Slaughter of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Falcon, the governor, and the others were led outside, then up onto the stage. Looking out over the street, Falcon was amazed at how many people were there. Though the population of MacCallister was only a little over three thousand, he estimated there were at least five thousand or more people in the crowd.

  The city band, outfitted in their red and black uniforms, had been playing marching music all morning long, but it quieted when Joe Cravens, MacCallister’s newly elected mayor, stepped to the front of the stage. Holding up his hands for quiet, he waited until the buzz of conversation stilled, then he introduced Reverend Pyron to give the invocation.

  Pyron was not yet out of his twenties, but all those who attended his church admitted that the young parson was a “go-getter.” He had a strong voice which could be quite easily heard by most of those present. “Before I begin the invocation, I would like to take a moment to remember the man who was supposed to do this. He was my friend and mentor, and a personal friend of the man we are all here to honor today. If you would, please, keep the Reverend Charles Powell and his wife, Claudia, in your thoughts as we bow our heads, please.”

  Quietly, respectfully, the audience bowed their heads as the Reverend Pyron began the invocation. He offered thanks for the life of Jamie Ian MacCallister, and prayed for God’s blessings on his family, and on the valley and town which bore his name. He asked, also, that all who might view this statue in the years to come would be inspired by the life of the man the statue represented. “Amen,” he concluded.

  “Amen,” the crowd responded.

  At the conclusion of the invocation, Mayor Cravens once more stepped to the front of the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I now have the distinct honor and personal privilege of introducing to you our governor, the honorable, the esteemed, Frederick Pitkin.”

  To the applause of the crowd, Governor Pitkin stepped up to the podium. He stroked his full beard as he waited for the applause to subside, then he began to speak.

  “Jamie Ian MacCallister was but a boy, living in Ohio, when a Shawnee war party killed his parents. The same Shawnee who killed his parents adopted him into their tribe where he learned the warrior’s way. Although he learned much from the Shawnee, he escaped from them and, at the tender age of twelve, began his life on his own. Soon after, he met Kate Olmstead. He and Kate married in the small river town of New Madrid, Missouri, then came West. Jamie fought with the defenders of the Alamo, leaving with a packet of letters the night before the Alamo fell.

  When the great Civil War struck our country, the MacCallister family became a microcosm of this nation for, just as our country was divided, so was the MacCallister family. Following their hearts, some fought for the North and some for the South but, at the end of the war they were fully reunited, just as was our great nation.

  We are here today for a special dedication. It is our intention for this beautiful work of art to project into the ages yet to come, the dream, the aura, and the spirit of Jamie Ian MacCallister!”

  At that, the cover was drawn away, revealing a bronze statue of a man who had broad shoulders, narrow hips, and massive arms. The statue of Colonel Jamie Ian MacCallister depicted him holding a pistol in each of his large hands.

  The crowd applauded loudly. Then the band began playing “Dixie,” as tribute to Jamie MacCallister’s service as a colonel in the Confederate army.

  Afterward, the guests on the stage mingled with the crowd. Many wanted to interact with the children of the great Jamie MacCallister and, for nearly an hour The Katie was teeming with people.

  Finally Falcon managed to extricate himself from the well-wishers and, mounting Lightning, started home.

  “Falcon, wait a moment, would you?” Gary Baxter called out from the Western Union office. He waved a piece of paper. “I have a telegram for you.”

  Weary of the morning’s seemingly endless activities, Falcon wanted nothing more than to just keep riding, but he angled his horse toward the telegrapher.

  “It came about an hour ago,” Baxter said, “but there were too many in the crowd for me to find you.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon said, dismounting and walking over to take the message from the telegrapher.

  “I heard you lost your horse. I was sorry to hear that. How’s the new one working out?”

  Falcon patted Lightning on his neck, and the horse dipped its head a couple times. “He’s a good horse,” Falcon said. “But so was the other one. I hated losing him like that.”

  Baxter nodded toward the still unread telegram. “As you’ll see when you read it, that’s from your brother and sister in New York. That sister of yours is sure one pretty woman.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure she would be flattered,” Falcon answered as he unfolded the paper. “I imagine this is some comment about the unveiling of Pa’s statue.”

  “No, it isn’t that,” Baxter said. “Yes, sir, Rosanna is a pretty woman with a pretty name. She’s never gotten married has she?”

  “She was married to a Frenchman for a while, but he was sort of a puny fellow and he got sick and died,” Falcon said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He wasn’t all that popular with the rest of the family,” Falcon said.

  “And she has never remarried?”

  “Nope. There’s still hope for you, Gary,” Falcon teased.

  “Oh, shucks,” Baxter said, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean me. Not with someone like your sister, that is. Though I must say, it does make one wonder what’s wrong with the men in New York, letting such a pretty woman stay single this long.”

  “Who knows? Could be my sister would prefer a good Western man to those effete fellows she sees in New York.” Falcon chuckled as he began reading the telegram.

  AS YOU KNOW ROSANNA AND I OPEN NEW PLAY ON JULY 11 STOP PLAY SAID TO BE MOST IMPORTANT IN NEW YORK THIS SEASON STOP WOULD GREATLY APPRECIATE SOME FAMILY SUPPORT FROM OUR FAVORITE BROTHER STOP ANDREW

  “Are you going?” Baxter asked.

  “What?” Falcon asked, glancing up from the telegram.

  Baxter pointed to the telegram. “To New York to see the new play, I mean. Are you going?”

  “I didn’t think you were supposed to read other people’s telegrams,” Falcon said.

  “I’m not supposed to,” Baxter admitted. “But you tell me this. If I’m the one that gets the message and writes it down, how can I not read it?”

  Falcon chuckled. “I’m just teasing you, Gary, you’re right. There’s no way you can write out the telegram without reading it.”

  “So, you aren’t sore with me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I’ll ask you again. Are you goin’ to New York?”

  “I don’t know,” Falcon replied. “I guess I’ll have to think about it for a bit.”

  “Better not think too long. It’ll take you five days to get there. And I expect you’ll want to be a day or so early, which means you are just about going to have to leave today,” Baxter said.

  Of all the MacCallister siblings, Falcon was the only one to have actually gone to New York to visit Andrew and Rosanna, and he had done that on several occasions. In addition, he had hosted them in their rare visits back home, once to perform at a theater in Colorado Springs, and once to entertain Custer’s Seventh Cavalry at Ft. Lincoln, Dakota Territory. His brother and sister seemed to enjoy their visits back West, though in truth, neither regarded Colorado as home anymore.

  Falcon considered the invitation. Should he accept it?

  Why not? Now that the dedication of his father’s statue had taken place, there was no reason not to go. He loved his brother and sister, and admired and respected their talent. But for the life of him, he could not understand how they could choose New York as a place to live. And they chose it, not only as a matter of the necessity of their chosen profession, but, he realized, because they had developed a degree of attachment that was as strong for the city as was his to the wide open spaces of the West.

  �
��If it were me, I would be going,” Baxter continued. “I mean if for no other reason than to tell them about the dedication of the statue to Colonel MacCalliser. I saw that Mr. Dysart was taking photographs of it. Andrew and Rosanna might like to see what it looks like.”

  “Thanks, Gary, that’s a good idea—getting a picture from Dysart,” Falcon said. “Maybe I will go. I always enjoy my visits to New York, and I would like to see Andrew and Rosanna again.”

  “Listen, Falcon, tell your sister that if she ever gets back to MacCallister and wants someone to take her around to show her all the sights, and have a good time, why, I’d be more than glad to do it.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Falcon promised.

  “Really, you’ll tell her?”

  “Sure.”

  “I, uh, no, wait, don’t tell her. She’d just wonder what sort of damn fool would say such a thing.”

  “I think she would find the offer flattering, Gary,” Falcon said. “And I would be glad to tell her.”

  “Thanks,” Baxter said. “You’re good people, Falcon.”

  Having made up his mind to go, Falcon rode to the depot to make arrangements for his trip. The morning train had already passed through and there wasn’t another train due until the afternoon, so for the moment, the train station was empty.

  The depot building consisted of a small waiting room with two wooden benches, a wood-burning stove which, though cold, still had the lingering smell of last winter’s wood smoke hanging about it. A counter separated the waiting room from the depot office, and a short, bald man, wearing sleeve garters and a green visor, was working behind the counter. He looked up and smiled as he recognized the town’s leading citizen.

  “Mr. MacCallister,” the ticket agent said, “How good to see you. Are we about to take a trip?”

  Falcon laughed. “I don’t know, Sid, are you going to join me?”

  “What? No, I—” Sid started, then he laughed as well. “You got me on that one, Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “Yes, sir, you got me good. Now, where are we”—he stopped—“I mean where are you going?”

  “New York, New York,” Falcon said.

  “New York, New York. My, my, how I would like to see New York some day. I work here, making out tickets for people to go to wonderful places like New York, St. Louis, Washington, Chicago, Boston—but I’m afraid that writing out these tickets is about as close as I will ever get to actually seeing one of those places. Will you be coming back to MacCallister?”

  “Why do you ask?” Falcon teased. “Is there some reason why I shouldn’t come back?”

  “What? No, I didn’t mean anything like that. I just meant will it be round-trip?”

  “Yes.”

  The ticket agent got out a book of pre-printed ticket forms, then began writing in the destinations; from MacCallister to Denver, from Denver to St. Louis, from St. Louis to Columbus, Ohio, then to Philadelphia, and finally to New York, each destination requiring a separate ticket. When he finished filling out all the ticket forms, he picked up a leaden stamp, pressed it into an ink pad, then slammed it down on each of the tickets, applying the official seal of the Colorado Central. In that way, each subsequent railroad, from the Denver and Rio Grande, to the Union Pacific, to the Missouri Pacific, Illinois Central, Chesapeake and Ohio, Pennsylvania Central, and New York Central, would be able to submit the stamped tickets back to the originating railroad, in order to collect their own fees. When all the stamped tickets were assembled, Sid slipped them into an envelope and passed them across the counter to Falcon.

  “Here you go, Mr. MacCallister. You are all set,” he said. “The fare comes to a grand total of forty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.”

  Falcon paid the fare with a fifty dollar bill.

  “The eastbound will be leaving the station at two-thirty this afternoon,” Sid said as he gave back the change to Falcon. “From all the reports by telegram we have been receiving, it is running on time, so I wouldn’t be late if I were you.”

  “Thanks,” Falcon said. “I’ll be back in time.”

  Leaving the depot, Falcon rode out to the ranch to pack a grip. He was about to leave when Jamie Ian and his wife, Carolyn, came driving up in a surrey. Seeing Falcon with a suitcase, Jamie Ian stopped just in front of the porch.

  “Where are you going?” he called.

  “I’m going to New York to see Andrew and Rosanna in their new play.”

  “Oh, that will be nice,” Carolyn said with a broad smile. “Do you really think you will need your gun?”

  “Oh,” Falcon replied with a sheepish grin. “I didn’t even realize I was wearing it.”

  “Tell them we said hello,” Jamie Ian said.

  “I’ll take them greetings from everyone,” Falcon promised.

  As soon as he returned to town Falcon stopped at the Dysart photography studio. Stepping inside, he saw a little sign that read, I AM IN THE DARKROOM, PLEASE WAIT OUT FRONT.

  While he waited, Falcon examined some of Dysart’s display photographs which were in a book that sat on the counter. He recognized citizens of the town and valley, many of them members of his own family, seated in a wide variety of poses. Some were sideways to the camera, others were angled or facing directly into the camera. Some showed only the upper body, others were full length. He was looking at a particularly good picture of Joleen and her family when the curtain separating the front from the back parted and Don Dysart came through. He was wiping his hands dry, though Falcon could smell the developing solution.

  Dysart smiled when he saw Falcon. “Falcon, my friend,” he said. He started to extend his hand, then pulled it back. “I’ve still got solution on my hands,” he explained. “What brings you here?”

  “I understand you took some pictures of the statue of Pa.”

  “That I did, and I just developed them. They came out beautifully. Would you like to see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll bring them out.”

  Dysart disappeared for a moment, returning with a handful of photographs. He spread them out on the counter for Falcon’s perusal. One picture in particular caught his eye. It captured, in great detail, the entire statue which depicted the no-nonsense demeanor of Jamie MacCalliser.

  “Could you make me an extra copy of this one?” Falcon asked, holding up the photograph.

  “No need to make an extra copy,” he said. “I’ve already made plenty of them. That one is yours.”

  Falcon started to reach for money to pay for it, but Dysart held up his hand to stop him.

  “No charge,” he said. “It’s the least I can do. Your father was a great man and, though most don’t know this, he helped me get my business started when I first came here. Here, let me put that in an envelope for you so it doesn’t get damaged.”

  “I thank you, Mr. Dysart,” Falcon said.

  Ten minutes later Falcon dismounted in front of the livery, then gave the liveryman a dollar. “Have someone take Lightning back to the ranch, would you? My hands will look after him, and I think he’ll be more comfortable there.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. MacCallister,” the liveryman replied.

  He had an hour before train time, so he crossed the street to have lunch at the City Pig Café, crowded with people still celebrating the Fourth. So many came to shake his hand and congratulate him on his father’s statue, he barely managed to eat before having to catch the train.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Phoenix

  “What do you mean a woman is going to ride in the race?” one of the riders asked. “There ain’t no way that’s goin’ to happen.”

  “Why not?” Mayor John Alsop asked. He was in charge of all the festivities of the town for the Fourth of July celebration.

  “What do you mean, why not? ’Cause it just ain’t right, that’s all,” the young cowboy said.

  “There is no rule or law against it,” Mayor Alsop said. “As the mayor of this town, and the chairman of the Fourth of July celebration, I am saying that Mis
s Wellington can ride in this race.”

  “What’s the matter, Ellis? You afraid you’ll be beaten by a woman?” one of the other riders asked.

  “It ain’t that,” Ellis said. “It’s just that—well, ridin’ in a race can be dangerous. You seen what happened last year when Collins and Mr. Buckner run into each other. Mr. Buckner broke his arm and Collins had to destroy his horse.”

  “That don’t mean it’s goin’ to happen this year.”

  “It might, if you get someone that don’t know how to ride.”

  “Believe me, Ellis, the young lady can ride,” Housewright said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I have seen her ride, that’s how I know,” Housewright replied. “Look, you can complain all you want about whether or not a woman should ride, but don’t be sayin’ it’s ’cause she don’t know how.”

  “What’s it goin’ to be, Ellis?” Mayor Alsop asked. “Are you going to ride or not?”

  “Am I goin’ to ride? That ain’t the question.”

  “Yes, it is the question,” the mayor said. “Because I tell you now, Miss Wellington is going to participate in this race. So if you don’t like it you have two choices: either accept it and ride, or don’t accept it, and don’t ride. So which will it be? Are you going to ride, or not?”

  “Yes, I’m goin’ to ride. There ain’t no way I’m not goin’ to ride, but I tell you plain and I tell you true, it ain’t right for a woman to be in the race.”

  “Then I suggest you get ready, because I’m goin’ to start the race in about three minutes.”

  Although Janelle had said nothing during the long discourse as to whether or not she could ride, she had heard every word while standing alongside Vexation. When she heard the mayor’s final decision in her favor, she smiled with pleasure, mounted her horse, and rode over to the starting line.

  The race would be down Central, starting at McDowell Road. The riders would go to Indian School Road, then turn around and come back. The first rider to cross McDowell on the way back, would win.