MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy (21 page)
Read MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone,J. A. Johnstone
Tags: #Fiction, #Westerns, #General
“Pig Iron, you got no call to be saying something like that,” one of the other patrons said.
Duff saw the hurt reflected in Lucy’s eyes and, without saying another word, he stepped over to the table of the man who had made the rude comment.
“’Tis thinking, I am, that you’ll be wanting to apologize to the lady for that intemperate remark,” Duff said.
“Ha! You want me to apologize to a whore? In a pig’s eye, I will.”
“Then I’ll be asking you, with all due respect, to move to another table,” Duff said.
By now all conversation in the saloon stopped as everyone looked over to see the confrontation between Duff and the man called Pig Iron.
Pig Iron stood up and smiled at Duff. It was not a smile of humor.
“I heard you tell the bartender that you was goin’ to be movin’ here, so you may as well learn now to mind your manners around ole Pig Iron.”
Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Pig Iron took a swing at Duff, but Duff ducked under it easily. Then, with the extended fingers of his left hand, he jabbed hard at a point in the upper abdomen just below where the ribs separated. It had the effect of knocking the breath out of Pig Iron, and with a wheezing
whoosh
, he stepped back and fell into his chair gasping for breath.
whoosh
, he stepped back and fell into his chair gasping for breath.
“Don’t worry, friend, you will regain your breath,” Duff said. “Sure and I could follow that up with a blow that would render you unconscious. But I think you are uncomfortable enough as it is, and I’ve nae wish to make enemies so quickly in my chosen place of abode. So let us just agree that this episode is over. Do I have your agreement on that?”
Pig Iron was still struggling for breath, and because it was impossible for him to actually talk, he nodded.
“Good. Next time we meet, may I suggest a more convivial exchange?”
Pig Iron nodded again, and Duff returned to the table.
“Damn,” Falcon said with a big smile. “You’ll have to show me that trick sometime.”
“Nothing to it,” Duff said. He put his fingers on Falcon’s solar plexus and made a slight jab. The jab was very gentle, but was enough to show Falcon what a hard jab would do.
“I’ll have to remember that,” Falcon said.
Pig Iron got up and left the saloon as Biff Johnson was bringing a drink for Lucy, even though the girl hadn’t ordered.
“He must know your brand,” Duff said as he paid for the drink.
“That’s not hard. One glass of tea is pretty much like any other glass of tea,” Lucy said with unaccustomed candidness. She picked it up and held it toward Falcon and Duff in a toast. The two men laughed and touched their beers to her glass.
“Well, ’tis an honest lass ye be about me paying whiskey prices for your tea,” Duff said.
“Honey, if everything we drank really was whiskey, we’d all be drunk before mid-afternoon,” Lucy explained.
“Get down!” Falcon suddenly shouted and reacting quickly and without question, Duff dived from his chair onto Lucy, knocking her down and falling on top of her. By the time they reached the floor, he heard the roar of a gunshot, not a pistol, something bigger.
Falcon fired back as Pig Iron pulled the trigger on the second barrel of his twelve-gauge shotgun. Duff saw Pig Iron grab his chest, then fall back. Looking over toward Falcon, he saw a smoking pistol in Falcon’s hand.
“Annie! Oh, my God! Annie!” a woman screamed.
Duff rolled off Lucy and looked over at the table near the back of the room. One of the bar girls was lying on her back, her chest red with blood. Everyone in the room ran to her, but they saw as soon as they arrived that there was nothing they could do.
Lucy began crying quietly.
“I’m sorry, lass, I’m truly sorry,” Duff said softly.
Lucy turned and leaned into him, and he held her as she cried on his shoulder. He pulled her more tightly to him, realizing that it was the first time he had held a woman, any woman, in his arms since his Skye had been killed.
Chapter Twenty-one
Pig Iron was taken back to the Davis Ranch where he worked, and there he was buried. Annie, whose real name turned out to be Matilda Ann Gilbert, was buried in the town cemetery at Chug-water. The entire town turned out for the funeral and for the burial. Biff Johnson, upon learning that Duff not only had bagpipes, but could play them, asked if he would play “Amazing Grace.” Duff agreed to play it, and when he showed up at the cemetery, he was wearing the kilt of the Black Watch, complete with the
sgian dubh
, and the Victoria Cross.
sgian dubh
, and the Victoria Cross.
The townspeople gathered around the open grave as the Reverend E. D. Sweeny of the Chug-water Church of God’s Glory gave the final prayer.
“Our Lord and Savior who is ever mindful of all our sins knows that we all fall short. And it might be said of our sister, Matilda Ann Gilbert, that she fell further than most, but those who knew Matilda Ann know that if she was sinful of the flesh, she was saintly of heart. We know that it is Your way to be forgiving, oh Lord, and we ask You to be forgiving of your daughter and to receive Matilda Ann into your bosom. Amen.”
Reverend Sweeny nodded at Duff and he inflated the bag. The first sound was from the drones. Then, fingering the chanter, Duff began playing the haunting tune, the steady hum of the drones providing a mournful sound to underscore the high skirling of the melody itself. It was beautifully played, and by the time he finished, there were many who were weeping.
After the interment, Falcon and Duff, who was still wearing his kilts, invited Lucy to have lunch with them.
“If we can have it at Fiddler’s Green,” she said. “I know that Biff had the cook do something special today to honor Annie.”
“That’s fine with me,” Falcon replied. “Duff?”
“Aye. I can think of no place I’d rather be right now,” he said.
When they returned to Fiddler’s Green, it was draped in black bunting. A sign on the front said, “I
N MEMORIAM
, M
ALTILDA
A
NN
G
ILBERT
,
OUR
A
NNIE
.”
N MEMORIAM
, M
ALTILDA
A
NN
G
ILBERT
,
OUR
A
NNIE
.”
Biff brought the meal to the table: roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and freshly baked bread. When Duff and Falcon attempted to pay for it, Biff held out his hand and shook his head.
“No. This is for Annie,” he said. “But, if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking my dinner with you as well.”
“We don’t mind at all,” Duff said. “’Tis welcome company you’ll be.”
“I left my plate on the bar. I didn’t want to presume,” Biff said. He stepped back to the bar, then returned with his own plate.
“Tell me, Biff, why do you call this place Fiddler’s Green? Have you fiddlers who play here from time to time?” Duff asked.
“Colonel MacCallister, suppose you tell him about Fiddler’s Green. I know you know what it means.”
“Colonel MacCallister?” Falcon looked across the table at Biff for a moment, then he smiled and snapped his fingers. “You are Sergeant Johnson! You were with Custer at Ft. Lincoln!”
Biff smiled and nodded his head. “I knew you would remember it,” he said. “I was in D troop with Benteen.”
“No wonder you call this place Fiddler’s Green.”
“I still don’t know what it means,” Duff said.
“It’s something the cavalrymen believe,” Falcon said. “Anyone who has ever heard the bugle call ‘Boots and Saddles’ will, when they die, go to a cool, shady place by a stream of sweet water. There, they will see all the other cavalrymen who have gone before them, and they will greet those who come after them as they await the final judgment. That place is called Fiddler’s Green.”
“Do they really believe that?” Lucy asked.
“Why not?” Falcon replied. “If heaven is whatever you want it to be, who is to say that cavalrymen wouldn’t want to be with their own kind?”
“I like the idea,” Duff said.
“Many is the time we went into battle with the promise to a friend to be waiting at Fiddler’s Green,” Biff Johnson said. “I’ve many friends there now, waiting for me, and I’ve no doubt but that Custer and his brother Tom and Captains Calhoun and Keogh are there now.”
“And Isaiah Dorman,” Falcon added.
“Custer’s black scout,” Biff said. “That’s right; he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“He was indeed.”
“’Tis a good thing to hold on to,” Duff said. “I’ve many friends of my own who were killed in battle. Perhaps they have found their way there as well.”
“If they were good men, warriors who died in battle, you need have no doubt about it. My lads will invite them over, to sit and visit,” Biff said.
“I hope they behave like gentlemen when they see Annie,” Lucy said.
“You need not trouble yourself, Lucy,” Biff said. “All in Fiddler’s Green are gentlemen.”
“Tell me what you knew about the lass we buried this morning,” Duff said.
Biff shook his head. “I’m sorry to say that I know very little about her. She came into town on the stagecoach one day, came straight here from the stage depot, and asked me for a job. She was attractive and had a good sense of humor. The men liked her. I was glad to see that the whole town turned out for her funeral, but I wasn’t all that surprised. We are very isolated out here, and to a degree each one of us is dependent upon the other.”
“She was from Memphis,” Lucy said. “She had married into one of the wealthiest families there, but she was raped one night while her husband was out drinking. The rapist was one of her husband’s friends, but her husband blamed her and said he couldn’t live with her anymore because she was soiled. So she decided that if she was going to have the name, she would have the game. She came here with the specific intention of becoming a soiled dove.”
“I thought it might be something like that,” Biff said. “All of you girls had lives before you came here. I’ve never tried to find out, because I’ve always thought that you deserved some privacy.”
“We know that, Mr. Johnson. And we appreciate you respecting us in that way.”
After they finished eating, Duff and Falcon went down to the R. W. Guthrie Lumber and Building Supplies Company. There, they were met by the owner, a short, stout man with a round face and a somewhat oversized nose. Guthrie took Duff and Falcon out into his lumberyard to show them what he had.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ve got everything you might need to build a house, from the studding, to the outside planking, to the inside walls and floor. I’ve got the roof trusses, the roof shingles, doors, and windows. I’ve got all the nails you will need.”
“That is good to know,” Duff said.
“I even have some building plans if you would like to see them.”
“I’ve no wish for something grand. I want to build a one-room cabin.”
“How large?”
“It need not be too large,” Duff said.
“We have plans for one that is fifteen by twenty feet. That will give you three hundred square feet of living space. How does that sound to you?”
“It sounds just right,” Duff said.
“Good, then we’ll start gathering up what you need. Where will you be building this cabin?”
“On my ranch, or what is going to be my ranch,” Duff said. “It is ten miles south of town at the junction between the Bear and the Little Bear creeks.”
Guthrie looked surprised. “Did you say at the junction of the Bear and Little Bear? You are really going to try and settle there, are you?”
“Try? What do you mean by try?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Guthrie said. “That’s really quite a nice piece of land out there. It’s just that . . .”
“Just that what?”
“Well, sir, that’s where the Little Horse mine was.”
“Little Horse mine?”
“Yes, it is an old, abandoned gold mine that was dug by the Spanish more’n a hunnert years ago. There was stories told about it. Some Cheyenne Injuns brought in some gold nuggets to a trading post that they say had been in the tribe for a long time. It was supposed to have been played out, but about ten, maybe fifteen years ago it is said that a man named Elmer Gleason found gold in the mine. He showed up in Denver with a bagful of gold nuggets tryin’ to sell the mine, but he didn’t have no proof that he had got the gold at the Little Horse Mine. There’s all kinds of stories as to where he might have got the gold; some say he picked it up in the Black Hills, some say he got it California during the gold rush of forty-nine. At any rate, nobody bought the mine and Gleason never come back. There don’t nobody know if he is dead or alive, ’cause there ain’t nobody heard anything from or about him since that time. But most folks think maybe he come back to the mine and died. They never found him, but they found a mule, its bones picked clean by buzzards and such. They figure he was kilt, and the critters dragged his bones off.”
“Killed? By who?” Duff asked.
“Don’t nobody know that,” Guthrie said. “And that’s part of the mystery, ’cause you see, there was a couple of fellas, Lonnie Post and Sam Hodges, who went out there to see if there was any gold to be found, and the next thing you know, both of them turned up dead.
“By that time folks was gettin’ just plumb skittish about goin’ out there, gold mine or no gold mine. But Arnold Brown said the whole thing was foolish, and if there was some gold out there, he intended to go find it.”
“Don’t tell me,” Duff said. “Mr. Brown turned up dead as well.”
“Don’t nobody know. Didn’t find a skeleton or nothin’ like that, but ain’t nobody ever heard from him since then. And there ain’t nobody gone out there since. They say the place is hainted. ’Course, I ain’t sayin’ that I believe in haints, you understand. But that is what they say. Some say it wasn’t the Spanish, that it was Injuns that first found the gold, but they was all kilt off by white men who wanted the gold for themselves. But what happened is, after the Injuns was all kilt, they become ghosts, and now they haint the mine and they kill any white man who comes around tryin’ to find the gold. Now, mind, I don’t believe none of that. I’m just tellin’ you what folks says about it.”
“Where is this mine, anyway? We didn’t see anything that looked like a mine,” Falcon said.
“Didn’t you say you was betwixt the Bear and the Little Bear creeks?” Guthrie asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, sir, that mine is just south of the Bear in a butte that you see there. The butte is called Little Horse Butte. It ain’t all that high, a hunnert feet or so, and it’s flat as a table on top.”
“Aye, I remember seeing that,” Duff said.
“The mine is dug into the west end of that butte. You can’t see it from a distance I’m told, but if you get right up close, you can see it real clear.”
“That’s quite an interesting tale,” Duff said.
“But it ain’t goin’ to stop you from goin’ out there, is it?” Guthrie asked.
“No, sir.”
Guthrie chuckled. “I didn’t think it would scare you away. I heard how you handled Pig Iron, and then how he come back in blazin’ away with his shotgun. And I heard how you kilt him, Mr. MacCallister,” he said to Falcon.
“I’m afraid I had no choice,” Falcon said.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. MacCallister. I sure ain’t puttin’ no blame on you. They ain’t likely to be nobody that’ll blame you for it. Truth to tell, and near ’bout ever’one will say this, Chugwater Valley is a heap better off without him. But, I know you didn’t come in here for all this palaverin’,” Guthrie said. “You decided what you want to do, Mr. MacCallister?”
“How much will it cost me to buy enough material to build a cabin?” Duff asked.
“You’re wantin’ the one that’s fifteen by twenty?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be wantin’ a front porch to it? And roof over it, so’s you can sit in the afternoon out of the hot sun?”
“That might be nice,” Duff said.
“I can sell you ever’thin’ you are goin’ to need, supplies and tools, and I’ll ship it out there for you, too—it’s goin’ to take two wagons at least—for . . . ”—Guthrie began figuring on a piece of paper—“a grand total of one hunnert and three dollars and fifty cents,” he said.
“It will take two wagons?”
“Yes, sir, I think so. We might be able to get it all on one wagon, but it would put quite a strain on the wagon and the team.”
“No, two wagons are fine. But I shall have some additional purchases to make and ’tis wondering I am if there might be a little room on one of the wagons.”
“If we use two wagons, there will be plenty of room,” Guthrie said. “You’ll be goin’ over to the mercantile, I take it, so just tell Fred, he’s the owner, Fred Matthews, just tell him to get in touch with me. I’ll see to it that your stuff gets on one of the wagons.”
“Thank you. When I make my additional purchases, I shall so inform the merchant,” Duff said.
Reaching into his pocket, Duff pulled out a wad of money, then began counting it out.
Other books
The Difficulty of Being by Jean Cocteau
City on Fire by Garth Risk Hallberg
Enraptured by Mel Teshco
Fear City by F. Paul Wilson
Harvard Rules by Richard Bradley
Taste It by Sommer Marsden
BlackMoon Beginnings by Kaitlyn Hoyt
Into the Flame by Christina Dodd
Reagan: The Life by H. W. Brands
Shameless by Robards, Karen
