He crossed the street here, and then started back down on the sidewalk on the other side, his boots clopping loudly on the wide plank boards. Toward the middle of town there were a few greenish-glowing gas streetlights, and from the saloons, light spilled through the front windows and doors to project clearly defined gleaming squares on the walk and out into the street.
He heard the clopping sound of a horse coming toward him, but he couldn’t see it as yet. Then the horse passed under the first street lamp and he saw a rider, wearing a duster, slumped in the saddle. He watched the horse until it passed through all the lighted area, then disappeared into the distant darkness.
Roy Jameson saw him when he passed under the first street lamp. He was too far away now, but he was coming closer. He pulled his pistol, wincing with the pain of grasping the handle. The pain was bearable, in fact, almost welcome, as it underscored what he was about to do. He cocked the pistol, then braced it against the wall. Just a few more steps now, and he couldn’t miss.
Duff saw a glint of silver light on the boardwalk and looking down, saw that it was a coin. He bent down to pick it up.
Concurrent with the sound of a pistol shot, he felt the air pressure of a bullet passing but an inch above him. Had he not bent over for the coin, the bullet would have hit him in the head. Pulling his pistol, he instinctively fell, then rolled off the walk into the street. A second shot hit the walk, plunging through the board, but sending out a little shower of splinters into his face.
This time Duff was able to see the flare of the muzzle flash, so he knew where the shot had come from. Keeping as close to the ground as he could, Duff inched forward on his stomach, his movement shielded by the elevation of the walk. When he reached the first watering trough, he moved over to get behind it.
Now, with his position improved, he looked back toward the gap between the two buildings where he had seen the muzzle flash. It was much darker there than out on the walk itself because the buildings blocked out the street lamp. It was so dark that Duff wasn’t even sure that whoever had shot at him was still there. He was going to have to smoke him out, and there was only one way to do that.
Cocking his pistol and taking a deep breath, he stood up.
“Here I am,” he called.
As he hoped he would, his adversary, whoever it was, stepped out onto the walk with a scream of rage. He fired at Duff, and Duff returned fire. Duff saw the man drop his gun, then grab his chest. He fell back against the wall, then slid to the ground.
By now several people had come into the street. The first to approach him was wearing a badge on his vest, and it flashed in the light as he approached with a gun in his hand.
“Drop your gun,” the lawman called.
“Aye,” Duff said, dropping his pistol as ordered.
A hearing was held the next morning in the courthouse to determine the circumstances surrounding the shooting incident on Central Street the night before, resulting in the death of Roy Jameson. The Honorable Anthony Keller, judge of probate, was presiding. Billy Ray Rawles was the first to testify.
“This here foreign feller shot Roy in the hand yesterday for no reason at all. So it ain’t no surprise to me but that he decided to finish the job,” Billy Ray said. “If you ask me, it’s murder, pure an’ simple and I think the son of bitch ought to be took out to a tree and hung.” He pointed to Falcon MacCallister. “And this here feller was in cahoots with him. Yesterday, after the foreigner shot my friend in the hand, this here man pulled his gun and made ever’one in the whole saloon put their guns into the piano.”
“In the piano? I don’t understand.”
“He made the piano player open up the back of his piano and had us all drop our guns down inside.”
“Is that right, Mr. MacCallister?” the judge asked Falcon.
“It is, Your Honor,” Falcon said.
“Why did you do that?”
“I thought it might stop any further gunplay.”
The judge stroked his white beard, then nodded. “You may be right,” he said. “Do you have anything further to add, Mr. Rawles?”
“Only that there ain’t no doubt in my mind but what my friend Roy was kilt for no reason at all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rawles,” Judge Keller said.
Rawles was the only witness who testified on behalf of Roy Jameson. Every other witness testified as to how Roy Jameson had baited Duff MacCallister and had, in fact, drawn first.
The real clincher came, however, when Dingus Murphy testified. Murphy had been hired by Elliot Sikes, owner of the leather goods store, to clean it up after closing. He had heard the first shot. Moving to the window to see what was going on, he witnessed the entire event and gave a very cogent and believable account.
When all had testified, including Duff, Judge Keller rendered his decision.
“I find this killing to be in all ways justifiable. No charges will be filed and Mr. MacCallister is free to go.”
Chapter Nineteen
MacCallister, Colorado
It was as disreputable a group of men as had ever stepped down from the train in MacCallister. All were rough looking, and those who were at the depot for one reason or another moved away from them. After the horses were off-loaded, Malcolm asked the others to wait for a moment while he went inside to inquire of the stationmaster where they might find Duff MacCallister.
“Duff MacCallister?” the stationmaster said. He shook his head. “Mister, this town is full of MacCallisters, but I don’t recollect any of them by the name of Duff.”
“Sure you do, Pete,” Toots said. “He was the man who used my cane to subdue Stripland when the brigand tried to steal Mrs. Rittenhouse’s purse, don’t you remember? It was written up in the paper.”
“Yes, of course, I remember that. I guess I just never heard his first name, though now that I think about it, I believe I did hear that he is a cousin to our MacCallisters.”
“He is a foreigner,” Toots said. He looked more closely at Malcolm. “You are as well, I suspect. You sound just like him.”
“Aye, we are from the same town in Scotland, Donuun in Argyllshire, it is.”
Toots smiled. “Well, now I can see why you are trying to find him. It is always good to meet a fellow countryman when one is traveling in a foreign country,” Toots said. He held up his cane. “I confess that I picked up the habit of carrying a cane when I was in London.”
“Yes, the English do that,” Malcolm said. “Now, about Duff MacCallister.”
“Your friend isn’t here,” Toots said.
“I thought you said that he was.”
“He was here, yes, but he and Falcon left a few days ago.”
“Would you be for knowing where they went?”
“No, I don’t have any—no, wait. I think it was in the newspaper article.”
“Newspaper article?”
“Yes. The one about me.”
Pete chuckled. “As I recall, Toots, your name is mentioned one time.”
“That’s all it needs,” Toots said. “One hundred years from now someone will read that article and know that I was here to make my mark.”
“Where can I get a copy of this paper?” Malcolm asked.
“I have some copies back here. They are five cents apiece.”
Malcolm took a nickel from his pocket and handed it to the stationmaster, who gave him a copy of the paper.
“This is the story,” Toots said, pointing to the article on the front page of the paper. “You’ll find my name, Toots Nelson, in the story.”
“Thank you,” Malcolm said. “I shall read it with interest.” He stepped back outside.
“Did you find out where he is?” Shaw asked.
“I think I’m about to,” Malcolm said as he began reading.
Quick Action Foils Purse Thief
On Thursday previous, shortly after the arrival of the morning train, George Stripland, a known outlaw, attempted to ply his evil avocation upon the innocent person of Mrs. Emma Ritt
enhouse.
Snatching her reticule, the nefarious Mr. Stripland attempted to effect his getaway by depending upon swiftness of feet to carry him to safety. But to the detriment of Stripland, the benefit of Mrs. Rittenhouse, and the approval of the law-abiding people of MacCallister, a visitor from Scotland foiled his escape.
Duff MacCallister, a cousin to Falcon and the many other MacCallisters who reside in our fair town and valley, snatched the polished cane from the hand of Toots Nelson and with unerring accuracy, launched the stick in such a way as to cause it to become entangled in the feet of the fleeing thief. Stripland fell to the ground, whereupon Mrs. Rittenhouse’s purse was recovered and the brigand taken into custody.
This newspaper has learned that Duff MacCallister is more than a mere visitor from Scotland and has, indeed, immigrated to America. He and his cousin Falcon departed the city recently en route to Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, where Duff MacCallister intends to homestead land and begin the life of a rancher.
Long an admirer of the MacCallisters, from the one whose statue now graces our fair city and after whom our city is named, to his noble sons: Jamie Ian, Matthew, Morgan, and Falcon, his daughters, Kathleen, Megan, and Joleen, and of course, Andrew and Rosanna, whose stars shine in a much broader universe, this editor wishes Duff much success.
“Back on the train,” Malcolm ordered.
“Back on the train? What for?” Pettigrew asked. “We’ve just got the horses saddled, and I’ve had about enough train ridin’.”
“You want MacCallister?”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“He’s not here,” Malcolm said. “He’s in a place called Cheyenne, Wyoming.”
“Damn,” Moran said. “That’s a long way from here.”
“Then best we get started,” McKenna said.
“Right,” Malcolm said.
“This ridin’ a train around all the time is goin’ to get expensive, ain’t it?” Carter Hill asked.
“Why should that matter to you, since I am paying for the tickets?”
Carter Hill chuckled. “Yeah, you are, ain’t you? I just said that so’s you know that we ain’t none of us goin’ to be payin’ for it.”
Cheyenne
Once more Duff and Falcon boarded a train, but this time their trip would be a short one. It was only twenty-four miles to Tracy. There they would leave the train, then go by horse for the fifty miles to Chugwater. Though they checked their baggage and their horses, Duff, as he had before, carried the bagpipes with him, for fear they would be damaged by mistreatment in the baggage car.
As soon as they were settled in their seats, Duff opened his book and began reading.
“I’ve seen you reading that book before. What is it about that it holds your interest so?” Falcon asked.
“It is the Williams Pacific Tourist Guide,” Duff said. “It is filled with information about the West and all the towns you might visit. I was just reading about Chugwater. Here, read this.”
Duff handed the book to Falcon, and Falcon began to read.
VALLEY OF THE CHUGWATER
The Chugwater Valley is about 100 miles long. It has been for many years a favorite locality for wintering stock, not only on account of the excellence of the grass and water, but also from the fact that the climate is mild throughout the winter. Cattle and horses thrive well all winter without hay or shelter. The broad valley is protected from strong cold winds by high walls or bluffs. The soil everywhere is fertile, and wherever the surface can be irrigated, good crops of all kinds of cereals and hardy vegetables can be raised without difficulty.
In this valley and near the source of the Chugwater, are thousands of tons of iron ore, indicating vast extent and richness which can be made easily accessible whenever desirable to construct a railroad to Montana.
“Where did you get this book?” Falcon asked after reading the passage Duff had just pointed out to him.
“I bought it at the depot in Omaha when I changed trains,” Duff said. “It has been a source of invaluable information.”
Falcon chuckled.
“What is wrong?”
“The railroads have a vested interest in settling the West as quickly as they can,” Falcon said. “The more people there are out here, the more the demand for transportation, not only of people, but of goods.”
“Would you be for suggesting now that the information is all false?”
“No, I’m not saying that it is all false,” Falcon said. “I’m not even saying that it is mostly false. I am saying, though, that they are going to make all of their descriptions sound as inviting as they can.”
“Is the land good for cattle or not?”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. And, I’m sure that the mountains will make the winters somewhat more bearable by blocking the worst of the north winds. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that the winter will be mild because, cousin, it will not be.”
“I hold no such illusion,” Duff said.
Though they had only twenty-four miles to travel, they had taken passage on a local, so it made stops at Archer, Hilsdale, and Burns. At Burns, they were shunted onto a side track so the express could come through. Duff watched through the window as the express train, traveling at full speed, barreled through the little town, smoke pouring from the stack, steam streaming from the actuating cylinders, the big driver wheels spinning so fast as to be a blur.
Not until the express had passed through did the local resume its own journey, once more moving out onto the track that it shared with all the other trains. Duff knew that only precise scheduling and perfect timing allowed such a thing. He shuddered to think what would have happened if they had not been shunted off to a sidetrack at just the right time.
It was a ten-mile run from Burns to Tracy and they made that final ten miles in just over half an hour, arriving in Tracy nearly two hours after they departed Cheyenne. At Tracy, Duff and Falcon disembarked and retrieved their baggage and horses. Saddling their horses, they started north, following the map that had been provided by the land office in Cheyenne. The first creek they crossed was identified on the map as Spring Creek. Checking the area around them, they saw a mesa rising in the west. They found the mesa, which though unnamed, did appear on the map, so they were certain they were on the right course. It was late afternoon when they reached Little Bear Creek. Crossing it, they stood at the junction of Little Bear and Bear creeks. According to the map given him by the land clerk, they were now standing on Duff’s land.
“What do you say we camp here for the night?” Falcon suggested. “We can go into Chugwater tomorrow.”
“Cousin, I have never heard more agreeable words,” Duff said as he swung down from his horse. Reaching around, he began massaging the cheeks of his butt.
Falcon chuckled. “A little sore, are you?”
“A little,” Duff said. Then, he chuckled as well. “Maybe more than a little.”
Back in Scotland, Duff had owned horses, and he rode frequently, not only to manage his property but also when he went into town. But the distances in Scotland were nothing like the huge, open, almost endless plains of the American West. They had come thirty miles just since leaving Tracy, and Duff had never sat a saddle this long. There had been little conversation during the ride, the silence of the ride interrupted only by the clank of the bit in the horses’ teeth, the dry clack of horse hooves on the rocky ground, and the creaking of the saddle as Duff shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position.
Despite the weariness of the ride, Duff had to confess that he had never seen more dramatic or inspiring scenery. To the west lay a long purple range of mountains, which the map identified as the Laramie Range. There were other elevations as well, though many were not specifically identified on the map.
They let their horses water, which both animals did eagerly. Afterward, they ground-tethered their horses and the horses immediately began to crop the grass, eating hungrily.
“That’s a
good sign,” Falcon said. “If the horses like the grass, cattle will.”
“Aye,” Duff replied. “The water and the grass are good here, I think.”
“Have you named your horse?”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe I have come up with a name.”
“What?”
“I’m going to call him Sky.”
“After Skye, good idea,” Falcon said.
“Aye, but being as the horse is male, I’ll leave off the ‘e’ in his name. Still, it will remind me of her.”
Falcon walked over to Duff’s horse and rubbed it behind the ears. “Hello, Sky,” he said. “How do you like your new name?”
A covey of quail flew up in front of them, and Falcon smiled. “Cousin, how do you like your quail? Grilled, or cooked in a pan?”
“I’ve never eaten the critters,” Duff replied. “Though I’ve taken my share of grouse.”
“Well, quail is as good eating as grouse, but they are a mite smaller. I reckon we’re goin’ to have to have two apiece to make a meal of them.”
“How do we hunt them?”
“Easterners use shotguns,” Falcon said. “But I use a pistol.”
“A pistol?”
“You’ve never hunted grouse with a pistol?”
“I don’t think I have.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you had. Grouse are bigger and easier to hit, so there’s no sport in it. Fill your hand, cousin. Let’s get us some supper.”
Falcon and Duff stood about twenty yards apart, then started walking through the grass. Duff was the first person to flush a quail. With a loud fluttering of its wings it darted up in front of him. Duff fired, missed the first shot, and fired again. On his second shot he saw a little puff of feathers fly out as the bird tumbled and fell.
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