Destiny of Eagles (4 page)

Another man came up to stand near Falcon and Billy Puckett. This man was also wearing a badge. He was younger, taller, and slimmer than Billy. He was wearing a big, black handlebar moustache.

“Falcon, this here is my deputy, Walter Merrill,” Billy said.

Falcon and the deputy nodded at each other.

“Walter's been with me for five years now. He's goin' to make a good sheriff someday. Fact is, he'd be a good sheriff now if I'd step out of the way.”

Merrill shook his head. “I ain't ready for you to step out of the way yet, Sheriff,” he said. “I'm still learnin' a lot from you.”

“See why I like this man?” Billy teased. “He knows how to suck up.”

Falcon and Merril both laughed.

Sheriff Billy Puckett lit a cigar and took several puffs before he spoke again.

“Falcon, folks are talkin' about the big man, a passenger on the train, who took these outlaws on. I've got a strong feelin' you are the one they are talking about.”

“I reckon I am,” Falcon replied.

“I understand they got away with the money.”

“Not they. One man,” Falcon said.

Hearing a sound, Falcon looked toward the stock car and saw that they were leading a big, black horse down a ramp.

“Excuse me, I've got to see to my horse.”

“That's yours?”

“Yes.”

“He's a good-looking horse.”

“Diablo is a good horse,” Falcon said. “He'll probably live longer than I will.”

Puckett chuckled. “Yes, well, to be honest with you, Falcon, from all I've heard, I don't know how the hell you've stayed alive this long,” he said.

“Lucky, I guess,” Falcon said.

“Uh-huh. Listen, Judge Heckemeyer is in town. Just to be on the safe side, why don't you come on down to my office so we can get an official ruling of justifiable homicide on these three? There's no sense in taking a chance on getting some more bad paper out there.”

“Heckemeyer? Did you say Judge Heckemeyer?”

“Yes, why? Do you know him?”

“No, I don't think I've ever met him,” Falcon said. “But the name seems familiar to me.”

“You will come talk to him, though?”

“All right. But if you don't mind, can I come down after breakfast?” Falcon asked. “I'm a little hungry.”

“Sure, no hurry,” Puckett said. “I've got to figure out what to do about these three anyway.” He sighed. “Damn, Falcon, I invited you up to do a little elk hunting, not cause me all this paperwork,” he said.

Falcon chuckled. “Sorry 'bout that. Where's a good place for breakfast?”

“I'd say the Dunn Hotel is about as good as anyplace,” Puckett answered.

Falcon's saddle was unloaded as well and, taking his leave of the sheriff, Falcon saddled Diablo, threw his bags across, sheathed his long gun, then mounted his horse and rode down the street looking for the Dunn Hotel.

* * *

Falcon ate so many of his meals out on the range that when he did have the chance to eat in town, he ate well. Breakfast this morning consisted of a stack of pancakes, two eggs, fried potatoes, an oversized piece of ham, and half-a-dozen biscuits. He was just washing it all down with a second cup of coffee when Sheriff Puckett came in.

“Join me for a cup of coffee, Billy?” Falcon invited.

Puckett shook his head. “Wish I could,” he said. “But the judge is over at my office now, and he wants to see you.”

“All right,” Falcon said. He stood up, took a last swallow, then left fifty cents on the table, which not only paid for his meal, but left a generous tip.

Judge Heckemeyer was a relatively large man, bald, with a round face and bulldog jaws. He was sitting at Sheriff Puckett's desk reading a newspaper when Puckett led MacCallister in.

“Judge, this is Falcon MacCallister, the fella I was telling you about,” Puckett said.

“Your Honor,” Falcon said with a slight nod of his head.

“I understand that you killed all three of them?” Heckemeyer said by way of reply.

“Yes,” Falcon said, not elaborating on his answer.

“Was it really necessary to kill all three of them?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Not one of them offered to surrender, or made an effort to get away without creating danger to you or any of the passengers?”

“Not one.”

Judge Heckemeyer drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment as he looked up at Falcon, studying him over the top of his glasses.

“Judge, I've already interviewed half-a-dozen people on the train,” Puckett said. “They tell me that Falcon wasn't only defending his own life, but was defending them as well. Two of the passengers were shot, you know. Micah Peters was killed and Harley Jones was shot in the shoulder. Harley, he's over to the doctor's office now, if you would like to talk to him.”

“I don't need to talk to him,” Judge Heckemeyer replied. He continued his questioning of Falcon. “There were four train robbers, you killed three. Odd, isn't it, that the one who got away got away with the money?” Heckemeyer asked.

“What is so odd about it?” Falcon asked.

“Well, perhaps odd isn't quite the word I wanted. Perhaps ironic would be better. How did it happen, by the way, that the one man who did make good his escape, did so with the money?”

“I had to make a choice between retrieving the money, or keeping the outlaws who were on the train from shooting any more passengers,” Falcon said.

“I have heard of you, sir. I have also heard of your prowess with a gun. And I don't like what I hear.”

“I have always tried, to the best of my ability, to obey the law,” Falcon said.

“So you say. On the other hand, you always seem to be walking very close to the edge. I know for a fact that there have been wanted dodgers posted for you. And on more than one occasion.”

“And they have been withdrawn every time,” Billy Puckett said.

“Ah, yes, they have been withdrawn. But the question remains, how is it that so many of them have been issued in the first place, only to be withdrawn?”

“I can't explain that.”

“Well, perhaps I can,” Heckemeyer said. “This is what I think, Mr. MacCallister. I think that you are a murder case waiting to happen. You are like a moth, flying close to the flame. So far you have avoided the flame . . . you have managed to stay on the right side of the law. Though, I think that even you will agree with me, you have barely managed to do so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. MacCallister, it has been my experience that wanted posters are not frivolously issued. In every case, a law enforcement authority somewhere has been convinced that you were guilty of one felony or another. Then, no sooner are the circulars issued than something turns up that temporarily exonerates you.

“But your luck cannot continue, Mr. MacCallister. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and I feel certain that one day that fire is going to flare up and . . . like the moth, you will be consumed by it.”

“Your ruling, Judge?” Sheriff Puckett asked.

Heckemeyer nodded. “Yes, my ruling,” he said. “I'm going to rule that these three men died by the hand of Falcon MacCallister—”

“Judge?” Puckett interjected quickly, but before he could go any further, Judge Heckemeyer held up a finger.

“By the hand of Falcon MacCallister,” Heckemeyer continued, “in an act of justifiable homicide. I have no choice, the facts compel me to do this.” He wagged the finger that he was holding up. “But I shall be keeping an eye on you, Mr. MacCallister. Yes, sir, I will be keeping an eye on you.”

It had rained earlier in the day, and when Thad Howard rode into the little town of Sheffield, the street was a quagmire. The mud, worked into the consistency of quicksand by the horses' hooves, had mixed with the droppings to become one long, stinking, sucking pool of ooze. When the rain stopped, the sun, yellow and hot in its late-afternoon transit, had begun the process of evaporation. The result was a foul miasma, rising from the offal of the street.

The saloon wasn't hard to find. It was the biggest and grandest building in the entire town. Because of the shadows, there was an illusion of coolness inside the saloon, but it was an illusion only. The dozen-and-a-half customers who were drinking had to keep their bandannas handy to wipe the sweat from their faces.

Thad looked over everyone in the room. No one was wearing a badge, and none of the drinkers seemed to pose a problem. From all he could tell, there were only cowboys and drifters here, and less than half of them were even wearing guns. A couple of the cowboys were wearing their guns low and kicked-out gunfighter-style, but Thad could tell at a glance that it was all for show. He was certain they had never used their guns for anything but target practice, and probably were not very successful at it.

The bartender stood at the end of the bar, wiping the used glasses with his stained apron, then setting them among the unused glasses. When he saw Thad step up to the bar, he moved down toward him.

“What'll it be?”

“I'm supposed to meet my brothers in here,” he said.

“Your name Thad?”

“Yes.”

“They're here. You owe me six dollars.”

“Six dollars? What the hell for?”

“That's how much a tab they've already run up,” the bartender said.

“Get me a beer.”

“I ain‘t getting' nothin' till you pay up the six dollars,” the bartender said. “You got it or not?”

Although Thad had buried most of the money just outside of town, he had brought over a hundred dollars with him.

“Yeah, I got it,” he said, taking out a roll of money. He counted out six dollars and gave it to the bartender. “I'll have that beer now,” he said.

The bartender drew the beer and gave it to him.

“Now, where are my brothers?”

“Upstairs in their room.”

“You rent rooms here?”

“I do.”

“For sleepin' or sportin'.”

“Either way you want.”

“What room is my brothers in?”

“Number twenty-three, just at the top of the stairs.”

Thad climbed up the stairs, then opened the door.

“Hey, what the hell?” a man's voice called out angrily.

In the bed, he saw two men and a woman. The woman scrambled to cover her nakedness.

“I got it,” Thad said, smiling broadly. He waved the money in front of them.

With shouts of excitement, Creed and Bob Howard jumped out of bed and started toward him.

“What's going on here?” the woman asked.

“This here is our brother,” Creed said.

“If you expect me to take him on too, it's going to cost more,” the woman said.

“Oh, yeah, hey, you want to join in?” Creed asked.

Thad shook his head. “No, to hell with that.” He held up a wad of money. “We've got enough for each one of us to have our own whore.”

* * *

Billy Puckett showed Falcon around town, introducing him to the mayor, the banker, the newspaper publisher, and the saloon owner. He walked him to the hotel and made certain that he got the best room in the house, then that night he invited Falcon to have dinner with him.

The Dunn Hotel proudly advertised bathing rooms on every floor, and Falcon took a bath and changed clothes so that when he stepped into the hotel dining room that night, he felt like a new man.

“You would be Mr. MacCallister?” the maître d' asked.

The maître d' somewhat surprised Falcon, because he hadn't been there for breakfast.

“Yes, I'm MacCallister.”

“Sheriff Puckett is waiting for you.”

Falcon followed the maître d' through the crowded dining room to a table in the far back corner. There were no windows near the table and, because the table was in the corner, both Falcon and the sheriff would be able to sit with their backs to the wall.

Sheriff Puckett stood as Falcon approached, reached out again to shake his hand, and then the two men sat.

“Would you like some wine, sir?” the maître d' asked.

Falcon shook his head. “I'd prefer some sippin' whiskey.”

“I'll have the same,” Puckett said.

“Very good, sir.”

Both men ordered beefsteak and fried potatoes. Not until the waiter returned to the kitchen with their order did Puckett resume the conversation.

“Falcon, I want to apologize for the way the judge behaved this morning. Actually, he is a fine and principled man.”

“Oh, I don't have any trouble with his principles,” Falcon said as he cut a piece of bread and spread some butter on it. “It's the fact that he has prejudged me that I don't like.”

“I can see how you'd be a mite upset over that. But like I say, he is an honest man. I have to tell you, Falcon, I'm very happy you accepted my invitation,” Puckett said. “And a little surprised as well.”

“Well, I had holed up long enough. I figured it was about time for me to get out again,” Falcon said. “And I confess that I have thought about you from time to time, wondering whatever happened to that fella Pa brought in more dead than alive.”

“Your pa was a good man,” Puckett said. “And your ma was a saint, nursing me the way she did.”

“You know, I don't think I ever asked you, but how did you happen to wind up in Indian territory in the first place?”

Puckett laughed. “I had a bad winter once, went to the Rendezvous with some of the sorriest plews you ever seen. I heard a bunch of folks talkin' about a stream where the beaver were as thick as flies. Only thing was, it was Indian territory and everyone was afraid to go there.”

“Let me guess. You figured if everyone else was afraid to go there, it would just make the pickings that much better for you,” Falcon said.

“Boy, you read my mind,” Puckett replied. “And it was a good plan too. I was halfway through the season, had more pelts than I'd taken in the previous two years. And they was good pelts too. Then, one day when I was runnin' my traps, a party of Indians showed up. I tried to parley with them, but they weren't in a talkin' mood. Next thing you know they was orderin' me out . . . without my beaver skins. Well, I wasn't going to have that, so I pointed my rifle at them and ordered them to get.”

“I take it they didn't get.”

“They rode out about fifty yards from me, then turned back. By then they had arrows in their bows, and they meant business. I shot one of them, but I took a couple of arrows before I could reload. Don't know why they didn't take my scalp, but when I come to, your pa was over me. Don't know what he was doing there, or how he found me.”

“Pa had a lot friends among the Indians,” Falcon said. “He never told me flat out, but I would guess that they told him about you.”

“Well, I'm glad for that. Like I said, I wouldn't be here now if your pa hadn't found me, and your ma hadn't nursed me through.”

“Billy, there was something else in your letter that got my attention. You said you had something you needed to get off your chest.”

“Yes. It's something that has been bothering me for many years now. I need to talk to someone about it and, since it involves you, I've chosen you.”

“It involves me? Are you talking about something that happened thirty-four years ago?”

Puckett shook his head. “No. This was more like twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years ago and it involves me? How can it? I didn't know you twenty years ago.”

“You were in the war,” Puckett said. It was more in the form of a statement than a question.

“Yes,” Falcon said.

“You were at Chattanooga.” Again, the comment was more along the lines of a statement than a question.

“Yes, I was at Chattanooga.”

“So was I.”

“You were? I don't remember seeing you there.”

“I saw you.”

“Why didn't you say something to me?”

“I was wearing blue, you were wearing gray.”

“Billy, that's not what you're trying to get off your chest, is it? I mean, the fact that you wore blue and I wore gray? You may not know this, but some of my brothers fought for the Union.”

“It's more than that. I want to tell you a story,” Puckett said.

“All right, I'm listening.”

The sheriff was a skilled raconteur, and as he began telling the story, Falcon found himself slipping back in time, reliving those days when, as a young man, barely in his twenties, he fought for the Confederacy, riding as a scout for Morgan's Raiders.

* * *