Slaughter of Eagles Read online

  “When are you going to settle down, Falcon?” Jamie Ian asked.

  “I am settled down,” Falcon replied.

  The others laughed.

  “Right,” Matthew said. “That little fracas over in Black Hawk was nothing more than a minor disagreement.”

  “Matthew, the sons of bitches murdered the Reverend and Mrs. Powell. You know that,” Falcon said.

  Matthew nodded. “Yeah, I know it,” he admitted. “And I say good for you for squaring accounts.”

  “Accounts aren’t squared,” Falcon said.

  “You’re talking about Luke Mueller?”

  “Yeah,” Falcon said. “When I find him, accounts will be squared.”

  “You could let the law handle that, couldn’t you?” Kathleen asked.

  “I could. But Luke Mueller has made it personal,” Falcon replied.

  “Luke Mueller has made it personal?” Jamie Ian asked. “How so?”

  Falcon reached into his pocket and produced the reward poster Luke Mueller had put out on him.

  “Like I said, Luke Mueller has made it personal.”

  Jamie Ian read the poster, then passed it around to the others. “Falcon, it’s been a while since I wore my guns, but I still know how to use them. If you want me to, I’ll come with you.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Jamie Ian, but there is no sense in getting any more of the family involved in this.”

  “What are you going to do? Are you going after him?”

  Falcon nodded toward the poster that was in Joleen’s hands, having been read by all the others. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Seeing as he has made me a target, all I’m going to have to do is keep my eyes open. I’m pretty sure our paths will cross again some day, and when they do, I’ll be ready for the son of a bitch.”

  “I think you are right,” Jamie Ian said. “I think your paths will cross again.”

  “How do you like your new horse?” Morgan asked, changing the subject now that the topic of Luke Mueller had been fully discussed.

  “I like him just fine,” Falcon said. “He’s a good horse. Of course, the one Luke Mueller killed was a good one, too.”

  “He’s a beautiful horse,” Kathleen said as she looked over at the big, bronze stallion. “What have you named him?”

  “Lightning.”

  “Lightning? That was—”

  “The name of Pa’s horse. Yes, I know,” Falcon replied.

  Megan looked down at the grave of their father. “I think Pa would like that,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Jamie Ian said. “In fact, I think he would like the fact that Falcon named a horse after his horse a lot more than the idea of having a life-sized statue of him standing in the middle of Kate Boulevard.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Joleen said. “I sort of think that might please him, too.”

  “You know Pa wasn’t one for personal glory,” Jamie Ian said.

  “No, but he was real proud of what he and Ma started here in the valley,” Joleen said. “I think the statue speaks to that more than anything else.”

  “I think so, too,” Kathleen said. “I just know he will be there with us next Monday.”

  “What was it he and Ma called heaven?” Falcon asked. “The Starry Trail?”

  “Yes, the Starry Trail,” Megan said.

  “I figure that, come Monday, Pa and Ma will both be lookin’ down on us from The Starry Trail.”

  Chapter Ten

  Phoenix

  It took Luke Mueller less than two hours to ride from Pa Baker’s Way Stop to Phoenix, a bustling community with a surprising amount of traffic in the street, from large heavily laden and lumbering freight wagons to ranch buckboards to surreys. The sidewalks were filled with pedestrians, and in an empty lot he saw several young boys playing baseball. Luke had never played baseball—or any other sport. He had always been too small, and was always the last one chosen. Rather than face the humiliation of such rejection he chose not to play at all.

  Just ahead he saw the Boar’s Head Saloon and started toward it. Not watching where he was going he rode right out in front of an approaching surrey.

  “Hey, watch it, mister!” the surrey driver called, fighting his team, as both horses reared up in fright over the near contact.

  Mueller spurred his horse forward and it reacted quickly, carrying him out of danger. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the frightened look in the face of the lone woman passenger. For some reason that he could not explain, he found her fear of him pleasurable, and he smiled, though not at her.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Guthrie,” the surrey driver said. “That fool just cut right in front of us.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Conley. You handled the team beautifully,” the middle-aged woman replied.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the driver said. He stopped the surrey in front of Buckner’s Ladies’ Emporium. Jumping down, he stepped around to help Mrs. Guthrie exit. “Shall I wait out here for you, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please, if you don’t mind,” she said, taking his hand as she stepped down. “I shan’t be too long.”

  As she opened the door to the Emporium the tinkling bell summoned Nellie from the back of the store and she went up front to greet her customer. “Mrs. Guthrie,” she said, recognizing one of her best customers. “How nice to see you.”

  “Did you see that awful man in the street?” Mrs. Guthrie asked.

  Nellie frowned, and shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” she said.

  “He cut right in front of us. Had it not been for Mr. Conley’s skillful driving, why, the surrey could have been upset.”

  “Oh, how glad I am that didn’t happen,” Nellie replied. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Guthrie and I are going to Philadelphia for my niece’s wedding, and the gown I wear simply must be of the latest fashion,” Mrs. Guthrie explained. “My sister believes that because we are living in the far West we must all dress as savage Indians, and I want to prove her wrong.”

  “Well, let us see what we can find for you,” Nellie said with a professional smile.

  Because the saloon was out of the sun, it was a few degrees cooler, but only marginally so. There were several young men in the back corner, along with a young woman whose dress made it evident she was an employee of the saloon. One of the young men said something that Mueller didn’t hear, and there was a burst of laughter.

  Mueller stepped up to the bar and was greeted by the bartender, who was wearing a smile.

  “What can I do you for, mister?” he asked.

  “Beer.”

  More laughter rolled from the table of young men, and the bartender chuckled.

  “Ol’ Quince is on a roll today,” he said as he pulled the handle to draw the beer.

  “Quince?”

  “You see the young feller there with the fancy gun and holster? That’s Quince Anders. He works for Murdock Felton, who owns the Tumbling F ranch. Well, the fact is, all them boys work for Mr. Felton.”

  “That’s quite a holster set he’s wearing,” Mueller said as he took the beer.

  “Yes sir. Well, Quince is really good with the gun, so I reckon the holster ain’t out of place.”

  “What do you mean when you say he is good with a gun? I’ve been around a lot, but I ain’t never heard of someone named Quince Anders.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, he ain’t what you would call a gunfighter or nothin’ like that. I mean he ain’t never kilt nobody. But he’s ’bout the fastest I’ve ever seen, and he always hits what he’s shootin’ at.”

  “The hell I can’t!” Quince said loudly. “I know damn well I can do it.”

  “You willin’ to put your money where your mouth is?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll bet you a quarter you can’t do it.”

  Quince shook his head. “Uh-uh. A quarter ain’t enough money. You want me to prove it to you, Stanley, it’s goin’ to cost more than a quarter.”

>   “How much more?”

  “Five dollars.”

  Stanley blanched. “Five dollars? I ain’t got five dollars.”

  “We get paid Saturday,” Quince said. “I’ll hold your marker ’til then.” He smiled. “Of course, you may be right. It could be that I can’t do it at all, then you would be five dollars richer.”

  “Yeah, I would, wouldn’t I?” Stanley stroked his chin as he contemplated the offer. “Let’s make certain what we’re bettin’ on,” he said. “What you’re tellin’ me is that you are goin’ to hold a glass of whiskey on the back of your hand—out shoulder high—then turn your hand, draw your pistol, and hit the glass before it hits the floor. Is that what you’re sayin’?”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Quince replied.

  “And we’re talkin’ about a whiskey shot glass, not a beer mug, right?”

  “Damn, Stanley, you’re sure makin’ it hard on me,” Quince said.

  Laughing, Stanley looked at the others. “I didn’t think he’d take me up on it.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say I wasn’t goin’ to take you up on it. I just said you were making it hard on me. Is it a bet?”

  Stanley nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a bet.”

  Quince picked up a whiskey glass and put it on the back of his hand, then held his hand out.

  “Wait a minute, hold it!” the bartender shouted. “Quince, you ain’t plannin’ on doin’ that in here, are you?”

  “Why not?” Quince replied.

  “Why not? ’Cause it’s dangerous shootin’ inside, that’s why not. You’re likely to hit someone. At the very least, you’ll be puttin’ a bullet hole in my floor.”

  “Come on, Wally, it ain’t like you don’t have about a dozen holes in your floor already,” Quince said. “’Sides, look at it this way. “Once I do this, folks will be wantin’ to come here to have a drink in the saloon where the great Quince Anders done the best shootin’ that’s ever been done.”

  Mueller turned his back to the bar so he could have an unrestricted view of what was going on.

  Wally laughed out loud. “I’ll say this for you, Quince, you sure have a high opinion of yourself. All right, go ahead, try it. If you can do it, you’re right, it might be a good advertisement for my place. And if you can’t do it, well, it’ll be good to see you gettin’ your comeuppance.”

  “There ain’t goin’ to be no comeuppance, old man. You can count on that,” Quince replied.

  Mueller watched as Quince Anders put the glass on the back of his hand, his arm stretched out full at shoulder height.

  “Somebody need to count or somethin’?” Stanley asked.

  “No need to count,” Quince replied. “Just hush and let me do this.”

  The saloon grew very quiet then as the other patrons in the saloon realized what was about to take place. All eyes were on Quince.

  Quince turned his hand and the whiskey glass started toward the floor. Suddenly there was a shot and the whiskey glass shattered, but it wasn’t Quince who fired. It was Luke Mueller.

  Gasps of shock and surprise escaped from all those who had been watching. Since it was obvious Quince had not been the one who broke the glass, they were puzzled.

  “I’ll be damned,” Wally Cook said. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.”

  Looking over at Wally, the mystery was solved when the others saw Luke Mueller standing with his back to the bar, holding a pistol, with a small stream of smoke drifting from the barrel.

  “Mister, what the hell did you do that for?” Quince demanded. “You messed up my trick.”

  “Wasn’t much of a trick,” Mueller said. “You seen how easy I shot the glass.”

  “Yeah? Well let me tell you what I’m goin’ to do now. I’m goin’ to come over there and whip your scrawny ass, you little shit.”

  Mueller put his pistol back in his holster, then smiled a cold, humorless smile at Quince.

  “I don’t think you want to do that,” Mueller said.

  “Why don’t I want to do that? You just cost me five dollars, is what you done.”

  “I’ll give you a chance to get your five dollars back,” Mueller said.

  “How?”

  “Shoot against me,” he said.

  “For five dollars?”

  “Or more.”

  “What will we shoot at?”

  “Oh,” Mueller said easily. “I thought you knew. We would shoot against each other.”

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  “I might be,” Mueller said. “After all, you’ve been telling everyone how good you were. I’d have to be crazy to want to go against you, wouldn’t I?”

  Quince suddenly realized that he had stepped into a lot more than he had bargained for. “One of us could get killed if we did that,” he said, his words squeaking out of a throat constricted by fear.

  “Yes,” Mueller replied. “That’s generally the way it happens. One of us always gets killed. So far it hasn’t been me.”

  What had started as lighthearted entertainment had suddenly turned deadly serious and all eyes were on the two principals.

  “What will it be, cowboy? Shall we settle this little dispute between us?”

  Quince stared at Mueller for a long moment, as if unable to believe he had gotten caught up in such a deadly game.

  “No!” Quince said, holding both hands out in front of him, palms facing outward. “No, I ain’t goin’ to do this!” Quickly, he turned and ran from the saloon.

  “You didn’t leave him much there, partner,” Wally said quietly. “He wasn’t harmin’ nobody.”

  Mueller picked up his beer, drained it, then put it down. “Give me another beer,” he said.

  Wally refilled the mug, then put it on the bar in front of Mueller. “What’s your name, mister?”

  “My name ain’t none of your business,” Mueller replied.

  “No sir, you’re right. It ain’t none of my business,” Wally said, quickly. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by askin’. I was just bein’ a mite friendly, is all.”

  “I don’t need no friends,” Mueller said.

  “No sir, I don’t reckon you do,” Wally said, walking to the far end of the bar.

  Mueller took his beer mug over to the most distant table, then sat there alone. He did not want anyone to know who he was, nor did he want to be bothered by anyone. It was for that reason he had shot the glass Quince dropped. That little exhibition had the desired effect; it had generated fear and respect in everyone who saw it.

  Over in Buckner’s Ladies’ Emporium, Mrs. Guthrie was standing in front of a mirror, looking at herself. She was wearing a gown that Nellie Buckner had recommended to her.

  “What do you think?” she asked Nellie.

  “Let me have you consult with Miss Wellington,” Nellie said. “She has recently come into my employ and has a wonderful eye for fashion.”

  “It can’t just be pretty, you understand,” Mrs. Guthrie said. “It must be up to date with the latest fashions from the East.”

  “Miss Wellington has recently arrived from New York. I think you will find her suggestions most helpful. Janelle, won’t you come speak with Mrs. Guthrie?” she called.

  “Yes, of course,” Janelle answered from the back of the store. “Oh, that’s a lovely gown,” Janelle said as she approached.

  “Yes, but is it fashionable?” Mrs. Guthrie asked.

  “She is going to a wedding in Philadelphia,” Nellie said. “She must be very up to date.”

  “I see. In that case…Mrs. Guthrie, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind a couple suggestions?” Janelle asked.

  “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  “Then I would say extend the bustle even farther in the back.”

  “Really? It seems quite large enough to me,” Mrs. Guthrie said.

  “Oh, but they are even larger now,” Janelle said. “Then, we’ll add several layers of brightly colored material in beautif
ul colors: magenta, gold, brilliant green, and red, all in a waterfall effect.” As she spoke, Janelle grabbed up bolts of cloth and skillfully draped them to give the illusion she was describing.

  “Oh, yes!” Mrs. Guthrie said, looking at the effect in the mirror. “Yes, that would be beautiful, wouldn’t it? And this is what they are wearing in New York?”

  “Not everyone in New York,” Janelle replied. “Only the most fashionable ladies are wearing it.”

  “Only the most fashionable, you say?”

  “Yes, during the season there are a bevy of balls, dinners, parties, receptions, and other activities, many of them hosted by Mrs. Astor, or Mrs. Gould. Only the most elite members of the Four Hundred attend such events, and they are always wearing the latest and most fashionable designs. With a few slight alterations to this gown, why, you would fit right in with the Four Hundred.”

  “What is the Four Hundred?”

  “The Four Hundred are the most elite of New York society,” Janelle explained. She chuckled. “I have heard that the number was selected because that was how many people could fit in to Mrs. Astor’s ballroom.”

  “Oh, my. Someone has a ballroom large enough to hold four hundred people?”

  “Mrs. Astor does.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone who belongs to this Four Hundred you are talking about?”

  Janelle and her family were members of the Four Hundred, but she did not think it was proper to make that claim, so she demurred somewhat. “I have seen them,” she said, without further explanation.

  “Then surely I must wear this gown to my niece’s wedding. Nellie, how soon could you have the gown ready?”

  “When are you leaving for Philadelphia?”

  “Monday morning.”

  “Heavens, this is Friday. That doesn’t give us much time. And Monday is the Fourth of July. Do you mean to tell me you are going to miss all the festivities?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Guthrie replied. “But, I will gladly pay extra to have the gown done in time.”

  Nellie looked over at Janelle. “Do you think we could have it finished tomorrow, Janelle?”

  Janelle nodded and smiled. “Yes, we can have it ready for you by tomorrow.”