Slaughter of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’re talkin’ about Falcon MacCallister,” Kelly said. “It can be damn hard.”

  “Too hard for you to do it for your share of a thousand dollars?”

  “There’s three of us here,” Kelly said. “Me, Collins, and Tucker. Four, countin’ you. So how many will there be to divide this money?”

  “Just what you see here,” Mueller answered.

  “So you’re talkin’ two hundred fifty dollars?”

  Mueller shook his head. “No, you misunderstand. It will only be the three of you sharing the money. So you’ll each get three hunnert thirty-three dollars,” he said. “I’m the one goin’ to give the money, remember? I won’t be takin’ none of it for myself. All I want is for the son of a bitch to be kilt.”

  “But there’s goin’ to be four of us doin’ the shootin?” Collins asked.

  “Four of us, yes.”

  “That’s kind of funny when you think about it, ain’t it?” Kelly said.

  “Funny? How?”

  “When your brother went up agin’ MacCallister, they was four of ’em tryin’ to kill him. But MacCallister not only kilt your brother, he kilt all four of ’em. Four, just like we are four.”

  “I done told you, this ain’t goin’ to be like that. It ain’t goin’ to be nothin’ at all like that. Clete and the others tried to face him head-on, and all four of ’em got themselves kilt. We ain’t goin’ to give him no chance a’tall. We’ll have him kilt afore he even knows we’re anywhere around.”

  “I got a question,” Tucker said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How are we goin’ to get him into a spot where we’ll all be a’ hidin’ out and he’ll be in the open?”

  Mueller smiled. “You don’t need to be worryin’ nothin’ about that,” he said. “Just leave that to me. I done got that all set up.”

  It was the letter that brought Falcon to Idaho Springs. He had received it two days ago.

  Dere Mr. Macalster

  I heer that you are lookin for Luke Mueller and if you are willing to pay me some mony come to Idaho Springs and I will tell you where he is at. I will be at the hotel. Don’t tell nobody I tode you where at to find him.

  Yurs truly

  Bill Jones

  Falcon MacCallister should have seen it coming. Normally he was much more observant, more aware of his surroundings, but he had no reason to sense danger. He was in Idaho Springs, Colorado which wasn’t too far from MacCallister Valley, and therefore was almost like a second hometown to him.

  He had just ridden into town when he felt the impact of the bullet as it plunged into his horse’s neck. He saw a stream of blood gush out as his mount went down, even as he heard the sound of the shot. He leaped from the saddle to avoid being fallen on by the horse, and as he did so he saw a white puff of smoke drifting up from just behind a sign that read J.C. BEALE’S HARDWARE.

  Snaking his rifle from its saddle sheath and holding it low in one hand, Falcon darted out of the center of the road, then dived for cover behind the watering trough. A bullet plowed into the dirt just behind him, and another plunked into the trough, kicking up water and causing it to gurgle out. He saw several people running for cover, screaming and shouting in alarm, though they weren’t the target.

  Crawling on his belly, Falcon reached the end of the trough, then looked up toward the hardware store where he had seen the gun smoke. Jacking a shell into the chamber he sighted down the barrel and waited. The shooter on the roof lifted his head above the false front, just far enough to take a look. He saw the muzzle flash of Falcon’s rifle, but before he could assimilate it, he was dead, with a bullet in his brain.

  Falcon determined there were two more adversaries in the loft of the livery stable, and another one standing behind the corner of Murchison’s Gun and Ammunition shop. He turned his attention toward the livery loft, but couldn’t see anything through the opening because of the darkness inside. He knew the shooters had the advantage—they could see him quite clearly as he was outside in the sunlight.

  Another bullet plunged into the watering trough, and the water began running out more swiftly. Falcon threw a shot toward the livery where he had seen the muzzle flash, not with any real expectation of hitting anything, but to drive them back. He turned his attention to the corner of the gun and ammunition shop where, earlier, he had seen another man firing at him. Falcon perused the alley opening next to the shop, but saw nothing. While his attention was directed toward the shooters on top of the hardware store and in the loft of the livery, the gunman behind the corner of Murchison’s had apparently gotten away.

  Turning his head he saw Tom Murchison standing just inside the window of his store, waving fiercely. Succeeding in getting Falcon’s attention, he pointed toward a stack of salt blocks in front of McGill Feed and Seed.

  Looking in that direction Falcon saw a shadow cast against the feed store wall. He watched the shadow move toward the edge of the stack of salt blocks, then cocking his rifle he aimed at the extreme corner of the stack of blocks, and pulled the trigger. The bullet cut through the corner, sending out a spray of salt before hitting the would-be shooter. The shooter fell heavily to the wood plank porch.

  Falcon turned his attention to the two men in the loft of the livery. Getting up from his position behind the watering trough, he left his rifle on the ground and, with pistol in hand, ran toward the door of the stable. Two shots rang out—one so close Falcon felt the breeze of it as the bullet whizzed by. He darted through the wide, double door into the barn before another shot could be fired and moved under the loft so his adversaries above had no shot at him.

  “Mueller! Do you see him?” someone called. “Where is he?”

  “Collins, you damn fool! Don’t be a’ shoutin’ my name out like that.”

  “I’m goin’ to get over here and see if I can see him,” Collins said.

  Falcon heard the sound of footfalls on the loft above, and looking up, saw bits of straw fluttering down through the cracks between the boards. He followed the falling straw, then raising his pistol, fired three quick shots.

  “Ahhh!” the man yelled, and Falcon saw him pitch over the edge of the loft, catching his foot in the rope and tackle used to lift bales of hay into the loft. The man fell, headfirst, ensnared by his ankle, both arms extended. Hanging down, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, he swung back and forth across the open front door.

  Even as Falcon looked toward the swinging body, he heard the sound of a horse behind him. Running through the barn to the back door, he saw a rider leaning over the horse’s neck, slapping the reins from one side to the other as he urged the animal into a fast gallop. Falcon fired at him, and saw the rider slap his hand to the side of his head.

  He raised his pistol to take another shot but, realizing that the rider was already out of range, he eased the hammer down, then lowered his weapon. He watched as the rider continued on, sitting strong in his saddle. He must not have hit him.

  By the time Falcon left the barn the citizens of the town were spilling back into the street. Most were gathered around the two bodies, one lying in the dirt in front of the hardware store, the other on the porch in front of the feed store. Some were looking at the body hanging upside down from the hay-lift rope.

  Falcon went to check on his horse and, though the horse was still alive, there was a lot of blood bubbling from his mouth. “Damn. I’m sorry,” he said as he pointed his pistol at the horse’s head and pulled back on the hammer. “I’m really sorry.”

  The expression in the horse’s eyes was one of acceptance, as if he knew what Falcon was about to do, and welcomed it.

  Falcon pulled the trigger, and the horse died instantly.

  Falcon stood there for a moment longer, holding the pistol pointing straight down by his leg, feeling a profound sense of sadness over having had to end the life of the noble animal.

  “I know it hurts, Falcon, but it had to be done,” a voice said, and turning, Falcon saw a man, wearing a badge,
coming toward him.

  “I know,” Falcon said.

  “Are you all right?” Sheriff Ferrell asked, solicitously.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks, Billy,” Falcon replied, returning the pistol to his holster. He motioned toward the horse. “He was a good one.”

  “It’s a shame when animals get caught up in the doin’s of man. They wind up sufferin’ through no fault of their own,” the sheriff said.

  “Yeah. The others dead? The one by the hardware and the one by the feed store?”

  “They are, and so is the one hanging from the livery. Tell me, Falcon, you got ’ny idea who these fellers are, or why they tried to ambush you?” Ferrell asked.

  “I didn’t have any idea when the shooting started, but when I came into the barn, I heard a couple names. One was Collins, and the other was Mueller. I’m thinking it is probably Luke Mueller.”

  “Yeah, that fits,” the sheriff said.

  “Fits what?”

  “It fits with what I’m thinkin’, because I know what it was about.”

  “Do you now? How do you know?”

  “You’re a wanted man, Falcon.”

  “What? Impossible! There’s no paper out on me.”

  “There is now,” the sheriff replied. “I took this off the feller lyin’ over there in front of the feed store,” the sheriff said, handing a circular to Falcon. “You’re wanted all right, but not by the law. Take a look at this.”

  Sheriff Ferrell gave Falcon a poster. It was exactly like the reward dodgers the law put out for wanted men. In every way, shape, and form, this was a wanted poster. Only, as Sheriff Ferrell pointed out, it had not been put out by the law.

  REWARD

  to anyone who kills

  FALCON MACCALLISTER

  $1,000.00 will be paid,

  when Proof of Death is furnished to

  Luke Mueller.

  “You know this here Mueller feller, do you?” Sheriff Ferrell asked.

  “Sort of,” Falcon answered.

  “What do you mean, sort of?”

  “I killed his brother a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, yes, I read about it in the paper. The Muellers held up a bank and murdered a couple folks over in MacCallister, if memory serves.”

  “Memory serves you right,” Falcon replied. “I reckon what Luke Mueller is trying to do now, is get even with me.”

  “Do you think one of these men was Luke Mueller?”

  “That was the name I heard called out,” Falcon said. “But he isn’t one of the ones I killed.”

  “He got away, did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “That feller seems to make habit of that, doesn’t he?” Ferrell asked. “Getting away, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Falcon said. “But it won’t be forever. It would appear that I’ve got a trap set for him now and sooner or later, he’s going to step into it.”

  “You have a trap set?”

  Falcon laughed, a low, mordant chuckle. “Yeah,” he said. He held up the reward poster the sheriff had given him. “I just realized this is the trap set for him. He set it himself, and I am the bait.”

  Sheriff Ferrell chuckled. “I reckon I see what you mean,” he said. “You ever run a trap line, Falcon?”

  “Oh, yes, I have.”

  “Well, if you have, you’ll notice somethin’, I’m sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Even though you trap your prey, the bait purt’ near always gets took. So do me a favor and be careful, will you?”

  “I’m always careful,” Falcon said.

  It hurt to touch his ear, but Luke Mueller wanted to know how badly he had been hit. From what he could determine, his earlobe had been shot off, leaving a bloody piece of mangled flesh. It could have been a lot worse. One more inch to the left, and the bullet would have plowed into the back of his head.

  He stopped by a stream, then jumped down from the horse to check out his ear in the reflection of the water. The current was running too swiftly to provide an image, but allowed him to clean his ear. And the cold water eased the pain a little.

  Chapter Six

  Superstition Mountain

  Had someone been on top of Superstition Mountain looking down on the reddish brown canyon floor, they would have seen one man, walking slowly and with a slight limp, leading a mule. The man was walking with a definite purpose, for earlier he had picked out the exact spot where he intended to make camp for the night.

  Although he had not been keeping an exact count, it would be the three hundred and fifteenth consecutive night spent in the desert. The old prospector’s name was Ben Hanlon. Not knowing the exact date or year he wasn’t sure how old he was—in his late fifties or early sixties he believed. He could pretty much estimate the month by the position of the sun, and he was fairly certain he could come within a year or two of the correct year, though he wouldn’t bet on it.

  He made his camp at the foot of Weaver’s Needle—a tall rock obelisk so precisely formed it looked almost as if it had been made by the hand of man. Weaver’s Needle guarded Superstition Mountain and as Hanlon settled in for the evening, he looked up at the mountain. “Well, Mr. Mountain, you have beaten a lot of men,” he said. “And you may beat me as well, but I plan to give you one hell of a battle before I cross over that canyon.”

  He was tired from a full day of digging into crevices and breaking open rocks. It was all part of his ceaseless quest for the gold treasure of Superstition Mountain, known by everyone as the Peralta Vein.

  A kangaroo rat scampered out from under a mesquite tree, then waited quietly for a long moment to get its bearings. Ben saw the rat, but the rat did not see Ben. Very slowly, Ben reached for his short handle pickax. With one quick, practiced move, he brought the pick down on the rat’s head, killing it instantly.

  “Well, little feller, you dropped in just in time,” Ben said to the rat’s carcass. He pulled his knife from its scabbard, and started to work. “I was beginning to wonder what I was going to have for supper.”

  Working quickly, and expertly, Ben skinned, cleaned, and spitted the rat. He cooked it over an open fire, watching it brown as his stomach growled with hunger. The rat was barely cooked before he took it off the skewer and began to eat it ravenously, not waiting for it to cool. When all the meat was gone he broke open the bones and sucked out the marrow.

  After his meal, he allowed himself a smoke, filling his pipe three fourths with dried sweetgrass and one fourth with tobacco, in order to conserve his tobacco. Finally, with his hunger satisfied, he stretched out on the ground, more hospitable in the cool of evening. Listening to the quiet, almost melodious hoots of a great horned owl, he drifted off to sleep.

  Somewhere in Kansas

  Janelle had read about it, of course, but she had no idea how large America was until she started her journey two days ago. All day long, except for the occasional stops at places so tiny she wondered how they could call themselves towns, there had been nothing to see through the windows but open space.

  Earlier she had asked the conductor if he could supply a board so she could write a letter and he had obliged her with one. As it grew too dark for her to see anything outside, she used the light of the wall mounted kerosene lantern to write a letter.

  My Dearest Sister Sue,

  My heart is heavy with sadness over being separated from my baby, but I know that what I am doing now is the right thing. With every mile of distance I place between myself and New York, I am removing myself from the scandal and shame I brought on myself. Not until I am well clear of that scandal and shame, will I be able to recover some sense of dignity and self-worth.

  I will try and describe for you some of the sights I have seen on this trip. First, I had no idea of the size of this country. From New York we can easily travel to Boston, or Philadelphia, or Baltimore within a day and, for the entire trip be well aware of the civilization which surrounds us. And, though the distance was long, such was the caseas far as St. Louis, which lik
es to call itself the Gateway to the West. It is modern and civilized in every way. As we crossed the Mississippi River, I counted almost forty great riverboats tied up on the banks of the river. The city itself is filled with big buildings and teeming with masses of people. Except for the rather peculiar, flat sounding accents, one could almost believe they were in New York.

  But the farther west I go, the less of civilization I see. For this entire day, we could have been at sea, so flat and featureless is the land. Often the horizon is so far away, and so clearly delineated, that one gets the impression of seeing all the way to the outer edge of Earth itself. I find it all exciting and rather strangely magnificent, and were my heart not heavy with sorrow over the conditions which have placed me here, I rather think I might enjoy it.

  Please take care of my baby, and tell Mother and Father that I love them dearly. I do this so as to bring them no more sorrow. And, Sue, my dearest, dearest darling sister, know that my love for you exceeds all bounds.

  Your sister,

  Janelle

  Finishing the letter, Janelle put it in an envelope, sealed it, and affixed to it a gray blue Franklin, one-cent postage stamp. When the conductor walked by a short while later, she called out to him.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Here is your writing board, and I thank you for allowing me to use it. I wonder if you could tell me the best way to mail my letter?”

  “Why, I can take the letter for you, miss,” the conductor said. “We have a mail car attached to this very train. I shall just take it to the clerks there.”

  “But we are going west, and this letter is for New York.”

  The conductor smiled. “Not to worry, miss. They will simply set it off with the mail at the next stop, and an east bound train will pick it up.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose that is how it would be done. Thank you,” Janelle said, handing him the letter. “Thank you very much.”