Pride of Eagles Page 4

  * * *

  When Falcon awakened the next morning, the sounds of the town were completely changed. Last night the sounds had been those of a town at play. This morning they were the sounds of commerce. Across the street the proprietor of the general store was sweeping his porch, and Falcon could hear the scratching of the broom straws against the weathered wood. He could also hear the sound of a building being erected: the back-and-forth rip of a saw, the banging of a hammer, the chatter of carpenters at work. A heavy wagon rolled by on the street, and from the nearby laundry he could hear the singsong chatter of the Chinese at work.

  Using the pitcher and basin, Falcon washed his face and hands and shaved. Then he went downstairs to breakfast.

  At the far end of the street from the MacQueen House, young Joey Mitchell was sitting on the floor in the back corner of a meeting room of the Montana Stockgrowers’ Association, reading a dime novel entitled Dingus McGee’s Doom: Or, The Triumph of Falcon MacCallister.

  So absorbed was Joey in the vivid prose of his book that he scarcely noticed all the people coming and going, or milling about him. Although Joey was reading to himself, his lips were forming the words.

  “Get ready to eat your supper in hell,” the intrepid hero said as he turned his flashing blue eyes toward his adversary.

  Throughout the West, these eight words have been made famous and, for more than one nefarious ne’erdo-well, they were the last bit of human communication he would ever hear.

  As quick as thought, both men, each bound and determined to kill the other, made desperate and determined grabs for the weapons strapped to their side.

  What happened next, dear reader, took less time than it takes to spin the yarn. For the bullet from our hero’s gun did, upon entering the villain’s heart, cause the ruffian to expire at the moment he fell.

  So great was the intensity of the silence caused by the shooting, that one could have heard a pin drop. This hazardous adventure had taken place in the barroom of the Bucket of Blood Saloon—the wildest of all the wild saloons in the even wilder town of Death Gap.

  Then, falling upon the ears of all therein, came frightful words, spoken in a loud and dangerous voice.

  “Let this be a lesson to any and all who would seek to best me, for seventy and more have fallen before my gun. Ha! Ha!”

  Following those words, the barroom was filled with a wild peal of mirth. The laughter, as if echoing from the very chambers of the devil himself, chilled the blood of everyone who heard, so fearfully suggestive of a gunman’s triumph it was. Not one man within the tavern made a move to discover the author of the laugh infernal, nor was such an effort necessary, for all knew who it was. Even Dingus McGee, who many believed to be the most dangerous of all the nefarious gunmen, assumed a grayish pallor as he heard the laughter of the avenger, and he moved not a step from where he was.

  The avenger was a man known throughout the West as the greatest of all gunfighters—a man who, by the mere mention of his name, could cause the blood of outlaws and ne’er-do-wells to run cold. For he who had bested the ruffian that day, as he had bested so many other ruffians on so many other days, was the scourge of evildoers throughout the West. This valiant man, who was a champion to damsels in distress, a defender of the meek in despair, and a hero to young boys everywhere, was none other than the man some called the “Knight of the West.” Yes, dear readers, it was Falcon MacCallister.

  “Joey! Joey!” Fred Matthews called.

  Standing quickly, Joey dog-eared the page he had been reading, then stuck the novel down inside the waistband of his trousers.

  “I’m right here, Mr. Matthews,” he called back, answering the summons of his employer.

  “I have a delivery for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Run down to the MacQueen House and give this message to one of their guests. You’ll probably find him in the hotel dining room having breakfast about now.”

  Joey took the note from Matthews, then looking at the name of the addressee, gasped. “Mr. Matthews, this says that this note is for Falcon MacCallister.”

  “So?” Matthews replied.

  “Falcon MacCallister is a hero!” Joey said.

  “You don’t say.”

  “That’s what the book says,” Joey said. He patted the book at his waist. “The writer of the book says he is a genuine hero.”

  “Well, if it says in the book that he is a hero, then he must be a hero,” Matthews said without enthusiasm. “Now, run along with you and deliver the message like I said.”

  “Yes, sir!” Joey said excitedly.

  Joey was a messenger for the Montana Stockgrowers’ Association. The MSA provided a service of exchanging messages between cattlemen and businessmen in and immediately around Miles City. Such service was faster than the mail, and more convenient than the telegraph. And while there was always enough business to keep Joey employed, it was particularly busy this week, because this was the week of the annual meeting.

  Leaving the office, Joey ran to the far end of Palmer Street until he reached the MacQueen House. He stayed out front of the hotel dining room for just a moment until he was able to catch his breath. Then he stepped inside, where he was greeted by the headwaiter.

  “Yes?” the man said.

  “I’m delivering a message for a man named MacCallister,” the messenger said.

  “That would be Falcon MacCallister?” the headwaiter said.

  “Yes,” Joey replied. “Uh, is it the same one?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Joey showed the man the book he had been reading. “I mean, is it this Falcon MacCallister? Or is it just someone with the same name?”

  The man chuckled. “How old are you, young man?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “I can’t believe that a seventeen-year-old would even have to ask that question. Have you never heard of Falcon MacCallister?”

  “Yes, of course I have,” Joey answered. “I’ve just been reading about him.”

  “I don’t mean the claptrap you read in one of those penny dreadfuls. Most of that is just garbage. I’m talking about the real Falcon MacCallister. Have you never heard anything about him?”

  “I . . . I guess not.”

  “Where have you been for all your life?”

  “Baltimore,” Joey said. “I just moved to Miles City a few months ago.”

  “I see. Well, so that you don’t get all confused by the fairy tales people write, let me tell you something about the real Falcon MacCallister. He is much more than those novels portray. There are many who say that he is one of the most accomplished men with a six-gun to ever roam the West. And if you ever take issue with that statement, I would suggest that you keep the notion to yourself. It is no surprise that he has become a character in storybooks, but believe me, no story in any of those books can ever match what he has done in real life.

  “Now, do you still want to know if this Falcon MacCallister is the same one you have read about?”

  “No, sir, not anymore,” Joey said. “I know he is. I have a message to deliver to him. That is, if he is here in the restaurant.”

  “He is. That’s him, back there,” the headwaiter said, pointing to a man who was sitting alone at a table next to the window in the rear of the restaurant. The man was bareheaded, but a black hat, decorated with a turquoise-encrusted silver band, sat on the table beside him. He was wearing a tan, fringed, buckskin jacket with a crisp white shirt and a black string tie.

  Joey hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” the headwaiter said. “I told you, that’s Falcon MacCallister. That’s the man you are looking for.”

  “I . . . uh . . . hate to disturb him while he is eating.”

  The man chuckled. “Don’t worry, he probably won’t shoot you in here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Joey started toward Falcon’s table.

  “No, he’s much too nice a man for that. He’ll wait until he
gets you outside,” the headwaiter called out to him.

  “What?” Joey gasped.

  The man laughed out loud. “I’m teasing you, boy. Take him your message.”

  Joey walked back to Falcon’s table. He stopped before he got there and stood for a moment, watching as Falcon, who was having a breakfast of steak and eggs, carved a piece from his steak.

  “What’s your name, son?” Falcon asked without looking up.

  “What? Oh, uh, it’s Joey.”

  Joey had not seen Falcon even so much as glance in his direction, so the question caught him by surprise.

  “You have a message for me, Joey?”

  “Yes, sir,” Joey said. “It’s from Mr. Conrad Kohrs.”

  “Ah, good, I was expecting that.”

  Joey didn’t move.

  “Well, are you going to give me the note? Or are you going to try to make me guess what it says?”

  “I . . . uh . . . oh!” Joey said, realizing that he was still holding the note. He held it toward Falcon. “Yes, sir, of course I’m going to give you the note.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon said.

  Joey turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Falcon called.

  Joey stopped. Had he done something wrong? Anxiously, he turned back toward Falcon.

  “Here,” Falcon said, handing Joey a fifty-cent piece.

  Joey’s eyes grew wide in surprise and appreciation. It was not unusual for him to receive a tip from someone whenever he delivered a message, but most of his tips were a penny, sometimes a nickel, and only very rarely a dime. A fifty-cent tip was the largest tip he had ever received, and that was even going back to his days working as a Western Union delivery boy when he still lived in Baltimore.

  “Oh, Mr. MacCallister, I almost forgot,” Joey said, taking the book from where he had stuck it down in his pants. “Would you sign your autograph on this book for me?”

  Falcon looked at the book and chuckled. “What for?” he asked. “I’ve never even heard of anyone who called himself Dingus McGee.”

  “I just want your autograph is all,” Joey said. “Oh, and, would you put ‘Get ready to eat supper in hell’ by your name?”

  “Why, boy? Do you want to eat your supper in hell?”

  “What? No, sir,” Joey said. “But, uh, it’s what you always say just before you shoot a bad man.”

  “Is it now?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes, sir. I know that because that’s what it says in this book.”

  “I see,” Falcon said with a little chuckle.

  Falcon had never used that line in his life, but Joey wasn’t the first person to point out to him that the dime novels reported that he always said that just before shooting someone. Falcon had long since given up refuting it, so he signed the book just as Joey requested, and was rewarded with a broad smile from the boy.

  “Shall I wait to take a message from you?” Joey asked.

  “I don’t know, let me read this one,” Falcon said, opening the note.

  Falcon—

  For the safe delivery of my beautiful horse, I thank you.

  I look forward to visiting with you while you are in town for the MSA meeting.

  Yours respectfully,

  Conrad Kohrs

  Falcon looked up at Joey. “I assume, Joey, that like all good messengers, you have a tablet and pencil?”

  “Yes, sir,” Joey said, producing the items.

  Falcon scrawled one quick line.

  It will be my pleasure.

  He handed the note to Joey, who, with a quick nod, darted off to deliver it.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Falcon went out onto the street to join the others who were beginning to gather for the festivities. There were several soldiers in town, not only those who were enjoying a three-day pass from the post, but also those who were in town to participate in the parade.

  The military band from Fort Keogh led off the parade, followed by a mounted unit of the Fifth Cavalry. That was followed by the MSA officers and their ladies, riding in highly polished carriages, then more than one hundred cowboys riding on spirited ponies, sometimes darting to the head of the column, sometimes darting to the rear, whooping loudly and waving their hats as they did so.

  The business meeting took place at the Miles City roller-skating rink and civic center. In addition to the several cattlemen who spoke, there were officers from the railroad who discussed shipping costs, stockyard and feeder-lot owners and managers talking holding-pen fees, and representatives from the meatpacking industry who quoted this spring’s going price for cattle.

  One of the cattlemen, Moreton Frewen, raised his hand for permission to talk. Falcon smiled as the little man began to speak. Stories of Frewen’s business ineptitude abounded, including one about him buying the same herd of cattle twice when the unscrupulous sellers merely ran the herd around a hill and brought them back to sell them as a second herd.

  “Seems to me like you’re paying much less this year,” Moreton Frewen said.

  “We are,” the meatpacker said.

  “Why?”

  “You have to understand that, unlike you gentlemen, we must sell our product by the pound,” the meatpacker explained. “And as this has been a particularly harsh winter, we anticipate that the cattle will weigh less; therefore, we will make less profit per head.”

  Falcon listened for a few minutes, then grew bored with the discussion and went out into the town. Although he was as wealthy as any of the cattle barons, he actually felt more akin to the cowboys who were bellied up four deep at the saloon bars, or sitting around poker tables. At one establishment, called Turner’s Theater, scantily clad girls were cajoling cowboys into drinking wine at five dollars per bottle or, for a price, going upstairs with them.

  Falcon teased and flirted with the young soiled doves, but that was as far as his association with them went. Several of the women tried to entice him into sampling some of the pleasure they had to offer, and one young lady even suggested that he could “see the elephant” for free. But like Lucy the night before, none of them were successful in their endeavors.

  Five

  After an afternoon of playing cards and visiting with the cowboys, Falcon returned to the MacQueen House, where that evening a dance was to be held in the commodious dining room.

  “Mr. MacCallister?” the desk clerk said as he walked by.

  “Yes?”

  “I believe you had reserved a bath for six o’clock this evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “An earlier reservation has been canceled, so you can have your bath at five o’clock, if you wish.”

  “Thanks, I’ll just do that.”

  “Very good, sir,” the clerk replied. “It will be Bathroom A.”

  At five o’clock, Falcon walked down to the bathrooms at the end of the hall, carrying with him his change of clothes. The doors to Bathrooms A and B were closed. He opened the door marked A.

  At the precise moment he opened the door, an exceptionally pretty woman was just stepping down into the bath. The woman was totally nude.

  “Sir!” she said, shocked by his intrusion. Quickly, she put one arm across her breasts, and the other over the triangle of dark hair at the junction of her legs. It was the same woman he had helped with the lock to her room earlier.

  Falcon glanced back toward the open door and saw that it was clearly marked A. “I apologize,” he said. “I was told that I had Bathroom A at five o’clock.”

  By now the woman had restored some modesty, if not dignity, by slipping down into tub.

  “A?” she said.

  “Yes,” Falcon replied.

  “Oh,” the woman said. “I didn’t know it made any difference. I too had my bath scheduled for this hour, and as I saw this door open and a hot bath drawn, I assumed it was for me.”

  Falcon saw the key sticking from the lock. “Perhaps if you had locked the door,” he suggested.

  “I . . . I seem to have a difficult time with those inf
ernal locks and keys,” she said. “As you may remember,” she added.

  So far Falcon had not left, and he was surprised to see that, rather than exhibiting anger, the woman was showing a bemused smile.

  “Well, are you going to leave, sir? Or do you intend to join me in my bath?” she asked.

  “Oh!” Falcon said. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course I will leave.” He backed out of the room and closed the door. Opening the door to Bathroom B, he saw that it too had a bath drawn. Chuckling quietly, he closed the door, locked it, then disrobed and settled into the tub.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, feeling clean and refreshed, Falcon was returning to his room when heard a young woman call out in alarm.

  “Who are you?” the woman’s voice called from behind a closed door. “What are you doing in my room? Help me! Somebody help me!”

  Falcon knew that this was the room of the woman he had encountered in the bath a short time earlier.

  “You better shut up, Girly, if you know what’s good for you,” a low, raspy voice growled.

  Pulling his gun, Falcon opened the door to the room. He saw the same young woman, obviously frightened, and he saw the cause of her fright. A man was in her room, tall, with dark eyes and a black, sweeping mustache. He had a dark, very visible scar on his left cheek. The open window behind him gave Falcon a hint as to how he had come into the room.

  Although Falcon’s entrance must have surprised the scar-faced intruder, he reacted quickly. Grabbing the woman, he pulled her to him, pointing his own gun at her head.

  “Now, don’t you go trying to be a hero, mister,” the intruder said. “I think maybe you had better put your gun down and get out of here.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Falcon said.

  “I said put your gun down, mister. Do it now, or I’ll kill her.”

  “I tell you what. You let the lady go, and I won’t kill you,” Falcon said.

  Falcon’s words surprised the intruder, and he blinked a couple of times. “What? What did you say?”