MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy Page 22

“That’s what Mr. Snellgrove told me to say if anything like this ever happened.”

  “Lisenby, don’t do it!” Snellgrove said.

  “Mr. Snellgrove, I’m not going to die for twenty dollars a week,” Lisenby said.

  With shaking hands, Lisenby walked over to the safe and began turning the combination. It took only a few turns, then the big vault door swung open.

  “Very good, Mr. Lisenby,” Malcolm said. He produced a cloth bag from under his jacket and handed it to Lisenby. “Now, if you would be so good, please put all of your money in here.”

  “Lisenby, you are fired!” Snellgrove said.

  “I can get another job, Mr. Snellgrove,” Lisenby said as he began dropping bundles of cash into the bag. “I can’t get another life.”

  When the bag was full, he handed it to Malcolm.

  “Thank you,” Malcolm said. He looked over at Snellgrove, who was seething with anger as he stared accusingly at Lisenby.

  “Mr. Snellgrove,” he said. “Would you kindly step into the safe, please?”

  “What! What do you mean, step into the safe? What are you talking about?”

  “I know that ’tis a Scottish brogue I have,” Malcolm said. “But I’m for certain that you understood me. Step into the safe.”

  “You don’t understand,” Snellgrove said. “I could smother in there!”

  “Aye, you could indeed,” Malcolm said. “Unless Mr. Lisenby opens the safe door in time to let you out. Oh, but, wait. He can’t do that, can he? You just fired him.”

  “Get in!” Shaw said gruffly, grabbing Snellgrove by the shoulders and shoving him toward the open door of the safe.

  “Lisenby, get me out!” Snellgrove called out in terror as Shaw shoved him into the safe. “You aren’t fired! I take it back, you aren’t fired!”

  The safe was large enough to hold Snellgrove, but barely.

  “Mr. Lisenby?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t let him out until we have left.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Just as the outlaws reached the door, the man on his knees, the one who had begged for his life, drew a pistol from some unseen place and fired.

  “Uhnn!” Garcia grunted loudly. The bullet hit Garcia in the back, just to the left of his right shoulder blade. He stumbled, but did not fall. McKenna grabbed him and, helping him stay on his feet, half walked and half dragged Garcia through the front door.

  Pettigrew, with a shout of anger, turned his pistol and shot the customer who had shot Garcia, hitting him in the forehead. The customer fell back with his eyes open and unseeing.

  “What happened?” Johnny Carter shouted as he held his hand down for the other riders to grab the reins.

  “Garcia got shot!” McKenna called back. “Shaw, help me get him into his saddle!”

  With Shaw and McKenna on each side of him, Garcia was able to climb into the saddle. After that the others mounted as well.

  “Yee-ha!” Pettigrew shouted as they started out of town. He began shooting. “Shoot away, boys!” he called. “Shoot everything that walks, slithers, or crawls!”

  With pistols blazing, and the townspeople running, the nine bank robbers thundered out of town, though, not without shooting down two more citizens.

  St. Louis

  Under the cavernous dome of St. Louis’s Union Station, the sounds of the many trains moving in and out of the great car shed were a distant, rumbling echo that one could not only hear but feel in the stomach. Angus Somerled was two days out of New York and, according to his schedule, three days from Denver.

  As he waited for his train, he visited the newsroom, where several papers were on display. He read with amusement the advertisements for Extract of Buchu, guaranteed to cure headaches. Then, next to the newspapers, he saw a book entitled Falcon MacCallister and the Desert Desperados.

  The name Falcon MacCallister jumped out at him, for that was the kinsman of Duff MacCallister. Somerled picked up the paperbound book and opened it to a random page.

  Falcon stood at the opening to the canyon wherein Dangerous Dan and his villainous compatriots had gathered after the daring train robbery they perpetrated on the Express. They thought they had escaped all pursuit, but they were wrong. With the eye of an eagle and the cunning of a fox, Falcon followed, unerringly, the trail of the nefarious band until—suddenly—a shot rang out!

  “That is far enough, Falcon MacCallister. Take one more step and it is at your peril, for surely, with six of us and but one of you, the outcome of a fight may be foretold!” The voice of he who called was none other than that of Dangerous Dan himself.

  Falcon was in great danger for, as Dangerous Dan had correctly spoken, he was but one against an armed and desperate band of six. But Falcon was nothing if he was not a man of great courage and coolness under pressure. He gathered himself to hurl back a defiant response to the challenge issued by Dangerous Dan.

  “Dangerous Dan, I do not fear you, nor the evil associates who are in your company!” Falcon called back. “For my cause is just, and I have the strength of many. I call upon you to surrender, or face judgment from the bullets of my Colt .45!”

  Looking up toward the huge chalkboard, Somerled saw that his train had arrived on track number seven. He started to put the book back, but decided to buy it. If Duff MacCallister was, indeed, in league with Falcon, then it would be to his advantage to learn as much about him as he could.

  With the book in hand he passed through door that had a sign overhead reading: TO TRAINS.

  There were several trains under the huge car shed, some leaving, some arriving, and some backed in to discharge or to take on passengers. The shed captured the smoke and steam so that it burned his nostrils as Somerled walked up the long brick ramp between the trains. Stepping up into his assigned car, he settled down to read his book.

  He had been traveling for two days by fast train, and yet he had two days remaining before he reached a place called Denver, Colorado. One could cross Scotland by train in but half a day. He had had no idea how large this country of America was until he arrived here.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sky Meadow

  Elmer Gleason, bathed, shaved, his hair cut, fingernails trimmed, and wearing some clothes Duff had provided, sat on the porch drinking a cup of coffee.

  “I forgot how good coffee was,” he said.

  “How long has it been since you have had a cup?” Duff asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gleason said. “I don’t know what year this is.”

  “It is 1887,” Duff said.

  “1887? Well now, I’m goin’ to have to do some cipherin’ here,” Gleason said. He counted on his fingers and mumbled to himself. “I reckon it’s been eleven years.”

  “And you’ve lived in that mine all those years?” Falcon asked.

  “Purt’ much,” Gleason answered. “Some years ago I spent some time with the Cheyenne Injuns. I even married me one of ’em, but she died when she was birthin’ our youngin’, and the youngin’, he up and died a couple days later. So I left. I wandered around a bit, then come back to the mine. Not sure when that was, but I know I spent six, maybe seven winters there.”

  “Mr. Gleason, you said you killed Lonnie Post and Sam Hodges in self-defense,” Falcon said. “What about Arnold Brown? Did you kill him in self-defense, too?”

  “I never heard of a feller named Arnold Brown,” Gleason said. “Who is he?”

  “According to Mr. Guthrie, he is a man who went out to the mine to look for gold, and has never been heard of since.”

  Gleason laughed. “So that was his name,” he said. “There was a feller come out there not too long after I kilt them two men. But I scairt him off and he never come back.”

  “How much gold did you find?” Duff asked.

  “I ain’t found much more than you have found,” Gleason said. “But I know it’s there, I can smell it.” Gleason laid his finger alongside his nose.

  “But in all the years you
spent there, you never found it,” Duff said.

  “That don’t mean it ain’t there.”

  “Why didn’t you file on it?” Falcon asked.

  “I never got around to it,” Gleason replied. “Now you’re a’ tellin’ me that this here fella owns it.” He pointed to Duff.

  “He does own it,” Falcon said. “He filed a claim on this land and all its environs.”

  “That there word, ‘environs.’ That means he owns the mine?” Gleason asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, there ain’t much more I can do, is there?”

  “You can sell the mine to me,” Duff said.

  “What do you mean I can sell it to you? Didn’t you just tell me you already own it?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have no claim whatever. You were here first.”

  “I wasn’t first. It was either the Spanish or the Injuns that was first.”

  “When you tried to sell it before, how much did you ask for it?”

  “I wanted five hunnert dollars,” Gleason said. He chuckled. “But I couldn’t get nobody interested in it.”

  “Suppose I give you two hundred dollars, and twenty percent of anything the gold mine ever makes?” Duff suggested.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I am more interested in getting a ranch started than I am in poking around in a mine, and this way you could keep looking. Only, you would be working for me, and you wouldn’t have to eat bugs, rats, and the like.”

  Gleason laughed. “I don’t mind tellin’ you that sounds pretty good to me.”

  “We’ll build you a cabin down by the mine,” Duff said. “You can live there, and, anytime I am gone, you can keep an eye on the ranch.”

  Gleason smiled broadly, then he spit in his hand and held it out. “Sonny, you got yourself a deal.”

  Duff looked at the extended hand, then looked at Falcon. Falcon laughed. “If you want to close the deal, shake his hand.”

  Duff started to extend his own hand.

  “Un-huh,” Falcon said. “You have to spit in it.”

  “My word,” Duff said. “Ye Americans be quaint people indeed.” He spit in his hand, then grasped Gleason’s in his.

  Tie Siding, Wyoming

  The pain in Garcia’s wound had eased somewhat and a warming numbness set in. Garcia was thankful for the numbness because it allowed him to stay in his saddle as they rode away from the bank holdup. But he had lost a lot of blood and was getting weaker and dizzier with every passing moment. By the time they rode into the tiny town of Tie Siding, Garcia was barely able to stay in his saddle.

  “Hey, Malcolm, Garcia’s not going to make it if we don’t find a doctor pretty soon,” McKenna said. McKenna was riding alongside Garcia as well as leading Garcia’s horse, because Garcia needed to hold on to the saddle pommel with both hands just to keep from falling off.

  “He’ll be all right. He was just hit in the shoulder,” Pettigrew said.

  “No, he ain’t goin’ to be all right if we don’t find us a doctor soon to patch him up,” McKenna said. “He’s a’ bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

  “Maybe we can find a doctor here,” Malcolm suggested.

  “We don’t have time,” Pettigrew said. “You know damn well they’ve got a posse together by now.”

  “We rode outta town headin’ east,” McKenna said. “We’re west of town now. It’s goin’ to take ’em a while to figure out that we swung around and come back to the west. And I’m tellin’ you, Garcia can’t go on much longer if we don’t get him a doctor.”

  “Hell, as much blood as he’s lost, he’s probably goin’ to die anyway,” Pogue said. “Seems to me like takin’ him to a doctor just to have him tell us that Garca is goin’ to croak is a’ goin’ to slow us down more.”

  “Pogue, what kind of thing is that to say?” McKenna asked.

  “Yeah, well, I’m with Pogue,” Pettigrew said. “I don’t plan on gettin’ myself caught by the law ’cause I’m wastin’ my time tryin’ to save a Mex who is more than likely goin’ to die anyway, no matter what we do.”

  “I’m with McKenna,” Carter Hill said.

  “Me, too,” his brother, Johnny, said. “What if it was you that was shot?”

  “If it was me, I wouldn’t be complainin’ about it,” Shaw said.

  “If you notice, Shaw, he isn’t complaining,” Moran said.

  “We’ll find a doctor,” Malcolm said.

  “If it was up to me, I’d just leave him there,” Shaw said.

  “We’re going to stay with him,” Malcolm said.

  “Anyway,” McKenna said. “Maybe we can get somethin’ to eat there.”

  “How we goin’ to get somethin’ to eat?” Moran asked.

  “More’n likely the doctor is married,” McKenna said. “We’ll have his wife fix us some food.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to?” Johnny Hill asked.

  Pettigrew laughed, a sharp, evil-sounding laugh. “I think we can talk her into it,” he said.

  It was early, just before noon, as Malcolm and the others rode through the street. Tie Siding was a quiet, sleepy little town with very few people out in the street, and even fewer who paid any attention to their presence. Malcolm saw a boy of about seventeen painting a fence. Separating from the others, he rode over to him.

  “Good morning, lad,” he said as pleasantly as he could.

  The young man didn’t reply vocally, but he nodded his head at Malcolm, then looked by him at the other eight riders.

  “Are you fellas cowboys lookin’ for work?” the boy asked. “’Cause if you are, you ain’t likely to find nothin’ here. Mr. Lyman Byrd, he owns a ranch twixt here ’n Walbach and I was ridin’ for ’im, but he let a bunch of us go last month. Said he couldn’t afford to keep us on.”

  “’Tis grateful I am, lad, for your report on the availability of employment, but our quest is to find a doctor.”

  “We ain’t got no real doctor here, ’cept for Dr. Tillman, and he’s an animal doctor is what he is. But seein’ as we ain’t got no doctor, well, he sometimes treats folks, too.”

  “And where is he domiciled?”

  “What?”

  “Where may I find this doctor?”

  “Oh, he has a house that’s about a mile out of town.” The boy pointed. “Just keep on a’ goin’ that way ’till you run out of buildings and houses, then keep on a’ goin’ some more till you’ll come to a white house on the right side of the road. It’s got a sign out front that has a picture of a horse on it. That’s in case you can’t read the words that say veterinary doctor.”

  “Thank you, lad, you have been most helpful,” Malcolm said. He rode back to join the others.

  “Did you find a doctor?” McKenna asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Malcolm replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I found a doctor,” Malcolm said without going into further detail.

  Following the directions the boy gave him, Malcolm led the men to the doctor. His office, which was also his home, was a low, single-story building that sat at least a hundred feet back from the road. A wisp of wood smoke rose from the chimney, carrying with it the aroma of frying pork chops.

  “This is it,” Malcolm said.

  “Wait a minute, what do you mean this is it?” McKenna asked. “Can’t you read? This here is a veterinarian.”

  “There are no physicians available, but according to the lad in town, the veterinarian also treats people,” Malcolm said.

  “But an animal doctor?”

  “What choice do we have, McKenna?” Moran asked.

  “Yeah,” McKenna replied. “I reckon you are right.”

  “Before we ride up there, take a good look around,” Malcolm said. “Make sure there is no one in sight.”

  The saddles squeaked as the riders twisted to look around. “There is no need for all us to go inside,” Malcolm said. “I’ll go in with Garcia and McKenna. The
rest of you move around behind the house. I don’t want anyone riding down the road and getting curious as to why so many horses are here.”

  “Wait a minute,” Pogue said. “I thought we was goin’ to get somethin’ to eat here.”

  “Yeah,” Pettigrew said. “That’s the only reason I come. I sure don’t care nothin’ about the Mexican. He can die as far as I’m concerned. But I ain’t a’ goin’ to wait around outside iffen there is a chance we can get us somethin’ to eat inside.”

  “All right, Johnny, you and your brother take all the horses around back. The rest of you can come in with us.”

  “What about us gettin’ somethin’ to eat?” Johnny asked.

  “We’ll bring something out to you,” Malcolm said. “Let’s go.” Malcolm clicked to his horse and they rode up to the front of the house, then dismounted.

  That is, all but Garcia. Now too weak to dismount on his own, he sat in his saddle until McKenna and Moran helped him down from his horse. The Hill brothers took the horses, then moved them around back as the remaining seven men stepped up onto the doctor’s front porch.

  Malcolm didn’t bother to knock, he just pushed it open. McKenna and Moran helped support Garcia as they walked into the house.

  “What the . . . ? What is this?” the surprised doctor asked, looking up from a chair where he was reading the newspaper. His wife was standing at the stove frying pork chops, and she looked around in alarm as well.

  “Doctor, please forgive us for startling you,” Malcolm said. “We were doing some target shooting a bit earlier, and one of our number was inadvertently shot. ’Tis wondering, I am, if perhaps you could patch him up so that we may complete our journey.”

  “And maybe while you’re at it, your woman could fix us somethin’ to eat,” Pettigrew suggested.

  “My woman?”

  “That one there, standin’ over by the stove,” Pettigrew said.

  “She is my wife.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. Have her cook us somethin’ to eat. Them pork chops smells pretty good.”