MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  It was a picture of a man in jeans and a Stetson hat, leaning against the front of a Ford Model-T with his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a holster and pistol. He looked like any of the men Tavish had known while growing up, and behind the car was a geographic feature that Tavish recognized instantly.

  “That’s Devil’s Tower,” Tavish said.

  “Yes. Von Krueger has spent a lot of time in America, and he has a great fondness for the American West. He’s met both Zane Grey and Owen Wister. And, before the war, he even had his own Western novel published. The title, I believe, was Dead Man’s Gun.”

  “What? No, I read that. It was written by someone named Ralph Cole,” Tavish said.

  Colonel Marshall chuckled. “You would be surprised at how many books you read that are written by people other than the name you see on the jacket cover. Cole is von Krueger’s pen name. Here is a picture of him today.”

  This time the picture was of a man in a German uniform with the Pour le Mérite and oak leaf.

  “Evidently the German command thinks highly of him. I see he is wearing the Blue Max,” Tavish said, tapping the cross at von Krueger’s neck.

  “Yes,” Colonel Marshall said. “I would say that he is my counterpart in that he is chief of staff to General Georg von der Marwitz, the German commander. But the difference is, if I get taken out, it will have little effect upon our army.

  “But von Krueger is the mastermind behind Germany’s defense. He is the one who was single-handedly responsible for our attack bogging down. It was von Krueger who directed six reserve divisions to shore up the German lines, and we believe he is drawing up plans for a counterattack that could set our timetable back by six months.”

  “I believe I see where this is leading,” Tavish said. “You want me to shoot Colonel von Krueger.”

  “Yes. Will you have a problem with that? I’m not talking about your marksmanship. I mean, will you have a problem with specifically and purposely shooting one man, as opposed to shooting men in combat?”

  Tavish looked up at General Pershing, who was standing a few feet away, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, not unlike the pose of von Krueger in the shadow of Devil’s Tower.

  Now, Tavish knew why General Pershing had told him the story of his father’s shot to take out Yellow Hawk. The difference was the shot his father had taken probably saved his life, the life of his mother, Mr. Gleason, the wife of Lieutenant Scott and, pointedly, General Pershing’s life. This shot, if Tavish took it, wouldn’t save anyone’s life. It would merely take the life of a man whose Western novel Tavish had read and enjoyed.

  “Sergeant, will you have a problem with it?” Colonel Marshall repeated.

  On the other hand, Tavish knew this campaign had already cost well over 20,000 American lives, and three times that many wounded. If he killed von Krueger, and it did change the battle, he could be saving thousands of lives, American and German.

  Tavish nodded. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  During the night, Tavish moved stealthily through his own lines, and up to Haudiomont, a small town in no-man’s-land that was completely deserted because it had been gutted by artillery fire. All around him he could see the flashes of light and hear the sounds of heavy artillery fire as the men of both armies jerked lanyards to kill other men miles away, men they had never met, and who existed, not in their reality, but just in the artificial construct of war.

  Tavish, with a scoped Springfield ’03 bolt-action .30-caliber rifle in hand, began his walk to the town, his eyes sweeping back and forth checking for shadows within shadows. He moved down rue de Traver-siu and across place de le Freie, in between destroyed buildings, heading to a nearby church. Most of the church had been destroyed by cannonading, but an earlier observation plane had brought back information that the towering steeple still stood.

  In addition to the scoped rifle, Tavish had a powerful pair of goggles, and he knew where to find his target.

  The next morning, just as the sun was half a disc above the battle-denuded eastern horizon, a soft, easy light spread across the land. The thunder of artillery was temporarily stilled, with the only sound coming from frogs and insects, which were oblivious to the death struggle of men.

  Tavish checked the tactical map and saw the small house that was being used by Colonel von Krueger. Then, using his binoculars, he located it.

  “Sergeant, the house is eight hundred and fifty yards from your position in the steeple tower,” the briefing officer told him.

  That was more than half again the distance of the shot his father had made against Yellow Hawk. But his father was using a carbine, and had to boost the powder to get the range. Tavish was shooting a rifle with an effective range of one thousand yards, and it was scoped.

  “Piece of cake,” he said, quietly.

  Tavish watched the house through his binoculars. Then he saw his target come outside and stand on the front porch. Von Krueger was holding a cup of coffee in his left hand, while his right hand was on one of the porch posts.

  Putting the binoculars down, Tavish picked up his piece and sighted through the scope. The face he saw was that of the man in the pictures. This was his man. And though he was in uniform, for just a moment, Tavish saw him, not as a German officer, but as the man standing by the Model-T Ford before Devil’s Tower. He could have been a younger Elmer Gleason, or Falcon MacCallister, or Smoke or Matt Jensen, Western heroes he had known in his life. He could even be his own father.

  And for a moment, Tavish couldn’t pull the trigger.

  “If we can take him out, Sergeant, we can save from ten to fifteen thousand lives, American, French, and German,” Colonel Marshall told him.

  Tavish pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked back against his shoulder, but when he looked back through the scope he saw von Kruger with both hands at his neck, a surprised expression on his face, and blood oozing through his fingers. He watched until von Krueger fell. Then he climbed down from the tower, offered a quick prayer of contrition before the destroyed altar, then left the church and made his way back to his own lines before he was discovered.

  From the Chugwater News:

  CURTAIN ROLLS DOWN

  On Most Stupendous

  Tragedy of History

  WASHINGTON, NOV. 11—President Wilson issued a formal proclamation at 10 o’clock this morning announcing that the armistice with Germany had been signed. The proclamation follows:

  “My Fellow Countrymen: The armistice was signed this morning. Everything for which America fought has been accomplished. It will be our fortunate duty to assist by example, by sober friendly council and by material aid in the establishment of just democracy throughout the world.—Woodrow Wilson.”

  The greatest war in history ended this morning at 6 o’clock, Washington time (4 o’clock, Chugwater time) after 1,567 days of horror, during which virtually the whole civilized world has been convulsed.

  Announcement of the tremendous event was made at the State Department at the Capitol at 2:45 o’clock this morning and in a few seconds was flashed throughout the continent by the telegraph wires of the Associated Press.

  The terse announcement of the State Department did not tell anything of the scene at Marshal Foch’s headquarters at the time the armistice was signed. It was stated, however, that at 5 o’clock Paris time the signatures of Germany’s delegates were affixed to the document which blasted forever the dreams which embroiled the world in a struggle which has cost, at the very lowest estimate, 10,000,000 lives.

  Although it is not known exactly what role Chugwater resident Duff Tavish MacCallister, Jr. played in the final act, he was singled out by General John J. Pershing for “particularly meritorious service.”

  Young MacCallister’s father, local rancher Duff MacCallister, has promised a city-wide party to welcome Tavish home from the war, when that happy day arrives.

  A Little Bit of William W. Johnstone

  by J. A. Johnstone


  William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.

  “I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.” True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in Beau Geste when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences which planted the storytelling seed in Bill’s imagination.

  “They were honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man’s socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”

  After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff’s Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah that would last sixteen years. It was here that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn’t be until 1979 that his first novel, The Devil’s Kiss, was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (The Uninvited), thrillers (The Last of the Dog Team), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983, Out of the Ashes was published. Searching for his missing family in the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation’s future.

  Out of the Ashes was a smash. The series would continue for the next twenty years, winning Bill three generations of fans all over the world. The series was often imitated but never duplicated. “We all tried to copy The Ashes series,” said one publishing executive, “but Bill’s uncanny ability, both then and now, to predict in which direction the political winds were blowing, brought a dead-on timeliness to the table no one else could capture.” The Ashes series would end its run with more than thirty-four books and twenty million copies in print, making it one of the most successful men’s action series in American book publishing. (The Ashes series also, Bill notes with a touch of pride, got him on the FBI’s Watch List for its less than flattering portrayal of spineless politicians and the growing power of big government over our lives, among other things. “In that respect,” says collaborator J. A. Johnstone, “Bill was years ahead of his time.”)

  Always steps ahead of the political curve, Bill’s recent thrillers, written with J. A. Johnstone, include Vengeance is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Jackknife, Remember the Alamo, Home Invasion, Phoenix Rising, The Blood of Patriots, The Bleeding Edge, and the upcoming Suicide Mission.

  It is with the Western, though, that Bill found his greatest success and propelled him onto both the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists.

  Bill’s western series, co-authored by J. A. Johnstone, include The Mountain Man, Matt Jensen the Last Mountain Man, Preacher, The Family Jensen, Luke Jensen Bounty Hunter, Eagles, MacCallister (an Eagles spin-off), Sidewinders, The Brothers O’Brien, Sixkiller, Blood Bond, The Last Gunfighter, and the upcoming new series Flintlock and The Trail West. Coming in May 2013 is the hardcover western Butch Cassidy, The Lost Years.

  “The Western,” Bill says, “is one of the few true art forms that is one hundred percent American. I liken the Western as America’s version of England’s Arthurian legends, like the Knights of the Round Table or Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Starting with the 1902 publication of The Virginian by Owen Wister, and followed by the greats like Zane Grey, Max Brand, Ernest Haycox, and of course Louis L’Amour, the Western has helped to shape the cultural landscape of America.

  “I’m no goggle-eyed college academic, so when my fans ask me why the Western is as popular now as it was a century ago, I don’t offer a 200-page thesis. Instead, I can only offer this: The Western is honest. In this great country, which is suffering under the yoke of political correctness, the Western harks back to an era when justice was sure and swift. Steal a man’s horse, rustle his cattle, rob a bank, a stagecoach, or a train, you were hunted down and fitted with a hangman’s noose. One size fit all.

  “Sure, we westerners are prone to a little embellishment and exaggeration and, I admit it, occasionally play a little fast and loose with the facts. But we do so for a very good reason—to enhance the enjoyment of readers.

  “It was Owen Wister, in The Virginian, who first coined the phrase ‘When you call me that, smile.’ Legend has it that Wister actually heard those words spoken by a deputy sheriff in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, when another poker player called him a son-of-a-bitch.

  “Did it really happen, or is it one of those myths that have passed down from one generation to the next? I honestly don’t know. But there’s a line in one of my favorite Westerns of all time, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, where the newspaper editor tells the young reporter, ‘When the truth becomes legend, print the legend.’

  “These are the words I live by.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCITING PREVIEW!

  The Jensen clan is William W. Johnstone’s epic creation—God-fearing pioneers, bound by blood, on an untamed and beautiful land. Once more, Preacher, Smoke, and Matt are reunited in a clash of cultures and a brutal all-out fight for justice....

  HELL TO PAY

  Smoke Jensen and his adopted son, Matt, are cooling their heels in Colorado when they are called to the Dakotas. Preacher, the legendary mountain man, is in the midst of a vicious struggle. Someone has kidnapped a proud Indian chief’s daughter and grandchild. When the kidnapping turns to murder, and Preacher vanishes after clashing with a ruthless Union colonel turned railroad king. Matt sets out to infiltrate the colonel’s gang of killers. Smoke seeks out the only honest citizens in the crooked town of Hammerhead. It will take brave men to blow Hammerhead wide open and force the colonel and his gunmen on a hard ride into a killing ground.

  And the Family Jensen will make sure there is hell to pay. . . .

  THE FAMILY JENSEN

  HARD RIDE TO HELL

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in May 2013 wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  Chapter One

  The two men stood facing each other. One was red, the other white, but both were tall and lean, and the stiff, wary stance in which they held themselves belied their advanced years. They were both ready for trouble, and they didn’t care who knew it.

  Both wore buckskins, as well, and their faces were lined and leathery from long decades spent out in the weather. Silver and white streaked their hair.

  The white man had a gun belt strapped around his waist, with a holstered Colt revolver riding on each hip. His thumbs were hooked in the belt close to each holster, and you could tell by looking at him that he was ready to hook and draw. Given the necessity, his hands would flash to the well-worn walnut butts of those guns with blinding speed, especially for a man of his age.

  He wasn’t the only one with a menacing attitude. The Indian had his hand near the tomahawk that was thrust behind the sash at his waist. To anyone watching, it would appear that both of these men were ready to try to kill each other.

  Then a grin suddenly stretched across the whiskery face of the white man, and he said, “Two Bears, you old red heathen.”

  “Preacher, you pale-faced scoundrel,” Two Bears replied. He smiled, too, and stepped forward. The two men clasped each other in a rough embrac
e and slapped each other on the back.

  The large group of warriors standing nearby visibly relaxed at this display of affection between the two men. For the most part, the Assiniboine had been friendly with the white men for many, many years. But even so, it wasn’t that common for a white man to come riding boldly into their village as the one called Preacher had done.

  Some of the men smiled now, because they had known all along what was coming. The legendary mountain man Preacher, who was famous—or in some cases infamous—from one end of the frontier to the other, had been friends with their chief Two Bears for more than three decades, and he had visited the village on occasion in the past.

  The two men hadn’t always been so cordial with each other. They had started out as rivals for the affections of the beautiful Assiniboine woman Raven’s Wing. For Two Bears, that rivalry had escalated to the point of bitter hostility.

  All that had been put aside when it became necessary for them to join forces to rescue Raven’s Wing from a group of brutal kidnappers and gun-runners.5 Since that long-ago time when they were forced to become allies, they had gradually become friends as well.

  Preacher stepped back and rested his hands on Two Bears’s shoulders.

  “I hear that Raven’s Wing has passed,” he said solemnly.

  “Yes, last winter,” Two Bears replied with an equally grave nod. “It was her time. She left this world peacefully, with a smile on her face.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Preacher said. “I never knew a finer lady.”

  “I miss her. Every time the sun rises or sets, every time the wind blows, every time I hear a wolf howl or see a bird soaring through the sky, I long to be with her again. But when the day is done and we are to be together again, we will be. This I know in my heart. Until then . . .” Two Bears smiled again. “Until then I can still see her in the fine strong sons she bore me, and the daughters who have given me grandchildren.” He nodded toward a young woman standing nearby, who stood with an infant in her arms. “You remember my youngest daughter, Wildflower?”