“I have only met him twice, but I think I could call him a friend,” Roosevelt said.
“That makes you a lucky man, Mr. Roosevelt,” Willie said. “Yes, sir, it do make you a lucky man. But if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, that cuts both ways,” Willie said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. MacCallister can call hisself a lucky man too, for havin’ you as a friend,” Willie said. “Anybody who can call you a friend is a lucky man.”
“Why, thank you, Willie,” Roosevelt said. “Thank you very much. And I hope that you include yourself in that number, for I consider you to be a friend.”
“Yes, sir, I’m proud to say that I do,” Willie said.
The sound of a train whistle reached them.
“Here comes the train!” someone shouted, though the announcement wasn’t necessary because the train’s second whistle alerted everyone. Looking east along the track, Roosevelt could see the train, small in the distance, but closing quickly.
* * *
It had been eight days since Anna Heckemeyer said good-bye to Gail and Emma Lou and stepped onto the train at New York’s Grand Central Station. Eight days and three-quarters of a continent behind. She had traveled in luxury for the entire trip, enjoying a private compartment by night, and the parlor car by day. Despite that, the eight days had been exhausting, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of sympathy for those who had to make the long, tiring journey in the immigrant cars.
At least twice a day, as a matter of exercise, Anna had walked from the front of the train all the way to the end of the train, then back again. On these excursions she would have to pass through the immigrant cars.
The condition in the immigrant cars was appalling. Men, women, and children, crowded onto hard wooden seats, the smells of ethnic foods, unwashed bodies, and the odor of a privy, separated from the rest of the car only by a hanging curtain, made the air so foul that it was nearly impossible to breathe. She could barely stand it long enough to pass through, and she wondered how the passengers could put up with such conditions for so long.
Now she could feel the train slowing, and she knew that the next station would be Medora. As she sat in the overstuffed, comfortable chair in the parlor car, she smiled. It would be good to be home, and to see her father again.
* * *
Roosevelt stepped down from the carriage and walked across the wooden platform to stand next to the track. The engine approached, looming larger and getting louder as it closed the distance between it and the depot. Then it thundered by Roosevelt with its huge driver wheels being turned by the powerful connecting rod, and wisps of steam escaping from the cylinders while bits of glowing embers dripped down onto the tracks from the firebox.
The engine was so large and so heavy that, as it rolled by, the very ground tended to tremble and Roosevelt could feel its passage in his belly. The train was already slowing, even as the engine passed by, but it continued to slow with squeaks and groans until finally it stood still alongside the depot platform.
The train was motionless now, but it wasn’t quiet. From the engine came the rhythmic pulse of pressurized steam escaping from the relief valve. The puffing sound reminded Roosevelt of some great beast, breathing hard from its recent labor. In addition to the sound of the puffing steam, there were the sounds of hot metal clicking and clanking as tie rods, gearboxes, and springs cooled and contracted.
To these mechanical sounds were added the shouts of joy and recognition as those who were waiting on the platform crowded forward to greet the arriving passengers. The detraining passengers returned the greetings with joyful cries of their own. There were also a few tears, as some of those present were telling their loved ones good-bye.
Roosevelt watched the joyful reunions and tearful departures with a sense of melancholy. He felt both a part of it, and apart from it, for he was himself a traveler, out of time and place, here in the West. And yet, he did not think he would be able to cope with the grief that was still just beneath the surface if he did not have this wonderful country in which to lose himself.
* * *
Anna stepped down into the cacophony of the depot platform. A cloud of smoke drifted by, caught by the wind, and swirled down to tickle her nose with its acrid odor. Nearly all steam locomotives were burning coal now, instead of wood, and the smoke had a distinct, much less pleasant smell than the aroma of burning wood from the earlier engines.
Anna fanned some of the smoke away from her face as she looked out at the crowd, anxiously trying to locate her father. A large smile of eager expectation spread across her face as she prepared for the long, anticipated reunion.
Her smile faded when a thorough perusal of the crowd disclosed the fact that her father wasn’t there.
This seemed odd to her. She knew that she had informed him of the exact date and time of her arrival. Why was he not here?
An unreasonable fear began to creep over her. Had something happened to him?
* * *
It wasn’t hard for Roosevelt to locate which of the departing passengers was Anna Heckemeyer. She was the only arriving passenger who was a young, unaccompanied woman. However, even if that had not been the case, he was sure he would have been able to recognize her by her father’s description and the picture her father had shown him. The young woman who stood on the platform, anxiously searching through the crowd, had long, auburn hair, large brown eyes framed by full lashes, high cheekbones, and full lips. Clearly, she was an exceptionally beautiful woman.
Roosevelt started toward her, picking his way through the crowd. From the way the young girl’s eyes were moving, he knew that she was looking for her father. He also detected a hint of anxiousness in her face, so he hurried his pace in order to relieve her of any unnecessary worry.
“Miss Heckemeyer?” he asked, doffing his hat as he approached.
“Yes?”
“Your father asked me to meet you when your train arrived.”
“Oh! Is something wrong?”
“No, no, please, put your mind at ease,” Roosevelt said quickly. “Your father has a trial in Sentinel Butte, that’s all. I realize that I am a poor surrogate, but under the circumstances, I am honored and pleased to offer my services to you. My name is Theodore Roosevelt, though my friends all call me Teddy,” he said with a disarming smile.
Anna returned the smile. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Roosevelt. A great deal indeed.”
“Have you now?” Roosevelt asked, surprised by her comment. “My word, that is rather unexpected, I must say. May I inquire as to how you have heard about me?”
“I have heard of you both from my father, who speaks very highly of you, by the way, and from some of your friends back in New York.”
“Is it too much for me to hope that my friends back in New York share your father’s opinion?” Roosevelt asked. His voice, though rather high-pitched, was pleasant because of its tone.
“That is not at all too much for you to hope for,” Anna replied. “In fact, all of the reports have been quite laudatory.”
Roosevelt laughed out loud. “Bully for my friends. Bully, I say. Would you like to wait for your luggage? Or would you prefer to come with me now, and leave your luggage to be collected later?”
“I will come with you,” Anna said.
“Anything Willie should know about your luggage?”
“No. I’m sure the station officials will recognize it and keep it safe until your man can call for it,” Anna said.
“Very well. The carriage is over here,” Roosevelt said, pointing toward the rather large and very elegant carriage that sat just off the end of the depot platform.
“Oh, my, that’s quite a lovely conveyance,” Anna said upon seeing the carriage. “I’ve seen similar conveyances in New York, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one out here.”
Roosevelt coughed in self-conscious embarrassment. “I must confess to being a bit of the dandy in some areas,” he said. “While I love
the ruggedness of this wonderful West, I do like a few of the creature comforts. And this carriage, I am afraid, is one of my vanities.”
“A vanity I shall enjoy,” Anna said as she climbed into the carriage and settled into the soft leather of the commodious rear seat.
Roosevelt sat in the facing seat; then, with a nod to Willie, they pulled away, leaving the crowded depot behind.
Chapter 13
It was that in-between time of day . . . after daylight, but before nightfall . . . and Falcon was some twenty miles from Medora. Although he was not acting in any official capacity, he was still on the trail of Aaron Childers, Dalton Yerby, and Percy Shaw. About an hour earlier, he had lost their trail, but he was sure he would find it again. It was just a matter of patience, and it was Falcon’s experience that the hunter always had more experience than the hunted.
Falcon liked this twilight time of day best. The sun had set, but it was still light, the soft, silver kind of light that took away the glare and the heat. He had put on a pot of coffee a few minutes ago and was squatting by the fire, watching the glowing coals while waiting for the coffee to boil, when he felt a tingling on the back of his neck. He was being watched. Without being obvious about what he was doing, Falcon perused the area around him, and discovered that he was being watched by three men.
The strange thing was, the three men watching him now were not the three men he had been trailing. He knew this without knowing exactly how he knew it. He knew it from the intuition that he had developed over many years. Men who lived their lives like that took on senses that were beyond that of the normal person.
Without questioning how he knew, but merely accepting it as a part of his being, Falcon prepared himself for the danger that lay ahead. He tossed another stick of wood into the fire and paid a lot of attention to stirring the coals while, quietly, loosening the leather straps that held down the hammer of his pistol.
He waited, keeping a sideways watch and an open ear. He had a feeling they would make their play when he started to pour his cup of coffee, thinking they could catch him while he was distracted.
All right, Falcon thought. If this was the way they wanted to play, he would play their game with them, and he would even play it by their rules. But he was going to play this game on his own timing. As he took his tin cup from his saddlebag, Falcon was exceptionally keen to everything going on around him. He reached for the coffeepot.
Just as he knew they would, his adversaries took that precise moment to make their move. Turning toward them, Falcon dropped to the ground, then rolled to the right, even as the three men charging him were firing their own guns. Their bullets dug into the ground exactly where Falcon had been but a second earlier.
Falcon wound up on his stomach with his pistol in his hand.
“Shoot the son of a bitch, Zeb, shoot ’im!” Muley shouted.
Falcon recognized two of the shooters. Muley and Zeb were the men who had accosted Roosevelt in the saloon back in Medora. He didn’t know who the third man was, but he didn’t have time to speculate.
Falcon shot the stranger first, his bullet going in under the stranger’s chin, then exiting the top of his head in a spray of blood, bone, and brain tissue. Whoever the stranger was, he was dead before he hit the ground.
Muley died almost as quickly, with a bullet to his heart. But Zeb caught two bullets in his gut, then went down, holding both hands over the wound, trying without success to stem the flow of blood.
In a matter of seconds what had started out to be a pleasant evening on the trail had turned into a bloodbath.
Although Falcon was certain that these three were the only ones threatening him, he remained on his belly, gun in hand, for a moment longer, just to make sure there were no surprises.
The gunfire had set some distant birds to calling, but now their calls were fading into the distance and the last echos of the gunshots were reverberating from the distant hills. When those sounds died, the only thing disturbing the silence was Zeb’s quiet groans of pain.
“Damn, this hurts. This really hurts,” Zeb grunted.
Falcon got up and, cautiously, walked over to look down at his wounded assailant.
“You’re Zeb,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you come after me, Zeb?” he asked.
“You know why.”
“Surely you aren’t talking about the business that happened back in Medora. Not even you could be that dumb, could you? That little altercation didn’t seem like enough to get yourself killed over.”
“We thought you was the one would get killed,” Zeb said. “Besides, Rafferty paid us fifty dollars apiece to come with him.”
“Rafferty?”
“That’s him over there with the top of his head blow’d off.”
Falcon walked over to look down at Rafferty. He had never seen him before in his life.
“Why’d he want me dead?”
When Zeb didn’t answer him, Falcon looked back toward him. Zeb had fallen to one side. His head was back and his eyes were open, but unseeing. He wasn’t hurting anymore.
Looking around, Falcon found the three horses the men had ridden in on. They were ground-hobbled less than one hundred yards away. Emptying their saddlebags, he examined the contents until it was too late to see, hoping by his investigation to find out who Rafferty was and why he wanted him dead.
He learned nothing.
For a moment, Falcon considered burying the three men out here where he killed them, but finally decided to take them into town. He threw the bodies across the backs of their horses. He hated to subject the horses to the ordeal of carrying the weight of a dead body through the entire night, but he was afraid that rigor mortis would set in and he would be unable to get them on the animals by morning.
* * *
When Falcon rode into Medora the next morning, he stirred the curiosity of the town. It wasn’t every day that someone rode in leading three horses, each with a corpse thrown across the saddle.
The first of the curious townspeople picked him up as soon as he came into town and followed him down the street. The numbers grew as he came closer to the sheriff’s office.
Sheriff John Dennis came out front to meet Falcon. He scratched a match on the pillar supporting the overhang of his porch, then held it to the end of an already half-smoked cigar. Palming the match with his hand to keep it from blowing out, he took several puffs, squinting at Falcon through the smoke. Finally, he nodded toward the men who were belly-down on the horses.
“Do you know who they are?” he asked.
Before Falcon could answer, several of the townspeople moved in and began examining the bodies more closely.
“Sheriff, this here one is Zeb Kingsley,” one of the townspeople said after lifting the head of one.
“And this is Muley Simpson,” another said. “Both of ’em used to ride for Don Montgomery.”
“Who’s the third?” Sheriff Dennis asked. “Did he ride for Mr. Montgomery as well?”
The man who was nearest the third body shook his head. “I don’t know for sure,” he replied. “I just know I ain’t never seen him in the saloon before. Could be that he rides for Two Rivers.”
“No, he don’t,” another said. “I ride for Two Rivers, and I’ve never seen this feller before either.”
“Yeah, well, whoever he is, he’s got the top of his head blow’d off,” another said.
“His name is Rafferty,” Falcon said. Falcon was still in his saddle, though he had crooked one leg across the pommel and was just sitting there, calmly watching the reaction of the town to his arrival with three dead bodies.
“Rafferty? What’s his first name?”
“I don’t know his first name,” Falcon said. “Rafferty is all I know.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to them?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes,” Falcon said, though he didn’t volunteer any more information.
“Well?” Sheriff Dennis asked.
> “Well, what?” Falcon replied.
“What happened to them?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. I killed them,” Falcon said, easily.
There were several gasps of surprise from the crowd.
“Did you hear that?”
“He said he kilt ’em, plain as day.”
“Yes, well, I don’t know this Rafferty fella, but if they was ever any two sons of bitches that needed killin’ more’n Muley and Zeb, I’d like to know who they are. I say good riddance to the both of ’em.”
“Wait a minute, I rode with them two boys,” the man who rode for Two Rivers said. “From time to time they was a little high-spirited, but that don’t give anyone the right to shoot ’em down. Sheriff Dennis, what are you going to do about this?”
The sheriff held up his hand to quiet the crowd, then squinted through his cigar smoke at Falcon.
“Seems to me like I recall you havin’ yourself a run-in with Muley and Zeb a few days ago,” Sheriff Dennis said. “Over at the saloon. You shot ’em up a little.”
“Yes, I did,” Falcon said.
“So, what did you decide to do? Finish the job?”
“I didn’t have any choice, Sheriff. They came after me.”
“They come after you, did they? All three of them?”
“That’s right,” Falcon said, nodding.
“Mister, you want us to believe you took these men on, three to one, and beat ’em all?” the rider from Two Rivers asked.
“No,” Falcon answered.
“No? What do you mean no? Are you changing your story now?”
“I mean I don’t care what you believe,” Falcon said.
“Sheriff, Mr. Montgomery ain’t goin’ to take it too kindly if you just let this fella get away with murderin’ a couple of his men like that,” the rider from Two Rivers said. “Even if they ain’t ridin’ for ’im no more.”
Sheriff Dennis held up his hand to quiet the Two Rivers man.
“After that incident in the saloon the other day, I made some inquiries about you, Falcon MacCallister. Turns out I have a dodger on you. Did you know you got reward posters out sayin’ you are wanted for murder?”
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