MacCallister Kingdom Come (9 page)

“There's that English feller,” Elmer said, pointing to Cal Hanson. Duff and Elmer had just taken a table at Fiddlers' Green. Hanson was sitting at a table with Biff and Fred Matthews.

“Ain't he s'posed to be buyin' some cows from you?”

“Aye.”

“Well, how come it is that he ain't bought 'em yet?”

“He sent a message to his backers in England. I think they are waiting to decide how many head they want.”

“You woulda thought he'd have that all figured out by now. I know he's got the money. I seen the story about it in the newspaper.”

“Oh, yes, he has the money all right,” Duff replied.

Biff said something which neither Duff nor Elmer were able to hear, but whatever it was, it made everyone laugh.

“Duff,” Biff called, waving to him. “Why don't you 'n Elmer bring your drinks and come on over. We're havin' a fine conversation, and Mr. Hanson is a-fixin' to tell us a joke.”

“An Englishman is going to tell a joke, is he? Well, that would be most interesting. Sure now, and I was nae aware the English even had a sense of humor. But do give it a try.” Although Duff had lost much of his Scottish brogue in the years he had been in America, he purposely let the words roll from his tongue as he spoke to the Englishman.

“I know a joke or two, but it will require a bit of intelligence to comprehend, and you, being a Scotsman, may have some difficulty in seeing the humor.”

“Here now, and would you tell the joke and not bang your gums so and apologizing before you even tell it, for it not being funny,” Duff said. Though they were deriding each other, it was obvious to their friends that it was all in good fun.

“All right,” Hanson said. “A Scotsman and an Englishman met in a posh pub in London, in order to do some business. I expect it would be much like us, meeting here in this posh pub,” he continued, taking in Fiddlers' Green with a sweep of his hand.

“A waiter approaches. ‘May I get you something?' he asks. ‘Aye, I'll have scotch,' the Scotsman replies. The waiter pours the drink, then turns to the Englishman. ‘And will it be a scotch for you as well?' he asks.

“The Englishman glares at the waiter. ‘Never!' the Englishman says. ‘Why, I'd rather be raped and ravished by bad women than drink scotch whisky!'

“The Scotsman hands the drink back to the waiter.
‘Och,'
he says. ‘I
didnae ken
there wuz a choice!'”

The others, including Duff, laughed.

“Duff, my boy, it looks like the Englishman got you with that one. Do you have one for the English?”

“Aye, 'n 'tis one you might enjoy, Biff, being as you're an old soldier. This one is about the English army in Egypt. I can speak from experience, as I served in the Sahara alongside Englishmen.”

“Careful now, I was with the Sussex Regiment in Egypt,” Hanson said.

“Aye, and 'tis just a coincidence, I'm sure, that the story I'm about to tell is about the Sussex Regiment.” Duff settled in his chair for the telling. “The Sussex Regiment had a large pile of discards in the middle of the Sahara. An English brigadier, with a monocle stuck in his eye”—he made a circle of his thumb and forefinger and held it up to his eye, to the enjoyment of the others—“performed an inspection and gave his report. ‘Improper Security,' he said. ‘I strongly recommend four guards to be utilized so that the discards can be watched over, day and night.'

“So, because the Sussex listens to their brigadiers, they appointed four guards to watch over the trash heap. Then the brigadier said, ‘there are no written orders for the guards to follow.'

“So, the Sussex Regiment created a planning section and staffed it with two corporals to write a set of orders and guidelines.

“The brigadier then pointed out that there were no supervisors to make certain that the guards and the two corporals were doing their jobs properly, so the regiment assigned two sergeants to look over the corporals and the guards.

“The general then pointed out that there was no company of soldiers provided to maintain the facility, so the army provided an entire infantry company with a captain in command, a leftenant as executive officer, a sergeant major, a first sergeant, five sergeants, and five corporals, along with one hundred privates.

“When that was done the brigadier said that the unit was now overstaffed and should cut back on some of its personnel. So, the army eliminated the four guard positions.”

The others laughed.

“Upon my word,” Hanson said. “I do believe that I was the commanding officer of that company.”

After the exchange of a few more stories, Hanson excused himself, explaining that he had some business to take care of at the bank before it closed for the day.

“He seems like a good enough feller,” Elmer said after Hanson left.

“Aye, he does,” Duff agreed.

“What is it with the English and the Scots?” Elmer asked. “Why don't y'all like each other?

“What is it between the group you call Yankees and your Rebels?” Duff replied.

“Damn. You mean y'all fought a war agin one another?”

“Aye,” Duff said. “What the Battle of Gettysburg was to the American Confederacy, the Battle of Flodden was to Scotland.”

“Who won?”

“King James of Scotland was killed. And now, Scotland is part of Great Britain.”

“Sorta like the South is still part of the Union?” Elmer asked.

“You might say that, aye.”

“But you and that feller seem to be gettin' on, all right.”

“Are there any Yankees that you like?”

“Well, yeah, sure. Biff is a Yankee, 'n I like him.”

“The idea of nationality might separate England from Scotland, but individual Englishmen and Scotsmen can transcend that separation to become friends, much like you and Biff.”

“I'll be damned,” Elmer said. “You sure got a way of explainin' things so that folks can understand.”

At that moment someone came running into the saloon. “There's somethin' goin' on down at the bank!” he shouted.

“What is it?” Biff asked.

“It's a bank robbery. Or at least that's how it started out. Only now it's a standoff between Marshal Ferrell and the bank robber, an' that English feller is right in the middle of it.”

“Are you for telling us, lad, that Mr. Hanson is one of the bank robbers?” Duff asked.

“No, he ain't the robber. He's the hostage.”

Several of the patrons of Fiddlers' Green, including Duff and Elmer, rushed out front to see what was going on. At the far end of the block Bill Ferrell, the city marshal, and Hanson were standing in the street in the front of the bank. A man was standing behind Hanson, holding a pistol against the back of his head.

Marshal Ferrell was also holding his pistol, but there was nothing he could do with it under the circumstances. “You may as well put down that gun and give yourself up. You can't get to your horse, and you sure as hell can't walk out of here.”

“You think that was smart, runnin' my horse off, do you? You'd better get me another horse right now, or I'm goin' to kill this here foreign fella,” the bank robber said.

“Then what?” Marshal Ferrell asked.

“What do you mean, then what? He'll be dead.”

“You won't have the advantage anymore, will you?” Ferrell asked calmly. “If you kill him, I'll kill you.”

As Ferrell continued to argue with the bank robber, Duff stepped out to his horse and pulled the Creedmoor rifle from its sheath. He was standing on the side of Sky opposite the three people in the street. Even if the would-be bank robber happened to glance toward Duff, he was far enough away and blocked by his horse. The bank robber wouldn't be able to see what Duff was doing.

He slipped a shell into the chamber, then, using the saddle as a rest, aimed at the bank robber. He put the crosshairs of the scope, not on the bank robber himself, but on the gun the robber was holding, and pulled the trigger.

The loud bang of the rifle rushed down the street at the speed of sound, but the bullet was even faster. It struck the pistol, knocking it out of the bank robber's hand with a spray of blood at the point of impact. The bullet had traumatically amputated two fingers.

The bank robber let out a howl of pain and, grabbing his mutilated right hand with his left, bent over on the street. Hanson moved fast to get out of the way, and Ferrell closed the distance between himself and the would-be thief just as quickly.

Duff, his movement slow and casual, put the rifle back into the saddle holster. Not until then did he walk down to join Marshal Ferrell and the man who, but a moment earlier, had been holding Hanson hostage.

“Nice shot,” Ferrell said.

Duff nodded toward the man holding his bloody left hand over the bleeding stubs of the two fingers that had been shot away. “Better get those fingers bandaged before you lose too much blood.”

“What were you thinkin' shootin' from that far away?” the outlaw shouted. “You coulda kilt me.”

“Nae, if I had wanted to kill you, I would have killed you,” Duff said.

 

 

“I want to thank you for this, Mr. MacCallister,” Hanson said, and although he had been terribly frightened a few minutes earlier, he was able to summon a smile. “I say, I shall never speak harshly of a Scotsman again.”

“
Och
, you'll
nae
be holding me to the same standard, would ye now, Mr. Hanson? For 'tis one of a Scotsman's dearest pleasures to speak ill o' the English.”

Hanson chuckled. “After what you did here today, Mr. MacCallister, you may say anything about the English you want. I may even join you.”

“Sure now 'n dinnae ye be doing that, for what fun would it be to bedevil the English, if an Englishman agrees with me?”

Several had gathered at the scene, including the banker, and they laughed at the banter, as much from relief as from the actual humor.

“Mr. Montgomery, you'll be wanting to take that back into the bank with you, I suppose,” Marshal Ferrell said, pointing to a cloth bag the bank robber had been carrying.”

“Yes, thank you,” the banker replied.

“Come along, you,” the marshal said to the outlaw. “I've got a nice jail cell waiting for you.”

“Jail? What about a doctor?” the bank robber complained. “You heard what this feller said. I got to get my hand looked after.”

“I'll bring the doctor to the jail.”

“Mr. MacCallister, you'll be dining on me tonight. Anywhere you want to go, and anything you want to eat,” Hanson said.

“I think ye kindly for the invitation,” Duff said. “But I've promised a lady friend I would be dining with her.”

“I'll pay for her meal as well,” Hanson said.

Duff smiled. “Well now, as a Scotsman, how can I not be pleased to accept something for free?”

Johnny Dane started killing when he was fourteen. He'd killed a thirteen-year-old girl because she wouldn't dance with him. He killed another girl a year later because she looked away from him when he spoke to her. He had killed six others since then, four women and two men. He had gotten away with it because nobody believed that someone that young could be that evil. But someone had seen him shoot a man in the back when he was seventeen, so he'd had to leave Denver.

A few minutes earlier, he had gone upstairs with one of the saloon girls who worked at the Tiffany House of Pleasure.

“Honey, you don't look old enough to be with a real woman,” Bella said.

“I'm old enough,” Dane said.

“We'll see.” Bella patted the bed she was sitting on.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, a frustrated Dane got up from the bed. “That ain't never happened to me before.”

“Don't worry about it, honey. It happens to lots of men.”

“With you? It happens with you?”

“Yes, lots of times.” With her back to him, Bella sat up on the side of the bed and reached for her camisole. She didn't see him kneel on the bed behind her or pull a knife from his belt. “If you want to try again in a few minutes, you're going to have to pay me for it, because I've got other custo—”

Dane reached around to cup his left hand over her mouth. With the knife in his right hand, he slit her throat, the knife going so deep it sliced through her windpipe. Her warm blood began spilling down over his hand, and he jerked it away so he could look at the terror in her eyes as she died.

“I'm glad to hear you say that it happens with a lot of men who are with you. It just proves that it's your fault, don't it?”

It was early morning, and though most self-respecting roosters had announced the fact long ago, half-a-dozen cocks were still trying to stake a claim on the day. The disc was still hidden by the mountains in the east. The light had already turned from red to white and here and there were signs the people of Chugwater were rising.

A pump creaked as a housewife began pumping water for her morning chores, and somewhere a carpenter had already begun hammering.

After the dinner last night, Duff had decided it was too late to ride back to the ranch, so he had spent the night in town. Awakened by the early morning sounds, he got out of bed and poured a basin of water for his shave.

That finished, he moved over to stand by the open window and looked out onto Clay Street. He heard the clumping of hoofbeats and the rumble and rattle of a couple freight wagons as they rolled slowly down the street, just beginning what would be a daylong journey to Cheyenne. On the wooden porches and boardwalks, shopkeepers were busy sweeping them clean, the better to attract potential customers. A cowboy who had just awakened from a drunken night on the street was wetting his head in a watering trough.

There was a knock on his door. “Duff?”

It was Megan's voice. “Duff, are you awake yet?” she called through the door.

“I'm up.” Without bothering to put on his shirt, he stepped across the room to open the door.

Megan smiled when she saw him. “I'm glad you didn't feel you had to dress for me.”

“You've seen me without a shirt before.”

“And without your pants,” Megan said, her smile broadening.

“Och
, lass, hush now, for 'tis embarrassing me you are, and yourself, too.”

“Duff MacCallister, I am not in the least embarrassed,” Megan said.

He stuck his head out in the hallway, then pulled her in quickly, and shut the door behind her. “Such talk for a public place.”

“It didn't have to be public. You know you could have spent the night with me.”

“And have it be known, not only by the Englishman, but by everyone in town who would see me stepping out of your place in the morning?”

“You mean, as opposed to people seeing me come out of your hotel room, this morning?”

“Och!”
Duff said. “I hadn't thought of that. Woman, have ye no shame?”

“No shame at all,” Megan said as she leaned into him for a kiss.

Standing on the front porch of the hotel when Duff and Megan came down was Hanson. He stretched, then took a deep breath. “Beautiful morning, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's quite a lovely morning,” Megan said.

“I hadn't expected to see you here, Miss Parker, but one can never complain about the company of a beautiful woman. Will you be taking breakfast with us?”

“I will indeed, since we will be discussing the sale of our cattle this morning.”

“I beg your pardon?
Our
cattle?”

“Miss Parker has long been a business partner in the cattle I raise at Sky Meadow,” Duff explained.

“Oh, my. What a delightful surprise to know that I will be doing business, not only with the man who saved my life, but his beautiful lady friend as well.”

Duff, Megan, and Hanson started toward the Tacky Mack Café. As they passed the general store they saw a woman picking through the fruits and vegetables on display on the front porch of the store.

“Good morning, Joanne,” Megan called cheerily.

“Good morning, Megan,” the woman replied. “Oh, I must tell you, when Frank and I went to Cheyenne last week everyone was talking about how beautiful the dress was that you made for me. I just love it so.”

“I'm glad you do,” Megan replied.

“Megan, is there anyone in town you haven't made a dress for?” Duff asked as they continued on up the street.

“I haven't made a dress for everyone,” Megan replied. Then she added, “Yet.”

“You appear to be a most enterprising young lady, Miss Parker,” Hanson said. “You are involved in the cattle business and a seamstress, as well?”

“Oh, Megan is much more than a seamstress,” Duff said. “She owns her own shop and she designs the creations she sells.”

“That's quite impressive,” Hanson said.

Duff smiled. “I got that right, didn't I, Megan? They aren't just dresses, they are
creations.
”

Megan chuckled. “I'm proud of you.”

“Nae, lass, 'tis proud of you, I am.”

Stepping into the Tacky Mack Café, they were met by Rudy York, the proprietor.

“Hello, Duff, Miss Megan. I heard about savin' that foreign fella yesterday. I'll bet he's pretty thankful today.”

“Indeed I am, sir, indeed I am,” Hanson replied.

York looked surprised. “It was you?”

“It was.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean nothin' by that ‘foreign fella' comment.”

“As I am a foreign fellow, there is absolutely nothing offensive in your remark, and no apology is necessary.”

“Rudy, this is Cal Hanson. Mr. Hanson, this is Rudy York. If you don't like the food this morning, he is the one you must blame.”

“Ha!” Megan said. “I've never seen you offer any complaints about Rudy's food.”

“You've got me there, lass,” Duff agreed with a smile.

“Let me escort you to a table,” York offered.

Fifteen minutes later, Megan and Hanson were having a second cup of coffee, and Duff was having another batch of pancakes when two men approached the table. Both of them were wearing suits, and neither of them was wearing a gun. The short, baldheaded man was Charley Blanton, editor of the
Chugwater Defender
. The taller of the two men was Joe Cravens, the mayor of the town.

“Mr. Hanson, as mayor of this town, I would like to officially welcome you to Chugwater, and I thank you for choosing to do business here.”

“And, my Lord Mayor, I would like to express my appreciation for the treatment I have received since arriving in your fair city.”

The mayor chuckled. “Would that include being taken hostage in the attempted bank robbery?”

Hanson chuckled. “I must confess that there were moments when I was concerned as to my future, but thanks to the unerring marksmanship of the Scottish gentlemen here, no harm was done, and it but added to the excitement of the visit.”

“Mr. Hanson, I'm Charles Blanton, editor of our local newspaper. I wonder if you would consent to an interview,” the shorter of the two men asked, extending his hand.

“I would be happy to,” Hanson replied, taking the offered hand.

“Good. If you would, then, just drop by my office when you have finished breakfast. Duff can show you where it is.”

“Would you two be for joining us?” Duff asked.

“No, I thank you kindly for the invitation, but I've city business to attend to,” Mayor Cravens said.

“And I must check on the layout of today's edition,” Blanton said. “We'll leave now, and let you good people enjoy your breakfast in peace.”

“Mr. Hanson and I have had our breakfast, Charley,” Megan said. “You may have noticed that the only thing we're doing now is seeing just how many pancakes Duff can actually eat.”

Blanton, Cravens, and Hanson laughed.

“Here now, 'n I've had no more than eight,” Duff said.

They laughed again.

“They seem to be a couple very nice gentlemen,” Hanson said after the two men left.

“They are interesting men as well,” Duff said. “Joe Cravens, the mayor, is a graduate of West Point.”

“Ah, yes. I am familiar with West Point,” Hanson said. “We learned about it when I attended the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst.”

“Mayor Cravens reached the rank of brigadier, and performed with gallantry in the Civil War.”

“Dare I ask for which side?”

“Aye, for 'tis a good question. Like many other graduates of West Point, Mayor Cravens resigned his commission in the U.S. Army and fought for the South.”

“Charley Blanton owns the newspaper. He was a journalist for the
New York Times
, but he grew weary of city life and came west. We have a mutual connection in New York. He was a very good friend of my kinfolk, Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister, who are quite well-known thespians.”

Finished with pancakes, Duff, Megan, and Hanson stopped by the newspaper office where Hanson would be interviewed by Blanton. Duff had a great deal of respect for the press, and he could almost believe there was something sacrosanct about a newspaper office. He looked around, taking in the editorial bay where Blanton had his desk, the composing room with its tables and drawers of type, and the press room where reposed the steam-powered rotary press, recently purchased to replace the Washington hand press
,
which for many years had been the backbone of western newspapers.

“Oh, Miss Parker, I beg your pardon,” Blanton said. “I had no idea you would be stopping by my establishment. Had I known that, I would have swept the place out and cleaned it up a bit.”

Megan laughed. “Why go to all that trouble? You never have before when I have brought advertising copy by for you. By the way, have you set my latest ad, yet?”

“I have indeed. Would you like to see it?”

“Oh, I wouldn't want to take up your valuable time. I know you want to interview Mr. Hanson.”

“No problem at all. It's over there on the composing table,” Blanton said.

Megan stepped over to look at it.

On either side of the copy was a cut of a dress.

“Yes, Mr. Blanton, that looks very nice,” Megan said.

“It will run in the next five issues,” Blanton said. Then he turned his attention to Cal Hanson.

Although the main part of the interview dealt with the business Hanson was transacting, Blanton also asked him how he felt when he was being held hostage by the would-be bank robber, who was in jail, recovering from his hand wound.

“Well, I would be lying if I didn't say that I was frightened,” Hanson said. “I quite didn't expect the outcome that transpired, that is, to have the gun shot from the hand of the brigand who was holding me captive. The gunshot was from what had to be a considerable distance.”

“We walked it off,” Blanton said. “And we believe that it was about two hundred and fifty yards.”

“An amazing shot. Especially considering that the gun was being held to my head.”