Thunder of Eagles Page 2

  “What? For stealing a few cows? You can’t do that,” Tyree complained.

  “That’s where you are quite wrong, Mr. Tyree. I can, and I just did,” Judge Kuntz said.

  Chapter Two

  One year later

  When Kyle Pollard came on duty as a guard at the maximum security blockhouse of the State Prison at Cañon City, Colorado, he settled back in his chair, tipped it against the wall, and picked up the notes that had been left by the previous guard.

  “Jefferson Tyree is to go to the dispensary at two-thirty today.”

  Pollard drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, then let out a long breath.

  “Hey, you, Pollard,” one of the prisoners called.

  “What do you want?” Pollard called back.

  “Is it true Tyree is gettin’ out of here?”

  “What?”

  “Tyree is saying that his sentence has been commuted by the governor. He says he’s gettin’ out of here today.”

  “Tyree is full of it,” Pollard said. “He’s not getting out of here today, or any day, until the day he dies.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t think so. But I just thought you’d like to know what he’s tellin’ everyone.”

  “So, you’ve told me.”

  “Is that worth a chaw of terbaccy?”

  Pollard chuckled. “Simmons, you sure you didn’t make all this up just to get a little tobacco?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t make none of it up,” Simmons said. “He tole me that he’s gettin’ out of prison today. He says that’s why he’s goin’ to the dispensary. He says the state needs to show that he wasn’t sick or nothin’ when they let him go.”

  “It’s nothing of the kind,” Pollard replied. “He’s goin’ to the dispensary to be checked out for cooties, same as ever’one else in the prison.”

  “I’m just tellin’ you what he’s tellin’ ever’one is all,” Simmons said.

  “Well, that’s not worth anything,” Pollard said. “But I do like you keeping me up with what’s goin’ on, so I guess it’s worth a chew.”

  Pollard opened the outer gate, then stepped up to Simmons’s cell to pass a twist of chewing tobacco through the bars.

  “Thanks,” Simmons said.

  Pollard then walked up and down the length of the corridor looking into all the cells. When he reached Tyree’s cell at about five minutes before he was due at the dispensary, he saw that the prisoner was lying on his bunk with his hands laced behind his head.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  “What’s there to getting ready?” Tyree replied. “What am I supposed to do, get all the cooties lined up for the doc?” Tyree laughed at his own joke.

  “What’s this I hear about you telling people you’re going to be getting out today?”

  Tyree chuckled. “Some folks will believe anything,” he said. “Don’t tell me. Simmons reported it to you and you paid him off with some tobacco. Am I right?”

  Pollard chuckled as well. “Yeah, I gave him a small twist.”

  Tyree shook his head. “I can’t believe you were dumb enough to fall for that. But then, you are dumb enough to have a job like this, so, I guess it isn’t all that hard to believe.”

  “I’m dumb?” Pollard said. “In a couple of hours, I’ll be home with the wife and kids. You’ll still be here.” Pollard sniggered. “In fact, you’ll be here for the rest of your life.”

  The smile left Tyree’s face. “So they say,” he said.

  “So they say,” Pollard said with a snort. “You damn right, so they say.” He started to unlock the cell, then stopped and looked over at Tyree. “Get up. You know the procedure,” he said.

  Tyree was well acquainted with the procedure. He had already been in prison for a year, and this wasn’t the first time he had ever been incarcerated.

  “Come on, Tyree, I’m waiting,” Pollard said again, more impatiently than before.

  “Yeah, keep your shirt on. I’m movin’ as fast as I can,” Tyree grunted.

  Tyree got out of his bunk, then leaned against the wall. Pollard stepped into the cell then, and cuffed Tyree’s hands behind his back. The cuffs were held together with a twelve-inch length of chain.

  “All right, Tyree, let’s go,” Pollard said. “You lead the way; you know where the dispensary is.” He pushed Tyree roughly to get him started.

  “I’m goin’, I’m goin’, ain’t no need to be a’pushin’ me like that.”

  “Come on, let’s go.” He jabbed Tyree with his nightstick again, this time in the small of the back, hard enough to make the killer gasp. “That hurt.”

  “Did it now?” Pollard taunted.

  They left the cell block and stepped out into the yard. This being the heat of the day, the yard was empty, and as Tyree checked each of the guard towers, he noticed that none of the guards were looking inward; they were all looking out, away from the prison. Just in front of him, Tyree saw a wagon sitting outside the prison commissary. It had just made the two-thirty delivery. Tyree was expecting to see it—in fact, that was why he’d arranged to have his nine o’clock appointment traded with one of the other prisoners.

  Suddenly, Tyree stopped and stooped down.

  “What are you doing?” Pollard asked. “Stand up.”

  “I’ve got a rock in my shoe,” Pollard said.

  “Just leave it, you don’t have far to go.”

  “It hurts,” Tyree complained. “It’ll just take a second to get it out.”

  “All right, but hurry it up,” Pollard said.

  “Look up there at the wall. What the hell is Cooper doing, pissing off the wall like that?” Tyree said. “This may be a prison, but we have to live here, and I don’t like it when a guard steps out of the tower and pisses in our yard like that.”

  “What are you talking about?” Pollard asked, looking toward the wall. “I don’t see anybody—unnhg!”

  While squatted down on the ground, Tyree had stepped back over the length of chain in order to get his handcuffed hands in front of him. Then, before Pollard knew what was happening, Tyree had used the length of chain as a club to knock the guard down.

  Tyree fell upon Pollard, hitting him with the chain several more times, until he was sure the man was dead. Quickly, he got the keys and released the handcuffs. Then he dragged Pollard’s body over to the well and dropped him down into it. After that, he climbed into the delivery wagon and hid himself under a roll of canvas.

  A moment later, the driver and one of the cooks came out of the prison commissary.

  “I won’t be makin’ the delivery next week,” the driver said. “I’m goin’ down to Yorkville to visit my daughter. She just had a baby.”

  “Just had a baby, did she? Was it a boy or a girl?” the cook asked.

  “Boy.”

  “Ha! Knowin’ you, you’ll have him out huntin’ with you in a couple of years.”

  “I may not wait that long,” the wagon driver said, and both laughed.

  Tyree felt the wagon sag as the driver climbed into the seat, then pulled away from the commissary. The driver stopped at the gate, and Tyree grew tense. This was the critical moment.

  “Open up!” the driver shouted. “I just came to deliver groceries. I don’t plan to stay here all day.”

  “Make you nervous, does it, Zeb?” one of the guards called down from the tower. “’Fraid we might keep you in here for a while?”

  “Just open the damn door, will you? This place gives me the willies.”

  “What do you think, Paul? You think we should go down and check it out?” the guard who had been talking to Zeb asked the other.

  “Nah, no need to do that,” Paul replied. “I can see the wagon from up here. Ain’t nothin’ in it but a tarp roll. Let ’im out, Clay.”

  Clay pulled the lever to unlock the gate. “See you on Friday, Zeb,” Clay shouted down to him.

  Zeb gave the guards a little wave, then drove on through.

  Tyree lay very still as the wagon p
assed through the gate, then proceeded up the road. He counted to one hundred, then very carefully lifted the tarp and looked around. They were on First Street, having just crossed over the railroad. Tyree slipped out from under the tarp, and without being noticed, let himself down from the back of the wagon. He moved quickly off the road into a little stand of trees, and down to the banks of the Arkansas River. He continued along the river, following it west, eventually breaking into an easy, ground-covering lope.

  Many escapees, Tyree knew, were recaptured almost immediately, because they really didn’t know where they were going. Tyree was different; he knew exactly where he was going. He had planned it all out well in advance. He knew that there was a ranch house just over three miles from the prison. Tyree had seen it when the barred wagon that transported prisoners had brought him to the prison. When Tyree and five other prisoners were transferred to the State Penitentiary, they were sitting in the back of the wagon, chained to a steel rod that ran the length of the floor. The others were badly dispirited, and they kept their heads down in defeat and disgrace.

  Tyree was still defiant, and he studied the area around the prison, already making plans for an opportunity like the one he had seized upon today. Even then he had noticed the small ranch and the stable of horses.

  And yet, a horse and freedom wouldn’t satisfy Tyree’s most burning need. That need wouldn’t be completely satisfied until he settled a score with the man who sent him up in the first place.

  “Mr. Falcon MacCallister,” Tyree said quietly. “I’m comin’ after you.”

  Ten miles west of Cañon City, Jefferson Tyree saw a rambling, unpainted wooden structure that stretched and leaned and bulged and sagged until it looked as if the slightest puff of wind might blow it down. A crudely lettered sign nailed to one of the porch supports read: FOOD, DRINK, GOODS.

  There were no horses tied up outside, which was good. Tyree planned to pick up a few dollars here, and the fewer people in the building, the better it would be.

  The interior of the store was a study in shadow and light. Some of the light came through the door, and some came through windows that were nearly opaque with dirt. Most of it, however, was in the form of gleaming dust motes that hung suspended in the still air, illuminated by the bars of sunbeams that stabbed through the cracks between the boards.

  There were only two people in the building, a man and woman. The man was behind a counter, the woman was sweeping the floor.

  “This your store?” Tyree asked.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” the man behind the counter replied. “It may not look like much, but it keeps the wife and me workin’. Don’t it, dear?”

  “Keeps one of us workin’ anyway,” the woman replied as she continued to sweep the floor.

  The man laughed. “The wife has a good sense of humor,” he said to Tyree. “Yes, sir, if you can’t find a woman that’s rich or pretty, then the next best thing is to find one with a sense of humor.” He laughed out loud at his own joke. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “You got any pistols?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” the clerk said. “I’ve got a dandy collection of pistols—Smith and Wessons, Colts, Remingtons. Just take a look here.”

  “I’ll need ammunition as well,” Tyree said.

  The proprietor laughed. “My, you aren’t prepared at all, are you?” he said. “Well, before I can sell you any ammunition, I’ll need to know what sort of pistol you are going to be buying.”

  “Tell me about this one,” Tyree said, picking up one of the pistols.

  “Yes, sir, that’s one of our finest,” the proprietor said. “It is a Colt, single-action, six-shot, solid-frame revolver.”

  “Solid-frame? What does that mean?”

  “It means that the frame doesn’t break down to load it. The cylinder is loaded by single rounds. See, you’ve got a loading gate, located at the right side of the frame. Then, the empty cases are ejected one by one, through the opened loading gate, by pulling back on the ejector rod, located under the barrel and to the right.”

  “What is this, a .45?”

  “It’s a .44, sir.”

  Tyree shook his head. “I’m not very good with a gun, I don’t know much about them. You’ll have to show me how to load it.”

  “It’s very simple, sir,” the proprietor said. He took a couple of cartridges from the box and handed them to Tyree. “Open the side gate there.”

  “It won’t open,” Tyree said.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. The gun can be loaded and unloaded only when the hammer is set to half-cock position, like so.”

  The proprietor set the hammer, then watched as Tyree slipped two rounds into the cylinder.

  “Very good, sir,” the proprietor said. “Now, will there be anything else?”

  Tyree pointed to the black metal cash drawer that set on the counter. “Yes. You can open that cash drawer for me,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” the proprietor said, shocked by the unexpected turn of events.

  “I said, open the cash drawer for me,” Tyree repeated. “And give me all your money.”

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Tyree felt a blow on the back of his head. The blow knocked him down, but not out, and looking up, he saw the proprietor’s wife holding the broom handle.

  “You crazy bitch!” Tyree shouted. He shot her, and saw the look of surprise on her face as the bullet plunged into her heart.

  “Suzie!” the proprietor shouted.

  Tyree shot him as well, then got up from the floor and dusted himself off. Almost casually, he finished loading the pistol, then, moving around the store, he began collecting supplies: a belt and holster, a couple of new shirts, some coffee, bacon, beans, and a hat. After that, he cleaned out the cash drawer, finding a total of sixty-two dollars and fifty-one cents.

  Turning southwest, Tyree rode hard for two days, avoiding towns until he reached Badito. Badito was little more than a flyblown speck on the wide-open range. He chose it because it had no railroad and he saw no telegraph wires leading into it, which meant they had probably not heard of his escape yet. Stopping in front of the Bull’s Head Saloon, Tyree went inside and ordered a beer. It was his first beer in over a year.

  Shortly after Tyree arrived, a young man stopped in front of the Bull’s Head. Going inside, he stepped up to the bar. The saloon was relatively quiet, with only four men at one table, and a fifth standing down at the far end of the bar. The four at the table were playing cards; the one at the end of the bar was nursing a drink. The man nursing the drink was a fairly small man with dark hair, dark, beady eyes, a narrow mouth, and a nose shaped somewhat like a hawk’s beak. He looked up as the young man entered, but turned his attention back to the beer in front of him.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

  “Beer.”

  “A beer it is,” the bartender replied. He turned to draw the beer.

  “Make it two beers.”

  The bartender laughed. “You sound like you’ve worked yourself up quite a thirst.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon I have. I went down into New Mexico to have a look around.”

  “Did you now?” the bartender replied as he put the beers on the bar before the young man. “See anything interesting down there?”

  “A lot of desert. It’s good to be back to land that can be farmed.”

  “You like farmin’, do you?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do. My pa’s a farmer, and I was raised on a farm.”

  “I know some farmers. What’s you pa’s name?”

  “My pa’s name is Carter Manning.”

  “Hmm, I don’t know think I know him.”

  “We live up in a place called Hancock,” Manning said. “Well, we don’t actually live there. Like I say, we live on a farm outside Hancock. But we get our mail at the Hancock post office.”

  “I was wonderin’ why you smelled like pig shit,” Tyree said without looking up from his beer.

  “I beg your pa
rdon, sir,” Manning said. “What did you just say?”

  “I said you smelled like pig shit,” Tyree said. “You and your old man. As far as I’m concerned, all farmers smell like pig shit.”

  “I won’t hold that against you, ’cause I reckon you are just trying to make a joke,” Manning said. “But I don’t mind tellin’ you, mister, I don’t see anything funny about it.”

  “Well, that’s good, ’cause I don’t mean it as a joke. You smell like pig shit, just like all the rest of the farmers in the world.”

  “Mister, looks to me like we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. Let me see if I can’t change your mind. My name’s Manning, John Nathan Manning, and here’s to you, Mr.—”

  “My name is MacCallister, Falcon MacCallister,” Tyree said. “And I’d sooner drink horse piss than drink with a farmer.”

  “Falcon MacCallister? You’re Falcon MacCallister?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I—I’ve never met Falcon MacCallister, but I’ve certainly heard a lot about him. If you are MacCallister, you are very different from anything I’ve ever heard.”

  “Boy, that sounds like you’re callin’ me a liar,” Tyree said.

  Using the back of his hand, Manning wiped beer foam from his mouth. It was obvious that Tyree had irritated him, and for the briefest of moments, that irritation was reflected in his face. But he put it aside, then forced a smile.

  “Hell, Mr. MacCallister, if you don’t want to drink to me, that’s fine. You’re the one that butted into this conversation, so why don’t we just each one of us mind our own business? I’ll keep quiet, and you do the same.”

  “So now, you not only call me a liar, you tell me to shut up,” Tyree said.

  “What’s the matter with you, mister?” Manning asked, bristling now at the man’s comment. “Are you aching for a fight or something? Because, if you are, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “Easy, son,” the bartender said, reaching across the bar to put his hand on Manning’s arm. “There’s something about this that ain’t goin’ down right.”

  Manning continued to stare at Tyree, his anger showing clearly in his face. By contrast, the expression on Tyree’s face had not changed.