Thunder of Eagles Read online

  “I just don’t like being insulted by some sawed-off runt of a man who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut,” Manning said. “And I don’t care if he’s the famous Falcon MacCallister or not.”

  “Let it go,” the bartender said.

  “Yeah, sonny, let it go, before you get so scared you piss in your pants,” Tyree taunted.

  “That’s it, mister! I’m going to mop the floor with your sorry hide!” Manning said. He put up his fists.

  Tyree smiled, a smile without mirth. “If we’re going to fight, why don’t we make it permanent?” he asked. He stepped away from the bar, then turned, exposing a pistol that he wore low and kicked out, in the way of a gunfighter.

  “Hold on there, mister,” the bartender said to Tyree. “There’s no need to carry this any further.”

  “Yeah, there is,” Tyree said. “This young fella here has brought me to the ball and now I reckon he owes me a dance.”

  Manning suddenly realized that he had been suckered into this, and he stopped, then opened his fists and held his hands palm out in front of him.

  “Why are you pushing this?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  “I want to settle this little dispute between us permanently,” Tyree said.

  “No, there’s no need for all this. This little disagreement isn’t worth either one of us dying over.”

  “Oh, it won’t be either of us, sonny. It’ll just be you dyin’,” Tyree said.

  “I’m not a gunfighter, mister. I don’t have any intention of drawing on you. If you shoot me, you are going to have to shoot me in cold blood, and in front of these witnesses.”

  “What witnesses?” Tyree asked, looking toward the table where the cardplayers had interrupted their game to watch the unfolding drama. “I don’t see any witnesses.”

  Taking their cue, all four men got up from the table, two of them standing so quickly that their chairs fell over. The chairs struck the floor with two pops, as loud as gunshots, and Manning jumped. The four cardplayers hurried out the front door.

  Tyree turned toward the bartender. “You plannin’ on takin’ part in this?” he asked.

  “Don’t do this, mister,” the bartender said. “The boy didn’t mean nothin’.”

  “Either get a gun and take part in this, or go outside with the others,” Tyree ordered.

  A line of perspiration beads broke out on the bartender’s upper lip. He looked over at Manning with an expression of pity in his face.

  “I’m sorry, boy,” he said. “I—I—” He couldn’t finish.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Bartender,” Manning said, his voice tight with fear. “I’m just sorry I got you into this. I know this ain’t your fight.”

  The bartender remained a second longer, then, with a sigh, headed for the door.

  The saloon was now empty except for Manning and Tyree. Manning’s knees grew so weak that he could barely stand, and he felt nauseous.

  “Anytime, sonny,” Tyree said with an evil smile.

  Suddenly, Manning made a ragged, desperate grab for his pistol. He cleared the holster with it. Then, as if changing his mind in the middle, he turned and tried to run, doing so just as Tyree fired. As a result, Tyree’s bullet struck Manning in the back. Manning went down, took a few ragged gasps, and then died.

  Tyree finished his drink, then walked over to look down at Manning’s body.

  “Son of a bitch, boy,” he said. “You made Falcon MacCallister shoot you in the back. Wonder what your pa will think of that.”

  Tyree was laughing as he walked by the saloon patrons and bartender, who were gathered just outside.

  “I’ve heard of Falcon MacCallister,” someone said as they watched Tyree ride off. “Never knew he was an evil son of a bitch.”

  “That wasn’t Falcon MacCallister, you damn fool,” the bartender said. “That was Jefferson Tyree.”

  A few days later, and from another town, Tyree posted a letter.

  Carter Manning

  General Delivery

  Hancock, Colorado

  Dear Mr. Manning,

  I don’t know if nobody has told you this yet but your boy has been kilt. I seen it happen and can tell you that it was Falcon MacCallister what shot him in the back.

  Jefferson Tyree

  Chapter Three

  Pueblo, Colorado

  Rachael Kirby played the opening bars of the music as the curtain opened on stage. There, on stage, were Hugh and Mary Buffington, members of the troupe from the J. Garon production of the play Squatter Sovereignty.

  When they first appeared on stage, the audience saw nothing unusual. The two moved around from one side of the stage to the other, as if searching for something, and Rachael played the music to accompany their movement.

  Then, with a crashing piano crescendo, Hugh turned, so that the audience could see his back.

  Hanging from his back was a fish.

  The audience roared with laughter.

  Hugh reacted as if he had no idea what the audience was laughing at, and he kept whirling about, looking behind him, but of course, as the fish was attached to his back, he never saw it.

  Rachael kept time with the antics on stage, the piano music adding to the comedy.

  Finally, Hugh reached over his shoulder and, finding the fish, unhooked it, and brought it around so he could see it. He gasped, and opened his mouth and eyes wide as he looked at the fish.

  Again, the piano music reflected his reaction.

  HUGH: By heavens, that’s a haddock.

  MARY: ’Tis, and was hanging to a sucker.

  The crowd exploded with laughter.

  HUGH: You’re only codding me.

  More laughter.

  MARY: What eels you?

  By now, the laughter was nonstop.

  HUGH: I’ve smelt that before.

  The crowd’s laughter was so loud that for the moment, Rachael had to quit playing the piano.

  Throwing the fish into the wings of the stage, Hugh and Mary looped their arms together and marched about singing:

  If you want for information

  Or in need of merriment,

  Come over with me socially

  To Murphy’s tenement.

  He owns a row of houses

  In the first ward, near the dock,

  Where Ireland’s represented

  By the babies on our block.

  Rachael accompanied every act and every song, even playing while the curtain was drawn between acts. Most of her music was light, but as a finale to each show, she would play a piece from one of the well-known established composers, such as Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi, or Chopin.

  Such music was not foreign to Rachael, who was a classically trained pianist. She had performed on concert stages in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, as well as in opera houses in London, Paris, and Berlin.

  The conclusion of her number was met with thunderous applause, which intensified, and was accompanied by shouts of “Huzzah!” when the curtains parted for the final bows of the theater group.

  Rachael continued to play until the theater emptied. Then, as a couple of theater employees went around extinguishing the gas lanterns, Rachael gathered her music and went backstage to join the others.

  It was always an exciting time after a show, with the energy high and the performers teasing each other over the slightest gaff. Also, after every evening performance, the troupe would go out for a late dinner.

  But when Rachael went backstage she found, not the merriment and excitement she expected, but angry expressions and harsh words.

  “What is it?” she asked, puzzled by the reaction of the others. “What’s going on?”

  “J. Garon, that’s what’s going on,” Hugh said.

  “What about Mr. Garon? Where is he?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Mary said.

  “The son of a bitch has absconded with the money,” Hugh said.

  “You mean tonight’s take?”

  Hugh shook his
head. “No. I mean all the money. Everything we’ve taken in since we started this tour.”

  “What’s worse, he has stuck us with the bill that is due for this theater this week,” Mary said.

  “Yes, we owe the theater owner two hundred fifty dollars,” Hugh explained.

  “We owe it? How could we owe it? Garon is the troupe manager.”

  “Garon’s not here and we are,” Hugh explained. “The theater manager has already let us know that either we pay what we owe, or he’ll take legal action against us.”

  “Can we come up with two hundred fifty dollars?”

  “How much money do you have?” Hugh asked.

  “About fifty dollars,” Rachael said.

  “We can come close.”

  “But that fifty is all I have. If Garon is gone and we are on our own, I’ll need money to live.”

  “We’re all in the same boat, my dear,” one of the other players said.

  “Maybe we can do another performance tomorrow night,” Rachael suggested. “Surely, one more performance will make enough money to get us out of this.”

  Hugh shook his head. “We’ve already approached the theater manager with that proposal,” he said. “But he has the theater all booked. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “At least, our hotel bill is paid for one more night,” Mary said.

  “And we have train tickets that will take us back to New York,” Hugh said.

  “But not enough money to eat on the train,” another added. “It’s going to be a long, hungry trip.”

  “The way I see it, we have no choice,” Hugh said. “We have to go back to New York.”

  “I’m not going back,” Rachael said, surprising the others.

  “What do you mean, you aren’t going back?” Hugh asked, surprised by her statement. “Surely you don’t intend to stay out here in this—this godforsaken West, do you? Don’t you want to go back to New York?”

  “No, why should I go back?” Rachael replied. “There’s nothing for me back there.”

  “Rachael, it is ridiculous for you to let Edwin Mathias ruin your whole life,” Hugh said.

  “Hugh,” Mary scolded.

  “Oh,” Hugh said. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rachael said. “I know you are just trying to be helpful.”

  They debated as to whether they should have dinner at their usual place that night, or save what little money they had in order to get back home. In the end, they decided they would have dinner.

  “We may as well have one last dinner together,” Hugh said. “For who knows when we will eat again?”

  “That’s Hugh for you,” one of the others said. “Laughing as we pass through the graveyard.”

  The others laughed.

  Although the dinner could have been a somber affair, the members of the stranded troupe laughed, and exchanged stories in spite of—or perhaps because of—their situation.

  Afterward, Rachael went up to her room at the hotel, then lay in bed, staring up at the darkness. She had very little money, no job, no prospects, and no contacts in the West. But she also had no intention of going back East. Her situation was bleak at best, and a lesser person might have cried.

  Rachael refused to let herself cry. She had been through a worse situation than this. She had been through Edwin Mathias.

  New York, six months earlier

  Unable to sleep after her first performance of the season, Rachael Kirby waited until she was sure that the morning paper was out. Getting out of bed, she went downstairs, and out onto Fourth Avenue to wait by the newsstand until the vendor arrived with a large packet of the day’s newspapers.

  “Good morning, miss,” the vendor said.

  “Is that today’s paper?” Rachael asked.

  The vendor chuckled. “It is indeed. Hot off the press, miss,” he said. “It’s five o’clock in the morning. There must be a story you really want to see.”

  “The reviews,” Rachael said.

  “Ahh, the reviews, yes, I understand. You are an actress, are you?”

  “I am a musician, and I did my opening show of the season last night,” Rachael said, handing the vendor two cents.

  “I hope it is a good review for you then, miss,” the vendor said as he gave her a folded issue of the paper.

  Rachael took the paper over to the corner and stood under the greenish cast from the gaslight in order to read the review.

  Beautiful Chamber Music

  Mr. Mathias and Miss Kirby Thrill

  Audience at Stuyvesant Theater

  The opportunities to hear chamber music under satisfying conditions in New York are not frequent, and therefore it is a pleasure to record that Mr. Edwin Mathias and Miss Rachael Kirby gave a violin and piano sonata recital, in the first of what is planned to be many performances for the season.

  If last night’s performance is any indication, they are assured of a very successful season. The performance was in the Stuyvesant Theater, a perfectly excellent auditorium for chamber music. The feeling is the same as if one is in a drawing room.

  The additional fact that Mr. Mathias and Miss Kirby are engaged to be married gave the occasion even more of an air of intimacy.

  The program included Brahms’ Sonata in A major, Beethoven’s Sonata in G minor, and a delightful piece by Chopin. Never was music more beautifully played than by these two wonderful musicians.

  “Oh, this is wonderful!” Rachael said aloud.

  “I beg your pardon?” the vendor said.

  Rachael chuckled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize that I had spoken aloud.”

  Clutching the newspaper tightly, Rachael hurried to Edwin’s apartment.

  Should she wake him up to share the news? They were both worried about how their concert would be received, being as they were only two people, playing music that normally was performed by full orchestras. In fact, some of their closest friends told them they were taking an enormous risk.

  But Rachael and Edwin had put together a schedule hoping for a successful season that would then give them the opportunity to be married. Then, they would go to Europe to play there.

  They had each played in Europe before, but always as part of some larger ensemble, never as individuals, and never together. The idea that they could go to Europe as man and wife would be a dream come true. In fact, there were some who said that a marriage between Rachael and Edwin was ordained in heaven.

  Rachael went up the stairs to Edwin’s third-floor apartment. She started to knock on the door, but feared that if she knocked loudly enough to awaken Edwin, she might also awaken his neighbors. She not only did not want to be rude enough to awaken his neighbors, she also didn’t want his neighbors knowing that she was here at this hour, as it might cause talk.

  Suddenly, she got an idea. She would cook breakfast for him. She knew where he hid the extra key and, taking it, she went inside to Edwin’s small kitchen. She opened the door to the icebox and took out a slab of bacon and some eggs.

  The bacon was snapping and twitching in the pan, permeating the apartment with its rich aroma, when she heard Edwin behind her.

  “Rachael, what are you doing here?” Edwin asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious, silly? I’m cooking breakfast,” Rachael said, stepping over to kiss him. She intended to kiss him on the lips, but at the last minute, he turned his head so that she wound up kissing him on the cheek, feeling the stubble of a morning beard against her lips.

  “But this is my apartment,” Edwin said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you, I’m cooking breakfast. I couldn’t wait. Look!” she said, holding up the newspaper opened to the review page. “We got a wonderful write-up! Our season is made, Edwin! It’s made! Why, we may not even have to wait until the end of the season to get married. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Edwin, what’s going on? Who are you talking to?” a woman’s voice asked. The voice was followed by the appe
arance of a very pretty, and very scantily clad, woman. “Oh, I know you,” she said, smiling as she saw Rachael.

  “You were on the stage with Edwin last night. You were wonderful!”

  Rachael was too struck to respond. Instead, she just stared at the young woman.

  “Of course you wouldn’t remember me, but I was sitting in the front row,” she said. “Afterward, I just had to come back and say how much I enjoyed the concert. Then, as Edwin and I began talking, one thing led to another and, somehow, I wound up spending the night here.”

  “Yes,” Rachael said in a quiet, strained voice. “I can see that.”

  “I know, being in show business, this is probably nothing unusual to you. But I must confess, it’s all very new to me, and very exciting.”

  Rachael turned to go.

  “Rachael, wait,” Edwin called.

  Rachael stopped. “Wait for what?” she asked. “This—this.” He made a gesture with his hands. “I don’t know how to explain this, it just happened,” he said. He forced a smile. “But you are right, it’s wonderful news about the review.”

  “Good-bye, Edwin.”

  “Rachael, no, don’t go. We can work this out.”

  “There is nothing to work out,” Rachael said. Stepping outside, she forced herself not to cry.

  Now, two years later, Rachael lay in bed in a hotel room in Pueblo, Colorado, staring up into the darkness. She had not cried over Edwin, and she was not going to cry now.

  She had given twenty-five dollars of her money to help pay for the theater. The troupe had managed to come up with only two hundred eighteen of the two hundred fifty dollars needed, but Joel Montgomery, owner of the theater, had agreed to accept that.