MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing

by William W. Johnstone

  When she was finished, she put it to one side, intending to free her mind of it for the time being. She walked over to the window of the hotel and looked out on Cheyenne at night. The electric street lamps, as well as the many lights in all the buildings, commercial and residential, made the city quite beautiful, sparkling like a jewel. She contrasted this with the gloomy nights in Chugwater, and wondered when Chugwater would get electricity, or indeed, if it ever would.

  Finally, after giving it some time without thinking about it, she returned to the table and picked up the paper. Then, without bothering to assign weight to her entries, she counted them down either side of the paper.

  There were two more positives than there were negatives.

  “Yes!” she said aloud.

  Smiling, she wadded the paper into a ball, threw it in the trash can, then went to bed.

  Kansas City

  When Hodge Denman didn’t come in to work the next morning, Jay Montgomery asked some of the other clerks who worked in the bull pen if they had any idea why he was absent.

  “Was he acting sick or anything yesterday?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Ernie Tobias said. Tobias occupied the desk next to Denman’s desk. “We were talking yesterday about putting together a contract to sell the Angus herd. He didn’t give any idea that he wouldn’t be back today.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me, either,” Montgomery said.

  “I’ll say this,” Tobias said. “He has been acting mighty peculiar lately.”

  “Peculiar in what way?”

  “I don’t know, just sort of peculiar.”

  “That’s Mr. Montgomery over there,” someone said and, looking toward the speaker, Montgomery saw two men wearing badges, standing just inside the door. He walked over to them.

  “I’m Jay Montgomery. May I help you gentlemen?”

  “I’m Deputy Pease, this is Deputy Anderson, we are from the sheriff’s department. Was Hodge Denman one of your employees?”

  “Yes, he is.” Montgomery paused, and a curious expression crossed his face. “What do you mean, was?”

  “He’s dead,” Deputy Pease said. “According to his wife, he killed his father-in-law, then committed suicide.”

  “Denman did such a thing?” Montgomery said. “That is hard to believe.”

  “Yes, sir, well, we do have two bodies and Mrs. Denman’s testimony,” Deputy Pease said. “I wonder if we could look through his desk. We can get a warrant if necessary.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Montgomery said. “Please, come this way. I’ll show you his desk.”

  With Montgomery watching, the deputies went through Denman’s desk. Then, not finding anything that was of interest to them, they thanked Montgomery for his cooperation and left.

  The deputies didn’t find anything that interested them, but Montgomery did. He saw the carbon copy of a letter over his signature. It was a letter he had not authorized or even read before this moment.

  Dear Mr. MacCallister:

  This is to inform you that we have received your request for five hundred Black Angus cattle. We are now in the process of making the arrangements for you. However, it will be necessary for you to come, in person, to take delivery of your cattle. The amount of money due upon your receipt of the herd is fifteen thousand, eight hundred twelve dollars and fifty cents. This sum will cover all costs attendant to this transaction, to include the price of the cattle and our handling fees.

  Too often, bank drafts drawn upon small banks in remote areas of the country have been nonprocessed due to the failure of the banks in question. Therefore, it is the policy of the Kansas City Cattle Exchange that all transactions must be conducted in cash, so we ask you to bring the money with you. We apologize in advance for any difficulty this may cause the buyer.

  Please advise us by telegraph, when you expect to arrive in Kansas City. Thank you for choosing to do business with us.

  Sincerely,

  Jay Montgomery, President,

  Kansas City Cattle Exchange

  This had not been part of their agreement. Montgomery had not demanded that he bring cash, and he wondered why Denman would have sent such a letter.

  Then he saw two telegrams from MacCallister.

  MR. JAY MONTGOMERY, KANSAS CITY CATTLE EXCHANGE

  DEPARTING KANSAS CITY AT 8:30 A.M. ON THIS DAY. WILL ARRIVE IN KANSAS CITY AT 9:30 P.M.

  TOMORROW. WILL COME TO YOUR OFFICE ON THE DAY FOLLOWING.

  DUFF MACCALLISTER

  And another:

  MR. JAY MONTGOMERY, KANSAS CITY CATTLE EXCHANGE

  HAVE ENCOUNTERED UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTY. WILL BE DELAYED.

  DUFF MACCALLISTER.

  Montgomery had not seen either of these telegrams before, either. In fact, Denman had specifically told him that they had heard nothing from MacCallister.

  Why had Denman lied to him? What was going on?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Fremont

  When Meghan arrived in Fremont, it was nearly midnight. Hiring a cab, more for the escort than the need for a ride, she had him drive her to a hotel where she took a room.

  The next morning after breakfast she called upon the city marshal. The marshal and his deputy were playing a two-hand game of poker, but both of them stood when Meghan stepped into the office.

  “Can we help you, ma’am?”

  “I hope so, Marshal ... ?”

  “Bivens, ma’am. And this is my deputy, Archer.”

  Deputy Archer touched the brim of his hat and nodded at her.

  “Marshal Bivens, I am concerned about a friend of mine. The last word any of us had from him was from here in Fremont, when he sent a telegram saying that he had, as he put it, ‘run into a bit of a problem.’”

  “Who is it?” Bivens asked. “And did he say what the problem was?”

  “No, he didn’t say what the problem was. I was hoping you could help me with that,” Meghan replied. “His name is Duff MacCallister.”

  “Duff MacCallister. A Scotsman, is he?”

  Despite her nervousness, Meghan smiled. “Very much the Scotsman,” she said.

  “Then that was him, Marshal,” Archer said quickly. “The same feller she’s talkin’ about.”

  “Was him?” Meghan asked, her voice cracked with worry. “What do you mean ‘was’ him? Please, God, has something happened to him?”

  “No, no, didn’t mean to worry you none,” Deputy Archer said quickly. “I mean, yes, something has happened to him, but he hasn’t been hurt, or anything like that.”

  “What happened to him?” Meghan asked, nervously.

  “He was robbed,” Bivens said.

  “Robbed? No, that doesn’t seem possible. Duff MacCallister is an extremely capable man. He is more than able to take care of himself.”

  “Yes, ma’m, I think he probably is. But apparently the brigand who robbed him stepped out of the alley in the middle of the night and struck him from behind.”

  “And here is the thing,” Deputy Archer threw in. “They must have known he was carrying as much money as he was, because they took only the briefcase—they didn’t take his wallet.”

  “I see. Where is he now?”

  “He found out who it was that robbed him—a murderin’ scoundrel by the name of Crack Kingsley. And he and another fella, an older man, raw-boned, gray hair and a gray beard.”

  “Yes, that would be his friend, Elmer Gleason,” Meghan said.

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe Gleason was his name. Anyhow, Mr. MacCallister and Mr. Gleason went after Kingsley.”

  “Have you heard from them since they left?”

  “Not exactly, but we have certainly heard about them,” Marshal Bivens said.

  “What do you mean, you have heard about them?”

  “Like you said, ma’am. It would appear that this fella MacCallister can take care of himself. According to the police in Lincoln, Kingsley and three other men tried to bushwhack your friends MacCallister and Gleason. Jumped
them in a saloon, it was. There was a shoot-out, and three of the four men who attacked MacCallister were killed.”

  “And Duff?” Meghan asked anxiously.

  “He wasn’t hurt none at all,” the marshal said. “And neither was Gleason.”

  “You said the police informed you of this. Are Duff and Mr. Gleason in any kind of trouble?”

  “No ma’am. There were enough witnesses there to tell the police exactly what happened, so there ain’t no charges or anything against them.”

  “Do you know if Duff is still in Lincoln?”

  “I doubt it. Kingsley, the man MacCallister is after, got away. Not knowin’ MacCallister any better than I do I would still be willin’ to make a bet that he left town after Kingsley.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he did,” Meghan said.

  “Will you be goin’ on to Lincoln to try and find him?” Marshal Bivens asked.

  “No,” Meghan said. “I have some business in Kansas City that I must take care of.”

  “I don’t expect him to be comin’ back this way,” Marshal Bivens said. “But just in case he does, do you have a message for him?”

  “Yes, tell him that I ...” Meghan stopped in the middle of the sentence. What message would she have for him? That she loved him? Did she? She wasn’t sure, but whether she did or didn’t, it wasn’t a message to be conveyed by a marshal who was a stranger to both of them.

  “Tell him what, ma’am?” Marshal Bivens asked.

  “Just that his friends back in Chugwater are anxious about him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marshal Bivens said. “If he comes back through here, I’ll be sure and tell him that.”

  Plymouth, Nebraska

  The little town that rose in front of Kingsley was no more than a scattering of buildings, some of wood, some of sod. It had one street, Main, that ran through the middle of town, then a cross street, Columbus, which formed the letter X. The only buildings that were constructed of lumber were the commercial buildings, and they were all on Main Street. All the houses were constructed of sod, and they lined both sides of Columbus.

  Kingsley hoped the town would have a saloon, and he was gratified to see a crudely painted sign in front of one of the buildings that read: BROWN DIRT SALOON.

  He rode up to the saloon and dismounted in front, just as two cowboys came out. One of them had just said something funny, and they were both laughing.

  One of them noticed Kingsley’s horse.

  “That’s a nice-looking horse, Mister,” the cowboy said. “Where did you get him?”

  “I bought him.”

  “Oh? Where did you buy him? And when?”

  “Sometime back, don’t remember exactly. Why are you asking?”

  The two cowboys checked out the brand.

  “Sum’ bitch, Jed, look at this. You see this here brand?”

  “What’s your name, Mister?” the cowboy called Jed asked.

  “It’s Carl Butler, if it’s any of your business. What is all this about?”

  “The Brand is CB. Could be Carl Butler, I guess.”

  “Sure looks like Crawlback’s brand though.”

  “If you boys is questionin’ whether or not I stole this horse, why don’t you come right out and ask it, and let’s get this settled once and for all. I’ve got the paper says I own this horse, and I’ll show it to you if you want to see it. Then, like as not, I’ll kill you for questioning me.”

  Kingsley was bluffing. He had no paper. But he figured that if he came down hard enough, and aggrieved enough, that he could run his bluff.

  “Here, now, Mister, no need in gettin’ all upset over nothin’. We was just commentin’ on how much your brand looks like the brand for Crawlback is all,” Jed said.

  “There ain’t nothin’ fancy about it,” Kingsley said. “And one CB is goin’ to look pretty much like another CB.”

  “I reckon that’s true,” Jed said. “Come on, Arnie, let’s go.”

  Kingsley watched them mount their own horses, then ride off. Not until they reached the end of the street, then urged their horses into a gallop, did he go inside.

  He was pretty sure that MacCallister and Gleason were following him, but he hoped that the rain that had been falling off and on for the last two days had washed out enough of his tracks to cause them to lose the trail. And whether they were trailing him or not, he was hungry. He also wanted a drink. No, he needed a drink.

  “Beans, bacon, biscuits,” the bartender answered Kingsley’s question about food.

  “That’ll do fine. I’ll take the bottle,” he said, putting a twenty-dollar bill down on the bar.

  “You got ’nything smaller than this?” the bartender asked. “This’ll just about take ever’ bit of the change I got in the cash register.”

  “Keep the change,” Kingsley said.

  “What? Mister, are you sure?”

  “I’m hungry, and I want a drink,” Kingsley said. “And I want to be left alone. Will this twenty get all that for me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I’ll be over there in the corner,” Kingsley said as, with bottle in hand, he started across the saloon floor.

  He was just pouring himself a glass of whiskey when someone walked up to his table.

  “Hello, Crack. It’s been a long time,” the man said.

  Looking up, Kingsley saw the man who had been his cell mate at the Nebraska State Penitentiary at Lincoln a few years earlier.

  “Scooter Margolis. I thought you was serving life,” Kingsley said.

  Margolis smiled. “Yeah, that’s what Warden Wyman thought too. Only I had other ideas. And by the way, I’m callin’ myself Donovan now. Pat Donovan.”

  “What are you doin’ in this little burg?”

  “Workin’ down at the stable. What are you doin’ here?”

  “I’m just passin’ through,” Kingsley said.

  “You got somethin’ goin’, do you?” Margolis asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you, Kingsley. You’ve always got somethin’ goin’.”

  “What if I do?”

  “I want in on it.”

  “It ain’t like you think.”

  “Don’t matter to me what it is. I’m so tired of shovelin’ horse shit, I’m willin’ to do anything. What have you got goin’?”

  Kingsley’s food was brought to the table so he said nothing until the server left.

  “I might have somethin’ goin’,” Kingsley said.

  Margolis smiled broadly. “I knew it! The moment I seen you come into this place, I knew you was up to somethin’. What is it?”

  “It don’t really matter what it is,” Kingsley said. “Because the truth is, I got a couple of people doggin’ my trail, and until I get rid of them, I can’t do nothin’ else.”

  “Who you got after you?”

  “Bounty hunters. There’s a lot of paper out on me. You too, I reckon.”

  “Yeah, last I heard there was five thousand dollars out for me. Son of a bitch, I hate bounty hunters.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing. They are after me right now, but to them, one is as good as another. If they was to get wind that you was here, hell, they might even forget about me and go after you. Especially since you are worth more than I am.”

  “Who are they?” Margolis asked. “Do you know their names?”

  “I don’t know their names,” Kingsley said. “But I know what they look like. If you’ll help me take care of ‘em, why, I could see lettin’ you come in on me for my next job.”

  “You ain’t told me yet what your next job is goin’ to be,” Margolis said.

  Kingsley shook his head.

  “No, I ain’t. And I ain’t goin’ to, ’til after we take care of the two bounty hunters. Are you in, or not?”

  “I don’t know. I could just leave, I reckon. I mean, if they are trailin’ you, chances are they don’t even know that I am here.”

  “You could do that,” Kingsley said. He put his hand
inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a bound packet of twenty-dollar bills, from which a few had already been taken. “Or, you could take this four hundred dollars and help me take care of the problem.”

  “What?” Margolis said. “Where the hell did you come up with this much money?”

  “There’s plenty more where that came from,” Kingsley said. “Once the bounty hunters are out of the way.”

  Margolis reached for the packet of money, but before he could touch it, Kingsley pulled it back.

  “Are you in or out?” he asked.

  “I’m in!” Margolis said. “Hell yes, I’m in!”

  Kingsley pushed the money across the table to him. “Good,” he said. “Now, as soon as I finish eating, we’ll go set up a welcome for them.”

  Two miles out of town the road crossed a stream known as Little Blue Creek. The stream could be forded, but it was a deep enough ford to slow the horses down. Also, the stream was running very quickly, so that the horses had to fight to stay on their feet. Just beyond the stream, the road made a turn to the right. On the left side of the road, just as it made its turn, was a low-lying ridge crowned by oversized flat rocks. That created a perfect observation post from which to monitor the approaching road. It was here that Kingsley set up his ambush.

  Crack Kingsley lay on top of one of the flat rocks, looking back along the trail.

  “How do you know they’ll be comin’ this way?” Margolis asked.

  “They’re comin’. I fixed it so they would.”