Pride of Eagles Read online

  “Captain MacTavish?” Falcon asked.

  “Aye, Captain Sean MacTavish at your service,” the sailor answered. “And you would be Falcon MacCallister, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, ’tis a fine horse my old friend Connie is getting,” Captain MacTavish said.

  Falcon chuckled. “Connie?”

  “Aye, it was Connie we called him when he sailed with us,” MacTavish said. “I was a midshipman when first we met.” MacTavish chuckled. “Connie and I went ashore in Calais. Ahh, the French girls. We were just boys, mind you, but we’d been around the world a time or two, so we were pretty worldly for our age. But it turns out the captain didn’t think so. We got a caning we did, the both of us.”

  MacTavish paused before he spoke again. “But the French girls . . . ah . . . the French girls. I tell you true, ’tis three canings I would have taken for the lessons those French girls taught us.” The captain turned toward the ship.

  “Mr. Peabody!” he called.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” a voice returned from the deck.

  “Land His Highness.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  MacTavish turned back to Falcon. “I don’t know what Connie will call the horse, but we’ve been calling him His Highness, for true it is that he lived better than anyone did on the voyage, myself included.”

  A wide gangplank was lowered from the side of the ship; then a sailor came down the plank, leading the horse. Falcon walked over to examine the animal when it reached the dock.

  The horse had a distinctive muscular profile with large, lustrous, wide-set eyes on a broad forehead, small, curved ears, and large, efficient nostrils. Falcon whistled softly.

  “He’s quite a beauty, isn’t he?” MacTavish said.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “ ’Twas said, when we took him aboard, that he was the king’s favorite.”

  “Then why did the king part with him?”

  “ ’Tis said he wanted the bloodline to start in America,” MacTavish said. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, m’boy’o, ’tis your responsibility now. Do give Connie my best.”

  “I’ll do that,” Falcon said.

  * * *

  “You sure he’s pickin’ up that horse this early, Dingo?” Cyrus asked. “Hell, it ain’t even light yet.”

  “Yeah, He’s gettin’ him early so he can put ’im on the eight o’clock train.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “ ’Cause I met some fella off the ship that brung the horse over,” Dingo said. “We was drinkin’ together. He got drunk and the next thing you know, he was tellin’ me about this here ten-thousand-dollar horse.”

  “You know that’s a load of bullshit,” Cyrus said. “There ain’t no horse worth ten thousand dollars. And even if there was, who would you find to pay you that much for it?”

  “This here horse is worth that much. He’s one of them special breed of horses that kings and the like have,” Dingo said. “But we ain’t goin’ to try and get that much money for him. If we sell him for five hunnert dollars, well, that’s five hunnert we don’t have now.”

  “Yeah, well, somethin’ else we don’t have now is the horse,” Cyrus said.

  “Shhh,” Dingo said. “Here he comes now.”

  * * *

  Falcon was riding a rental horse, and leading the Arabian. Suddenly, there was a flash in the darkness and the sound of a gunshot echoed back from the line of warehouses. Falcon felt the impact of the bullet as it hit his horse; then the horse went down under him.

  “I got ’im!” Dingo said.

  “You got the horse,” Cyrus corrected.

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “No, it ain’t the same thing. If you hadn’t kilt the horse, we could’a had both of the horses. You should’a aimed at the rider.”

  “I was aimin’ at the rider,” Dingo said. “Come on, let’s check him out.”

  The two men moved up cautiously toward the fallen horse. They could see the rider lying, perfectly motionless, pinned to the ground by the horse that was on his leg.

  “I think he’s dead,” Dingo said.

  “What makes you think he’s dead?”

  “Look at the way he’s lyin’ there. His eyes is open, but they ain’t movin’. He don’t look like he’s breathin’.”

  “Check ’im out, Dingo. See if he’s dead,” Cyrus said.

  Holding his pistol beside him, Dingo leaned over the motionless form of the rider, then reached out with his other hand to check for a pulse.

  * * *

  Falcon remained still until Dingo got close enough. Then, reacting quickly, Falcon reached up and grabbed the assailant’s gun, jerking it away cleanly.

  “What the hell?” Dingo shouted, taking a step back in surprise.

  Falcon’s leg only appeared to be trapped. In fact, it was under the soft belly of the horse, so it was very easy for him to pull it out.

  “Shoot ’im, Cyrus, shoot ’im!” Dingo shouted.

  Falcon sat up then and cocked his pistol. The deadly double click of the sear engaging the cylinder sounded exceptionally loud in the still morning darkness.

  “I wouldn’t listen to Dingo if I were you, Cyrus,” Falcon said.

  “Dingo, the son of bitch knows our names,” Cyrus said. “How does he know our names?”

  Falcon chuckled. Were these two so dumb that they didn’t even realize they had just given him their names?

  “Unbuckle the gun belt,” Falcon said to Cyrus.

  “You goin’ to shoot us, mister?” Cyrus asked, his voice cracking with fear.

  “I might,” Falcon said. “I don’t have time to take you to jail.”

  “If you’re goin’ to shoot someone, shoot him,” Cyrus said. “This here wasn’t my idea.”

  “Shut up, Cyrus. We was both in on this.”

  “But you was the one that come up with it,” Cyrus said. “You said there was this here real valuable horse and we could steal him and sell him. That’s what you said.”

  Falcon chuckled. “Were you going to share in the money, Cyrus?”

  “Well, yeah,” Cyrus said.

  “Well, there you go then. You are as guilty as Dingo.”

  “Yeah,” Dingo said. “There you go, you’re as guilty as me. So he’s goin’ to shoot both of us.”

  Falcon sighed. He really didn’t have time to take them to jail, and he had no intention of shooting either one of them, even though they were damn near too dumb to live. But he couldn’t just let them go. Then he got an idea.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Take off your clothes, both of you.”

  “Are you sayin’ you want us to strip down to our long handles?” Cyrus asked.

  Falcon shook his head. “No, I’m saying I want you to strip down to the skin. I want both of you butt naked.”

  “Mister, I ain’t a’ goin’ to do that,” Dingo said.

  “All right,” Falcon said. “Cyrus, you strip while I kill Dingo.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll strip,” Cyrus said. “You go ahead and shoot him.”

  “No, wait!” Dingo said, holding his hands out in front of him. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! What’s the matter with you, Cyrus, tellin’ him to shoot me?”

  “Well, if you won’t take offen your clothes like he said,” Cyrus said as he pulled off one of his boots.

  “All right, all right, I’ll strip,” Dingo said.

  Lifting up first one foot, then the other, the men started removing their boots.

  “Mister, this ain’t natural,” Dingo said. “It ain’t right, you makin’ us strip like this.”

  “It wasn’t right for you to shoot at me either.”

  “I didn’t shoot you, I shot the horse.”

  “But you said you was shootin’ at him,” Cyrus said.

  “Cyrus, will you shut up?”

  A moment later, both men stood naked, shivering in the morning chill.

&
nbsp; “Now what?” Dingus asked.

  “Take your clothes over to the edge of the dock and drop them in the water.” Falcon shifted his gun to his left hand, then threw the gun he had grabbed from Dingus toward the bay. It made a little splashing sound as it went into the water. “Drop your holsters in there too.”

  Glaring in anger, the two men scooped up their clothes, then padded barefoot across the board dock. They looked toward him in one last, fruitless appeal. He waved his gun to tell them to go through with it.

  Both men dropped clothes and holsters into the water, then looked back at Falcon.

  “Now what?” Dingo said.

  Falcon shrugged. “Now nothing,” he said. “I’m through with you. You can go on your way.”

  “Go on our way? Where are we going to go, naked like this?”

  “I don’t care,” Falcon said. “Just get out of my sight. I’ve never seen anything uglier than you two naked jaybirds.”

  Dingo and Cyrus hurried away, disappearing into the morning gloom. They continued arguing with each other and Falcon could hear them, even after he could no longer see them.

  Falcon laughed out loud, then looked at the Arabian, who through it all had stood quietly.

  “Well, horse,” Falcon said. “I hadn’t planned on riding you, but I guess I’ve got no choice now. We’ve got a train to catch.”

  Falcon took the saddle from the rental horse, put it on the Arabian, then mounted and rode off. Even in a ride like this, he could tell that this was some horse. Maybe not a ten-thousand-dollar horse, but it was some horse.

  * * *

  Lowell Spivey, the guard at the maximum-security blockhouse of the Yuma Territorial Prison, settled back in his chair and looked up at the clock. It was two-thirty in the morning. Spivey had just switched to the night shift and was having a hard time adjusting to it. He was tired and wanted to go to sleep. And though he could close his eyes and grab a quick nap in the chair, it was frowned upon.

  “Hey, Spivey?” one of the prisoners called.

  “What do you want?” Spivey answered.

  “You better come have a look at Cardis.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s back there moanin’ like he’s hurtin’ real bad.”

  “It can wait till mornin’,” Spivey replied.

  “Then if you ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ about it, at least come back here and tell ’im to shut up. He’s keepin’ the rest of us awake.”

  “Yeah,” one of the other prisoners shouted. “Or open up his cell and let one of us shut ’im up.”

  A couple of the other prisoners laughed.

  With a sigh, Spivey got up, opened the outer door, and walked down the cell-flanked corridor toward the cell that was Cardis’s. When Spivey reached Cardis’s cell, he saw the prisoner doubled up on his bunk, both arms wrapped across his stomach.

  “What is it?” Spivey asked. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I think it was somethin’ I et at supper,” Cardis grunted.

  “Everybody else ate the same thing,” Spivey said. “How come you’re the only one complaining?”

  “Maybe ’cause I’m the only one that got sick,” Gilly Cardis replied.

  “Yeah, well, try and keep quiet, will you?” Spivey asked. “You’re keeping the others awake.”

  “I’ll try,” Cardis said. Suddenly he gasped, and grabbed his stomach again.

  “All right, all right,” Spivey said, pulling out the keys. “Come on, I’ll take you to the dispensary so the doc can take a look at you.”

  “Thanks,” Cardis said.

  Spivey put the key in the lock, but before he opened the door, he looked at Cardis.

  “Don’t just sit there, you know what to do.”

  “Yeah, I know what to do,” Cardis answered, though he didn’t change from his doubled-over position.

  “Well, do it, Cardis, I’m not going to stand here all night,” Spivey said.

  “Don’t get all in a huff, I’m doin’ it,” Cardis grunted.

  Cardis stood up and leaned against the wall. Spivey walked over to him, then pulled one of Cardis’s arms into position and started to cuff his hands behind his back. Cardis let out a cry of pain. “I can’t get my arms behind me,” he grunted. “It hurts my gut too much.”

  “You know the rules. If I let you out of your cell at any time other than when it’s authorized, you have to have your hands cuffed.”

  “Can’t you cuff ’em in front?”

  Spivey hesitated for a long moment; then he sighed. “All right, I’ll cuff’em in front. But I ain’t supposed to be doin’ this, so don’t give me any trouble.”

  Cardis held his hands together in front while Spivey put the manacles on him. The manacles were held together by a short length of chain so that when his wrists were bound, Cardis could hold his hands about twelve inches apart.

  “Okay, tough guy, let’s go,” Spivey said. “You lead the way; you know where the dispensary is.” He pushed Cardis roughly to get him started.

  Procedure called for Spivey to inform one of the other guards anytime he took a prisoner from the cell, but he didn’t see any of the other guards around.

  “Collins,” Spivey said to the prisoner who had told him about Cardis, “if you see Kane, tell ’im I took Cardis to the dispensary, will you?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell ’im,” Collins called back from the dark of his cell.

  “All right, you wanted to go to the dispensary, let’s go,” Spivey said, poking Cardis with his nightstick.

  “I ain’t the one asked to go to the dispensary,” Cardis said.

  “No, you didn’t. You was just gonna lie in there an’ moan all night. Come on, let’s go.” He jabbed Cardis with his nightstick again, this time in the small of the back, hard enough to make the killer gasp.

  They left the cell block and stepped out into the still, dark night. Cardis looked up at the sky. It was a desert-clear night, with stars so bright that he felt as if he could almost reach up and pull one down.

  Cardis’s eyes scanned the prison yard, going immediately to the guard positions on top of the wall. None of the guards were watching. He grasped the chain with his fingers and waited until he and Spivey were around the corner from the dispensary.

  “Ohh!” he suddenly said, stopping and bending over, almost as if he were about to fall.

  “What is it now?” Spivey asked, the tone of his voice reflecting his irritation with the prisoner.

  “My belly’s on fire,” Cardis gasped.

  “Well, the quicker you get to the dispensary, the quicker you can get somethin’ done about it,” Spivey said, taking a step closer to him. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Whirling around quickly, and using the small length of chain as a club, Cardis hit the guard and Spivey went down.

  Cardis rifled through Spivey’s pockets until he found the key. Then, unlocking the cuffs, he put on Spivey’s hat and coat and started toward the front gate, walking as confidently as if he fully expected the guard to open the gate for him.

  Cardis’s bold move paid off. The guard at the gate barely looked up from his newspaper as he pulled the lever to unlock the gate. With a little wave, Cardis, who kept his head down for the whole time, simply stepped through. He continued to walk slowly until he disappeared into the dark; then he broke into a run.

  Three

  “Miles City,” the conductor called, coming through the car. “Next stop is Miles City.”

  Falcon was napping with his arms folded across his chest, his knees propped up on the seat back before him and his black hat tipped down over his eyes.

  “Miles City, Mr. MacCallister,” the conductor said.

  “Thanks,” Falcon said, sitting up and looking through the window as the train slowed for the station.

  Miles City, Montana, got its start when Colonel Nelson A. Miles was dispatched by Secretary of War James Donald Cameron to build a cantonment where the Tongue River flowed into the Yel
lowstone. Colonel Miles, who was later to be General Miles, was sent into the territory to make a military response to the Battle of the Little Big Horn. His assignment was to protect settlers and freight wagons as they passed through the fertile Yellowstone Valley. The cantonment was constructed in the fall of 1876, and by spring of 1877, a town had sprung up two miles away to provide rest and recreation for the soldiers.

  Within the year, the cantonment moved to higher ground, becoming Fort Keogh, and the town followed, picking up lock, stock, and whiskey barrel and moving to the present location. Within a year after its move, the town was clearly established, boasting a population of more than two hundred citizens and growing larger every day.

  A post office was established, and the town was officially named Miles City, after Colonel Miles. Having the town named after him didn’t improve its relations with the military commander, though. Nelson Miles was a temperance man and he resented having a town “founded upon depravity and the consumption of whiskey” named for him.

  Miles City quickly became known as a “hoorah” town full of soldiers and cowboys, gamblers and barkeepers, and the “soiled doves” who provided much of the town’s economic backbone. With the arrival of the railroad, however, the complexion of the town changed from one of debauchery to one of honest commerce. It became the center of the cattle industry in an area that the cattlemen called the “Northern Range.”

  In its new manifestation, it served as the headquarters city for the Montana Stockgrowers’ Association. The city was the home of the annual MSA meeting, and it was for that reason that Falcon had come to Montana, though Kohrs’s horse, which was in a private stock car attached to this very train, was certainly a strong secondary reason.

  At least 175 other ranchers would be attending, from the heavyweight local cattle growers, to the out-of-territory cattle barons such as John Clay, Granville Stuart, Pierre Wibaux, the Marquis de Mores, and others.

  In addition to the cattle barons, the railroads, stockyards, and meatpacking plants were represented as well, sending their own high-ranking officers to mingle with the cattlemen. They had come to make plans for the roundup and cattle shipments coming up in the spring, as well as to treat themselves to a big convention celebration.