Thunder of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “What do you mean, he ain’t a part of it?”

  “You boys know what Billy is like. When it comes to something like this, he’s as worthless as tits on a boar hog. Hell, I ain’t even told him about Tyree yet.”

  When he heard the early morning commotion out on the front porch, Billy got out of bed and came down to see what was going on. He intended to step out on the front porch to be closer to what was happening, but when he heard them talking about Tyree, he stopped and stood just inside the door in the parlor, drinking a cup of coffee. When he heard his father’s assessment of him, he turned and left the parlor, not wanting to be there when they came back inside.

  Chapter Twenty

  When Tyree, Cletus, and Ray rode into town, Harold Denham was standing on the front porch of his newspaper officer, supervising the replacement of the window that had been broken out.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said quietly as the three rode by him, then dismounted in front of the Hog Waller.

  “What is it, Mr. Denham, what are we doin’ wrong?” one of the workers asked.

  “What?” Denham asked. Then, realizing that he had said the words “son of a bitch” aloud, he shook his head.

  “No, nothing to do with what you boys are doing,” he said. “You’re doing a fine job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, you seem to have everything in hand here. You just keep going the way you are. I need to walk down to the marshal’s office and have a word with Travis. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Denham.”

  When Denham reached the marshal’s office, he saw Travis sitting at the desk, the top of which was covered with a rather messy spread of papers. The new marshal looked up as Denham stepped inside.

  “Would you look at all this?” Travis said. “How did Titus keep up with it all? I had no idea there was so much paperwork involved in being a marshal. It could be that I’m just not cut out for this job.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Denham said. “I think it was a smart decision to appoint you.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” Travis said. “What brings you by?”

  “Do you have anything in there about Jefferson Tyree?” Denham asked.

  “Jefferson Tyree? Hmm, seems to me like I’ve heard that name. Now, why is that name familiar?”

  “He murdered an entire family a year or so ago. He was caught and put in prison for life, but last month he escaped from prison,” Denham said.

  Travis nodded. “Jefferson Tyree,” he said again. “Yes, I do remember that now. Well, if he is a murderer and an escaped prisoner, I’m sure there must be something on him in here somewhere.” Travis started shuffling through the papers on his desk until he turned up a poster. “Ah, yes. Here it is.”

  WANTED!

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  JEFFERSON

  TYREE

  $5,000.00 REWARD !

  The poster also had a woodcut picture of the outlaw. “Is this the man you’re talking about?”

  “Yes,” Denham said. “He’s here, Travis. Jefferson Tyree is here.”

  “Here?”

  “In Higbee. I just saw him.”

  “Are you sure?” Travis asked. He pointed to the picture. “Because, to be honest, these woodcuts aren’t always that good.”

  “It doesn’t matter how good the woodcut is,” Denham said. “I know it is Tyree. I just saw him ride in with Ray and Cletus Clinton.”

  “How can you be so sure that it’s Tyree?”

  “Because I covered his trial last year,” Denham replied. “I sat in the courtroom and looked at that son of a bitch all through his entire trial.”

  “And you say he’s with the Clintons?”

  “Yes.”

  Travis sighed. “In that case then, there’s not much doubt about why he’s here, is there? It looks like the Clintons have just upped the ante by hiring themselves a gun.”

  “Where’s Falcon MacCallister?”

  “He’s with the crew that’s putting up the bridge,” Travis said.

  “Maybe we’d better send for him.”

  Travis stood up, then pulled his pistol, and turned the cylinder to check the loads.

  “No, there’s no need for that,” he said. “I’m the marshal now. If I can’t handle this, I’ve got no business wearing this badge.”

  “Travis, no,” Denham said. “This man is a cold-blooded killer.”

  “So what am I supposed to do, Harold? Let the cold-blooded killers go and just handle people who spit on the boardwalks?”

  “You could send somebody after Falcon.”

  Travis dropped the pistol back in his holster, put on his hat, and squared his shoulders.

  “No,” he said. “No, I can’t do that.”

  Denham followed Travis down the street, then into the Hog Waller.

  Recently, there had been some discussion before the city council as to whether or not the Hog Waller should be closed. Those who spoke against it talked about it as a health hazard, and if filth had anything to do with disease, as Denham believed, then there was some justification for it, because the Hog Waller literally reeked with filth.

  In addition to being filthy, the Hog Waller appealed to the lowest common denominator of citizen, attracted by the cheap women and the cheaper whiskey.

  The move to close the Hog Waller failed for two reasons. Prentiss Hampton was a member of the city council, and he felt that he could not support the proposal because it would appear as if he were trying to stifle the competition. Also, it was pointed out that most of the card cheating, fistfights, and other acts of disreputable behavior took place in the Hog Waller.

  “It’s as if we have a place marked off just for such behavior,” Moore said in arguing against the proposal. “Maybe as long as we keep it contained there, it won’t spread through the rest of the town.”

  In the end, Moore’s argument prevailed, and the city council took no action in closing the Hog Waller.

  The first thing Denham noticed when he stepped inside was the smell. It was overpowering, but it didn’t seem to be bothering any of the patrons.

  “Is he here?” Travis asked quietly.

  “Yes. That’s him, standing next to Cletus. Tyree is the fella with the gray shirt.”

  “Thanks,” Travis replied. Travis pulled his pistol from his holster. “Now, step back out of the way.”

  What Travis did not realize was that Tyree had seen him through the window before he came into the saloon. Tyree had also seen the badge on Travis’s vest, so he knew why Travis was coming.

  Unnoticed by anyone else at the bar, Travis had pulled his pistol and cocked it and was holding it in front of him, concealing it between his stomach and the bar, even as the marshal came in.

  “Jefferson Tyree, turn around,” Travis called authoritatively.

  Tyree spun around and fired, catching Travis by surprise. Even so, Travis reacted quickly, pulling the trigger on his own pistol so soon behind Tyree that those who only heard the sounds of the gunshots thought the fight was much closer than it really was. In truth, Travis’s bullet plunged into the floor right in front of him.

  “Travis!” Denham shouted, running toward the collapsed form of his friend.

  Tyree stood for a long moment, holding the still-smoking pistol as Denham attempted to administer to his friend.

  “Is he dead?” Tyree asked calmly.

  “Yes, he’s dead,” Denham replied. “You murdered him.”

  “You might’ve noticed he already had the gun in his hand when he braced me,” Tyree said.

  “He didn’t brace you, Tyree. He was attempting to arrest you,” Denham said.

  “Arrest me, huh? Well, maybe he should’ve said somethin’. I thought he was just somebody trying to build a reputation by killing Jefferson Tyree.”

  “One doesn’t build a reputation by killing polecats or rattlesnakes,” Denham said. “And compared to you, the polecat and the rattlesnake are some of God’s noblest creatures.”
/>
  “You have a big mouth, don’t you, friend?” Tyree said. He looked over at Cletus. “This fella always have a way with words like that?”

  “Oh, yes,” Cletus said. “This is Harold Denham, the publisher of our local newspaper.”

  “The local newspaper, huh?” Inexplicably, a broad smile spread across Tyree’s face. “So, are you going to write about me, Mr. Newspaperman?”

  “I am indeed,” Denham said, still on his knees next to Travis Calhoun’s body. “If you think you can frighten away the press, you have another think coming.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to frighten you away. I want you to print the story, just as it happened. And I want you to say that when this fella braced me, he was already holding a pistol in his hand, but that I was so quick that I turned, drew, and shot him before he could shoot me.”

  “I will not make anything heroic out of this,” Denham said.

  “I ain’t askin’ you to make me a hero, mister,” Tyree said. “I’m just askin’ you to tell the truth, that’s all.”

  When Falcon saw the buckboard with General Garrison and his daughter arrive at the site where the bridge was being built, he walked over to them.

  “Hello,” he said, greeting them with a smile. “Are you out here to check on the progress?”

  “I wish that was the only reason,” Garrison replied.

  Falcon noticed the grim expressions on their faces.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What has happened?”

  “Marshal Calhoun has been killed.”

  Falcon frowned for a second, wondering why they would be telling him what he already knew. Then, suddenly, he realized they weren’t talking about Titus, they were talking about Travis.

  “Wait a minute! Travis?” he said. “Are you saying Travis Calhoun has been killed? He just took office.”

  “Yes.”

  “The Clintons?”

  “No!” Kathleen said quickly. “It wasn’t them.”

  “It was the same as them,” Garrison said. “It was their hired gun.”

  “Their hired gun?”

  “Jefferson Tyree,” Garrison said. “Do you know him?”

  Falcon nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know him. Tell me what happened.”

  Garrison told the story to Falcon as it was told to him by Harold Denham.

  “Can a man really be that fast?” Garrison asked. “Everyone agrees that Travis already had his gun out and drawn, but Tyree just spun around and shot him.”

  “Yes, a man can be that fast,” Falcon said. He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. “You say Tyree is working for the Clintons now?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Garrison said. “And he was with them when this happened.”

  “If the Clintons actually have hired Jefferson Tyree, then they are as guilty of Travis’s murder as he is.”

  “No!” Kathleen said.

  “What do you mean no?” Garrison asked his daughter. “Think about it, Kathleen. You know that is true.”

  “It might be true about the rest of the Clintons, but not about Billy. I know that he wouldn’t have anything to do with something like this. You don’t know Billy the way I do.”

  “Are you sure that you know him that well?” Garrison asked.

  “Yes, I’m positive. What are you trying to say, Papa? Are you saying that you think Billy is like his brothers or his father? Because I know that he is not.”

  “And yet, he stays with them, does he not?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Kathleen said.

  “Kathleen, I think you should listen to your father,” Falcon said. “I know men like this. I have known them for my entire life.”

  “You, too? But you met him on the train. And you saw how he was at the dance. You know he was different from the others.”

  “He behaves differently, now that is true,” Falcon said. “But the very thing that makes him a good man is his sense of honor. And if that sense of honor is misplaced, it’s also going to doom him.”

  “What do you mean, misplaced?”

  “I mean that when it comes right down to it, if Billy is forced into choosing between his family and outsiders, Billy is going to choose his family,” Falcon said.

  “No, never.”

  Falcon nodded. “I’m afraid he will have no choice. It will be an act of honor—twisted honor to be sure, but its hold on him will not let him go.”

  Falcon attended the church part of Travis Calhoun’s funeral, but as the funeral cortege moved slowly down Front Street toward the cemetery, Falcon saw Cletus and Ray Clinton going into the Hog Waller. Jefferson Tyree was with them.

  “Corey,” he said. “Give my apologies to Troy.”

  “What do you mean? You aren’t going out to the cemetery?”

  “I’ve got some business to attend to,” Falcon said without further explanation.

  Evidently, someone had said something very funny just before Falcon stepped in through the door, because everyone was laughing. But as they saw Falcon, the laughter stopped, not all at once, but in ragged spikes so that the last bit of laughter was Rosie’s single cackle. Then, realizing she was laughing alone, she turned to see why.

  “Well, now, if it ain’t my old friend Falcon MacCallister,” Tyree said. “My, my, look at you, all dressed up like that. You been to a wedding or something?”

  “I’ve been to a funeral,” Falcon replied.

  “A funeral? Oh, yes, you must be talking about the marshal. I’m just real sorry ’bout that. All I saw was someone pointing a gun at me. Maybe if he had come in here and talked to me just right, I wouldn’t have had to kill him. He was your friend, was he?”

  “He was.”

  “Well, I tell you what. Just to show you that there’s no hard feelin’s, how about steppin’ up to the bar and havin’ a drink with me. Bartender, give Mr. MacCallister anything he wants to drink, on me.” A broad, arrogant smile spread across Tyree’s face.

  “I didn’t come here to drink with you, Tyree. I came here to kill you.”

  Falcon spoke the sentence so calmly that, for a moment, those who heard him weren’t sure what they heard. Then, as they repeated it to each other, and as they measured the cold set of Falcon’s eyes, they realized what he had actually said.

  “Hold on there, MacCallister,” Cletus said. “You can’t just come in here and—”

  “Shut up, Clinton,” Falcon said.

  “You can’t talk to me—”

  Suddenly, Ray brought the back of his hand across Cletus’s face, hitting him so hard that his lip began to bleed.

  “Shut up, Cletus,” Ray said. “This is between MacCallister and Tyree.”

  When Tyree saw that the Clinton brothers had just taken themselves out of it, and he was going to have to face Falcon alone, the smile on his face faded. He had thought that with the Clintons he had an edge. Now he saw that edge taken away. That left Tyree with self-doubt, and the self-doubt caused him to feel fear, perhaps for the first time in his life. And that fear was mirrored in his eyes and in the nervous tick on the side of his face. His tongue came out to lick his lips.

  When he saw Tyree’s fear begin to manifest itself, an easy grin spread across Falcon’s face. Even that, the grin in the face of a life and death situation, seemed to unnerve Tyree.

  Suddenly, Tyree’s hand started for his gun. He was fast, but Falcon was just a heartbeat faster. Falcon fired, and Tyree caught the ball high in his chest. Dropping his gun, Tyree slapped his hand over his wound. He looked down in surprise as blood squirted through his fingers, turning his shirt bright red. He took two staggering steps toward Falcon, then fell to his knees. He looked up at Falcon.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. He smiled, then coughed, and flecks of blood came from his mouth. He breathed hard a couple of times. “Son of a bitch, you’re fast.”

  “No, you were just slow,” Falcon said easily.

  Tyree fell facedown, then lay still.

  Cletus, seeing that Tyree was
dead, held his hand out in front of him.

  “I ain’t goin’ to draw on you,” he said. “If you kill me, ever’one in here will be able to testify that you killed me in cold blood.”

  “Go home, both of you,” Falcon said. “Tell your pa he has thirty days to sell his ranch and move out.”

  “What?” Cletus replied, practically shouting the word.

  “You heard me,” Falcon said. “You have thirty days to sell your ranch and move out of the state.”

  “What the hell! You can’t order us out of the state!”

  “I just did.”

  “And if we don’t?” Cletus asked.

  Falcon didn’t say a word, but he smiled. It was the same smile he’d had just before he killed Tyree. The impact wasn’t lost on either of the Clintons.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  J. Peerless Bixby, the Higbee undertaker, put Tyree’s body in a wooden coffin, then stood him up in front of his establishment. One of Tyree’s eyes was closed, the other was half open. His hands were crossed in front of his body, and he was holding his gun. A sign was pinned to his chest.

  JEFFERSON TYREE

  Noted Murderer And Outlaw

  Killed in a FAIR FIGHT

  by Falcon MacCallister

  The Vermillion was decorated with black bunting around the windows and a black wreath on the door. It had been closed since Travis was killed, and had just reopened for the first time tonight.

  Rachael had accepted Falcon’s invitation to dinner, and the two of them were sitting at a table at the back of the restaurant.

  When the waiter came to the table, Rachael ordered baked chicken, green beans with mushrooms, and a salad. The waiter nodded, then started back to the kitchen with her order. He didn’t ask Falcon what he wanted.

  “Aren’t you going to order?” Rachael asked.

  “I don’t need to,” Falcon replied. “He knows what I want.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Steak and baked potato.”