MacCallister, The Eagles Legacy: The Killing

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m tired of dealing with you,” Duff said. Again cocking his pistol, he held it up to Crocker’s forehead. “If you aren’t going help me, I’ll just kill you here and now and go on my way.”

  “No, no!” Crocker said. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with takin’ your satchel!”

  Duff let the hammer down and put the pistol back in his holster. “Satchel? Who said anything about a satchel?”

  “I don’t know what made me say that.”

  “So far, you haven’t made me angry,” Duff said. “But I believe I’m about to be angry.”

  “Son of a bitch!” one of the other card players said. “If he ain’t been angry so far, I wonder what he’s like when he really gets angry!”

  “You’re about to find out,” Duff said. Again he pulled his pistol. “I’m going to shoot your fingers off, one at a time, until you tell me what I want to know.”

  Duff pointed the pistol directly at Crocker’s crotch. “After I shoot off your pecker,” he said.

  “No! Wait! Wait! His name was Kingsley. Crack Kingsley!”

  “Crack Kingsley was here?” Deputy Archer said.

  “Do you know this man Kingsley?” Duff asked the deputy.

  Archer shook his head. “I’ve never seen him, but we have some paper on him. He’s wanted for murder. Are you saying Crack Kingsley was in town?”

  “He was here,” Crocker said. “Only he was tellin’ ever’one that his name was Carl Butler.”

  “Carl Butler? You mean the fella that was buying livestock for the Kansas City Cattle Exchange?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah,” Crocker said. “Only he wasn’t buyin’ no livestock. He was just sayin’ that so he could stay in town ’til MacCallister come through with his money.”

  “How did he know I would be here?” Duff asked.

  “I don’t know, he never told me that.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know that, either. I just know he give me a hundred dollars to give him a signal when I seen you comin’ up the street.”

  “How did you recognize me? We’ve never met.”

  “It was easy. He said you would probably be the only one carryin’ a satchel.”

  Kingsley sat on his horse on top of a ridge and looked down on the little ranch before him. The house, barn, and smokehouse looked well cared for, evidence that the ranch was well run. That also meant that there would be meat in the smokehouse and probably an ample supply of flour, coffee, and beans, everything he would need for an extended stay on the trail. He planned to stay on the trail because he had no intention of going back to Kansas City to share the money with Denman.

  Kingsley rode down to the ranch house where he saw a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, drawing water from the well. So intent was she upon her task that she didn’t see Kingsley until the pail of water was sitting on the rim of the well; she picked it up to transfer it into the empty water bucket she had brought outside.

  “Oh! Sir! I did not see you!” the girl said.

  “Where’s your pa, girl?” Kingsley asked.

  “He has gone into town, and he won’t be back until late this afternoon,” the girl said. “You’ll have to come back then.”

  “Will I, now?” Kingsley said, smiling as he dismounted.

  “Ellie Mae, come into the house,” an older woman called from the back porch.

  “Yes, mama,” Ellie Mae said and, holding the water pail with both hands, she started back toward the house.

  “Here,” Kingsley said. “Let me get that for you.”

  Before Ellie Mae could protest, Kingsley took the pail from her, then walked quickly toward the house.

  “You don’t have to do that, Mister,” Ellie Mae’s mother said. “She is quite capable of carrying the water herself.”

  “Here, now, I’m just tryin’ to be nice,” Kingsley said. “I’m in need of some supplies. I thought maybe I could get them here. Bacon, flour, coffee, sugar, beans. I’d be glad to pay you top price for them.”

  “There is a store in town, no more than five miles from here,” the woman said. “I’m sure they’ll have everything you might want. Don’t come any closer. You can put the water down there and go on, now.”

  Ellie Mae stepped up onto the porch and stood alongside her mother.

  “Is that any way to treat a guest?” Kingsley asked. “Like I told you, I’m willin’ to pay for anythin’ that I take.”

  Kingsley took another step closer, then was shocked when he saw the woman pull her hand out of the folds of her dress. She was holding a pistol.

  “I told you to go on,” she said. “Go on, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Could I at least fill my canteen with water?”

  “All right. But go back to the well to do it.”

  “I’ll just get my canteen off my horse,” Kingsley said.

  Kingsley walked back to his horse, then stepped around behind it as he made a big show of getting his canteen. Then, suddenly, his hand appeared over the top of the saddle, and he was holding a pistol.

  “Mama!” Ellie Mae shouted, but her warning was too late.

  When Todd Raymond came back home from town late that afternoon, he had a big bag hanging from the pommel of his saddle.

  “Julie! Ellie Mae! Harley!” he called. “How come none of you came to meet me? Wait until you see what I bought for all of you!”

  Todd dismounted, removed the bag from the saddlehorn, and started toward the house. That was when he saw them. Julie was lying on her back on the porch, and Ellie Mae was on her stomach on the ground.

  “God!” Todd shouted. “God! No! No! No!”

  At eleven-thirty that same night, Duff MacCallister was standing on the depot platform waiting for the train to come in. He had checked the blackboard frequently for the latest information on the train, which was updated by telegraph as the train passed each of the stations en route. The most recent intelligence indicated that the train was running about fifteen minutes late.

  During the day, he had learned as much information as he could about Crack Kingsley. As Deputy Archer had said, the marshal’s office had received Wanted posters on him that not only provided a detailed description of his appearance, but also listed all the crimes for which he was wanted, including train robbery, stagecoach robbery, bank robbery, and murder.

  Crack Kingsley rode with Doc Jennison and the Jayhawkers in the Missouri-Kansas border war prior to, and during the Civil War. He took part in several depravities during that time. He is known to have a fondness for the cigars known as Long-Nines. He is seldom to be seen without one. It is his habit to smoke no more than one half of the cigar before he discards it.

  When the train arrived, Duff waited until it stopped, then he moved forward to the stock car to watch as the animals were offloaded.

  “I brought Rebel, too,” a familiar voice said and turning toward the voice, Duff saw Elmer.

  “Elmer, what are you doing here?”

  “You did say you ran into a bit of a problem, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, you might say that.”

  “Then I figured I would come along too. Anytime someone is havin’ a problem, it’s always good to have help in gettin’ it took care of. So that’s what I aim to do. I aim to help you get this problem, whatever it is, took care of.”

  “You’re a good man, Elmer Gleason,” Duff said.

  “There’s Rebel,” Elmer said.

  Rebel came down the ramp first, followed by Sky. Neither horse was saddled, though the saddles were on the train, having been sent as baggage.

  Half an hour later, the two men had their horses boarded and their saddles stowed.

  “I’m staying at a hotel just up the street here,” Duff said. “I’m sure there is another room on the same floor.”

  “A bed would feel good,” Elmer said. “The trip was long.”

  The two men walked quietly up the street for another moment before Elmer spoke again.

  “Wel
l, are you goin’ to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” Duff asked.

  “What this bit of trouble is that you got yourself into.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “I was robbed,” Duff said.

  “Robbed?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, how much did they get?”

  “Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars and fifty cents,” Duff said.

  “Whew,” Elmer said. “Yeah, I would say you are right in saying that you had a bit of trouble. Who did it? Or do you know?”

  “It was a man named Crack Kingsley.”

  “Crack Kingsley? Are you sure it was Crack Kingsley?”

  “Yes. Why, have you heard of him?”

  “Oh, yes, I know the son of a bitch. He rode with Doc Jennison during the war.”

  “Yes, I read that in the report at the marshal’s office that he rode with Doc Jennison. I wasn’t sure what that meant.”

  “Crack Kingsley and I both grew up in Clay County, Missouri.”

  “So, you were friends?”

  “We know’d each other, but I’d hardly call the son of a bitch a friend. When the war started, we had boys from the county who joined the South and some who joined the North, in some cases brother against brother. Those men we could understand. But what Kingsley done was even worse. He went over into Kansas and started ridin’ with the Jayhawkers. They would raid into Missouri taking everything, robbing the houses of bed and clothing, taking all the horses, cattle, sheep, oxen, and wagons they could find. They killed every man between the ages of fifteen and seventy-five, then they tore the clothing off the women and raped them.” Elmer was quiet for a moment. “One day, Kingsley led a group of men into Clay County. They hit a farmhouse ... the Dumey place. They killed Mr. and Mrs. Dumey, then they raped and killed a young woman named Alma. We were to have been married.

  “I went after the bastards, and I’m happy to say that I caught up with most of them and I killed them. But not Kingsley. Kingsley got away.”

  “Then I would be accurate in saying that you have your own reasons for pursuing him,” Duff said.

  “Yeah, my own reasons,” Elmer said.

  “In that case, Elmer, I shall welcome your company.”

  Duff and Elmer were having their breakfast in the hotel dining room the next morning when Deputy Archer came in. Archer stood in the doorway for a moment, looking around the room until he spotted Duff. Seeing him, Archer strode purposefully toward his table.

  “Good morning, Deputy,” Duff said. “This is my friend, Elmer Gleason. Won’t you join me for breakfast? Perhaps a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you, I don’t have time, and I don’t reckon you will either, after you hear what I have to say.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve got a report on Kingsley, the fella you are looking for. There is someone over at the marshal’s office I think you might want to talk to.”

  Duff had just about finished his breakfast, so the tossed down the last of his coffee, then stopped at the counter to pay for it before he and Elmer followed Archer out of the hotel and down the street to the marshal’s office. There were four people in the marshal’s office: Marshal Bivens, a man wearing the liturgical garb of a minister, another man, and a boy. The man looked to be about forty, the boy about ten. Though the boy was not crying out loud, a steady stream of tears was running down his cheeks. The man had as sad a face as Duff had ever seen.

  “Hello, Mr. MacCallister,” Marshal Bivens said when Duff and the deputy stepped into the office. “This is Todd Raymond and his boy Harley. When Mr. Raymond got back home yesterday afternoon, he found his wife and his young daughter, both of them shot to death. The boy saw it all, and had sense enough to stay hidden until the killer left.”

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Raymond,” Duff said.

  Raymond nodded, but said nothing.

  “Now, here is why I sent for you,” Bivens said. “The boy gave us an excellent description of the killer. The description is a perfect match for the man we knew as Carl Butler, but who we now know is Crack Kingsley.”

  “Lad, if it not be a trouble to you, would you be for describing him to me?” Duff asked.

  The boy looked at his father.

  “It’s all right, Harley. Tell him what you saw.”

  “He looks like a haint,” Harley said. “He is tall, but he is very skinny. His face, it is narrow here,” he put his hands on either side of his mouth, “but it is wide here. He has a cut, a big, ugly cut, that starts on this eye.” He put his finger just outside his right eye, then paused for a moment. “No, that is because I was looking at him. He has a cut that starts at this eye,” he put his hand to his left eye, “and it runs down to here where it turns back up. It looks like a fishhook.”

  “A cut? You mean a scar?”

  “Yes, a scar.”

  “That is the man who stayed here in town for a few days,” Bivens said. “As I say, we knew him as Butler, but according to Crocker, his real name is Crack Kingsley.”

  “Go on, son, you are doing very well,” Duff said.

  “I was in the kitchen when mama told the man to go away. The man went back to his horse and I thought he was going to go away, like Mama told him to, but when he got to his horse, he pulled out his gun and he shot both Mama and Ellie Mae. I ...” the boy stopped, and before he could speak again, he started crying, so that he was sobbing the last few words.

  “I wanted to go out and help Mama and Ellie Mae, but I was too afraid. I am a coward!”

  “No, son, you are far from being a coward,” Duff said. “There is nothing you could have done then, and if you had tried, you would have gotten yourself killed. You did the right thing. You looked very closely so you could describe him, and now we know who did it.”

  “Mr. MacCallister is right,” Marshal Bivens said. “You did exactly what you were supposed to have done. Todd, you should be very proud of your boy.”

  Todd put his arm around his son and drew him closer to him. “I am proud of him, Marshal. I am prouder than I can say.”

  “I hope they catch him,” Harley said. “I hope they catch him and I hope they hang him. And when they do hang him, I want to be there to watch.”

  “Oh, I will catch him,” Duff said.’

  “You will catch him?” Harley asked.

  “Yes, sir, I will catch him. You can count on that.”

  “Good,” Harley said.

  “Mr. Raymond, if you don’t mind, when you go back to your ranch, I would like to go back with you and have a look around,” Duff said.

  “I don’t mind at all,” Todd Raymond replied.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “He rode off this way,” Elmer said, pointing south as he and Duff examined the signs at the Raymond farm.

  Leaving the Raymond place, Duff and Elmer started south. After about fifteen minutes, Duff spotted something on the trail ahead of them and hurrying toward it, he dismounted to examine it more closely. It was a half-smoked cigar.

  Elmer dismounted as well, and holding the cigar to his nose, he sniffed a couple of times.

  “Half a day old,” he said.

  Remounting, they continued to track Kingsley. He wasn’t moving very fast, evidently confident that he had gotten away cleanly. At nightfall they camped out on the trail, thinking that would be better than to continue on and lose his trail in the darkness.

  They followed the trail for another day and night; then the next morning, they came across a railroad track that was running south. It quickly became obvious that Kingsley was following the track.

  “If he gets into Lincoln, he could catch a train to just about any place in the country,” Elmer said.

  “Then we need to step up the pace a bit so we can catch up to him before he gets on the train,” Duff suggested.

  “Since we know where he’s a-goin’, there ain’t no real need to be trailin’ him no more,” Elmer said. “So I don’t see n
o reason why we can’t just go on ’bout as fast as the horses will let us go,” Elmer said.

  When Kingsley was about a mile away from Lincoln, he dismounted, took down the briefcase, then slapped the horse on its rump and sent it running. If anyone was following him, that might throw them off the track. It had been his experience that men on the run were often identified by the horses they were riding. Besides, this was a stolen horse, and though he thought time and distance probably made it improbable that he would be picked up for riding a stolen horse, it was foolish to take the chance, especially since he was carrying as much money as he was.

  Just before Kingsley got to Lincoln, he saw an old abandoned house, and he stepped inside. The house, which was constructed of unfinished, rip-sawed lumber, was fading badly. It consisted of one room, the floor covered with about an inch of dirt. At one time the walls had been papered, but what paper there was now hung in long, ragged, colorless strips. There was no furniture. Upon examining the place, Kingsley found a loose board in the wall and, pulling it out, was able to slip the briefcase behind it, after first removing one thousand dollars.

  After hiding the briefcase, Kingsley walked the rest of the way into town. Because he was hungry, he stopped at the first restaurant he saw, a place called Kirby’s Café. Inside, he took a small table next to the wall, then lit a cigar as he waited.

  “Yes, sir, what can I get for you?” a waitress asked.

  Kingsley enjoyed a meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy. Then, grounding out his cigar butt, left the café and walked across the street to the Cow Lot Saloon.

  Loomis Byrd was in the back of the Cow Lot Saloon when he saw a familiar figure come in through the front door. It took him only a moment to recall who it was and, getting up from the table, he walked up to the bar just as Kingsley got there.

  “It’s been a long time, Kingsley,” Byrd said.

  Startled at hearing his name called, Kingsley turned to man who had spoken to him. The expression on his face indicated a lack of recognition.