Carnage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

Durango, Colorado

  Johnny Pollard was standing at the end of the bar of the Bull’s Head saloon. Johnny was a cowboy who rode for the Twin Peaks Ranch. Today was his twenty-first birthday, and he was trying to talk Belle LaForge into giving him a free visit.

  “Johnny, if I gave you a free visit for your birthday, everyone would be wanting a free visit for their birthday,” Belle replied. “You can see that, can’t you?”

  “How about if you give me a special deal? Like maybe fifty cents off?”

  “How about if she just teaches you a few tricks, cowboy?” one of the other bar girls asked. “That way, you might learn something, then the rest of us might enjoy bedding you more.”

  Those within the sound of the conversation laughed, and Johnny blushed.

  “I’m young,” Johnny said. “I’m still learnin’.”

  Two blocks down the street from the Bull’s Head, someone saw the gunfighter, Amos Drew, ride into town. The albino wasn’t hard to pick out; his hair was white, his skin was without color, and his eyes were pink. It was said that he had killed at least ten men, though some insisted that the count was as high as twenty.

  Drew didn’t ride into town like any ordinary visitor. He was wearing a long duster. That in itself was not unusual, because many riders wore dusters on the trail. But Drew wore his duster pulled back and hooked over his pistol, enabling him to get to it quickly, if need be. And because he was a man who lived on the edge, he was always aware that someone might try to kill him, either to avenge one of his earlier killings, or to make a name for himself as the one who killed Amos Drew. As he rode into town, his eyes swept the top-floor windows and rooflines of every building on both sides of the street, ever watchful of potential assassins.

  He stopped in front of the Bull’s Head, one of the wilder saloons of the town. The Bull’s Head was known for bad women and even worse whiskey. Drew took off his duster and shook the dirt from it before he draped it over his saddle. Then, slapping his hands against his shirt a few times, and raising a cloud of dust by so doing, he stepped up onto the wooden porch and pushed his way in through the batwing doors.

  A piano player was grinding away in the back of the saloon, and two of the saloon girls were leaning on the piano, singing, not for the customers, but for themselves. There were nearly a dozen customers in the saloon; three of them were at the bar, the other three sharing a table. One of the men at the bar was a young cowboy, and he was talking with a pretty, but rather garishly made-up young woman.

  “Whiskey,” Drew said.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Drew, whatever you say,” the barkeep replied nervously. “Nothing is too good for Mr. Amos Drew. With hands that were shaking so badly that he got as much whiskey out of the glass as in it, he poured Drew a drink. When he picked up the glass it began shaking again, so, quickly, he put the glass down on the bar, then pushed it across.

  Johnny heard the bartender address Drew, and that got his attention. “Did you hear that?” he asked Belle.

  Belle had tensed up the moment Drew came into the saloon.

  “That there is Amos Drew.”

  “Come on upstairs with me, Johnny,” Belle said. “I’ll give you your birthday present now.”

  “Just a minute,” Johnny said. “I’d like to meet him.”

  “Johnny, stay away from him,” Belle said. “Please.” She put her hand on Johnny’s arm in an attempt to get him to go with her, but he paid no attention to it.

  “Are you Amos Drew?” Johnny asked.

  Drew made only a casual glance toward the cowboy, then, almost as if he hadn’t even seen him, he took a drink of his whiskey.

  “You’re a famous man, Mr. Drew,” the young cowboy said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Drew took another drink. “Go away. Leave your woman,” he said without looking back toward the young cowboy.

  Johnny got a confused look on his face. “What? What did you say?”

  “It’s been a while since I had me a woman. I want that one.”

  “Well, I—uh—that is, she ain’t exactly my woman. She works here.”

  Frightened, the woman put her hand on the young cowboy’s shoulder. “Come on, Johnny, please. Your birthday present?”

  The young cowboy smiled nervously. “Well, Mr. Drew, I reckon you are goin’ to have to find someone else. It seems that Belle and I have our own plans. Today is my birthday, you see.”

  “Find another woman to celebrate your birthday. I want this woman.”

  “I don’t care what you want,” Belle said, somehow finding the nerve to speak in a firm voice. “I’m not going with you.”

  “You’re a whore, ain’t you? You have to go with anyone who pays you,” Drew said.

  “I don’t have to go with you, you maggot-looking son of a bitch,” she said coldly.

  The piano player stopped the music, and everyone in the saloon gasped at Belle’s words.

  The evil smile left Drew’s face. “Cowboy,” he said, “you had better teach your woman some manners.”

  Johnny laughed nervously. “Mister Drew, you obviously don’t know Belle. She ain’t the kind of woman you can teach anything to.”

  “Slap her in the face.”

  “What?” the young cowboy sputtered. “What do you mean ‘slap her in the face’?”

  “You can speak English can’t you? The woman insulted me. So what I want you to do is, slap her in the face and make her apologize to me for what she said. And you might also tell her to beg me not to kill you.”

  “Look here! This is gettin’ way out of hand! I ain’t goin’ to slap no woman in the face, and I ain’t goin’ to stand here and talk to you no more, neither. So I’m just goin’ to walk away now!”

  “Slap her in the face and make her apologize, cowboy. Or go for your gun,” Drew said.

  “Mr. Drew, the boy is right, he didn’t have nothin’ to do with this,” the bartender said.

  Without even looking at the bartender, Drew backhanded him with his left hand. The startled bartender stepped away from the bar, his nose bleeding from the blow.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Belle said. “There, I’ve apologized! I’m the one who spoke to you like that. Please don’t hurt these men.”

  “It’s too late now, the ball has been opened. Besides which, you ain’t been slapped yet.” He pointed to Drew. “This is the one I’m talking to. What do you say, cowboy? Are you going to slap that woman, like I told you to?”

  “Johnny, do it,” Belle pleaded. “Please do it! Can’t you see that he’s crazy? He’ll kill you if you don’t do it.”

  “I can’t slap you, Belle.”

  “Please do it!” Belle said. She turned her cheek to him. “It ain’t like I ain’t never been slapped before.”

  “Better listen to your woman, Johnny,” Drew said. “If you don’t want me to kill you, you’d better slap her.”

  “The hell I will!” Johnny said. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let the likes of you make me slap a woman.”

  “Johnny, please!” Belle said. “Do it. I’ll go with him.”

  “Not yet, missy. Not till I’ve dealt with your boyfriend.”

  Johnny held his hand out, gently pushing Belle out of the way. “Better step aside, Belle,” he said. “Looks like there’s goin’ to be some shootin’, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Johnny, no! What are you going to do? You can’t go against him! Don’t you know who this is?” the bartender said.

  “Yeah, I know who the son of a bitch is.”

  “He’ll kill you!” the bartender warned.

  “Better to die a man than live a coward. I ain’t apologizin’ to this low-assed, piss-complexioned, pig-faced son of a bitch, and I ain’t beggin’ him not to kill me. Ever’body has got to die sometime. Could be this is his time.”

  Drew’s evil smile returned. “Could be,” he agreed. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “Just to make it fair, I’m going to let you draw first.”

  Outside, so
me children were engaged in a game of some sort, and they were laughing and shouting to each other. A stagecoach rolled into town, the driver calling and whistling to his team. How detached Johnny felt from that world now—how much he wished he was a part of it. He thought back to this morning, waking up in the bunkhouse, teasing Jimmy Bob about some foolishness, shouting to the rooftop that he was twenty-one years old. Was that just this morning? Or was that a lifetime ago?

  “I’m going to count to three, cowboy,” Drew said. “You can draw anytime you want, but when I get to three, you had better draw because I’m going to. One,” he started.

  “Johnny, Mr. Drew, you don’t have to do this,” the bartender said.

  “Two.”

  “Johnny, please, don’t do this!” Belle called.

  Johnny suddenly made a desperate grab for his gun, but it was only halfway out of his holster when Drew’s gun boomed, filling the room with its fire and thunder. A heavy discharge of smoke rolled up, forming an acrid, blue-white cloud over the scene.

  Johnny had not drawn his pistol far enough to clear it, and when he was hit, the gun fell back into the holster. Johnny staggered back against the bar, then slid down to the sitting position. He cupped his hand over the pumping chest wound, and blood began to spill between his fingers.

  “It’s funny,” he said. “When I woke up this mornin’, I sure never thought I’d be dyin’ on my birthday.”

  Johnny’s head sagged to one side.

  “You,” Drew said, looking toward Belle. “I need a woman.”

  “Do you think I would go upstairs with you now, after this? After you murdered . . .”

  Drew held up his finger and wagged it back and forth. “I didn’t murder him,” he said. “It was a fair fight. And if you had gone with me when I first asked, this wouldn’t have happened. What did it gain you? Now your boy-friend is dead and you are still going to go upstairs with me.”

  “The hell I am!” Belle said defiantly.

  Drew had not reholstered his smoking pistol, and he pointed it toward the bartender, then pulled the hammer back. It made a deadly sounding double click as it engaged the sear and rotated the cylinder, putting a fresh load under the firing pin. “Do you want to be the cause of another man dying?”

  “Belle, go with him, please!” the bartender pleaded.

  Without saying a word, but with tears of grief, fear, and frustration streaming down her face, Belle turned and started toward the stairs that led to the second floor. The others in the saloon stared at the unfolding scene in shocked silence.

  Falcon MacCallister had ridden over to Durango from nearby MacCallister Valley to bring a pair of boots to Murchison’s Boots and Saddle. Tim Murchison was the best leather worker he had ever met, and it was worth the ride. He was just arriving in front of the leather shop when he heard the shot. Shots were not that uncommon, so he thought nothing about it as he dismounted and reached for his boots.

  Tim came out onto the front porch of his shop and smiled.

  “Falcon, good to see you.”

  At that moment, someone came running up the boardwalk from the Bull’s Head saloon.

  “There’s been a murder! There’s been a murder!”

  “Marty, what is it?” Tim asked.

  “Amos Drew just kilt Johnny Pollard. He’s goin’ to say that it was a fair fight, but there wan’t nothin’ fair about it. He pushed Johnny into drawin’ on him, then he said he was goin’ to kill the bartender if Belle didn’t go upstairs with him. I’m goin’ to get the sheriff.”

  “Sheriff Ferrell and his deputy are both out of town right now,” Tim replied.

  “Somethin’ has got to be done. Drew is a crazy man. I wouldn’t doubt but he’ll kill the girl once he’s through with her.”

  “I’ll go have a look,” Falcon said.

  “Falcon, you don’t have to do that,” Tim said. “You don’t live here; I do. And from time to time Sheriff Ferrell deputizes me, so if anyone goes it should be me.”

  “Are you a deputy now?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Then I’ll go,” Falcon insisted.

  “It’s this way,” Marty said.

  Falcon tossed his boots to Tim. “I need new heels,” he said.

  “Falcon, you don’t need to do this,” Tim said again.

  “And don’t make them too high,” Falcon called back over his shoulder as he followed Marty toward the saloon.

  “Is Drew still there?” Falcon asked.

  “As far as I know he is. He went upstairs with Belle.”

  When Falcon stepped into the saloon a minute later, he saw everyone else, the men patrons, as well as the piano player and the bargirls, standing in a semicircle, looking down at the body. The cowboy was still in the upright position, leaning against the bar. Both hands were down by his side; one of his hands was bloody, as was the front of his shirt. His eyes were open and glazed, and his mouth was half open.

  “Is the man that did this still here?” Falcon asked.

  “Who are you?” the bartender replied.

  “Percy, this here is Falcon MacCallister. I reckon you’ve heard of him,” Marty said.

  “Yeah, you’re damn right I’ve heard of him. And if anyone can handle Drew, why I reckon it would be him. Drew’s still here. He’s upstairs,” the bartender said, glancing toward the head of the stairs.

  From upstairs, Falcon could hear the sound of a woman’s voice.

  “No,” she said. “Please, for God’s sake, no!”

  “What room?”

  “Belle’s room is the first one on the right at the head of the stairs, Mr. MacCallister,” one of the other girls said.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Falcon replied.

  Falcon went up the stairs quietly, his pistol in his hand. When he reached the room he tried the door, but it was locked. He knocked on the door.

  “Go away!” a man’s voiced called from inside.

  “I have clean towels,” Falcon announced.

  “We don’ need no damn towels!” the same voice answered.

  “It’s the law. You have to have clean towels.”

  Falcon heard someone walking across the floor toward the door, and he stepped back with his pistol ready. When the door was open, Drew was holding a gun in his hand.

  “I told you I don’t want any . . .”

  Falcon, who was standing to one side, reached out to grab Drew’s hand. He jerked forward, toward the banister. Drew spun around to bring his pistol to bear on his attacker, but instead he lost his balance, then blundered through the banister and fell, head down, onto the piano below. The piano made a large discordant sound as Drew crashed into it. He slid from the piano on down to the floor and lay there with one leg still on the piano bench. His neck was twisted crazily to one side; his eyes were open but already growing opaque.

  Falcon holstered his pistol and hurried down the stairs. Amos Drew had not moved since he fell. The bartender examined him.

  “It’s all right, folks,” the bartender said. “The son of a bitch is dead.”

  The others in the saloon cheered and applauded.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sorrento, Texas

  Harold Denham, Dr. Gunter, and Eb Smalley were sharing a table in the Hog Heaven saloon. Denham was a small man, who was hatless and bald except for a ring of thin, gray hair. He was wearing glasses, which had the effect of making his eyes look larger than they were. Dr. Gunter was in his early sixties, very slender, with white hair and a well-trimmed white beard.

  “That was quite an article you wrote, Harold,” Doc Gunter said. “And knowing Albert Russell, it isn’t hard to imagine that he would do something like that.”

  “I just wish the people who talked to me would testify in court.”

  “What good would it do?” Doc Gunter asked. “You know as well as I that Theodore Dawes isn’t a judge who lets truth get in the way.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true.”

  “There’s one of Poindexter’s deput
ies now,” Smalley said, nodding toward the front door.

  The deputy that Smalley pointed out was Stan Sharp, who had just come into the Hog Heaven saloon. “All right, ladies!” he shouted. “It’s that time again!”

  “It hasn’t been a month, Sharp,” Beeson, the owner of the Hog Heaven, said.

  “It ain’t my call,” Sharp said. “This is the doin’ of the sheriff, the judge, and the prosecutor. Let’s go, ladies.”

  There were four bar girls working the floor.

  “How much is it goin’ to cost us this time?” one of the woman asked. “Ten dollars, same as before?”

  “How the hell do I know? I don’t make up the fines. I just bring you in when it’s time.”

  “You have to give us time to get our money,” one of the others said.

  “All right, get your money. Anyone upstairs?”

  The four girls looked at each other, then one of them replied. “Uh, yeah, Suzi is. She is upstairs with a—uh—gentleman friend.”

  “Well, roust her out, and you ladies report to the courthouse. I’m goin’ to round up the others.”

  The deputy went back outside as the four girls hurried up the stairs.

  “What do you think this is all about?” a man named Travers asked. Travers was sitting at the table adjacent to Denham, Doc Gunter, and Smalley’s table.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Denham asked. “How long have you been here? It’s been at least a month, ain’t it?”

  “It will be three weeks Monday since I bought the feed and seed store.”

  “Oh, well I guess in that case you’ve never been here for the roundup,” Dr. Gunter suggested.

  “The roundup? No, I don’t reckon I have. That is, I don’t know what you mean by the roundup.”

  “Then I shall explain it to you, my boy,” Denham said. “You see, once a month every whore in town is rounded up, and the sheriff hauls them into court. The judge finds them guilty of prostitution and sentences them to thirty days in jail, or a ten-dollar fine. They of course—the whores I mean—choose to pay the fine. Then, as soon as they pay their fine, they are free to leave, free to return to their perfidious profession, prostituting, purveying pornographic pictures, pimping, providing parsimonious pleasure, pitiful policy permitted only because of the lack of any sort of justice in our county.”