Pride of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s exactly what we are doin’,” Johnny answered. “There ain’t none of this about my brother.” Johnny carved off a piece of rabbit.

  “What do you mean there ain’t none of this about your brother?” Pete asked. “It’s all about your brother.”

  “No, it ain’t,” Johnny said. He blew on the meat a few times, cooling it, before he took a bite.

  “Then what is it about?”

  “It’s about the same thing it’s always been about,” Johnny said. “It’s about robbin’ the bank. You see, the thing is, we keep hittin’ ’em about my brother, pretty soon they’re goin’ to forget all about the bank. So even though we’ve robbed it before, we’ll be able to walk in there a second time just as pretty as you please. There won’t nobody in town be expectin’ us to come back.”

  * * *

  The topics of conversation in the Gold Strike were Tooey Keith and Troy Garrison.

  “I don’t know if any of you gentlemen remember the time that cowboy from the Double X dropped a quarter into the spittoon and told Tooey he could have it if he would stick his hand down in the spittoon to get it out,” Nye said.

  “Yeah,” Sylvester said. He chuckled. “At first, I was pissed off at the cowboy for doin’ something like that. I started to say something too, but Tooey just held up his hand, as if tellin’ me to wait. Then, he emptied the spittoon and cleaned it out before he got the quarter back.”

  “Yes,” Nye said, laughing. “The cowboy got real mad, and tried to take his quarter back. He said Tooey didn’t do what he was supposed to do.”

  “That’s when you told the cowboy you was a lawyer and that in your opinion Tooey had fulfilled his end of the contract,” Clyde said.

  “The cowboy just looked real strange and said, ‘What contract?’ ” Sylvester said, laughing. “Then you told him—what was it exactly that you told him?”

  “I simply told him,” Nye said, picking up the story from there, “that his offer constituted a verbal contract, enforceable in any court in the land. And that his contract stated only that Tooey was to stick his hand down into the spittoon. It said nothing about sticking his hand into the mess.”

  “That cowboy looked like he had been shot,” Clyde said. “You know, I do believe it was his last quarter.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Sylvester said. “I know he didn’t spend another dime in here that night.”

  Sylvester, Clyde, and Nye laughed as they recalled the cowboy’s reaction to the joke that had backfired.

  “Troy Garrison was a good man too,” Clyde said.

  “I didn’t know Mr. Garrison that well,” Sylvester said.

  “I knew him really well. We worked together,” Clyde said.

  “Yes, I knew he worked down at the rolling mill, but I don’t know that I ever saw him come in here.”

  Clyde shook his head. “No, and you wouldn’t,” he said. “Garrison was a teetotaler.”

  Sylvester nodded. “That would explain it, I reckon.”

  “He was from Missouri, and his father was a drunk. His father used to beat him up when he was a kid. He used to beat up his mother too. Then one day, after his father half-killed his mother, Troy picked up a shotgun and blew his father away,” Nye said.

  “Damn! I never knew that,” Clyde said. “I mean I saw him every day, and I never knew that.”

  “No,” Nye said. “Nobody in town knew it. Mr. Garrison came to me a couple of years ago, and said he wanted to get it off his chest. He asked me if I thought he should go back to Missouri and confess.”

  “What did you tell him?” Sylvester asked.

  “I told him to just leave it be, and that if anything ever came of it, I would defend him pro bono.”

  “Pro bono? What does that mean?” Clyde asked.

  “It means I would defend him for free.”

  “How old was Garrison when he did that?” Sylvester asked.

  “I think he told me he was fifteen.”

  “That’s a hell of a burden for a fifteen-year-old to have to carry around with him.”

  “Yes, it is. He left home immediately after it happened, then started wandering around until he wound up here. He never went home again,” Nye said.

  “Hell of a way for him to wind up,” Sylvester said. “Facedown in the alley like that.”

  “At least he wasn’t married,” Nye said. “It would have been even more tragic if he left a widow behind.”

  “That’s true,” Sylvester said. “Neither one of them were married.”

  Sylvester looked down toward the end of the bar where Kathleen was sitting. She had a very pale expression on her face. “Kathleen, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Kathleen said in a weak voice. “I just feel a little dizzy, is all.”

  “It’s our fault for talking about such things,” Sylvester said. “We won’t talk about ’em no more.”

  * * *

  At noon, Sheriff Gibson stuck his head in through the saloon door.

  “Falcon, Miss Coyle, I’ll take you two to lunch now,” he said.

  “We could eat here,” Kathleen suggested.

  “Now, why would you want to eat saloon food, when you could eat Mrs. Martin’s food?” Gibson asked.

  Falcon chuckled. “Sheriff, sounds to me like Mrs. Martin has offered to feed you as well.”

  “Me and my deputy,” Gibson said enthusiastically.

  “Where’s Mitchum?” Falcon asked as he, Gibson, and Kathleen left the saloon.

  “Mr. Mitchum is still at the bank. Edwards is with him. We’ll stop by and pick them up on the way down to Mrs. Martin’s boardinghouse.”

  Mitchum was smiling broadly when Falcon and the others went in.

  “I have great news,” Mitchum said. “The money that was stolen has been replaced.”

  “Replaced? How?” Kathleen asked.

  “Our bank belongs to a mutual cooperative with several other banks. We have an insurance policy in effect that can replace money lost in a robbery,” Mitchum said. “I’m proud to say that not one depositor lost money as a result of the robbery.”

  “Well, the citizens of the town will be happy to hear that,” Gibson said. “Oh, and I see you have someone new working with you.”

  “Yes. This is Abner Brookfield,” Mitchum said. “He arrived from Denver this morning. He is well experienced in the banking profession and will assume the job of teller.”

  “Good. Then you’ve got someone you can leave in charge while we all go to lunch,” Sheriff Gibson said.

  “Yes, he can handle the position quite well,” Mitchum said. “Mr. Brookfield, I will be back within the hour.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Mitchum.”

  Leaving the bank, the five started toward the Martin house. They were met halfway there by young Gordon, who came running up to meet them.

  “There he is,” Falcon said, greeting the young man with a smile. “Gordon Martin, the fastest runner in Albany County.”

  “Hello, Mr. MacCallister, Sheriff, Miss Coyle,” Gordon said. “Mom sent me to the store to buy a can of peaches.” He smiled broadly. “Guess what? We’re having fried peach pies for supper. Do you like fried peach pies?”

  “Who doesn’t like fried peach pies?” Falcon said.

  “They are my favorite thing,” Gordon said.

  Suddenly, they heard the sound of thundering hooves and, turning toward the sound, saw eight mounted horsemen galloping down the middle of the street.

  “What in the world is going on?” Gibson asked. “Is that a bunch of drunken cowboys?”

  “I’ll tell them to slow down, Sheriff,” Edwards said, starting toward the middle of the street to signal them.

  “Deputy, no!” Falcon shouted, recognizing one of the riders then. “It’s Johnny Purvis!”

  Concurrent with Falcon’s warning, the horsemen drew their guns and began firing. Deputy Edwards went down.

  Falcon and the sheriff both started shooting back. Falcon got one and the sheriff got another, but
at that moment a freight wagon was rumbling into town and Johnny managed to maneuver his men behind it. Using the wagon for cover, the six remaining riders were able to dart up between two buildings, getting them out of the line of fire. They crossed the railroad track, then put the depot between them and the town as they rode away across the prairie.

  Putting his gun away, Falcon turned back toward the others. That was when he saw that both Mitchum and Gordon were down.

  “Gordon!” Falcon shouted, running to the side of the boy.

  “Did you get any of them?” Gordon asked, his voice weak with pain and shock.

  “Yes,” Falcon said. “So did the sheriff.”

  “Good,” Gordon said. “Tell Mom I guess there’ll be no fried peach pie for me,” he said in a strained voice. He took one last, gasping breath, then stopped breathing.

  Twenty

  From The Sentinel:

  MORE VIOLENCE PLAGUES OUR CITY.

  Mounted Gunmen Ride Through City!

  Four of the Assailants are Killed.

  EDWARDS AND MITCHUM GUNNED DOWN.

  Young Gordon Martin among the Dead.

  By JAMES HAYFORD, Publisher.

  The battlefields of the U. S. Cavalry, engaged in mortal combat with the Indians, hold no sway over the streets of Laramie. Indeed, of late, we could compete with some of the great battles of the War of Rebellion so recently fought. Laramie now has the dubious distinction of having come to the notice of the great metropolises of the East, where such cities as Chicago, St. Louis, Philadelphia, and New York fill their pages with stories of the violence taking place in our streets.

  One might think there is pride in such recognition, but that is not the case, for our notoriety comes from our bloody history of recent days.

  On Wednesday of this week, eight riders, among them, one Johnny Purvis, bank robber and brother of a prisoner about to face trial, rode into town. They sprayed the town with deadly gunfire, killing Deputy Edwards and Banker Mitchum. They also killed young Gordon Martin, son of the Widow Martin, who runs a boardinghouse on the west end of town.

  Our readers may remember young Gordon as the lad who won the footrace in the series of athletic events so recently held. That so young and vibrant a life could be so cruelly cut down accrues to the shame of us all.

  Readers may also remember from the last edition of The SENTINEL that two of our citizens, Troy Garrison and Tooey Keith, were found murdered, with notes affixed, demanding the release of the bank robber now in custody. It is believed that those who so brazenly assaulted our town are the selfsame people who came in the night to murder the two aforementioned souls.

  Funerals for the three who fell before the villains’ guns will be held on Thursday of this week. Because of the public sympathy for the bereaved, it is believed that the aggregate of these funerals may be the largest in Laramie’s history, if not indeed in the entire history of Wyoming.

  Because there was only one hearse, the funerals of Edwards, Mitchum, and Gordon were carried out at three different times. Gordon’s funeral was the last, and perhaps because he was the youngest, it was the largest. The population of Laramie was two thousand people, and nearly all lined the street to watch the hearse drive by, Gordon’s glossy-black coffin clearly visible through the glass sides of the hearse.

  Frances, dressed in black, with a long, black veil, rode in an open carriage behind the hearse. Her brother-in-law, Cody, was riding with her, his arm around her shoulders. As the hearse passed by, the spectators moved out into the street to follow the ever-growing cortege to the cemetery. There, they stood by as the Reverend E. D. Owen conducted the funeral.

  “A reading from the Sixty-first Psalm,” Owen said. “I will abide in thy tabernacle forever. I will trust in the covert of thy wings. For thou, oh, God, has heard my vows: thou has given me the heritage of those that fear thy name. Thou wilt prolong the kin’s life: and his years as many generations. He shall abide before God forever: Oh, prepare mercy and truth, which may preserve him.”

  When the preacher finished with his reading, Frances stepped forward and sprinkled a handful of dirt on top of the coffin. Then the coffin was lowered into the ground.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we commit the body of thy servant Gordon O’Neil Martin, in the sure and certain hope of his resurrection and life eternal in the blessed arms of Our Lord. Amen.”

  Sheriff Gibson stepped over to Frances as the funeral concluded.

  “Mrs. Martin, I can’t begin to express my condolences to you. Gordon was a fine, fine boy.” He shook his head. “No, he wasn’t a boy, he was a fine young man.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff Gibson,” Frances replied in a choked voice.

  “If there is anything I can do . . .”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Frances said.

  Nodding, Gibson left the cemetery and hurried down to the depot, reaching there even as he heard the afternoon train arriving. The train pulled into the station with steam venting and brakes squealing as the huge, lumbering engine ground to a halt. It sat there for several seconds before the first passenger disembarked, an older gray-haired woman. She looked around in some confusion and, because she was dressed like an Easterner, Gibson knew at once that everything here was probably very strange to her.

  “Mama, oh, Mama, you did come!” a woman called out in excitement, hurrying to meet the older woman.

  “Dora, what in heaven’s name possesses you to live in a place like this?” the older woman complained. “I’ve had a miserable trip.”

  “Oh, but Mama, wait until you see the ranch,” Dora said. “You’ll love it.”

  Dora was, Gibson knew, the wife of Dan Pratt, a very successful rancher who lived about five miles out of town.

  As the rest of the passengers disembarked, Sheriff Gibson saw the man he had come to meet, Judge Jacob Blair.

  “Judge Blair, over here,” Gibson called.

  Judge Blair was a tall, thin man, clean-shaven and with silver hair. Answering Gibson’s summons, he came over to shake the sheriff’s hand.

  “Did you have a good trip?” Gibson asked.

  “I came forty miles in but two hours,” Blair said. “How could it not be good?”

  “Forty miles in two hours,” Gibson replied. “We do live in marvelous times.”

  “Indeed we do. So, Sheriff Gibson, do you have a place for me to stay? I have been led to believe that every room in the hotel is booked up.”

  “That’s true, Your Honor, the hotel is booked,” Gibson said. “But I have made arrangements for you, if you don’t mind sleeping in a room above the saloon.”

  The judge laughed. “Well, that depends. Will I be sharing the room with one of the soiled doves?”

  Gibson laughed as well. “I’m afraid not, Your Honor.”

  “Damn,” Judge Blair teased. “I was rather looking forward to that.”

  “I’ll get your grip,” Gibson offered, picking up the carpetbag.

  As Sheriff Gibson and Judge Blair walked down the sidewalk toward the Gold Strike, the judge noticed that many of the buildings were draped with black bunting.

  “What is all the bunting for?” he asked.

  “Well, Judge, maybe you haven’t heard, but there have been eleven people killed here in the last three weeks.”

  “Eleven?” Billing pursed his lips and gave out a low whistle. “My, oh, my. I knew you had experienced some difficulty here. I had no idea that eleven had been killed. What about the fellow I am to try? Is he charged with the murders?”

  “Just one of the murders, Your Honor. Though his brother has been trying to force us to release him, and he is responsible for at least five more.”

  “Well, you can hang a man for one killing, or for five,” Blair said. “Either way, he’s dead.”

  “How soon do you intend to start the trial?” Gibson asked.

  “I take it that the defendant is not represented by counsel?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “I will need to meet wit
h all of the lawyers in town so that I can choose both the defense and prosecuting attorney. And they will need a few days to get prepared for the case. We’ll have the trial as soon as we can get it all arranged.”

  “It can’t be too soon to suit me,” Gibson said.

  * * *

  The number of killings in and around Laramie had, as Hayford reported in his newspaper, drawn national attention, and reporters from a dozen newspapers had come to Laramie to cover the trial. Because of the shortage of hotel rooms, they had to be put up in various places around town, with James Hayford making most of the arrangements for them. Four of the reporters were staying with Frances Martin, two of them sharing her room, and two sleeping on cots in the parlor. Frances moved again into Gordon’s room.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Falcon asked, stepping into the kitchen as Frances was preparing supper.

  “Do what?” Frances asked.

  “Have this many people stay in your house. I would think you might want some time alone. In fact, I was willing to move out myself, if you wanted me to.” He held up his hand. “Oh, of course, I would pay the full amount we agreed upon.”

  “No, don’t do that,” Frances said. “I’m glad you are here. The others too. If I couldn’t stay busy, all I would do is sit around all day and cry.”

  “I understand,” Falcon said. “My wife has been dead for many years now, but sometimes it’s almost as if I can hear her laughter in the wind. And at night, there are times when I can still feel her warm body next to mine.”

  “How did you get through it, Falcon?” Frances asked. “How do you get rid of the pain in your soul? Where did you go for help?”

  Falcon put his hand gently on Frances’s shoulder. “You will learn, Frances, that you can’t go anywhere for help. It is a journey you must take alone. But in these few days I have been here, I have come to know you, and I know you have the strength to get through this,” Falcon said.

  “I don’t want to be strong,” Frances said. She leaned against Falcon and put her head on his chest. He could feel her quiet sobs, though she was doing a good job of suppressing them.