MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy Page 9

  “All right,” Malcolm said. “I will do that. But if I go to Colorado and find that I am on a wild duck chase, I’ll be coming back to settle with you. And you, I know where to find.”

  Fowler chuckled. “Goose,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It is a wild-goose chase. But I’m not sending you on one. MacCallister did go to Colorado, and if you can find Falcon MacCallister, you will be able to find Duff MacCallister.”

  After leaving the theater, Malcolm went to the transatlantic cable company, where he paid fifty cents a word to send a message back to Sheriff Somerled. He wrote it several times, but tore up the message each time until he had it worded exactly as he wanted, giving the maximum information with the least possible words. Then, once he was satisfied with it, he gave it to the clerk.

  The clerk counted the words.

  “Nineteen dollars,” the clerk said.

  Malcolm counted the words.

  Alexander and Roderick have both been killed. MacCallister has escaped to Colorado. I anticipate no trouble in finding him, but I will require two hundred pounds to be sent by return cable so that I may pursue.

  Malcolm

  “I thought my name was free.”

  “No, sir. We charge for every word we dispatch,” the clerk replied.

  “Give it back to me. I am going to rewrite it.

  Alexander and Roderick dead. MacCallister escaped. I know where he has gone. Require two hundred pounds by return cable so that I may pursue.

  “Are you going to attach your name to the message?” the clerk asked.

  “There is no need. He will know who it came from.”

  “Very well, sir. Your total is twelve dollars.”

  Scotland—Donuun in Argyllshire

  Sheriff Angus Somerled gasped as he read the words in the telegram that was given him by the young messenger.

  “Dead? Both of them? But what happened to them? He dinnae say.”

  “Beg pardon, sir?” the messenger, who was scarcely over fourteen years old, said.

  “When did this message arrive?”

  “I dinnae know, sir. Mr. McGinnis, he just gave it to me a few minutes ago. Is it bad news?”

  “You mean you dinnae read it?”

  “I dinnae read it, sir, for ’tis nae my job to read the messages what come in.”

  Somerled returned to town with the young messenger, then went into the telegraph office.

  “’Tis sorry I am for your loss, Sheriff,” McGinnis said. “Will ye be wantin’ to send a response?”

  “Aye,” Somerled said and he quickly scrawled out a note.

  How did boys die

  It was the next day before Somerled got a reply.

  KILLED BY MACCALLISTER STOP SEND MONEY STOP

  New York

  Malcolm had been using the Commercial National Bank of New York as his address, and when he called a day later to inquire as to whether or not he had received a cablegram, a smiling teller presented him with it.

  TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS IS NOW ON DEPOSIT AT COMMERCIAL NATIONAL BANK OF NEW YORK STOP YOUR TASK REMAINS THE SAME STOP INFORM ME SOONEST UPON CONCLUSION STOP SHERIFF ANGUS SOMERLED

  Malcolm read the cablegram, then looked up at the teller. “Is this right? Has the money been put in my account?”

  “Indeed, it has, sir. You now have quite a tidy sum of money.” The teller looked at a book and ran his fingers down the figures. “Yes, sir, you have one thousand two hundred and seventeen dollars and fifty-one cents.”

  “Good. I want to withdraw.”

  “Yes, sir,” the eager teller said. “How much money do you want to withdraw?”

  “I want all of it,” Malcolm said.

  The smile on the teller’s face was replaced by a look of confusion. “All of it, sir?”

  “Aye, all of it.”

  “But, sir, if you take all the money, it will close your account.”

  “Aye, that’s what I want, a closed account.”

  “Very good, sir,” the teller said. He filled out a form, then slid it across the counter to Malcolm.

  “If you would sign this, sir?”

  Malcolm signed the form, gave it back to the teller, and the teller counted out all the money as he passed it across to Malcolm.

  “That is a great deal of money to be carrying on your person, sir,” the teller said. “Do be careful with it.”

  “I intend to be,” Malcolm replied.

  From the bank he took a hansom cab to Grand Central Station, where he bought tickets to Denver, Colorado.

  “Ha,” he said to himself as he took a seat in the cavernous waiting room to wait for his train. “Duff MacCallister, you are going to be one surprised man when you see me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Three days earlier, Duff had left New York via the New York Central Railroad. The train traveled along the Hudson River for a while, then passed through Buffalo, Cleveland, and Toledo, and finally, Chicago. At Chicago, he changed from the New York Central to the Illinois Central, which took him south to St. Louis. There he boarded the Missouri Pacific Railroad to Kansas City, paralleling the Missouri River across the state. At Kansas City, he realized that his clothes seemed out of place with the type of clothes worn by most of the men here, so he visited a clothing store to update his wardrobe. Here, he bought three pair of blue denim trousers, a pair of boots, and three six-button shirts, one red, one white, and one blue.

  The store had a hardware department including a gun store. Duff wandered through the gun store and though he initially was drawn by curiosity only, he saw a display of Enfield Mark 1 Revolvers.

  British Enfield Revolver

  Sidearm of British Officers

  and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  You can own this fine weapon

  for only $20.00

  This was the pistol Duff had carried during his military campaign in Egypt. He was familiar with it, and particularly liked the potency of its bullets, which were slightly over .47 caliber. When he picked the piece up, its heft and balance felt familiar to him.

  “You know anything about that gun, Mister?”

  “Aye, I know a bit,” Duff replied.

  “Here now, and are you English?”

  “Scottish.”

  “Well then, maybe you do know something about it. To tell the truth, we just got an order in. Most of the folks comin’ through here are buyin’ Colts, Remingtons, Smith and Wesson. Ain’t nobody bought one of these yet. Are you lookin’ to buy it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you buy it, I’ll throw in a box of ammunition.”

  “Make it three boxes, and I’ll also buy a belt and holster for it,” Duff said.

  A broad smile spread across the storekeeper’s face. “Mister, you got yourself a deal.”

  An hour later, with his newly purchased clothes, gun, holster, and ammunition packed away in his sea bag, the same one that Kelly had given him when he left the Hiawatha, Duff boarded a Kansas and Northern Railroad train bound for Omaha. There, he made the final change of trains, boarding a Union Pacific train called the Western Flyer. He found the name of the train amusing, for while the Eastern trains had averaged a swift forty miles per hour on the open track, the Western Flyer proceeded along at the leisurely pace of from sixteen to twenty miles per hour.

  While at the station in Omaha he bought a book called Williams Pacific Tourist and Guide Across the Continent.1

  The book had an entire page of testimonials and endorsements, including a review from Publishers’ Weekly that declared it to be among “the very best efforts ever issued,” with a “richness and completeness in illustrations, information and description that can only be realized by an examination of the work.”

  The slow, steady pace of the train traversing over long, straight rails made it easy for Duff to read.

  Colorado is an empire of itself in enterprise, scenic beauty and abundance of pleasure resorts. In 1870, few or none of these were known, and towns wer
e small in number and population. Since that time, it has become a center of great railroad activity, has grown in wonderful flavor as an attractive region for summer travel; and as a country for health-giving and life-giving strength, it has drawn thither thousands who have made it their permanent home.

  Looking through the window, Duff could almost imagine that he was at sea, so vast was the expanse of gently undulating prairie, the grass waving rhythmically in the breeze. And, as if he were at sea, his view extended, uninterrupted, all the way to the horizon.

  He saw three horsemen come toward the train. They rode alongside, not only keeping pace with the train, but often racing ahead, then dropping back. They took off their hats and waved them overhead. It looked as if they were shouting as well, but Duff could not hear them above the noise of the train.

  “Oh, look, Sally!” said a young woman in the forward part of the same car in which Duff was riding. “They must be cowboys!”

  “How exciting!” the other young woman replied, and they raised the window and began waving, flirtatiously, at the three young riders. Duff was certain that there must be other young women on the train, providing the same inducement to the cowboys, and he smiled, then turned his attention back to the book.

  Cowboys are, as a class very rough fellows, with long hair and beard, wide-brimmed hats, best fitting boots they can buy with large spurs jingling at their heels, and a small arsenal in the shape of revolvers strapped to their waists with a careless appearance.

  Odd, Duff thought, that at the very moment he was seeing cowboys, he would be reading about them. A second glance at the three young riders bore out the comment in the book, that they would be armed, for all three were wearing holstered pistols.

  He returned to the book.

  Their chief pleasure is in a row; their chief drink is straight whiskey, and they usually seem to feel better when they have killed somebody. Houses of prostitution and tippling saloons follow close in their wake.

  They are generous to their friends, dividing even the last dollar with a comrade who is broke, treacherous and vengeful to their enemies and human life is but little account with them. Their life is one of constant exposure and very laborious. They are perfect horsemen—usually in the saddle sixteen out of every twenty-four hours. Many have died with their boots on, and many more will perish the same way. Living violent lives, they often meet with violent deaths. The community in which they live, and the country generally, will be better off when their kind is gone.

  As there was no dining car on this train, as there had been on the trains east of Omaha, it made regularly scheduled stops for meals, the first stop being North Bend, Nebraska.

  As the train began slowing, the porters moved through the aisles of each car making the announcement.

  “Folks, we are in North Bend. We’ll be here for an hour and a half. If you’re hungry, best you buy somethin’ to eat, here.”

  North Bend was a thriving town with several stores, a hotel, lumberyard, and grain elevator. Meals were served in the depot restaurant for one dollar, which Duff had learned, was the standard fare for all meals west of Omaha. The meal was ham and fried potatoes, which also seemed to be standard fare.

  Next door to the Union Pacific Depot was the Occidental Saloon. Not wanting to fight the crowded lunchroom, and in no mood for the standard ham and fried potatoes, Duff stepped into the saloon, hoping they would also serve food of some sort.

  “Yes, indeed, we serve food,” the bartender said. “Lots of folks come in here from the train ’cause they don’t like the crowds.”

  “And would ye be for tellin’ me what sort of fare can one get here?”

  “You’re a foreigner, ain’t you?”

  “Aye, from Scotland.”

  “Yes, sir, I thought it was somethin’ like that. I can tell by your accent.”

  “What can I get to eat here?”

  “Chicken an’ dumplin’s is what you can get here. And it’s a might tastier than the ham an’ taters you get over at the railroad depot.”

  “Then I shall have that, and a beer if you please.”

  “Yes, sir, dumplin’s and a beer comin’ right up.”

  Duff had never eaten chicken and dumplings before, nor had he ever even heard of them. But, despite the, to him, rather unappetizing appearance, he actually enjoyed them.

  He had just finished his meal when he heard the sound of a loud slap, followed by a woman’s cry.

  “Whore!” a man’s guttural voice shouted. “Keep your finger out of my drink! Ain’t no tellin’ where that whore finger of yours has been.”

  “Please, sir, I did not put my finger in your drink.”

  The man slapped her a second time. “Don’t you be lyin’ to me, whore. I seen you stick your finger down into the whiskey when you was bringin’ it over to me. You stuck your finger down into it, then you stuck your finger into your mouth, tryin’ to suck the whiskey offen it.”

  Duff had a sudden flashback to his Skye, remembering how sometimes she had to deal with rude and abusive customers. That recollection made him feel a sense of concern for this woman. He was sitting at a nearby table, and he picked up his napkin and dabbed at his lips, then got up and walked over to the table where the big, bearded man was bullying the serving girl.

  The bully had called her a whore, and that might be true. The woman was provocatively dressed, much more so than she would have been if she were only a serving girl. She might have been quite attractive at one time, but the dissipation of her profession had drained her of any natural beauty. In addition, her features were marred by a disfiguring scar that caused one eyelid to droop. That same scar continued below her eye and hooked in toward her nose.

  Duff was certain that the disfiguring scar was not the result of an accident. Her left cheek was now red and already swelling from the two slaps she had just received.

  “I beg your pardon, friend,” Duff said as he stepped up to the table.

  “What the hell do you want?” the bully asked.

  Duff picked up the glass of whiskey. “’Tis wonderin’ I am, if this be the drink that offends ye?”

  “Offends ye? Ye?” the bully replied. “What are you, some sort of preacher? That’s Bible talk, ain’t it? Ye and thou—that kind of talk?”

  “Aye, but ’tis also the language of my native country. I am Scottish.”

  “Yeah, well, tell me, Mr. Scottish Man. What the hell are you doin’ interferin’ with somethin’ that ain’t none of your concern?”

  “I thought perhaps I could buy you a new drink, since you think this one has been tainted.”

  “Tainted? Yeah, that’s what it’s been all right.”

  Duff took out a dollar and handed it to the serving girl. “Lassie, would you be so kind as to bring another drink for the gentleman?”

  The girl took the dollar, went over to the bar to buy another drink, then brought it and the change back.

  “I want no change. ’Twould please me for you keep it for your trouble,” Duff said.

  The young woman smiled, and because the smile was genuine, it softened the features of her face.

  “There you go, sir. Enjoy your drink,” Duff said.

  The bearded man tossed the drink down in one swallow, then looked up at Duff. “What are you goin’ to do with that one?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m going to give this one to you as well,” Duff said.

  Smiling, the man reached for the drink, but he, and everyone in the saloon now watching, gasped in surprise when Duff tossed the whiskey into the bearded man’s face.

  “Why, you son of a bitch!”

  The bearded man pulled his pistol from his holster and pointed it at Duff. But, calmly, Duff put his left hand down over the pistol, holding it in such a way as to prevent the hammer from coming back and the cylinder from turning.

  Duff made a fist of his right hand and clubbed the bearded man on the jaw. The blow knocked him unconscious, and as he fell from the chair, he loosened his grip on the pisto
l so that it came out in Duff’s left hand.

  “Damn! Did you see that?” someone asked.

  “Shaw ain’t goin’ to like that when he comes to,” another said.

  “Don’t look like he’s goin’ to come to all that soon.”

  Duff walked over to the bar, emptied the pistol of all its bullets, then dropped the gun and the bullets into the fullest spittoon. That done, he looked over at the young woman whose face, like the face of everyone else in the saloon, wore an expression of shock.

  “And will ye be all right, lass?” he asked.

  “I—uh—yes. I will be fine. I can’t believe a stranger would come to my rescue as you did. Thank you, very much.”

  “Och, dinnae worry yourself, lassie,” Duff said, slipping into a strong Scottish brogue.

  Duff heard the train whistle blow. The passengers had been told that the train whistle would blow ten minutes before it left the station.

  “That’s my train,” he said. “Best I go, now. Barkeep, please tell your cook for me that the cock and pastry was quite delicious.”

  “Cock and pastry?”

  “He means the chicken and dumplings,” the serving girl said.

  “Oh, yes, I will tell her,” The bartender replied.

  Aware that everyone was still staring at him, Duff left the saloon and walked back down to the depot. The depot platform was crowded, not only with the passengers who were getting back on the train but with several of the citizens of the town who had come just for the excitement of watching a train arrive and leave.

  The fireman had banked the fire during the stay, but had re-stoked it in preparation for their departure. The train was alive with sound, from escaping steam to the gurgling of water in the boiler.