* * *
He looked at the theater marquee.
THE POWER AND THE PRIDE
A Drama in Three Acts
Starring
ANDREW AND ROSANNA MacCALLISTER
In a rare
Joint Appearance
There was quite a line waiting for tickets. Andrew had told Falcon that he didn’t have to stand in line, that he could just come right inside the doors, show his letter of introduction, and he would be taken right to his seat.
Following his brother’s instructions, Falcon opened the door, but was approached by a stern-faced man in uniform.
“Get back in line, you!” he said.
“But I’ve got . . .” Falcon started to say, holding up his letter.
“I don’t care what you have,” the uniformed man said.
“You must return to the line.”
Not wanting to cause any trouble, Falcon returned to the line, where he waited patiently.
A carriage stopped and three young women got out, then joined the line behind him. They were speaking excitedly about the play, and during the course of the conversation, he realized that they were college students.
When he reached the box office, he showed the letter to the ticket agent. The agent looked at it. Then his eyes grew wide and he looked up at Falcon.
“You are Mr. MacCallister?” he asked. “You are the brother of the MacCallisters?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness, sir, there was no need for you to stand in line. The private box is yours, please, go in.”
“Thank you,” Falcon said. He’d started to turn away when he heard the ticket agent tell the three young women behind him that there no more seats available.
“Oh, but I must see it,” one of the girls said. “I love Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister. Can’t we be allowed to come in and stand in the back?”
“I’m sorry, that isn’t possible.”
Falcon stepped back to the ticket window. “Excuse me,” he said. “Did you say I have a private box all to myself?”
“Yes.”
“How many seats are in that box?”
“There are six, I believe, Mr. MacCallister.”
“MacCallister?” one of the young women said with a gasp. “Is your name MacCallister?”
“Yes,” Falcon said. “And if you are interested, I would like to invite you and your two friends to join me in the box.”
“Oh! Oh, how wonderful of you to ask! Yes, of course we would love to join you. That is . . . if you are serious.”
“I’m serious,” Falcon said. “What man would not want three pretty girls to join him?”
“Thank you,” the girl replied. “But biologically speaking, we aren’t girls. We are of the age to be considered women.”
Falcon chuckled. “Of course you are,” he said.
“I am Anna Heckemeyer of Medora, Dakota Territory,” the young woman said. “These are my two friends, Miss Gail Thorndyke of New York, and Miss Emma Lou Patterson of Richmond, Virginia.”
Shortly after Falcon and his young guests reached the box, the gaslights in the theater were dimmed, the lights on the stage came up, and the curtain opened. Rosanna was standing at center stage, reading what appeared to be a letter. The audience applauded.
After a moment of silent reading, she thrust the letter down by her side with her left hand, while with her right, she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Oh, what terrible news to bring me! I have word of the death of my betrothed. I feel as if my heart has been ripped from my body!”
The audience reacted with an audible “Ohhh.”
Andrew came in, and again, the audience applauded. Andrew was in the costume of an army officer.
“Claire, my sister. I have come to you with terrible news! My friend, your beloved Filbert, was slain upon the field of battle.”
Falcon watched the entire play, more engrossed by the reaction of his guests, and of the audience, than he was by the play itself. He was no drama critic, but it seemed to him like all the lines were delivered too loudly, and with something of a forced emotion. The last lines were the most overemoted of all.
“I shall find comfort in the knowledge that honor brings both the power . . .” Rosanna said.
“And the pride!” Andrew finished.
As they finished their lines, both faced the audience, and Rosanna curtsied as Andrew gave a sweeping bow. The curtain fell to a thunderous applause.
“Oh,” Anna Heckemeyer said, clasping her hands over her heart. “Oh, that was the most wonderful thing I ever saw.” She turned to Falcon. “Thank you, sir, for you generous hospitality.”
“You are welcome,” Falcon replied.
Falcon enjoyed being able to share his box with the young women, and afterward he enjoyed introducing them to his famous brother and sister.
Both Andrew and Rosanna were used to the accolades of adoring fans, and they were warm and cordial to the three young women, entertaining them with humorous stories. Falcon, who was inexperienced with the fawning expressions of fans, sat quietly in the corner of the reception room until the theater managers told the girls they must leave.
“Wait just a few minutes until we are out of makeup and costume, Falcon,” Andrew said to Falcon. “Then we will take you out to dine at Delmonico’s. I assure you, there is nothing back home that can compare with this.”
Delmonico’s was a fine restaurant and Falcon ate well. But it didn’t take long for him to realize that New York just didn’t agree with him, and though Andrew and Rosanna begged him to stay longer, he left after another week, promising to return someday soon. Even as he was giving the promise, though, he doubted that he would ever keep it, and he knew that his brother and sister didn’t expect him to keep it either.
Returning to Colorado, Falcon tried to settle down, but the restless discontent that had driven him for many years did not go away.
Then one day, out of the blue, Falcon got a letter from a man he hadn’t seen or heard from in a long time.
Dear Falcon MacCallister,
My name is Billy Puckett. I don’t know if you remember me. Back in ’52, I was attacked by some Indians who didn’t take too kindly to my trapping in their hunting ground. They killed my horse and left me with a couple of arrows sticking out of my gut. Your pa found me up in the mountains, more dead than alive. He brought me back down to MacCallister Valley, where your ma nursed me back to health.
You were the youngest of all the MacCallister children as I recall, probably no older than eleven or twelve at the time. Even then I knew that someday you would make a name for yourself.
I’ve heard a lot about your exploits over the years, such as how you tamed Asa Parker, Billy Challis, and that lot of outlaws. But the only thing I’ve been hearing recently is lot of rumors, some of which are just too wild to believe. Those rumors have caused me to start worrying some about you, though.
One reason I worry is because I am a sheriff now, and from time to time over the years I remember seeing dodgers come across my desk with your name on them. In every case the wanted posters were pulled back, but there is always the possibility that someone might not get the word. And when there is a reward of five thousand dollars, dead or alive, it wouldn’t take much for someone to ambush you.
I know your pa used to get his mail at general delivery in MacCallister, so I am hoping that you do as well. If you are still alive, and if you do get this letter, I would like to invite you to come up to Belfield, Dakota Territory, for a visit. I’m going on to seventy years old now, and I think it’s about time I got something off my chest.
Billy Puckett
Falcon decided to throw the letter away without even answering it, so he wadded it up and started to toss it into a wastebasket.
Then he hesitated, stared at the wadded paper for a moment, and finally smoothed it out to reread it.
He did remember Billy Puckett, remembered him as sort of a short, stocky man who laughed a lot. He remembere
d him as being a physically strong man too, though he didn’t know if he really was that strong, or it just seemed so from the perspective of a twelve-year-old.
Falcon hoped that he had made a good life for himself, and he wondered if Puckett had ever heard about what happened to Falcon’s father . . . how he had been murdered by an assailant who mistook Jamie MacCallister for his son Falcon.
What did he mean when he said he had something he needed to get off his chest? Whatever it was, was it something Falcon even wanted to know about?
Damn.
He needed to know now, just to satisfy his curiosity.
Falcon had become somewhat of a recluse over the last three years, protected by his small circle of friends from inquiring reporters who wanted to write his story for the big newspapers back East. It was only natural then that rumors would start. One story had it that he had been killed in Abiline, shot in the back as he played a hand of poker. Another insisted that he had been hanged out in Tucson. The wildest and most improbable rumor suggested that he’d joined the crew of a windjammer and was sailing the seven seas. Falcon got quite a laugh from that one.
One thing those rumors did do, though, was help him maintain his privacy over the last three years. And in order to preserve that privacy, he’d been about to discard this letter until he started having second thoughts about it. Finally, he decided that three years was long enough to wallow in self-pity. It was time to step back into the world, and how better to do so than to answer an invitation from an old friend?
Falcon went down to the telegraph office and sent a wire back to Belfield.
THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR THE INVITATION STOP I ACCEPT STOP WILL ARRIVE BY TRAIN AS SOON AS ARRANGEMENTS CAN BE MADE STOP FALCON MAcCALLISTER
Chicago, June 5, 1884
The Convention Hall in Chicago was crowded with people, filled with cigar, cigarette, and pipe smoke, and festooned with American flags and red, white, and blue bunting. In addition to the hall decorations, each delegation was identified by a placard that identified its particular state, while large posters, photographs, and banners were thrust up on poles over the various delegations. Most prominent were the names of those men who had put themselves forward as candidates for the nomination of their party for President of the United States.
RE-ELECT PRESIDENT CHESTER ARTHUR
JOHN A LOGAN, OF ILLINOIS,
A MAN WE CAN TRUST
JAMES G. BLAINE, THE ROCK OF MAINE
SENATOR JOHN EDMONDS, FOR
HONESTY IN GOVERNMENT
In addition to the primary delegates who were seated in chairs on the floor, alternate delegates crowded the balcony that encircled the auditorium.
A man wearing the hat of a Western Union messenger was walking the floor, calling aloud for “Mr. Powers, of the Third District of Michigan! Telegram for Mr. Powers, of the Third District of Michigan!”
Many others were roaming the floor too, most of them working the delegates for their particular candidates. Amos Crockett from Maine was one such delegate, campaigning for fellow Mainer James G. Blaine. He, and Joe Murray, who wasn’t a delegate but was present at the convention, and also campaigning for Blaine, had called Roosevelt to one side. Roosevelt was a delegate from New York.
“Teddy, I’m going to ask you again to switch your support from Senator Edmonds to James G. Blaine,” Murray said.
“I can’t do that, Joe,” Roosevelt said. “I believe Mr. Blaine to be a corrupt man.”
“I’ll have you know, sir, that Mr. Blaine is from Maine,” Crockett said. “You call him corrupt?”
“I call him corrupt because he is corrupt,” Roosevelt said. “Everyone knows how he manipulated those railroad stocks to enrich himself at the expense of the smaller stockholders. I know that, you know that”—he pointed to the crowded floor of the assembly hall behind them—“everyone on this floor knows that. And yet the sad truth is many, if not most, of the delegates to this convention will vote for him for reasons that have nothing to do with what is best for the country.”
“You are stating opinion, Mr. Roosevelt. Not fact,” Crockett said.
“I’m sorry,” Roosevelt replied. “I’m supporting Senator John Edmonds.”
“I am curious. Why Edmonds over President Arthur?” Crockett asked.
“President Arthur did a good thing when he did away with the spoils system by establishing a civil service, but that’s as far as he went. There is more to be done, and John Edmonds is a reformer who will do it,” Roosevelt said.
“John Edmonds is a radical who will lose the support of half the people in the nation who call themselves Republicans,” Crockett said.
“Do you really think Blaine can win the election?” Roosevelt asked.
“He’ll win the nomination tomorrow,” Murray replied.
“I didn’t ask that, Joe. I asked if you thought he would be elected President of the United States.”
“Of course he will,” Crockett replied.
“I’m asking you, Joe.”
Murray got a pained expression on his face, then turned to Crockett. “Mr. Crockett, would you excuse us for a moment while I talk to my friend?”
“I hope you talk some sense into him,” Crockett said. Then, as he left, he shouted out to those nearby, “Blaine, boys! Don’t forget to vote for James G. Blaine!”
“Mr. President! Mr. President! Virginia requests the floor!” someone was shouting close to where Roosevelt and Murray were standing. Above the shout of the delegate from Virginia could be heard the almost incessant pounding of the gavel.
Three delegates walked by, laughing and talking loudly, obviously drunk.
“It pains me to think that the future of our nation might be in the hands of people like that,” Roosevelt said, nodding toward the inebriated delegates.
“You aren’t going to switch your vote, are you?” Murray asked.
Roosevelt shook his head. “No.”
“Then let me ask you this. If Blaine wins the nomination tomorrow, will you support him in the general election?”
“As God is my witness, the Democrat, Grover Cleveland, is a better man,” Roosevelt said.
“Surely you won’t bolt the party and vote for a Democrat?” Murray asked with some alarm.
“No, I won’t do that,” Roosevelt said. “I will support Blaine in the general election.”
“Then I can tell Crockett and the others that you will support Blaine once he gets the nomination?”
“Yes.”
“I hope that will be enough.”
“Enough?”
“To save your political career,” Murray said. “Teddy, you are a practical politician, for heaven’s sake. Since you know Blaine is going to get the nomination, and since you have already said that you will support him in the general election, won’t you please reconsider and switch your vote tomorrow?”
“No, I can’t do that.”
“You realize, don’t you, that if you don’t switch your vote tomorrow, you will have absolutely no place in Blaine’s campaign this year?”
“I know,” Roosevelt said. “But that doesn’t matter. I have other plans.”
“Other plans?”
“I’m going West.”
“What do you mean, you are going West?”
“I’m going to the Badlands.”
“You are going to bad lands? Why on earth would anyone go to land that is bad?”
Roosevelt chuckled. “The Badlands,” he said. “Not land that is bad. I’m going to my ranch in the Dakota Territory.”
“Wait a minute? That’s . . . that’s a long way from New York, isn’t it?”
“Yes, a very long way.”
“What are you going to do out there?”
“Why, I’m going to ranch, of course,” Roosevelt replied.
Murray shook his head. “Teddy, don’t do this. If you do, you are saying good-bye to all hopes of any future in politics.”
Roosevelt sighed, then put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Can’t you tell, Joe, that I am just paying lip service to these entire proceedings? Oh, I’m making my own little statement as to integrity by honoring the pledge that I made to Edmonds to stay with him until the last ballot. But I am here in shadow only. I can’t really explain it. My heart and soul are still back in New York with the lingering ghosts of my wife and my mother.”
“How will your going to the Badlands help that?” Murray asked.
“I hope to become so immersed in my new life out there that the memories of my dear Alice will stop being painful and become beautiful. And I believe that hard work and fresh air are just the ticket I need to accomplish that.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You really are going West.”
“Yes, I’m serious,” Roosevelt said.
A loud cheer erupted on the floor as the Virginia delegation pledged all of its votes to James G. Blaine.
“All right,” Murray said. “When are you going?”
“Right away. As soon as this convention is over.”
Murray extended his hand. “I wish you the best of luck on your journey,” he said. “And if you need anything, if there is anything I can do for you, write to me. In fact, write to me anyway, just so we can keep in touch.”
“I will,” Roosevelt promised as he shook Murray’s hand warmly.
Chapter 2
Three men were mounted; a fourth was dismounted, holding the reins of his horse as he relieved himself against the piling of the trestle. It was dark, but the moon was full and bright, and the twin ribbons of iron gleamed softly as they stretched east and west along this part of the Dakota Territory.
Destiny of Eagles Page 2