Destiny of Eagles (3 page)

“You want to die for someone else's money, mister?” Thad asked. He nodded at Buddy, who cocked his pistol.

“No, no, I mean I can't open it from out here. The mail clerk has to open it from inside.”

Thad jumped down onto the ground. “Then tell him to do it,” he said.

Nodding in assent, the conductor walked back to the express car, followed by both Thad and Buddy. He knocked on the door.

“Mr. Bowles, open the door, please.”

“I can't do that, Mr. Dexter.”

Dexter looked at Thad.

“Ask again, real nice-like,” Thad said.

Again, Dexter knocked on the door. “Please, Mr. Bowles, open the door.”

“I can't,” Bowles said again.

“If you can't get him to open that door, I'm going to kill you and we'll dynamite the door.”

“Bowles, for God's sake, man! Open the door or they will kill me!” Dexter pleaded, by now his voice a high-pitched squeal.

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a lock being turned. The door slid open and Bowles stood in the doorway, a small man, balding and with small, wire-rim glasses.

“When I show up in Belfield without the money, you're going to be the one who takes the responsibility for it,” he said. “They're not going to take that money out of my pay.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Bowles, they aren't going to do that,” Dexter said.

“Get up there and get the money, Buddy,” Thad said. “Rufus, you and Curly go through the passenger cars to see what we can get there.”

“All right,” Rufus said. “Curly, you go back to the last car and start coming this way. I'll get on this car and start back toward you.”

Nodding, Curly trotted alongside the track to the rear of the train.

Falcon had been asleep when the train was stopped. Opening his eyes, he looked out the window expecting to see a depot, or at the least a water tower. Seeing neither, he got curious, so he walked up to the front vestibule, then leaned out just far enough to see what was going on. That was when he saw four armed and masked men standing alongside the conductor.

Drawing his pistol, Falcon stepped out of the car on the opposite side of the train from the four men, then ran up the right side of the train until he reached the engine. Looking up into the engine, he saw one man lying on the floor and the other squatting down beside him. From the coveralls they were wearing, he knew that one was the engineer and the other the fireman, but he didn't know who was who.

Falcon examined the inside of the cab as best he could from his vantage point, to make certain none of the train robbers were there. Deciding that it was empty except for the train crew, he climbed up and, suddenly, barged in.

“What the hell!” Clyde shouted in alarm.

Falcon put his finger across his lips.

“Who are you?” Clyde asked.

“Just a passenger,” Falcon answered. He nodded toward the man on the floor. “How is your friend?”

“Dead,” Clyde answered.

“How many of them are there, do you know?” he asked.

“Four, I think,” Clyde answered.

“Do you know where they all are?”

“No,” Clyde said. “I didn't see where any of them went.”

Falcon leaned out from the engine cab to have a look. Just as he did so, one of the train robbers happened to look in his direction.

Thad saw Falcon look out from the engine cab, and reasoned correctly that he was someone from the train. Whoever he was, he had no business being there.

Thad fired at Falcon, and the bullet hit the steel frame of the engine cab, then careened and ricocheted around inside. It had the effect Thad wanted, for it caused Falcon to duck back inside. When he did, Thad ran away from the relative light alongside the track, and out into the shadows.

“Conductor, in here!” Falcon shouted.

The conductor hesitated. “MacCallister? Are you one of them?”

“Do you really think I'm one of them?” Falcon said. “Why would they shoot at me if I'm one of them?”

Seeing the logic of Falcon's question, the conductor hurried to the engine. The muzzle flash of another shot lit up the darkness as someone was shooting at the conductor. The bullet slammed into the side of the cab, raising sparks but doing no damage. Falcon fired back at the muzzle flash, providing cover for the conductor as he closed the distance between himself and Falcon.

Falcon reached down and grabbed him by the wrist, and half-assisted, half-lifted the conductor into the engine cab.

“Get this train going!” the conductor shouted to Clyde.

“I'll have to build the steam up again,” the fireman protested.

“Don't tell me what you have to do. Just do it!” the conductor said.

“Yes, sir,” Clyde answered, glad to acquiesce to someone who seemed confident enough to take control.

Leaning out the side of the engine cab, Falcon saw Buddy standing in the doorway of the express car, holding a white bag.

“Buddy, I've got your horse! Throw me the bag and let's get out of here!” a voice shouted from the darkness.

“Bring my horse here.”

“And get him shot? Throw the bag!”

Buddy threw the bag and Falcon shot it, hitting it twice. The impact of the bullets stopped the bag in midflight, and it fell just at the outside edge of the ambient light.

Buddy shot at Falcon, and Falcon returned fire. Buddy went down.

Jumping down from the engine cab, Falcon started up the side of the tender. That was when someone from the first car leaned out and shot at him. The bullet cracked by his head; then his would-be assailant disappeared back inside.

Falcon walked out to recover the bag, keeping his senses alert to the fact that someone was out there in the darkness. That was when he heard the sound of galloping hooves.

Thinking his adversary had fled the scene, Falcon relaxed somewhat and started toward the bag. That was a mistake, because two more shots came from the darkness, both of them dangerously close.

“You ain't gettin' my money, mister,” the voice called from the darkness.

“It's not your money,” Falcon replied.

“Well, now, it looks like what we've got ourselves here is a Mexican standoff,” Thad called from the darkness. “The money is just lyin' out there in the dark, and can't neither one of us get to it.”

At that moment, Falcon heard a shot coming from inside one of the passenger cars. The shot was followed by a woman's scream.

Thad laughed, his laughter evil-sounding from the dark. “Sounds like my men are killin' your passengers,” he said. “That means you got yourself a decision to make, Mr. Hero. You can stay out here and keep an eye on that money bag, or you can get back on the train and rescue the passengers.”

From inside one of the passenger cars there was another shot, and another scream.

“So, which will it be? The money or the passengers?”

With a frustrated sigh, Falcon turned back toward the train. He slipped back on board as soon as he had a chance to do so. Laughter from outside told him that the train robber had retrieved the money bag.

In the first car, he saw that everyone was awake, and sitting in their seats, terrified by what was going on. But one man in the back was looking out the window as if totally uninterested in the drama playing out around him.

Falcon wondered how the man could be so unafraid, unless he was the cause of everyone else's fear. He stared at the man as he walked down the aisle.

Either because of Falcon's intense stare, or because he was just nervous, the man suddenly raised his pistol and fired at Falcon. Falcon saw the finger of fire leap from the barrel of the pistol, and felt, rather than heard, the crack of the bullet as it slammed by him.

A woman screamed as Falcon fired back, and he saw a small, dark hole appear right between the man's eyes. The man fell back across the seat.

Falcon ran through the cars until he reached the last car. As he ran up the aisle, gun drawn, several people reacted in fear, but one of the passengers called out to him.

“He got off the train!”

Nodding his thanks, Falcon started toward the rear exit. Because the car was lit from inside, and it was dark outside, the windows acted as mirrors. That little fact saved Falcon's life, because glancing at the window nearest the exit, he saw a man aiming a gun at him. It was the same person who had just told him that the outlaw had left the train.

Hawk jerked to one side just as the man fired, and the bullet from the assailant's gun went through the very window in which Falcon had seen the reflection.

Falcon fired back, hitting the shooter in the throat and sending him crashing through the window by his seat, half in and half out.

Falcon stood there for a moment with smoke curling up from his gun, commingling with the smoke from the outlaw's gun. He walked over to check the man out, but saw that he was dead. He put his gun back in his holster, then looked up at the anxious passengers.

“It's all over, folks,” he said.

“There may be others,” someone said in alarm.

Falcon shook his head. “No. There were only four. One got away.”

“What about the other three?”

“You won't have to worry about the other three,” Falcon said.

* * *

After retrieving the money bag, Thad waited around for a while until he saw five bodies put into the baggage car. Three of the bodies were his men, Buddy Taylor, Curly Latham, and Rufus Wade. And, by the coveralls the man was wearing, he recognized the engineer's body. He had no idea who the fifth body was, but figured it was probably one of the passengers.

“Well, boys,” he said with a silent salute. “Too bad you aren't going to be around to help me spend the money.” He laughed, then leaned forward and patted the money bag, which now hung from the saddle pommel.

* * *

“Mr. MacCallister?” the conductor said, gently shaking Falcon awake.

Falcon opened his eyes and ran his hand across his face. “Yes?”

“We're coming into Belfield,” the conductor said.

Falcon nodded, then looked through the window. It was light now, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. It was five after eight.

“I hated to wake you, you were sleeping so soundly, and Lord knows you earned it,” the conductor said. “But you did say you wanted me to wake you at Belfield.”

“Yes, thanks,” Falcon said.

The train slowed with a series of jerking moves, rather than the smooth way it normally slowed. That was evidence of the fact that the man at the throttle was the fireman, and not the engineer.

Falcon thought of the man who was driving this train. While Falcon slept, Clyde had been forced into the position of being both fireman and engineer. It was a backbreaking task, and he'd kept it up all through the night. Falcon hoped the railroad would reward him in some way.

Reaching overhead, Falcon retrieved his saddlebags and rifle, the only luggage he had. He walked to the front of the car and stepped down onto the wooden platform. The depot was a small, red-painted building with a black-on-white sign that read
BELFIELD
.

Behind Falcon the train, temporarily at rest from its long run, wasn't quiet. Because Clyde kept the steam up, the valve continued to open and close in great, heaving sighs. Overheated wheel bearings and gearboxes popped and snapped as the tortured metal cooled. On the platform all around him, there was a discordant chorus of squeals, laughter, shouts, and animated conversation as people were getting on and off the train.

Dickenson was the only scheduled stop between where they were robbed and Belfield, but as no one on the train was ticketed for Dickenson, and the stationmaster didn't have a stop signal out, Clyde had barreled on through. As a result, no one in Belfield knew of the robbery until the train arrived. But within minutes after arriving in the station, the news spread quickly.

Falcon could measure the speed with which the news was traveling according to the change in conversation. He knew also that the arriving passengers were telling of his participation in the excitement, because soon he could feel many sets of eyes staring at him.

Looking up toward the baggage car, Falcon saw that five bodies were being taken down and laid out side by side on the wooden platform.

“Don't you dare!” Falcon heard Clyde shout, his words clearly audible even above the sound of popping metal and vented steam.

“What's that?” someone called back up to him.

“Don't you dare lay Cephus's body alongside those other sons of bitches!”

“That there is Micah Peters. He was a passenger; he don't belong with them outlaws either,” someone said.

“All right, move Cephus and Mr. Peters away from the others,” another said.

The curious began to gather around the bodies then, and while Falcon had no particular interest in them, he found himself there as well, because the bodies had been placed very close to the stock car and Falcon was waiting for his horse to be off-loaded.

“Hey, I know one of them boys,” someone said. He pointed to one. “That one there is Rufus Wade. Me'n him cowboyed together last year. That is, till he got drunk and set fire to the bunkhouse. Mr. Eddington fired him for that.”

The one identified as Rufus Wade was the one Falcon had shot through the throat. There was a hole in his throat, as well as cuts and gashes on his face, sustained when he crashed through the window. One of Rufus's eyes was open and one eye was shut. His lips were pursed and open, showing yellow, crooked teeth.

“He's young,” the man who identified him said.

“He ain't young,” another said.

“Yeah, he is too. He's only nineteen.”

“He ain't young,” the other insisted. “He's dead. You can't get no older than dead.”

“Who are the other two?”

“I don't know. Onliest one I know is Rufus Wade.”

“That is Buddy Taylor, and that's Curly Latham,” a new voice said. The speaker was a short, stocky, gray-haired man wearing a badge.

Even after all these years, Falcon recognized him, and he walked over to the man whose life his mother and father had saved so long ago.

“You'd be Billy Puckett?” he asked.

“I am.”

Falcon extended his hand. “As near as I can reckon, it's been thirty-two years since I last saw you. But you haven't changed that much.”

For a second Sheriff Billy Puckett looked confused. Then a wide grin spread across his face. “You're Falcon MacCallister,” he said. He reached to shake Falcon's hand. “Welcome to Belfield.”

“Thanks,” Falcon said. “When did you take up sheriffing?”

“Comin' up on twenty years now,” Puckett said. “Soon as I got back from the war.”

“You said you were seventy years old. It would seem to me like you'd earned the right to sit in a rocking chair for a while.”

“A fella can't make a living sitting in a rocking chair,” Billy replied.

“I guess you're right about that,” Falcon agreed.

Falcon stared down at the bodies. All three had their arms folded across their chests. Only Buddy Taylor had both eyes open, and Curly Latham had both eyes closed, his eyelid muscles having been destroyed by the bullet that hit him right between the eyes.