Destiny of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Finally she reached Track 29. The sign read EMPIRE STATE LIMITED—CHICAGO—DEPARTS AT 4:30 P.M.

  Several porters were standing out on the walk alongside the train. One of them approached Anna.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” he asked, reaching for the train case.

  “Yes, thank you. I believe this is my train,” she said, showing her ticket.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the porter answered. “And I see you got a parlor car. You goin’ have youself a fine trip, miss,” he said.

  The porter led Anna up the stairs and into the train, where he showed her to a comfortable, overstuffed chair. “Soon’s we’re out of the station, I’ll come take your reservation for the dining car,” he promised.

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  It was early morning when the Empire State Limited from New York backed into Chicago’s Union Station, and even the squealing of the train as it came to a stop didn’t awaken Anna Heckemeyer.

  “Miss Heckemeyer? Miss Heckemeyer, ma’am, the train has arrived at the station,” a voice called. The call was accompanied by a knock on the compartment door.

  Anna opened one eye as the knock sounded again, harder this time, and the persistent voice, which the young woman now recognized as the porter’s voice, repeated, “Miss Heckemeyer?”

  Awakening slowly, Anna raised herself up on her elbow and pulled the shade aside to look through the window. Another train was just a few feet away, separated from hers by a narrow, brick-paved walkway that was crowded with detraining passengers. The passengers were walking swiftly toward the main station through wisps of steam that drifted out to tease them.

  “Miss Heckemeyer?” the porter called again, rapping on the door so loudly that Anna was certain he could be heard all up and down the car.

  “Yes, yes,” Anna said. “I’m awake.”

  “You have only thirty minutes to change trains, Miss Heckemeyer,” the porter said. “If you’d like, I’ll get a station porter to take your luggage for you now.”

  “Wait,” Anna said. “Give me about ten minutes to get dressed.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But you’d best not tarry none,” the porter said. “The train you be wantin’ will leave at eight o’clock sharp.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Anna promised.

  Getting up from her bunk, Anna walked over to the little lavatory and ran water into the basin. As she washed her face and brushed her teeth, her image stared back at her from the mirror.

  “Arrogantly beautiful” was the way Gail had once described her, and when Anna asked what arrogantly beautiful meant, Gail told her that she was “beautiful as if it is your right to be beautiful, and as if you can’t understand why everyone else isn’t as beautiful.”

  Anna had just completed four years of schooling at the New York Conservatory for Young Women. During the previous summer vacation, she had gone to Europe on a “Continental Tour” as part of her overall education. She was headed back home now for the first time in over two years, and she was anxious to see her father again.

  Anna’s mother had died when she was five years old, so long ago that Anna’s memories of her were manifested in bits and pieces . . . the smell of cinnamon and flour . . . the feel of her skin when she embraced Anna, and the look of the sun in her hair.

  Anna’s father, Judge Andrew Heckemeyer, had not remarried, so he had taken on the responsibility of being both mother and father to his daughter. For that reason, Anna had missed him even more than might be normally expected, so she was very anxious to get back home.

  By hurrying, Anna was dressed within ten minutes after the first call. She opened the door to her compartment and looked out into the aisle. She saw the porter standing out on the vestibule, looking out over the station.

  “Porter?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m ready now. Would you see to my luggage, please?”

  With a nod of assent, the porter looked back out over the crowded depot platform.

  “You!” the porter shouted authoritatively, pointing to one of the many station porters scurrying about on the platform. “Come quickly. Miss Heckemeyer needs you.”

  “Yes, sir, I be right there,” the man responded, recognizing the elevated position of the train porter.

  Twenty minutes later, Anna was on the Northwest Flyer, leaving Chicago for points west. She would not have to change trains again until she got off in Medora, Dakota Territory.

  Settled into her new compartment, Anna took out the last letter she had received from her father, and began to read.

  I am most anxious for you to meet Mr. Theodore Roosevelt of New York. Mr. Roosevelt owns Elkhorn Ranch near here, and is a man of considerable wealth and, so I am told, political influence back in New York.

  But all the wealth and influence in the world could not prevent a terrible tragedy from befalling him, for his wife and mother died on the same day.

  He is an engaging man, and we have enjoyed many interesting conversations, but it is clear to see that the sorrow of his loss is just beneath the surface. I think you might be just the one to cheer him up. At least, I hope so. It is not good that a man like Mr. Roosevelt be so immersed in sorrow.

  Anna had inquired among her friends to see if any of them were familiar with Theodore Roosevelt. She was surprised by just how many people did know of him, and even more surprised to hear that no one had anything bad to say about him.

  That, more than anything else, intrigued her. What sort of man could be so well known, yet not have developed enemies, if not from some event, then from jealousy? And yet this man, Theodore Roosevelt, seemed to be just such a man.

  She found herself looking forward to meeting him.

  * * *

  Falcon MacCallister was in Medora because he had lost the trail of the three men he was following, due to the torrential downpour that had washed away their tracks. He wasn’t too concerned, though. There weren’t that many places a person could go out here, so all he had to do was bide his time until they crossed paths again. And he knew, without the slightest doubt, that they would cross paths again.

  Falcon was both the hunter and the hunted, though at the moment, he had no idea anyone was looking for him. It would not have shocked him to learn that Thad Howard’s two brothers were after him, though. He had dealt with men bent upon revenge before, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would have to deal with such people again.

  Actually, it was just as unlikely that he was the hunter now too. He had no official capacity as far as law enforcement was concerned. And despite the fact that he’d accepted reward money for bringing in Thad Howard, Falcon was not a bounty hunter.

  It wasn’t reward money that had put him on these men’s trail. He was trailing them to avenge the senseless slaughter of Luke and Mary Douglass. He knew in a real sense, though, that these three men were merely surrogates for the outlaws who had killed his wife.

  Marie Gentle Breeze was killed by renegade Cheyennes. She was already dead by the time he learned of it, and he didn’t even have the satisfaction of settling scores himself. The ones who did it were dealt with by others.

  Falcon learned a lot about loss and grief from that experience. He learned that grief never really goes away. Time can dull the ache, but it doesn’t heal it. He left home after that, drifting from place to place as if in that way he could run away from the ghosts that trailed him.

  Falcon developed a mixed reputation during those years of wandering. Because he was a man who gave no quarter when put in a life-and-death situation, there were some who thought he was a cold-blooded killer. Others claimed he was an outlaw, though those who knew him also knew that the dodgers once circulated had been withdrawn. Falcon paid no attention to what others thought of him. They could think whatever they damn well chose to think.

  Some of the stories were true. He was called a gunfighter, a gambler, and a bad man to crowd. He was all of these things. He was also called a skilled tracker, a solitary hunter,
and a formidable foe, and he was these things as well.

  But the stories of him being a desperado, like the stories that he was a highwayman and a mercenary assassin, were not true. If he sometimes rode the owlhoot trail, it was not by choice.

  There were many men who wanted to find Falcon MacCallister, some for the reward that had been offered for his capture, not realizing that the reward, like the wanted posters, had been withdrawn. Some sought revenge, meaning to pay Falcon back for an alleged wrong, generally because Falcon had killed some close relative of theirs in a gunfight. Their lust for revenge made no allowances for the fact that every man Falcon had killed had been in face-to-face combat with him.

  There were also those who sought him so that they might test themselves against him, especially as time passed and his reputation grew. And as Aaron Childers had observed, the unlucky ones found him.

  After a few days’ rest in Medora, enjoying a real bed to sleep in, and meals he didn’t have to cook for himself, Falcon went out again in search of the men who had killed the Douglasses. The recent rains had washed away any of the original tracks, but when he ran across a fresh set, he got down from Diablo for a closer examination.

  He smiled, because this was what he had been looking for.

  When Falcon followed them from the Douglass Ranch, he had been trailing five horses, three carrying riders, two with empty saddles. What he saw now was the track of three horses, all of which were carrying riders. He didn’t know what happened to the other two horses, but he was certain that at least two of these horses were the ones he had originally been tracking.

  One of the horses had a nicked shoe on the right hind foot. One of the other horses led with his left forefoot. These tracks fit that pattern. In addition, a nearby horse dropping was still fresh.

  He was close. He was very close. Stroking his chin, Falcon mounted Diablo and looked ahead. The trail led into a low-lying range of mountains. That was good, because the mountains established a limit as to the number of directions they could go. They could only go where the mountains would let them go.

  * * *

  Falcon was even closer than he thought, for less that three miles ahead, Childers, Yerby, and Shaw were discussing their upcoming operation.

  “What makes you think this here Roosevelt fella will be carryin’ a lot of money on him?” Shaw asked.

  “ ’Cause he’s rich. Not just flush, I mean really rich. And he’ll be ridin’ into town today to pay for supplies for his ranch,” Childers replied. “Whenever he goes to town, he also goes into the saloon, where he puts on the big dog by buyin’ drinks for ever’one. They say he carries a roll of money around that’s big enough to choke a horse.”

  “How do you know all this?” Yerby asked.

  “While you boys was beddin’ that ugly girl back at the tradin’ post, I was listenin’ in on the talk at the other table. Why . . . robbin’ him will be as easy as takin’ money from a baby.”

  “Yeah, well, that bank was supposed to be easy too, and look what happened. We didn’t get no money, and we wound up gettin’ my brother killed.”

  “He didn’t get killed robbin’ the bank. That didn’t happen until later. Besides, my brother was killed too, if you remember,” Childers said.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t like your brothers.”

  “That ain’t true. I liked Frank all right. Him an’ me had the same ma. It was Corey I didn’t like.”

  “Yeah, well, that don’t change the fact that they was caught and was almost hung when we tried to rob that bank. And for all that, we didn’t get practically nothin’ at all from the bank.”

  “Well, let me ask you this. Did you know the clerk couldn’t open the safe?”

  “No,” Yerby answered.

  “Then how the hell was I supposed to know?”

  “Let’s quit jawin’ about the bank and think about the money we’re goin’ to take off this here dude,” Shaw suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s what I say,” Childers said. “There ain’t no sense in cryin’ over spilt milk.”

  “Where do you want to hit him?” Shaw asked.

  “Well, according to what them fellas back at the tradin’ post was sayin’, his ranch is right on the other side of that range that’s just ahead of us. That means that whenever he goes to town, he’s going to have to come right through that draw there,” Childers said. He pointed. “Look up there at them rocks about halfway up the wall. We’ll be waitin’ up there. Soon as he comes in, we’ll open up on him.”

  “When will he come?”

  “Today’s Saturday, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “He comes into town ever’ Saturday.”

  * * *

  “Whoa,” Roosevelt said to his horse.

  The horse stopped, and Roosevelt took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a big red bandanna. He looked at the bandanna and chuckled.

  “If the people back in New York could see me now,” he said. “Sweating like a dockhand, carrying this . . . this . . . tablecloth of a bandanna. I tell you, they would have a laugh.”

  Roosevelt knew that talking to his horse was only slightly above talking to himself, but it was a habit he had developed recently. The long, lonely rides were necessary for him to work out the grief, but often he felt the need to express himself verbally, and the only way to do that was to talk to his horse.

  “Besides, you are a good listener,” he said. “About the only one I’ve ever spoken to who wasn’t just waiting patiently for his own time to talk.” This time he didn’t chuckle, he laughed out loud.

  Putting his hat back on his head, he leaned over to retrieve his canteen.

  That was when he heard it . . . the angry whine, like the buzz of a bee . . . whizzing by overhead.

  Almost simultaneous with the buzz came the cracking sound of a rifle being fired.

  The horse bolted in fear, and even though Roosevelt was an accomplished horseman, he was in an awkward position when the horse bolted. Because of that, he was unseated.

  Even that incident, which normally would have been embarrassing, saved his life, for two more shots rang out immediately following the first. And, like the first shot, they missed.

  The echo of the shots reverberated through the canyon in such a way as to make it very clear what was happening. Roosevelt was being shot at, and he knew it.

  Roosevelt wasn’t wearing a pistol, but he had a rifle in his saddle sheath. Even as he realized that, though, he saw his horse moving away from him.

  “Whoa, horse,” Roosevelt shouted.

  The horse paused for a moment, and Roosevelt was nearly to him, would have made it, at least in time to recover his rifle, had there not been another shot. This one hit a rock, then ricocheted off with a loud, keening whine. Again, his horse bolted, running away as his hoofs clattered over the hard rocky surface.

  For a moment, Roosevelt stood there, looking at the fleeing horse. Then, another rifle shot, so close by that he could practically feel the concussion of its passing, reminded him that he was unarmed and defenseless against whoever it was trying to shoot him. He had no choice but to run toward a nearby ridge, where he took cover just as a bullet ricocheted off the ground right by his feet.

  * * *

  Falcon heard the shots and, looking toward the sound, saw Roosevelt running toward the ridge as his horse galloped on up the draw. He also saw bullets kicking up around the rancher. Turning his gaze up the wall of the draw, he saw a little puff of smoke drifting away from a rock outcropping. Even as he was looking, two more rifles fired, almost simultaneously.

  Falcon slapped his legs against the side of his horse, urging Diablo into a gallop. At the same time he snaked out his rifle, jacked a round into the chamber, and snapped off a shot.

  Reaching the ridgeline where Roosevelt had taken cover, Falcon leaped from his horse, slapped it on the rump to get it out of danger, then fired again at the rocks halfway up the wall.

  “Are you all right?” Falc
on asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I wasn’t able to offer you much help the other day, but looks like you could use it this time.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Roosevelt said. “There is something to be said for persistence. If at first you don’t succeed in offering help, try, try again. I’m glad you tried again.”

  The shooting stopped and Falcon raised his head to look up toward the rocks. He saw three men moving quickly up a path toward the top of the cliff.

  He had not yet seen the men he was trailing, so he couldn’t identify them on sight, but he would have bet cash money these were the same three. He raised his rifle and aimed at one of them.

  “Please don’t shoot him,” Roosevelt said, reaching his hand up to pull the rifle down.

  Sighing, Falcon lowered his rifle. “Why the hell not?” he asked. “I’ve been trailing these sons of bitches for a couple of weeks now, and they just tried to kill you.”

  “Yes, but I’m in no danger now, thanks to you.”

  “Mr. Roosevelt, you don’t know what these men have done,” Falcon said.

  “No, but if you shoot them now, I know what you would be doing. You would be acting as their judge, jury, and executioner. I don’t think you really want to do that now, do you?”

  Falcon eased the hammer back down. “All right,” he said. “You win.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Any idea why they were after you?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m quite sure they wanted to rob me,” Roosevelt said.

  “You carry enough money with you to tempt a robbery?”

  “I have about one thousand dollars on me now,” Roosevelt said, taking out a roll of money to show Falcon.

  “Put that away,” Falcon said sharply. “Damn, mister, don’t you have any more sense than to go flashing around that much money? You’re unarmed. How do you know I won’t take it?”

  “I may still be learning about the West,” Roosevelt answered, “but I am quite skilled in reading people. I know you won’t take it.”