Revenge of Eagles

by Johnstone, William W.

  The girl put her hand down in a dress pocket, then pulled out two crumpled bills.

  “Here is your money,” she said. “I’ll give it back to you.”

  Dagen pulled his pistol and pointed it toward the girl.

  “I don’t want my money, bitch. I want you. Now you get back up here or else I’m goin’ to put a bullet right between your eyes.”

  The room was now deathly quiet, so quiet that the loudest sound to be heard was the steady tick-tock of the clock that hung from the back wall. And because of the silence, Falcon’s quiet words resonated loudly.

  “Miss, if you’re not busy now, I’d like a little of your time,” he said.

  Dagen looked toward Falcon, then, recognizing him, gasped.

  “You!” he said. “You’re Falcon MacCallister, ain’t you?”

  “I am,” Falcon said.

  There was a gasp of recognition among many in the saloon, for though none had met him, all knew about him.

  “I thought we killed you.”

  “You thought wrong,” Falcon said.

  “Yeah, well, I guess I did. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I might have a drink,” Falcon said. “And maybe spend a little time with a woman.” He looked pointedly at the girl. “That woman,” he said.

  Dagen shook his head. “Huh-uh. Better pick yourself another one. This one’s comin’ back up to me.”

  “I don’t think she wants to do that, and as a matter of fact, I don’t want her to do it either.”

  “What the hell do I care what she wants?” Dagen said. “She’s got no choice. Neither do you, mister. Or haven’t you noticed that I happen to be holding a gun in my hand.”

  “Oh, yeah, I see the gun,” Falcon said. “But what are you going to do with it?”

  “What do you mean what am I going to do with it?” Dagen answered, obviously exasperated by Falcon’s question.

  “Well, here’s the thing,” Falcon said as if patiently explaining something to a child. “You see, you are pointing that gun at the girl. But she’s not your problem ... I am. If you move it toward me, I’m going to kill you. If you shoot her, I’m going to kill you. If you so much as twitch, I’m going to kill you. The only way you are going to get out of this alive is to drop your gun right now.”

  “What? Are you crazy? Your guns are still in your holster,” Dagen said.

  “What’ll it be, mister? Are you going to drop the gun, or are you going to die?”

  “Mister, if you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to kill this girl,” Dagen said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What?”

  “Go ahead,” Falcon said. “While you are shooting her, I’ll be shooting you.”

  With a shout of rage, Dagen swung his gun toward Falcon and fired. The bullet slammed into the bar just alongside him. In one motion, Falcon had his own gun out and he fired back just as Dagen loosed a second shot.

  Dagen’s second shot smashed into the mirror behind the bar, scattering shards of glass but doing no further damage. Dagen didn’t get off a third shot because Falcon made his only shot count.

  Dagen dropped his gun over the rail and it fell with a clatter to the bar floor, twelve feet below. He grabbed his chest, then turned his hand out and looked down in surprise and disbelief as his palm began filling with his own blood. His eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward, crashing through the railing, then turning over once in midair before he landed heavily on his back alongside his dropped gun.

  Dagen lay motionless on the floor with open but sightless eyes staring toward the ceiling. The saloon patrons, who had scattered when the first shot was fired, now began to edge toward the body. Up on the second-floor landing, a half-dozen girls and their customers, in various stages of undress, moved to the smashed railing to look down on the scene.

  Gun smoke from the three shots merged to form a large, acrid cloud that drifted slowly toward the door.

  Upstairs, Monroe had opened the door from his room to tell Dagen to have his whore get an extra bottle of whiskey. Before he could say anything to Dagen, he heard Dagen call Falcon MacCallister by name.

  “Son of a bitch!” Monroe said under his breath. He stepped back inside and grabbed his pants, then dashed back into the hall. He started to stop at Casey’s door just long enough to warn him, and he got as far as putting his hand on the doorknob.

  He hesitated. Why the hell should he warn Casey? Let Casey look out for himself. In fact, the longer Dagen and Casey could delay Falcon, the better it would be for him.

  Monroe ran down to the end of the hall, lifted the window, climbed out onto the mansard roof just below; then, even as he heard the shooting, he dropped down to the alley. He moved around quickly to the front of the saloon, mounted, and rode away, fighting the urge to put his horse into a gallop.

  When Casey heard the shooting, he jumped from the bed and grabbed his gun, then ran out into the hall, where he was joined by at least three other whores and two other customers. He ran to the head of the stairs and looked down to the saloon below. That was when he saw Dagen lying on his back, his gun on the floor beside him. A tall man with a smoking gun in his hand was standing over Dagen, looking down at him.

  “Oh, shit!” Casey said. He fired at the tall man, but missed. Those around him screamed and started running.

  The bullet from Casey’s gun buzzed by Falcon’s ear and plunged into the floor beside him. Falcon looked up, but couldn’t return fire because of the people around Casey.

  Casey turned and ran back down the hall, and Falcon ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, he saw the second door down on the right side closing. He looked at one of the women, who was cowering in fear on the opposite side of the hall. Silently, he used his pistol to indicate the door he had just seen shut, and with a quick nod she verified it was where Casey had gone.

  At that moment Falcon heard glass crashing. The son of a bitch was escaping through the back window!

  Falcon kicked open the door, then ran inside. The back window was smashed out and he stepped over to look through it, then sensed someone moving up behind him.

  Falcon turned, just as Casey was bringing his gun down to smash him on the head. Falcon managed to deflect the blow, moving it away from his head. It did crash down on his shoulder, however, and a numbing, shooting pain caused him to drop his pistol.

  Unarmed now, Falcon had no recourse but to wrap his arms around his assailant in a bear hug. It had the effect of pinning Casey’s arms by his sides, so he could not raise his pistol. Falcon threw Casey to the floor and he heard Casey gasp as they went down. Then he felt all the strength leave Casey’s body.

  Carefully, Falcon raised up from him, and saw a bloody shard of glass sticking up through Casey’s neck. Casey flopped a few times; then he died.

  When Falcon stepped back out into the hallway, the same girl who had indicated which room Casey went into, now pointed to the open window at the end of the hall.

  “The other one went out that way,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  By the time Falcon got back downstairs, the sheriff had arrived.

  “Mister, you’ve got some explaining to do,” he said.

  Falcon wished now that he had taken a badge from Sheriff Corbin.

  “My name is Falcon MacCallister. Get in touch with Sheriff Corbin at Oro Blanco; he’ll tell you what this is all about.”

  The sheriff smiled. “I don’t have to get in touch with him, Mr. MacCallister. He’s already sent me a letter. Fact is, he sent ever’ sheriff in this part of the territory a letter, explaining what you are doing.”

  “Did he tell you everything I’m doing?” Falcon asked. He nodded toward Dagen’s body. “What I need to do to stop an Indian war?”

  “Don’t do it here,” the sheriff said cryptically. “I’ll have the bodies taken down to the undertaker’s office. You can do what has to be done there.”

  Jane S
tockdale was taking clothes down from the line. She removed the pins from a large bedsheet, then took it down.

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  Removing the bedsheet exposed a man standing behind it. He was holding a pistol.

  “Where at is your man?” he asked.

  “He’s in the house,” she said. “And if he sees you here, he will shoot you.”

  In fact her husband was not here. He and Timmy had gone into town to buy some supplies. But Jane was afraid to tell the man she was alone.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you. If your man was here he’d be out here right now, wantin’ to know what is goin’ on. That is, if he was a man.”

  “He’s here,” Jane said, though her declaration sounded weak even to her own ears.

  “Uh-huh. Then who was that man and kid I seen leavin’ in the buckboard about fifteen minutes ago?”

  “Who are you?” Jane asked. “What do you want?”

  “The name is Monroe. And what I want is a little food, that’s all. Just a little food and I’ll be on my way.”

  “All right,” Jane said, fighting to keep her voice calm.

  “I would never like it said that I turned away a hungry man.” She started toward the house.

  “Hey, you, wait a minute,” Monroe said. He pointed at Jane. “I know who you are now. You was on that stage, wasn’t you?”

  Jane gasped. She had realized, almost from the moment she first saw him, that he was one of the men who had robbed the stage, killed the shotgun guard, and later killed Cloud Dancer. But she had thought it might be dangerous to let him know that she recognized him, so she had not challenged him.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said, still trying to pretend he’d made a mistake.

  “The hell you don’t. You was on that stage all right. You, your kid, a drummer, an Injun girl, and MacCallister.”

  “Why did you kill her?” Jane asked, no longer trying to keep up the pretense of not knowing him. “Why did you kill Cloud Dancer?”

  “Cloud Dancer? That was her name?”

  “Why did you kill her?” Jane asked again.

  Monroe started to tell her that it was Ponci who killed her, that he didn’t have anything to do with it. But he changed his mind, deciding it might be better if she feared him.

  “I killed her because she wouldn’t do what I wanted her to do.” He leered at Jane. “Do you get my meanin’?”

  “I ... I suppose I do,” Jane admitted.

  “Good, good, I’m glad we understand each other. So, just to show me that you do understand, I want you to take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I said take off your clothes,” Monroe said.

  “I ... I thought you were hungry. Let me get you something for you to eat.”

  “There will be plenty of time for food later,” Monroe said. “Take off them clothes.”

  “Please,” Jane said in a pleading voice. “Don’t make me do this thing.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to ask you again,” Monroe said, pointing his pistol at her head and cocking it.

  Slowly, reluctantly, and fearfully, Jane began unbuttoning her dress.

  She pulled the dress over her head, then began unlacing the camisole. When she had it completely unlaced, she looked at him pleadingly.

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t make me do this.”

  Monroe’s eyes were clouded with lust, and Jane thought she could see something red deep down inside them. She opened the camisole and felt the effect of the air on her bare nipples.

  Then, to her shock and surprise, the side of Monroe’s head seemed to explode as blood, brain matter, and bits of bone spewed out from his temple. Monroe’s eyes rolled back, showing all white. Not until he was falling did she hear the distant report of a rifle.

  Jane gasped, but she didn’t scream. Instead, she just looked down at Monroe’s body as she dispassionately relaced the front of her camisole. She had herself covered by the time the man who shot Monroe came strolling up.

  “Mr. MacCallister,” she said. “I might have guessed it was you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Falcon said. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m all right,” Jane replied. She turned her back to him as she continued to lace up the camisole. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ll try and recover my modesty, if not my dignity.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that, Mrs. Stockdale,” Falcon said. “Your dignity was never compromised.”

  “Five,” Keytano said, counting the scalps Falcon laid on the ground before him. “You have killed five of your white brothers.”

  “They were white,” Falcon said. “But they were not my brothers.”

  “You also killed six Apache,” Keytano said.

  Falcon shook his head. “I killed only five. One of your brothers was killed by another.”

  Keytano shook his head. “They were Apache,” he said. But they were not my brothers.”

  Keytano put his hand on Falcon’s shoulder, and Falcon did the same.

  “You and I are brothers,” Keytano said.

  Falcon smiled. “It’s good to hear you say that, Keytano,” he said. “Because I’ve got a silver mine that needs to be worked. And as it turns out, it’s pretty close to your territory.”

  “Hear me,” Keytano called out, loud enough that the many who had gathered in the center circle could hear his words.

  “This is Dlo Binanta. From this day forward, he is my brother. For him, I will be a white man, and for me, he will be an Apache.”

  “Well, I thank you for that,” Falcon said.

  “It is okay,” Keytano said. He smiled. “For I know you will share twenty percent of your silver mine with me.”

  “You want twenty percent of my silver mine?”

  “Is it not the way of the white man to take what is not his?” Keytano asked innocently.

  Falcon laughed out loud. “Keytano,” he said. “All I’ve got to say is, you are one hell of a fast learner.”

  AFTERWORD

  Notes from the Old West

  In the small town where I grew up, there were two movie theaters. The Pavilion was one of those old-timey movie show palaces, built in the heyday of the Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin silent era of the 1920s. By the 1950s, when I was a kid, the Pavilion was a little worn around the edges, but it was still the premier theater in town. They played all those big Technicolor biblical Cecil B. DeMille epics and the corny MGM musicals. In Cinemascope, of course.

  On the other side of town was the Gem, a somewhat shabby and rundown grindhouse with sticky floors and torn seats. Admission was a quarter. The Gem booked low-budget B pictures (remember the Bowery Boys?), war movies, horror flicks, and Westerns. I liked the Westerns best. I could usually be found every Saturday at the Gem, along with my best friend, Newton Trout, watching Westerns from 10 AM until my father came looking for me around suppertime. (Sometimes Newton’s dad was dispatched to come fetch us.) One time, my dad came to get me, right in the middle of Abilene Trail, which featured the now-forgotten Whip Wilson. My father became so engrossed in the action, he sat down and watched the rest of it with us. We didn’t get home until after dark, and my mother’s meatloaf was a pan of gray ashes by the time we did. Though my father and I were both in the doghouse the next day, this remains one of my fondest childhood memories. There was Wild Bill Elliot, and Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers, and Tim Holt, and, a little later, Rod Cameron and Audie Murphy. Of these newcomers, I never missed an Audie Murphy Western, because Audie was sort of an anti-hero. Sure, he stood for law and order and was an honest man, but sometimes he had to go around the law to uphold it. If he didn’t play fair, it was only because he felt hamstrung by the laws of the land. Whatever it took to get the bad guys, Audie did it. There were no finer points of law, no splitting of legal hairs. It was instant justice, devoid of long-winded lawyers, bored or biased jurors, or black-robed, often corrupt judge
s.

  Steal a man’s horse and you were the guest of honor at a necktie party.

  Molesting a good woman meant a bullet in your heart or a rope around your gullet. Or at the very least, getting the crap beat out of you. Rob a bank and face a hail of bullets or the hangman’s noose.

  Saved a lot of time and money, did frontier justice.

  That’s all gone now, I’m sad to say. Now you hear, “Oh, but he had a bad childhood” or, “His mother didn’t give him enough love” or, “The homecoming queen wouldn’t give him a second look and he has an inferiority complex.” Or cultural rage, as the politically correct bright boys refer to it. How many times have you heard some self-important defense attorney moan, “The poor kids were only venting their hostilities toward an uncaring society”?

  Mule fritters, I say. Nowadays, you can’t even call a punk a punk anymore. But don’t get me started.

  It was “howdy ma’am” time, too. The good guys, anti-hero or not, were always respectful to the ladies. They might shoot a bad guy five seconds after tipping their hat to a woman, but the code of the West demanded you be respectful to a lady.

  Lots of things have changed since the heyday of the Wild West, haven’t they? Some for the good, some for the bad.

  I didn’t have any idea at the time that I would someday write about the West. I just knew that I was captivated by the Old West.

  When I first got the itch to write, back in the early 1970s, I didn’t write Westerns. I started by writing horror and action adventure novels. After more than two dozen novels, I began thinking about developing a western character. From those initial musings came the novel The Last Mountain Man: Smoke Jensen. That was followed by Preacher: The First Mountain Man. A few years later, I began developing the Last Gunfighter series. Frank Morgan is a legend in his own time, the fastest gun west of the Mississippi ... a title and a reputation he never wanted, but can’t get rid of.

  For me, and for thousands—probably millions—of other people (although many will never publicly admit it), the old Wild West will always be a magic, mysterious place: a place we love to visit through the pages of books; characters we would like to know ... from a safe distance; events we would love to take part in—again, from a safe distance. For the old Wild West was not a place for the faint of heart. It was a hard, tough, physically demanding time. There were no police to call if one faced adversity. One faced trouble alone, and handled it alone. It was rugged individualism: something that appeals to many of us.