Talons of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “He will never stop, sir,” Red said.

  “Then he’s a damn fool!” Cord said harshly. “I suspect that Anne let Ross arrange Ben’s, ah, accident. That was her first mistake. She won’t make that mistake again. The next time, she’ll handle it, and Ben will be dead. And all he will have accomplished is to destroy his sister’s future. If he continues to pursue that end, and I live through this fight, I’ll kill the son of a bitch myself.”

  “Listen, Mister Woodville,” the Boston attorney said, after recovering from his shock at the harsh words.

  “No, you listen!” Cord cut him off. “Is Ben so selfish he wants to ruin other lives? What else might he want? To live in a grand mansion and be lord of the manor? He might do that, but he will never be anything other than what he is, and that is a goddamn quarter-breed. I don’t care how much money he has; we’re not talking about oh-so-proper Boston. We’re talking about the South, where passions run high against Negroes. They were slaves four short years ago. You think the stroke of a pen will change the feelings of two hundred plus years? Don’t be naive, gentlemen. Tell Ben to accept what he is and drop the matter.”

  “He’ll never do that, Mister Woodville,” Red said. “He is one very determined young man.”

  “If that is the case, gentlemen, what he might well end up as is one very dead young man.”

  “Is that your final word on the matter, sir?” the Boston lawyer said, his words stiff with indignation . . . among other things.

  “That’s it.”

  Red cut his eyes to Jamie. “And, you, sir?”

  “Why destroy lives when nothing is to be gained by it?” Jamie asked. “If Ben Franklin Washington persists in this, my grandson might well call him out and shoot him. MacCallisters have a tendency to take the shortest route toward a goal. I sympathize with the young man. But in some respects, I have to agree with Cord. Drop the matter. I know Anne. I watched her grow up. That is one dangerous woman. I personally don’t think the Negro will ever be fully accepted as an equal by the majority of white people in this country. North, South, East, or West. I can’t tell you why that is, but it’s what I believe. Maybe in a hundred or so years, but I have my doubts at that. And neither will the Indian, not in large groups anyway. It’s sad, but I think it to be true.”

  Red stared at Jamie for a moment. “I’m told, Mister MacCallister, that there are people of all nationalities living in your twin valleys.”

  “That’s very true. Including two Chinese families. But I handpicked the original settlers—personally. And over the years, I have turned away several hundred or more people who wanted to settle there. Does that answer your question, if it was a question?”

  The Boston lawyer sighed. “So what happens now, Mister MacCallister?”

  Jamie and Cord exchanged glances, then smiles, and then both burst out laughing.

  The Boston lawyer and the Federal marshal looked at one another and shook their heads.

  When the two men had stopped their laughing, Red said, “I fail to see anything amusing about this situation, sir. There are approximately two hundred men gathered on the east side of town, with about thirty or forty more coming up behind them, two days away at the most. Yet you seem to find something hysterically funny about it.”

  “The Indians have a saying, Red,” Jamie said. “It’s a good day to die.”

  “Let’s return to our reason for being here,” the Boston lawyer said. “What about Ben Franklin Washington?”

  “If he tangles with Anne,” Cord said, “I can assure you she will have him killed with no more emotion than swatting a fly.”

  The lawyer and the marshal stood up as one. Red asked, “What happens now?”

  “The truce is over,” Jamie said. “You boys had better get clear. ’Cause all hell is about to break loose.”

  37

  Over the years, Ross had carefully laid out a network of spies around Richmond, and he knew he was being followed an hour after his sister’s hired thugs began trailing him. And he knew by the end of that day who they were and who had hired them. It came as no surprise. As a matter of fact, it rather amused him. He knew only too well how evil his sister was. After all, he thought with a secret, silent chuckle, we’re cut from the same mold.

  Ross went about his business as if he knew nothing of the men shadowing him. He quietly began liquidating what he could and turning that into bank drafts. Just like Anne, Ross had secret accounts in New York City under different names, and just like Anne, he was wealthy in his own right.

  But where to go? That was the question. Ross was firmly convinced now that his sister meant to dispose of him. So where would he be safe? Where his sister was the least likely to go to hide and make a new identity for herself. New York City? He shook his head. Doubtful. They’d played there too many times as musicians and actors. The odds were too great they would be recognized. No, New York City was out.

  St Louis? No. They were even better known there.

  So ... where?

  The more he thought about it, the more attractive the West looked. It was growing, no, booming was a better word.

  Over coffee and a sweet roll at one of Richmond’s better restaurants, Ross made up his mind. Denver was a place that was going to grow, and he might as well get in on the ground floor. With his wealth, he could buy, no, build a very comfortable home there and live in seclusion and luxury while his wealth grew. Yes. Spread his money around in various banks and invest in the right properties.

  There was little chance that he would meet anyone from MacCallister’s Valley. After all, it had been almost thirty years since he and Anne had slipped away during the dead of night. Like thieves, the thought came to him, and once more he was amused. Well, that’s what they were. Thieves . . . and worse.

  He would arrange for any monies due him from his holdings in Virginia—holdings he could not liquidate at this time—to be quietly converted into cash and sent to New York City to one of the banks there. Of course, there were other details to be worked out, but they were minor ones, and could be handled by one of his local attorneys . . . a person that Ross could send to prison for life, therefore one that Ross knew would keep his mouth shut—tightly.

  He felt better now that he knew he had things all worked out.

  Then he sobered as another thought came to him: now all he had to do was stay alive for a week.

  He couldn’t arrange to have Anne’s hired thugs disposed of; that would tip off Anne that he was on to her plan. So ... yes, yes, it came to him. He would have a couple of very close friends of his with him at all times. Reasonably prominent people who had a dark side to their lives. Of course, they might get killed; but . . . what the hell?

  Now he really felt better.

  * * *

  Where to go? Anne thought, sitting in her drawing room. Like Ross, she mentally checked off and eliminated the places where she was well known and simply could not go, and finally settled on San Francisco. But her brother had to be taken care of. She had to see to that. She could leave no loose ends dangling. And she couldn’t just disappear . . . she had to let people think she was dead. And she had that worked out, too. It was a fine plan, albeit a chancy one. Everything hinged on getting everybody here at Ravenswood at the same time. But she thought she could arrange all that easily enough.

  She told all but one of the servants that beginning Monday, they could have a few weeks off, with pay, of course. She and her personal servant were going to take a little trip. Thelma was just about her size . . . yes. The woman would do nicely. Not that there would be much left to identify.

  She let it be known around the city that she was going to take a trip. She placed her better jewelry in a bank box. Page could have that after her . . . she laughed . . . her death.

  Then she arranged for painters to come in; while she was gone the place was to be remodeled. She insisted that they bring their materials at once and store them at the mansion. Lots of nice, very flammable materials.

  An
ne smiled. Everything was working out quite nicely. It was going to be perfect. Anne liked things neatly done.

  * * *

  Layfield’s plan to attack during the night turned into a disastrous failure. Jamie and his people heard them coming about ten seconds after they started climbing over the rock-covered pass and were waiting for the men. The leading team of Layfield’s Revengers was cut down by rifle fire and forced to withdraw, leaving their dead behind.

  “Stupid people,” Dark Hand remarked. “This is not much of a fight, hey?”

  “I think it’s going to get better,” Jamie told the Cheyenne.

  “Hope so,” the Indian replied.

  The defenders of the town took turns sleeping and guarding the rest of that night and were all refreshed when dawn split the sky.

  Layfield was furious. He had launched two attacks against Jamie. Both of them had failed. Layfield thought about just circling around and riding hard to reach MacCallister’s Valley. He had long dreamed of burning down the town, just like MacCallister had done his town. But now the element of surprise had been lost, and the townspeople would be ready for him.

  He reluctantly admitted to himself that he had been a fool to stop here and do battle with Jamie. Jamie had wagered on Layfield’s vanity and had won.

  Layfield knew that to withdraw now would mean a terrible loss of morale among his troops. He had to press on; had to come up with a plan of attack that would bloody those in the town.

  Aaron Layfield might have been many things, but he was not a fool. He was well aware that the arrest warrants he carried with him were bogus, and could be recalled at any time. They might already have been voided by a Federal judge.

  He looked up at both sides of the narrow pass and grimaced at the sight of all the spectators, cooking breakfast, boiling water for coffee. Many had partied all during the night and were still drunk.

  “Disgusting Godless bastards and whores,” Layfield said.

  The Soiled Doves from Goldtown were working the crowds. The sounds of their grunting and coupling had been heard during the night as the miners bought their fleshy pleasures. That outraged Layfield. He wanted to kill them all. Men and women alike.

  Layfield had been going quietly insane for years, and his sickness sometimes nearly overwhelmed him. Ever since the war’s end, he had one paramount thought before him: kill Jamie MacCallister.

  He had carefully rebuilt his forces, procuring several government grants to do so ... with the help of a couple of shady politicians in Washington. Now Jamie MacCallister was only a few hundred yards away.

  Might as well be on the moon, Layfield thought. The sounds of many horses approaching cut into his thoughts and turned the man around. The most disreputable-looking bunch of men he had ever seen were walking their horses through his army’s camp and up to Layfield, standing on the eastern side of the jumble of rocks that blocked the pass.

  “I be Clyde Ellis,” a man said. “We’uns come to avenge our kin. Git out of the way. We’re goin’ acrost to settle this score with Jamie MacCallister.”

  Layfield took off his hat and mock bowed. “Why, of course, Mister Ellis. Be my guest.”

  One look at the pass and Ellis changed his mind. “That there is a death trap,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Aaron replied coldly.

  “But up yonder ain’t,” the West Virginia man said, pointing to the ridges above the town.

  Aaron suppressed a groan. The solution to the problem was so obvious he had overlooked it. What had he been thinking? He felt like a fool for not thinking of it himself.

  “We send riflemen up yonder to pick them bastards off one at a time,” Ellis said. “I got ol’ boys with me that can knock the eye out of a squirrel at three hundred yards.”

  “Don’t even think about doin’ that!” the voice came from the ridge, about ten feet off the ground and about thirty feet away.

  Layfield and Ellis turned to face a dozen or so miners, all armed with rifles. One of them pointed to the other side. Ellis and Layfield turned. Another dozen or so miners, all armed with rifles, stood or squatted on the other side. Those miners pointed above them and then across the narrow pass. Ellis and Layfield looked all around, and Ellis cussed, low and long. Several hundred men stood from the top of the high pass to almost the bottom, all of them armed.

  “There ain’t gonna be no back shootin’, boys,” a burly, bearded miner said. “Y’all got them men down yonder outnumbered ten or fifteen to one or more as it is. You fight ’em on the up and up. You send men up here to back shoot, they ain’t gonna be returnin’ to you ’ceptin’ in one condition, and that’s rollin’ downhill dead.”

  “I reckon we understand that,” Ellis said.

  “You better,” the miner said, and then backed off to sit behind a rock.

  “Now what?” Layfield grumbled.

  “We plan some,” Ellis replied.

  * * *

  At Fort Lyon, some one hundred and seventy-five hard miles away, the commanding officer read a dispatch and swore. “That goddamned Layfield again. I thought we were done and through with that lunatic at war’s end.”

  “What’s the matter?” his executive officer asked.

  “Layfield is supposed to be heading to Bell City with a large force to launch an attack against Jamie MacCallister.” He glanced at the date. “Hell, they’re already there by now.”

  “Why would Layfield attack Jamie MacCallister?”

  The colonel grinned. “Jamie and his Marauders rode up into Pennsylvania in ’65 and burned down his town—remember?”

  “Oh. Yes.” He shook his head. “Bell City is a hard week’s ride from here, sir.”

  “Yes, I know. Whatever is going to happen will have happened long before we reach there.”

  “Scout’s back, sir!” the sergeant called. “And he’s been wounded. He’s got an arrow in his side.”

  “Indians, again,” the colonel said, standing up. “Have the men fall out, Captain.” He looked toward the northwest. “Luck be with you, Jamie MacCallister.”

  * * *

  Those in the old deserted town waited for several days, knowing something was in the works, but not knowing what. They cleaned guns, sharpened knives, ate, stood guard, and rested.

  “This is gettin’ plumb borin’,” Preacher groused. “If all this sittin’ around and eatin’ keeps up, I’ll be fatter than lardass over yonder.” He pointed to Lobo.

  Lobo gave him a very profane hand gesture, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  Cord was across the street in the second story of a building, watching the blocked pass. Something, he wasn’t sure what, caught his eyes. He took his field glasses and went up to the roof of what had once been a saloon and studied the pass. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, then climbed back down and walked across the street.

  “They’re clearing the pass by hand,” he told Jamie and those who were not on guard or asleep. “Rock by rock.”

  “I wondered when they’d get around to that,” Sparks said. “It’s not going to do them any good. Hell, it’ll take weeks to get a path cleared enough to get a horse through. All we have to do is pick them off one at a time as they come out.”

  Jamie was silent for a moment. “It’s a diversion,” he finally said.

  “A what?” Lobo asked, sitting up.

  “A ruse,” Audie told him. “A variation on the Trojan Horse ploy.”

  “Whose hoss?” Lobo asked. “Trojan Ploy? I ain’t never heared of him. What a stupid name.”

  “Go back to sleep, you cretin!”

  Lobo looked all around him, his eyes stopping on Cord. “What he just called me, is that good or bad?”

  Cord arched an eyebrow and waggled one hand from side to side.

  “That’s what I figured,” Lobo said. “I got to larn to read one of these days so’s I can figure out what this sawed-off piece of buzzard bait is callin’ me.”

  “West Virginia is mountainous,” Cord spoke from the doorway.
r />   “What?” Sparks said.

  “Yes,” Jamie agreed.

  “So many of those men with Layfield would not be at all reluctant to risk their lives making their way over the peaks that surround us,” Audie said.

  Night Stalker and Dark Hand grasped what was being said and stood up, rifles in hand. “We stop,” Night Stalker said. The Nez Perce and the Cheyenne walked out of the room.

  Hannah said, “I thought the miners told . . .” She fell silent and shook her head. “No. They wouldn’t interfere if all the men were doing was climbing up to circle around behind us.”

  “That’s right,” Jamie said. “But there won’t be many of them doing the climbing. The mountain faces are too sheer. Night Stalker and Dark Hand can hold them off. What we’ve got to do is figure out what those men on the other side of the pass are up to.” Jamie frowned, then smiled. He suddenly jumped up and ran to the door, calling for the Indians to come back.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Lobo muttered.

  “Don’t stop the men from getting in behind us,” Jamie told the pair.

  “What?” Night Stalker said, confusion on his face.

  “Make no sense,” Dark Hand said.

  “Yes, it does. Listen to me. I believe Layfield and Ellis are counting on us to throw everybody toward the rear when those men attack. When we do that, Layfield will launch an attack from the east. He’ll be pouring men over those rocks. If enough men get through, we’ll be in a box. Trapped.”

  “Clever,” Audie said. “Not terribly original, but clever enough for a man of Layfield’s limited intelligence. Ahh! Yes. I see what you’re planning. Let Dark Hand and Night Stalker get into position, unseen, and allow those climbers to think they’ve taken us by surprise. Meanwhile, the remainder of us will have quietly gotten into position close to the east end of the blocked pass. We shall be armed with every gun we have at hand. Night Stalker and Dark Hand will start yelling in panic. Yes. Put Lobo with them. He can roar like a grizzly. The rest of us will lie quietly in wait; perhaps allow the first wave of Layfield’s men to actually breech the rocks, and then open up on them.”