MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing

by William W. Johnstone

  “Wantin’ to board your horse, Mister?” the white boy asked.

  “Aye. And for some time, at least a week. Maybe longer. Where’s Donnie?”

  “He don’t work nights. You know Donnie?”

  “I do, I’ve boarded here before.”

  “Then you know that it’ll be fifty cents a night, and that Mr. Abney, he likes to have the money in advance.”

  “Suppose I pay you for four weeks. That would be fourteen dollars.”

  “What if you come back before that?”

  “I would imagine you are going to write me a receipt,” Duff said. “I’ll simply show the receipt and get the money back.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think of that. Hawk, you want to take the man’s horse and put it up?”

  Duff reached up to remove the suitcase and briefcase he had attached to the horse as the Indian led the animal away.

  “What’s your name?” the boy who was making out the receipt asked.

  “Duff MacCallister.”

  The boy looked up in awe. “Wait a minute! You the one that made that shot here a while back, ain’t you? The one what kilt Tyler Camden. Folks is still talkin’ about that.”

  “I suppose I am,” Duff said.

  “Well, sir, it’s a good thing you done it, ’cause iffen you hadn’t done it, one day I would’ve.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir. Camden was a no-account,” the boy said. “My sister, she, uh, works, down at the Eagle Saloon. She don’t do the kind of work that most folks would consider decent, if you know what I mean, but that don’t give nobody the right to beat her up, and that’s just what Camden done. And my sister, she wan’t the only one he beat up. He beat up a lot of girls for no reason at all.”

  The boy finished the receipt and gave it to Duff.

  “I’m just real proud to have met you, Mr. MacCallister. And don’t you worry none about your horse. Me ’n Hawk and Donnie, why, we’ll just take real good care of it.”

  After taking care of his horse, Duff walked back to the Inter Ocean Hotel to check in, and to leave his suitcase while he went to dinner. He thought about leaving his briefcase as well, but decided against it. After all, there was almost sixteen thousand dollars in his briefcase, not a sum of money to be taken lightly.

  Because he was carrying the briefcase with him, he decided to have dinner in the Cheyenne Club, believing it to be more secure than a restaurant. He ordered a steak and baked potato, and was just finishing his meal when Warren and Converse came in, already in the midst of some conversation. Seeing him, they walked over to his table.

  “Hello, Duff. Do you mind if we join you?”

  “Not at all,” Duff said, standing and shaking hands with each of them as they joined him.

  “What are you doing back in Cheyenne so soon?” Warren asked.

  “I’m taking the train to Kansas City to pick up my cattle,” Duff said.

  “You mean they won’t ship them to you?” Converse asked.

  “In the letter, they said no.”

  “That doesn’t sound like they want your business all that much,” Warren said. “In fact, it doesn’t sound like the KCCE at all. I bought my first Herefords from them, and they shipped them right to me, made all the arrangements themselves.”

  “Well, you forget Francis, Duff is getting Black Angus. Maybe they are afraid some buffalo will get into the herd and take care of the bulls’ business,” Converse said.

  Warren, and even Duff, laughed.

  “Say, Duff, you haven’t run into a fella by the name of Gilbert Patten since you got into town, have you?” Converse asked.

  “No, I can’t say as I have,” Duff replied, shaking his head. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a man that wants to do for you, what Colonel Prentiss Ingraham has done for your cousin, Falcon,” Converse said. “He wants to write about you in one of his novels and make you famous.”

  “He has read about your exploits, the events up in Chugwater last year, the more recent shows here, and on the road back to Chugwater,” Warren added.

  “He’s here in the club, right now,” Converse said. “We can introduce you to him, if you would like.”

  Duff shook his head. “No, thank you, I would rather not meet him.”

  Warren chuckled, then held his hand out toward Converse, palm up. “What did I tell you?” he said. “You owe me fifty dollars.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you were right, don’t rub it in,” Converse said. He removed five ten-dollar bills and counted them out into Warren’s hand.

  “In case you are wondering what this is about, I bet Converse that you wouldn’t want anything to do with Patten,” he said.

  “And I was sure you would,” Converse said.

  “What made you think such a thing?” Duff asked.

  “Why, everyone would like to be famous, wouldn’t they?”

  “I don’t know about everyone else. But as for me, I will pass on that cup, thank you,” Duff said.

  “Then, if you really don’t want to meet him, you’d best leave by the back door,” Warren said. “He’s sittin’ out front in the lobby right now, and sure as a gun is iron, if you walk through there, someone is goin’ to point you out to him.”

  “Thanks,” Duff said and, gathering his briefcase, he stepped out through the back door.

  It was dark now, and he was in the alley between the buildings, holding a briefcase that contained almost sixteen thousand dollars in cash. Such a thing would be intimidating for most people, but Duff didn’t give it a second thought as he walked toward the hotel.

  A few minutes later, Duff was standing at the window of his room on the third floor of the Inter-Ocean Hotel, looking out at the traffic, both foot and carriage, on Sixteenth and Capitol below. There was no greater demonstration of the difference between Cheyenne and Chugwater than this, for by this time of evening in Chugwater the streets and sidewalks were totally empty, with the restaurant and Fiddler’s Green showing the only signs of life. Here, though it was past eight o’clock, the streets were teeming.

  Duff held up the little piece of yellow ribbon Meghan had given him and, as he let the hair brush against the tip of his nose and inhaled the perfume, he thought of her. Could Meghan take the place of Skye McGregor?

  No. Nobody could ever take Skye’s place.

  But, could Meghan find her own place in Duff’s heart, a place that was at least equal to Skye’s?

  It was too early for Duff to make that appraisal, but he was already willing to admit that the idea wasn’t beyond possibility.

  Then, even as he considered it, he thought of what happened to Skye. He had been the one they were shooting at, not Skye, but Skye was the one they had killed. And, already here, he had shown a proclivity for finding himself in dangerous situations. He had been attacked on the trail going back home last week. If Meghan had been with him then, she could have been killed.

  Then there was the burning of his barn, last night. Yes, Elmer said they were after him, but it didn’t matter. He had lost two cows in the fire, and it could just as easily have been his house that was burned. If Meghan had been in his house, she could have been killed. If another young woman died just because she loved him and he loved her, he didn’t know if he could live with it. Was he really willing to take that chance with Meghan?

  Turning, he put the ribbon away, then turned off the lamp and crawled into bed. Before going to sleep, he thought about the trip tomorrow, and the arrangements he would have to make to bring his cattle back home. And at twenty-five cows per car, he would have to lease twenty cars, but he had already been in contact with both railroads and was assured that it would not be difficult to make such arrangements.

  He also thought about Meghan. Would she want to give up her dress shop and come out to the ranch to live? Was he premature in even thinking such a thing? In fact, he had no idea what Meghan really thought of him.

  Even though he was thinking about arrangements for shipping his cattle, and wondering where
his relationship was going with Meghan, when he finally drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of Skye.

  “Skye, would you step outside with me for a moment?” Duff asked.

  “Ian, best you keep an eye on them,” one of the other customers said. “Else they’ll be outside sparking.”

  Skye blushed prettily as the others laughed at the jibe. Duff took her hand in his and walked outside with her.

  “Only four more weeks until we are wed,” Skye said when they were outside. “I can hardly wait.”

  “No need to wait. We can go into Glasgow and be married on the morrow,” Duff suggested.

  “Duff MacCallister, sure and m’ mother has waited my whole life to give me a fine church wedding now, and you would deny that to her?”

  Duff chuckled. “Don’t worry, Skye. There is no way in the world I would start my married life by getting on the bad side of my mother-in-law. If you want to wait, then I will wait with you.”

  “What do you mean you will wait with me?” Skye asked. “And what else would you be doing, Duff MacCallister? Would you be finding a willing young lass to wait with you?”

  “I don’t know such a willing lass,” Duff replied. “Do you? For truly, it would be an interesting experiment.”

  “Oh, you!” Skye said, hitting Duff on the shoulder. It was the same shoulder Alexander had hit in the fight and he winced.

  “Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry. You just made me mad talking about a willing lass.”

  Duff laughed, then pulled Skye to him. “You are the only willing lass I want,” he said.

  “I should hope so.”

  Duff bent down to kiss her waiting lips.

  “I told you, Ian! Here they are, sparking in the dark!” a customer shouted and, with a good natured laugh, Duff and Skye parted. With a final wave to those who had come outside to “see the sparking,” Duff started home.

  Duff had to get Skye out of his mind. Not out of his heart; he would always have a place for her in his heart, but he had to get her out of his mind or the grieving would never stop.

  He inhaled the perfume of the little yellow ribbon again and thought of Meghan. He knew that she could help him get Skye out of his mind, but would it be fair to Meghan? Would he just be using her as a means of getting over the grief, once and for all?

  Duff was an astute man; he knew what Meghan was feeling for him. And if he was honest with himself, he would admit that he appreciated it. More than that, he believed that he reciprocated it.

  He took another sniff of the ribbon, then he got ready for bed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fremont, Nebraska

  When Crack Kingsley arrived in Fremont, he told people that his name was Carl Butler, that he worked for the Kansas City Cattle Exchange, and was there to check out the local ranchers and farmers to ascertain for his employer whether or not they had any cattle for sale. He let it be known that he would be hanging out in the OK Saloon and would be willing to talk to any rancher or farmer who cared to come see him.

  He was “inter viewing” now.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Lloyd Evans was saying. “The Kansas City Cattle Exchange will buy ever’one of my cows, pay top dollar for ’em, an’ all I got to do is drive ’em in here to the railroad? They do the shippin’?”

  “That’s right,” Kingsley said.

  “Well, hell yes, I’d be willin’ to do that. What you’re sayin’ is I’ll be savin’ money on the shippin’ cost. Sign me up.”

  Kingsley laughed and held out his hands. “Don’t be so quick. All I’m doin’ now is what is called makin’ a survey. The company wants to see if there will be enough people interested to actually make it worthwhile.”

  “Well, you can definitely sign me up for bein’ interested,” Evans said. “I don’t know how anybody wouldn’t be.”

  “Good, I’ll put your name down.”

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Where at are you goin’ to put my name down? You ain’t got no book nor paper nor nothin’ like that with you.”

  “Oh, I meant before I leave to go back to Kansas City,” Kingsley said.

  In the last two days he had interviewed four farmers and two ranchers, promising all of them that the Kansas City Cattle Exchange would not only buy their stock at top dollar per head, but would also arrange and pay for all shipping. While he was waiting for the train on which his target would be riding to arrive, he decided that it might be good to have someone with him, just as a bit of insurance. During his two days, he’d watched the saloon customers as they came and went. On the evening of his first day in Fremont, he had also witnessed an exchange between the deputy town marshal, and a man named Clem Crocker.

  “Crocker, where were you last night at about eight o’clock?” the deputy, whose name was Archer, asked.

  “Why is it any business of your’n where I was?” Crocker replied.

  “Because someone broke into Larry Thrower’s Grocery store and stole twenty-seven dollars.”

  “What makes you think it was me?”

  “You done it once before, that’s why I think it was you.”

  “Iffen I was goin’ to break into another store, do you think I’d be dumb enough to break into the same one twicet? It wasn’t me. I was right here last night, from six o’clock ’til nigh midnight. An’ you can ask anyone here.”

  “That’s right Deputy,” the bartender said. “Crocker was here the whole time.”

  “Yeah, well,” Archer said. He pointed an accusing finger at Crocker. “You just keep yourself on the straight ’n narrow, Crocker, ’cause I’m goin’ to be keepin’ an eye on you.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’, so you can just quit jawin’ on me,” Crocker replied.

  Archer hitched up his gun belt, then looked around at the others in the saloon to see if anyone would dispute the story told by Crocker and the bartender, then he turned and left.

  Kingsley had done nothing then, but this afternoon, seeing Crocker sitting at a table alone, he took a bottle of whiskey and his glass over to Crocker’s table, then sat down to join him. He refilled Crocker’s glass.

  “What’s this for?” Crocker asked. “You’re wastin’ your time with me, Mr. Butler. I ain’t got no cows to sell.”

  Kingsley smiled. “That’s all right. My name’s not Butler, it’s Kingsley. Crack Kingsley. And I’m not here to buy any cows.”

  “What do you mean? Ain’t that what you been doin’ here these past two days? Talkin’ to folks about buyin’ their hogs ’n cows?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I been doin’, but only because that’s what I’m wantin’ folks to think.”

  “Then what are you doin’?”

  Kingsley pulled out a Long-Nine cigar, though he did not offer one to Crocker. “I’m gettin’ set to make some money,” Kingsley said, as he struck the match. He took several puffs before he continued. “You can too, if you’re interested.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing you ain’t never done before, if the deputy was right yesterday,” Kingsley said, squinting at Crocker through the tobacco smoke.

  Crocker held up his hand, palm out, and he shook his head. “I didn’t break into Thrower’s store the other night.”

  “Not the other night, but you did do it before, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. But I done served six months in jail for that.”

  “How much money did you get?”

  “Twelve dollars.”

  “Was it worth serving six months for twelve dollars?”

  “No. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Have you now? Tell me, Crocker, what lesson have you learned? Not to steal again? Or just not to steal such a small amount of money?”

  Crocker drank his whiskey before he spoke again.

  “What are you gettin’ at?”

  “Suppose you was to get a hundred dollars?”

  Crocker shook his head. “Ain’t no store in town keeps that much money overnight, exc
ept the bank. And I ain’t about to try an’ hold up the bank. Hell, I couldn’t get away with it anyway. Ever’one in town knows me.”

  “The job I’m talking about has nothing to do with a local store. Or anyone local, for that matter. And you won’t have to be breaking in. In fact, the only thing you are going to have to do is spot my target, and be my lookout.”

  “How am I supposed to spot your target, if it ain’t someone local? Like as not, I won’t have no idea who it is.”

  “I’ll tell you how to spot him,” Crocker said.

  “And I’ll get a hundred dollars for that? Just for spottin’ the man you’re goin’ to rob, and bein’ a lookout for you?”

  Kingsley shook his head. “Yes.”

  “All right. You got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Union Pacific Depot in Cheyenne was located at the south end of Capital Street just catty-corner from the Inter Ocean Hotel. The depot was the biggest building in town, two stories high and a block long. It also had a tower in the middle, which was the highest structure in the city, and from which many photographs of the town had been taken.

  Sixteenth and Main were two of the busiest streets in town, and Duff, who was carrying a suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other, had to wait for three wagons, a stagecoach, and an omnibus to pass before he could cross the road.

  There were at least seven hacks, one fine carriage, and a few buckboards parked in front of the depot. Some were standing empty with the teams secured by hitching posts, but others had drivers waiting for fares. A few of the drivers were reading books or the newspaper, while a couple more had their heads lolled forward, napping. Reaching the road where all the vehicles were parked, Duff, with his suitcase in one hand and briefcase in the other, picked his way through.

  The inside of the depot seemed much larger than one would suppose a town the size of Cheyenne would be able to support. It rivaled depots in the much larger cities of Denver, St. Louis, and Chicago. But such was the confidence in the growth of the town that Union Pacific had spared no expense in the building. Its defenders pointed out, though, that the large depot was justified by the fact that Cheyenne was an important stop for passengers who were traveling through from coast to coast. As many passengers came through Cheyenne in one week as there were citizens in the entire town.