MacAllister

by William W. Johnstone

  “Ahh, what’s wrong? It took you two shots,” Falcon teased. As he was calling out to Duff, one flew up in front of him, but because he was teasing Duff, his bird got away before he could shoot.

  “Did I misunderstand the concept here?” Duff called back. “It was my understanding that we were to shoot the birds, not let them fly away.”

  Falcon laughed good-naturedly. “You got me on that . . .” Before he could finish his sentence two more birds flew up in front of him and he took them both. Even as he was looking back at Duff for affirmation, a second bird flew up in front of Duff. He got this one in one shot.

  Chapter Twenty

  Comfortably fed with grilled quail, and with his thirst satisfied by the cool, sweet water of Bear Creek, Duff watched the play of color on Laramie Peak as the sun dipped behind the range. The sun was gone, but a painter’s palette of color filled the western sky, from gold, to pink, to purple.

  “What do you think about your place?” Falcon asked.

  “I think this could make me forget about Scotland,” Duff replied.

  The two men talked until the fire burned out, until not one glowing ember remained. Then, under a canopy of stars that was more magnificent even than they had been at sea, Duff spread out his bedroll and, to the music of the babbling creeks, the thrum of frogs, and the hooting of owls, he drifted off to sleep.

  “Oh, Duff, I love it here,” Skye said. “This would have been such a wonderful place for us to raise our children.”

  “Skye! What are you doing here?”

  “I am here because you are here. For the rest of your life, wherever you are, that is where I will be. Was I not with you on the ship? Did you not hear my voice in the wind? Did you not see my face in the sea?”

  “I miss you, Skye. I miss you so much.”

  “I know, my dear. But don’t you know how it is here? We are never really apart. All you have to do is think of me, and I will be there, just on the other side of your memory. For you, it is reminiscence, but for me it is real. I will be reliving it.”

  “Skye,” Duff said. “Skye.”

  “Skye?”

  Duff sat up in his bedroll, reaching out into the darkness for his Skye, but she wasn’t there.

  For just a moment Duff felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness, then he knew he had only been dreaming. Or was it a dream? It seemed so true, so physical that it was hard to think of it as surreal. What had she told him? That she would always be just on the other side of memory?

  He heard Falcon snoring and he looked over toward the other bedroll. Falcon was sound asleep, and Duff was glad. This dream was very personal and he wanted to keep it that way.

  Falcon had come with Duff not only to be with him as he filed for his land but also to help him build the cabin he would need in order to “improve” his holding. So they spent the next morning and into the afternoon scouting the area, first determining the perimeters of his land, then deciding where best to build the cabin. Duff wanted it right at the confluence of the two creeks, but Falcon cautioned him that when the snow in the mountains melted, there would be a runoff and the creeks would be in freshet stage.

  “You are likely to wake up one morning knee deep in water,” Falcon said.

  “Aye, you are right. ’Twould be a big mistake to put it right here.”

  They found a place on some elevated ground, at least thirty feet higher than the creek but close enough to it that it would be a ready source of water.

  “When we come back from town, we will lay out the dimensions of the cabin, right here,” Duff said. They didn’t leave for town until early afternoon, but it did not take them long to finish their ride, for Chugwater was but ten miles from Duff’s land.

  Duff’s initial view of the town was not all that reassuring. At first it seemed little more than a part of the topography of the land they were riding through: hillocks on the horizon, mostly the same color as the earth from which the clumps emerged. As they drew closer though, the hillocks and clumps began to take shape and he saw that they were not a part of the desert but were a town.

  The buildings, consisting mostly of adobe brick and ripsawed unpainted and weathered boards sat festering in the sun. A sign as they entered the town reflected either the hyperbole of an overenthusiastic town booster or his sarcasm.

  WELCOME TO CHUGWATER, W.T.

  POPULATION 205

  The jewel of Chugwater Valley

  The town was not served by a railroad, but as they rode in, Duff saw a stagecoach sitting at the depot, the six-horse team standing quietly in their harness. The driver, with a pipe stuck in his teeth, was sitting in his seat, his feet propped up on the splashboard in front of him, his arms folded across his chest. He appeared to be grabbing a few moments of rest, totally indifferent to the depot personnel who were loading passengers’ baggage on top of the coach and into the boot.

  The passengers were waiting alongside the coach: three men, two women, and a child. One of the passengers who had just gotten off the stage was a woman, whom Duff guessed was in her twenties. She was quite pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. She brushed a fall of hair from her forehead, then flashed a smile toward Duff as he rode by. He touched his hand just above his right eye and dipped his head toward her.

  “Pretty, isn’t she?” Falcon asked as they rode on.

  Duff was surprised by the comment. He was riding behind Falcon and had no idea that Falcon had even noticed the brief and silent exchange.

  “Aye,” Duff said. “She is.”

  “What do you say we get the dust out of our mouths?” Falcon suggested, pointing toward one of the more substantial looking of the buildings. It was a saloon bearing the unlikely name of Fiddler’s Green.

  “Aye, ’tis a good idea, I would say,” Duff replied.

  Dismounting in front of the saloon, Duff and Falcon spent the first few seconds slapping themselves to get rid of the dust and raising a cloud around them.

  “I’ll bet you’ve never seen this much dust before,” Falcon said.

  “Not since Egypt,” Duff said.

  Falcon chuckled. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I suppose there is a little dust in Egypt.”

  There was a drunk passed out on the steps in front of the place, so Duff and Falcon moved to one side so they could step directly up onto the porch from the sun-baked ground. They pushed through the swinging bat-wing doors, and because the inside of the saloon was illuminated only by the light that streamed in through dirty windows, they had to stand there for just a second to allow their eyes to adjust. Duff noticed that Falcon had automatically moved away from the door and placed his back against the wall, so he did the same thing.

  Compared to many of the saloons Duff had seen since coming west, Fiddler’s Green was fairly nice looking, surprisingly so because the town seemed so remote. There was a mirror behind the bar, bracketed by shelves that were filled with scores of bottles of various kinds of liquor and spirits. A sign on the wall read: “GENTLEMEN, KINDLY USE THE SPITTOONS.”

  The sign was either obeyed, or the saloon proprietor was particular about cleaning, for the floors were remarkably free of any expectorations. There was a piano at the back of the room, but nobody was playing. A young boy, no more than twelve or thirteen, Duff believed, was sweeping the floor with a big push broom. That validated Duff’s belief that the saloon owner was fastidious.

  As Duff and Falcon approached the bar, Duff saw a brass foot rail and he made use of it, welcoming it because lifting his leg somewhat did seem to ease a bit of the ache he was feeling in his back as a result of the long ride of the last two days.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked, sliding down the bar with a towel tossed across his shoulder. The fact that the towel was relatively clean spoke volumes about the class of the establishment.

  “Two beers,” Falcon said.

  “And I’ll have the same,” Duff said.

  The bartender laughed. “You boys seem to have worked up a thirst.”

&
nbsp; “Long ride,” Falcon said.

  “Where’d you boys come from? Not that it’s any of my business,” he added quickly, holding up his hand to indicate that they didn’t need to answer.

  “I take your question as friendly discourse and have no problem with answering,” Duff said. “Especially since we will be neighbors and I expect to visit your establishment from time to time. We rode up from Cheyenne.”

  “That is a long ride,” the bartender said as he drew the four beers. Then holding the mugs by their handles, two in each hand, he set them in front of Duff and Falcon. Both men pulled out two nickels apiece, but the bartender took only one nickel from each of them.

  “First beer to a first-time visitor is free,” he said.

  “That’s very neighborly of you,” Falcon said.

  Both Falcon and Duff turned up their mugs and drained them without pause. Then, both finishing about the same time, they put the empties down.

  Duff wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That one was for thirst,” he said as he picked up the second mug. “This one is for taste.”

  This time he took only one sip before he put the mug down again.

  “Do you serve food here?” Falcon asked. “Or do we need to find a restaurant?”

  “Bacon, beans, biscuits,” the bartender replied. “The biscuits ought to be pretty good. I was just back in the kitchen and they are about ready to come out.”

  “What do you think, Duff?”

  “I’m not likely to get haggis, taties, or neeps, so bacon, beans, and biscuits will do just fine.”

  “You’re from Scotland,” the bartender said with a broad smile. “I thought I recognized your accent.”

  “Ye have a good ear for accents,” Duff said.

  “Not really. But my wife’s parents are from Scotland, so I am familiar with the brogue. And with haggis, taties, and neeps. Though I have to tell you, I can’t stand the stuff.” He stuck his hand out. “If we’re going to be neighbors, as you say, we may as well get acquainted. The name is Johnson, Biff Johnson.”

  “Duff MacCallister,” Duff replied.

  “Duff? Hmm, Duff and Biff, we shouldn’t have any trouble remembering our names,” Biff said.

  Duff chuckled, then turned toward Falcon. “This is my kinsman, Falcon.”

  “Yes, Falcon, I thought I recognized you,” Biff said, shaking Falcon’s hand.

  “Do we know each other, Biff?” Falcon asked.

  “It’s been a while but . . .” Biff paused in mid statement. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Falcon shook his head. “I’m sorry, friend, I can’t say that I do remember you.”

  “I’ll let you think about it for a while,” Biff said. “I believe it will come to you.”

  “Biff,” Duff said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that name.”

  Biff chuckled. “Not likely that you would have. My real name is Benjamin Franklin Johnson. But that was too long a handle so folks started calling me B.F., and, somehow, that became Biff. What about eats? Do you want what we have?”

  “We’ll take it,” Falcon said. Scooping a couple of boiled eggs from the large jar that sat on the end of the bar, he handed one to Duff. Then the two of them took the boiled eggs and their beer to a nearby table. It didn’t take long for one of the bar girls to approach them.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling her greeting at them. “My name is Lucy.”

  Lucy was tall, raw-boned, and full-breasted. She had wide-set, blue-gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a mouth that was almost too full. “Have I seen you two in here before?”

  “Not likely, we just got into town,” Falcon answered.

  Duff stood up and pulled a chair out for her by way of invitation.

  “My, aren’t you the gentleman though?” Lucy asked. “Most of the time someone just kicks the chair out with their foot and expects me to be all grateful that they have invited me to sit down.”

  “Och, I could never do such a thing,” Duff said.

  “Oh, my. What a lovely accent.”

  Duff held the chair until Lucy was seated, then she let out a long sigh. “If you hadn’t invited me to sit down I may have anyway. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

  “No big thing, you’re a whore so you’ll be on your back all night,” a big man from the next table said. He laughed heartily at his joke, though no one else in the saloon did.

  “Pig Iron, you got no call to be saying something like that,” one of the other patrons said.

  Duff saw the hurt reflected in Lucy’s eyes and, without saying another word, he stepped over to the table of the man who had made the rude comment.

  “’Tis thinking, I am, that you’ll be wanting to apologize to the lady for that intemperate remark,” Duff said.

  “Ha! You want me to apologize to a whore? In a pig’s eye, I will.”

  “Then I’ll be asking you, with all due respect, to move to another table,” Duff said.

  By now all conversation in the saloon stopped as everyone looked over to see the confrontation between Duff and the man called Pig Iron.

  Pig Iron stood up and smiled at Duff. It was not a smile of humor.

  “I heard you tell the bartender that you was goin’ to be movin’ here, so you may as well learn now to mind your manners around ole Pig Iron.”

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Pig Iron took a swing at Duff, but Duff ducked under it easily. Then, with the extended fingers of his left hand, he jabbed hard at a point in the upper abdomen just below where the ribs separated. It had the effect of knocking the breath out of Pig Iron, and with a wheezing whoosh, he stepped back and fell into his chair gasping for breath.

  “Don’t worry, friend, you will regain your breath,” Duff said. “Sure and I could follow that up with a blow that would render you unconscious. But I think you are uncomfortable enough as it is, and I’ve nae wish to make enemies so quickly in my chosen place of abode. So let us just agree that this episode is over. Do I have your agreement on that?”

  Pig Iron was still struggling for breath, and because it was impossible for him to actually talk, he nodded.

  “Good. Next time we meet, may I suggest a more convivial exchange?”

  Pig Iron nodded again, and Duff returned to the table.

  “Damn,” Falcon said with a big smile. “You’ll have to show me that trick sometime.”

  “Nothing to it,” Duff said. He put his fingers on Falcon’s solar plexus and made a slight jab. The jab was very gentle, but was enough to show Falcon what a hard jab would do.

  “I’ll have to remember that,” Falcon said.

  Pig Iron got up and left the saloon as Biff Johnson was bringing a drink for Lucy, even though the girl hadn’t ordered.

  “He must know your brand,” Duff said as he paid for the drink.

  “That’s not hard. One glass of tea is pretty much like any other glass of tea,” Lucy said with unaccustomed candidness. She picked it up and held it toward Falcon and Duff in a toast. The two men laughed and touched their beers to her glass.

  “Well, ’tis an honest lass ye be about me paying whiskey prices for your tea,” Duff said.

  “Honey, if everything we drank really was whiskey, we’d all be drunk before mid-afternoon,” Lucy explained.

  “Get down!” Falcon suddenly shouted and reacting quickly and without question, Duff dived from his chair onto Lucy, knocking her down and falling on top of her. By the time they reached the floor, he heard the roar of a gunshot, not a pistol, something bigger.

  Falcon fired back as Pig Iron pulled the trigger on the second barrel of his twelve-gauge shotgun. Duff saw Pig Iron grab his chest, then fall back. Looking over toward Falcon, he saw a smoking pistol in Falcon’s hand.

  “Annie! Oh, my God! Annie!” a woman screamed.

  Duff rolled off Lucy and looked over at the table near the back of the room. One of the bar girls was lying on her back, her chest red with blood. Everyone in the room ran to her, but they saw as soon as they arr
ived that there was nothing they could do.

  Lucy began crying quietly.

  “I’m sorry, lass, I’m truly sorry,” Duff said softly.

  Lucy turned and leaned into him, and he held her as she cried on his shoulder. He pulled her more tightly to him, realizing that it was the first time he had held a woman, any woman, in his arms since his Skye had been killed.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Pig Iron was taken back to the Davis Ranch where he worked, and there he was buried. Annie, whose real name turned out to be Matilda Ann Gilbert, was buried in the town cemetery at Chug-water. The entire town turned out for the funeral and for the burial. Biff Johnson, upon learning that Duff not only had bagpipes, but could play them, asked if he would play “Amazing Grace.” Duff agreed to play it, and when he showed up at the cemetery, he was wearing the kilt of the Black Watch, complete with the sgian dubh, and the Victoria Cross.

  The townspeople gathered around the open grave as the Reverend E. D. Sweeny of the Chug-water Church of God’s Glory gave the final prayer.

  “Our Lord and Savior who is ever mindful of all our sins knows that we all fall short. And it might be said of our sister, Matilda Ann Gilbert, that she fell further than most, but those who knew Matilda Ann know that if she was sinful of the flesh, she was saintly of heart. We know that it is Your way to be forgiving, oh Lord, and we ask You to be forgiving of your daughter and to receive Matilda Ann into your bosom. Amen.”

  Reverend Sweeny nodded at Duff and he inflated the bag. The first sound was from the drones. Then, fingering the chanter, Duff began playing the haunting tune, the steady hum of the drones providing a mournful sound to underscore the high skirling of the melody itself. It was beautifully played, and by the time he finished, there were many who were weeping.