then tossed it into the river, hearing the little splash as it went in.

  “Percy!” the woman shouted.

  “He’s here,” Duff said.

  “Percy, what happened?”

  “The son of a bitch broke my arm!” Percy said, his voice strained with pain.

  “Aye, but ye should be glad ’twas your arm I broke, and not your neck,” Duff said.

  “You son of a bitch! You broke Percy’s arm!” the woman cried angrily.

  “Tch, tch, such language from a lady,” Duff said. “Sure now, Lass, an’ I’m beginnin’ to think ye were in nae danger at all, now, were ye?” Duff asked.

  “Kill him, Percy! Kill him!” the woman said, her voice rising in fear.

  “Kill him? I can barely move, you dumb bitch! How am I going to kill him?”

  “I would be for betting that I’m nae the first ye have invited down here by your ruse,” Duff said. “But ’tis thinking I am that I might be your last.”

  “I need a doctor,” Percy said. “M’ arm is about to fall off.”

  “Aye, if I were you, I would get that arm looked at,” Duff said. Stepping out from under the bridge, he climbed back up the embankment. Behind him, he could hear Percy and the woman arguing.

  “I got him down here for you. The rest was up to you, but you couldn’t handle it.”

  “He broke my arm,” Percy replied. “Can’t you understand that? He broke my arm. I need a doctor.”