Slaughter of Eagles Read online

  As Falcon stepped down from the train in Phoenix, there were several men, women, and children present on the depot platform. To a casual observer it might look as if they were all there to board the train, or, at least to meet someone on the train. But in fact they were present for no more reason than the novelty of a train’s arrival and departure. In Phoenix, as in most other towns in the West, the arrival and departure of the daily trains were people’s links to the rest of the country; each train was a real and kinetic connection to civilization.

  Two people on the platform were playing out their own drama, independent of the arrival and departure of the train. One was a smallish young man who was being accosted by a much larger man.

  “Please, Mr. Minner,” the young man said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  The bully laughed out loud. “Well, sonny, you got yourself a pile of trouble whether you want it or not. Most especial if you try and get on my horse.”

  “That isn’t your horse. You rented that horse from the Housewright stable. You did not bring him back and your contract has terminated.”

  Minner laughed, in loud, boisterous guffaws. “My contract has terminated? That’s pretty high falutin’ talk from a still wet behind the ears pipsqueak like you, ain’t it?”

  “Please, Mr. Minner, all I am doing is picking up Mr. Housewright’s horse.” The young man showed the roughneck a piece of paper. “This is my authorization.”

  “Yeah? Well that authorization don’t mean shit to me. As long as I have the horse, it’s the same as my horse. Do you understand that?”

  “If you pay the money you owe Mr. Housewright, I’m sure it can be worked out,” the young man said.

  “I ain’t payin’ nothin’ to Housewright and you ain’t takin’ my horse.”

  “That’s just it, Mr. Minner, it isn’t your horse,” the young man said resolutely. He started toward the horse and as he did so, the bully pulled his pistol.

  “Boy, if you touch that horse, I’m goin’ to put a bullet in your back.”

  Although there were several people standing around watching the interplay between the two, Falcon noticed that not one person was making any sign of interfering. Despite the threat, and the drawn pistol, the young man walked without hesitation to the horse in question.

  Minner pulled the hammer back and raised his pistol.

  “Mister, I don’t think you want to do that,” Falcon called out loudly. He had not drawn his own gun, expecting that, once called upon, the man would come to his senses. He was surprised, therefore, when Minner swung his gun toward him and fired, all in one fluid motion. The bullet hit the crown of Falcon’s hat, knocking it off his head.

  He crouched as Minner fired a second time, the bullet frying the air but an inch away from Falcon’s ear. He drew his own pistol then and fired. Falcon’s shot found its mark, striking Minner in the neck. With his eyes open wide in shock, he dropped his pistol and slapped both hands to the wound in his neck. Even as the blood was spilling between his fingers, he went down.

  Janelle jumped at the sound of the gunshot behind her, thinking for a moment it was directed at her. She turned as she heard a second and then a third shot.

  With the smoke still curling up from the end of his gun barrel, the man walked over to look down at Minner, who was lying on his back with his eyes wide open but sightless, and clouding over with death. The hole in his neck was filled with dark red, almost black, blood, though as his heart was no longer beating, no blood was pumping from the wound.

  Suddenly Janelle gasped as she recognized the shooter. It was the man she had met on the train several weeks ago! It was Falcon MacCallister!

  “Are you all right, boy?” MacCallister asked.

  Janelle continued to stare at MacCallister, so shocked by what had just happened that she didn’t answer his question.

  “Are you all right?” Falcon asked again.

  “You killed him,” Janelle said.

  “I reckon I did,” Falcon replied.

  “Why did you kill him? I mean, over a horse?”

  “Boy, if you had been paying attention, you would have seen that he was about to kill you over a horse. But I didn’t kill him because of the horse, or you,” Falcon said. “I killed him because he was trying to kill me.”

  Getting over her initial shock, Janelle began to think more reasonably. “Yes,” she said. “All things considered, I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my life.”

  “What’s your name, mister?”

  “Ja—” she almost said Janelle, but managed to hold her tongue, then, coughing to cover up her mistake, she spoke again. “My name is Joe. Joe Henry.”

  “Joe, I’m Falcon MacCallister.” He put his pistol back in the holster, then stuck out his hand.

  Shaking hands was something men did, and for just a moment, Janelle hesitated. Then, realizing that his hand was still hanging there, she reached out to grab it.

  “Yes, I know who you are,” she said.

  Falcon looked surprised, and she could have bitten her tongue for having said that.

  “Do I know you?” Falcon asked.

  “No, sir. We’ve not exactly met, but I saw you once before and I remember you.”

  Falcon smiled. “Yes, that happens a lot to me. I don’t know if that is a curse or a blessing.”

  “I owe you my thanks, Mr. MacCallister,” Janelle said. “You probably saved my life.”

  “I’ll accept your thanks, but what I am really going to need is your statement.”

  “My statement? I don’t understand. My statement about what?”

  “I imagine that the sheriff, or the city marshal, or someone will be here soon.”

  “The marshal? Why would the marshal come?”

  “I just killed a man,” Falcon said. “Don’t you think the marshal might be interested in that?”

  “Oh. Yes, I suppose so,” Janelle said. She sighed. “Let me deliver this horse to Mr. Housewright. Then I’ll go down to the marshal’s office to tell him what happened.”

  “Shouldn’t we see the marshal first?”

  “No, I—that is, Mr. Housewright wants his horse right away,” Janelle said. She swung into the saddle of the horse. “I have to get it to him.”

  Slapping her heel against the side of the horse, she urged the animal into a gallop and rode quickly away from the depot.

  Falcon watched the young man ride off, wondering at his strange behavior. Could it be that he actually was stealing the horse? Had Falcon made a big mistake?”

  “That’s him, Marshal. That’s the man that shot Corey Minner,” someone said.

  Looking toward the sound of the voice, Falcon saw an older, white-haired man pointing at him. Beside him was a broad shouldered man with a bushy moustache, who was also wearing a star on his vest.

  “Is that true, mister? Did you shoot Minner?” the marshal asked Falcon.

  “If that is this man’s name, yes, I shot him,” Falcon answered easily.

  “You’re kind of pompous about that little matter, ain’t you?” The sheriff drew his pistol and pointed it at Falcon. “I’ll thank you to drop your gun belt.”

  “Marshal, if you ask anyone around here, they will tell you it was self-defense. He shot at me first.”

  “That’s true, Marshal,” one of the others on the platform said.

  “Yeah, I seen it. Minner shot first. Fact is, Minner shot two times before this feller shot back. This feller here didn’t have no choice.”

  “I knew Corey Minner,” the marshal said. “He was a bully, but I’ve never known him to just start shooting at someone for no reason.”

  “I didn’t say it was for no reason. All I said was that he started shooting at me. He had a reason.”

  “What was that reason?”

  “He was bullying a young man, not much more than a boy, actually. The boy was trying to take back a horse that belonged to his employer. When the young man started toward the horse, Minner pulled his gun and threatened to s
hoot him in the back. I called him on it, and that’s when he turned and started shooting at me.”

  “So, when he turned you were pointing your gun at him? Mister, I would call that a hostile act. No wonder he shot at you.”

  “My gun was in the holster.”

  “Your gun was in the holster, he started shooting at you, but you killed him. Is that right?” the marshal asked incredulously. “Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

  “That is right.”

  “Mister, if someone else has his gun out, pointing it at you, and your gun is in the holster, you ain’t goin’ to get your gun out in time to shoot him.”

  “You have your gun out and pointed at me,” Falcon said.

  “Yeah, I do, don’t I?”

  In a draw that was so fast those watching saw only a slight twitch of his shoulder, Falcon suddenly had his pistol in his hand.

  “And now, I have my gun out as well,” Falcon said easily.

  “What the hell?” The marshal asked, shocked by the sudden, and totally unexpected turn of events. “How did you do that?”

  “It doesn’t matter how I did it,” Falcon answered. “The point is, I did it. I hope it convinces you I am telling the truth.”

  “He is tellin’ it true, Marshal,” the man who had spoken up said. “I saw the whole thing.”

  “I seen it too,” another man said. “Corey Minner was about to shoot the boy in the back and this here feller called him on it. Minner turned around shootin’ and the next thing you know, this feller drilled him dead center with one shot.”

  Marshal Cairns held the gun in his hand for a moment longer, then with a sigh, put the pistol back in his holster.

  “All right,” he said. “If these folks are talkin’ for you, I reckon you’re tellin’ the truth. But I’d like you to come on down to my office and sign a statement.”

  “I’ll be glad to, Marshal,” Falcon said.

  “I’ll be wantin’ a statement from you two as well,” the marshal said to the two men who had spoken up.

  “What about the young man who works for the livery?” Falcon asked. “I believe he said his name was Joe Henry.”

  “Joe Henry?” The marshal shook his head. “I know ever’one in this town, and I don’t know nobody named Joe Henry,” he replied.

  “He’s new, Marshal,” one of the two witnesses said. “He only started workin’ for Housewright last week.”

  “All right, I’ll take care of him later,” the marshal said. “Come along, Mister—what is your name?”

  “MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”

  “MacCallister? You are Falcon MacCallister?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing in my town, MacCallister?”

  “I didn’t know it was your town. I thought this was all free country.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it is,” the marshal said. “I didn’t mean it like that, I was just curious is all. Come on down to my office and make a statement for me.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  As Janelle rode the horse back to Housewright’s Livery Stable, she was having to fight down the panic. MacCallister hadn’t recognized her, but their encounter had been several weeks ago, very brief, and several hundred miles from there. MacCallister had asked her to give the marshal a statement on his behalf, and she owed such a statement to him. But she wasn’t all that confident her disguise would fool the marshal.

  She was not going to chance it. She had no intention of giving a statement to the marshal. She hated doing it, hating abandoning the man who had, without question, saved her life. But she knew there were many other witnesses who would testify for him. In fact, the others would be able to give even stronger statements because they had actually seen the event, whereas she had not. It had taken place behind her back.

  Janelle had to get out of town, and she knew exactly how to do it.

  “Any trouble?” Housewright asked when Janelle returned to the livery with the horse.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What do you mean, sort of?”

  “I didn’t see it because my back was turned, but evidently Mr. Minner was going to shoot me in the back. A man named MacCallister called out to him. Mr. Minner turned and shot at MacCallister, but missed. MacCallister shot back and didn’t miss.”

  “Damn!” Housewright said. “You mean Corey Minner is dead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Not that he is dead, if there was any son of a bitch in this town that needed killin’, it was Corey Minner. But he owed me a week’s rent money on the horse and now I won’t be able to collect.”

  “How much did he owe you?”

  “Fifty cents a day for seven days, that’s—uh—,”

  “Three dollars and fifty cents,” Janelle said.

  “Yes. Say, you’re pretty quick with figures.”

  “I know how you can recover that money, and a lot more.”

  “How?”

  “By making a small investment.”

  “An investment with who, and for how much?”

  “With me, and not too much. Just the extended loan of a horse, some bacon, beans, and salt.”

  “What is this about, Joe?”

  “You know the young woman who the marshal says killed Mr. Montgomery?

  “Yeah, I know her. She’s the one that won the horse race on the Fourth of July. What about her?”

  “She’s a friend of mine.”

  “A friend of yours?” Housewright said. Then he broke into a big smile. “Damn boy, you mean she’s your girlfriend?”

  “Yes, she’s my girlfriend,” Janelle said.

  Housewright laughed, and slapped himself on the knee. “Well, boy, you got more sand in you than I thought. I mean a little old pipsqueak of a man like you, with a girlfriend like that. Who would have thought it?”

  “Yeah, who would have thought it?” Janelle replied.

  “What’s that got to do with me investin’ in you?”

  “Janelle told me what happened between her and the banker.”

  “Really? What did she say happened?”

  “She had gone to the bank to apply for a job when she saw Marshal Cairns and Mr. Montgomery arguing over a map. Marshal Cairns killed Mr. Montgomery.”

  “I knew it,” Housewright said, hitting his fist into his hand. “I never did believe that pretty girl could do anything like murder. But Cairns, I think that son of a bitch would just as soon shoot you as speak to you. You say they were arguing over a map?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What kind of map?”

  “A map to a gold mine.”

  “And you say that Cairns kilt Montgomery over the map?”

  “That’s right, he did. Only Montgomery had hidden the map, so Cairns didn’t get it. Then, just before he died, he told Janelle where he hid the map.”

  “Where is the woman now?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You can’t? Or you won’t?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Do you know where the map is?”

  “Yes. I have it.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “I don’t have it on me. I’ve hidden it. But I know where it is.”

  “Where is this gold?”

  Janelle laughed. “Why should I tell you where it is? If I did that, you wouldn’t need me.”

  “In general, where is it? White Tank Mountains? Mazatzals? McDowel Mountains?”

  “It’s at Superstition Mountain, near Weaver’s Needle.”

  Housewright laughed out loud. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  Janelle was surprised by his laughter. “What do you mean, that’s what you were afraid of? What’s so funny?”

  “Hell, boy, you are talkin’ about the Lost Dutchman, aren’t you? Ever’body and his brother has gone out to Superstition, lookin’ for that old Dutchman’s gold mine.”

  “Yes, but this map tells exactly where to look once you get to Weaver’s Needle.�
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  “And you believe the map?”

  “Evidently Mr. Montgomery did. He loaned the old prospector money just on the strength of the map. And the marshal believed it enough to kill the banker for it.”

  “Well somebody killed him, anyway,” Housewright said. “And there had to be a reason. I guess a map to a gold mine is as good as any other reason.”

  “What do you say, Mr. Housewright? Will you back me?”

  “Let me get this straight. All you want is the loan of a horse and some food. Is that right? And if you find this gold, you will split it with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long do you plan to be out looking for it?”

  “A week. Two at the most.”

  “All right. I may be crazy, boy, but you’ve got yourself a deal,” Housewright said.

  Terry Cooper, one of Housewright’s hands, overheard the entire conversation. Telling Housewright he had to go to the hardware store to get a ring for the harness he was working on, he headed instead for a shack he owned about two miles south of town. He was renting that shack to a man who had worked at the livery for a while under the name Jesse Jones. Shortly after he rented the shack, Cooper found out the man’s real name was Luke Mueller. Cooper had heard of him and felt honored that such a famous man would actually stay in his shack.

  Mueller told Cooper he was only going to hang around for another few weeks, then he was going to go out on the outlaw trail again. He invited Cooper to ride with him, and Cooper fully intended to do so.

  But he had something else on his mind. He was sure the information he had about the map to the gold mine was valuable, and he was equally sure Mueller would know better than he how to utilize that information.

  Deputy John Forbis was sweeping the floor of the marshal’s office when Falcon and the marshal stepped inside. There was no one in any of the cells.

  “What was the shootin’ about?” Forbis asked.

  “This man killed Cory Minner,” Cairns replied, nodding toward Falcon.

  “Good for you,” Forbis said to Falcon. “Minner was a no good son of a bitch.”