Crusade of Eagles

by J. A. Johnstone

  “That is true,” Falcon said. “But isn’t Jefferson also the one who said of the press that ‘truth itself is polluted when it appears in the press’?”

  The editor laughed, then wiped his hand on his apron before extending it in friendship.

  “You know your history, sir. I’m Thomas Blanton, publisher and editor of the Pronouncement, at your service. I am also the reporter, printer, advertising salesman, delivery boy, and janitor.”

  “You sound like an entire staff,” Falcon said.

  “Indeed I am, sir. Indeed I am.”

  “The paper that you have out front,” Falcon said. “Is that tomorrow’s edition?”

  “It is.”

  “I would like to buy an early copy if I might.”

  “I suppose that could be arranged. Is there a particular story that has caught your interest?”

  “Yes, the story about the passengers who were taken from the train.”

  “You are talking about the MacCallisters,” Blanton said. He shook his head slowly and made a clucking sound. “What a shame that is. They were such nice people. Why, did you know they took the time to leave the train and shake hands with just about everyone who had turned out to greet them?”

  “Yes, well, Andrew and Rosanna always were the kind who sought attention,” Falcon said. “In fact, I think they would die without it.”

  The smile left the editor’s face. “That seems like a rather harsh observation to make,” he said.

  “Well, if I can’t make a harsh observation, who can?” Falcon replied. “My name is Falcon MacCallister and Andrew and Rosanna are my brother and sister.”

  The editor beamed.

  “Falcon MacCallister, you say!” he said. “Well, how fortunate it is to meet you. I do believe that your fame is every bit as great as that of your brother and sister. It is indeed an honor, sir, to have you in Eagle Tail.”

  “Thank you,” Falcon said. “What have you learned about the disappearance of Andrew and Rosanna?”

  “Learned?”

  “You are a newspaperman, Mr. Blanton,” Falcon said. “I’m certain that, by now, you have interviewed some of the passengers who were on the train that night, have you not?”

  Blanton nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did interview them.”

  “If you don’t mind sharing with me, I’d like to know everything you have found out about what happened,” Falcon said.

  “You’re going after the kidnappers, aren’t you?” Blanton asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know who they are, but I can tell you—”

  “Oh, I know who they are,” Falcon said easily.

  “What’s that? You know who they are? But how is that possible? Nobody could identify them.”

  “There were five of them; the two Tate brothers, Logan, Strayhorn, and Michaels. Michaels is an albino.”

  Blanton looked up quickly.

  “An albino, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if . . .” Blanton began. Then he finished with, “It has to be.”

  “What?” Falcon asked.

  “I never put it together before,” Blanton said. “But there were five men who came into Ziegenhorn’s a couple of days ago—just the day before your brother and sister come through on the train, as it turns out. And one of ’em was an albino.”

  “That has to be them.”

  “Nobody said anything about an albino holding up the train,” Blanton said. “But then, they were all wearing masks. And there were only four of them.”

  “Makes sense that there were only four,” Falcon said. “They probably left one back to hold the horses.”

  “Yes, I hadn’t thought of that,” Blanton said. He looked back at his press, and at the unprinted pile of paper beside it.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, taking off the apron. “I’ll finish this print run later. What do you say you and I go down to Ziegenhorn’s. He will be there, and I’m pretty sure Kingsley will be there as well.”

  “Ziegenhorn? Kingsley?”

  “It’s sort of a general store, café, and bunking house all at the same time. A man named Ziegenhorn owns the place,” Blanton said. “And Crack Kingsley is our local marshal. They were there the other day when the albino and the others came through. Maybe if we all put our heads together, we can come up with something.”

  “Falcon MacCallister, huh?” Kingsley said. He extended his hand. “Well, I must say that I’ve heard about you and your famous pa. But I never thought I would meet you.”

  “Have a beer, Mr. MacCallister, on the house,” Ziegenhorn offered.

  “I will have a beer,” Falcon said. “But I insist on paying for it, not just for mine, but for a round.”

  “Nope, you can’t do that,” Ziegenhorn said. “I don’t have a license to sell liquor. All I can do is serve it to my friends.”

  “Well, in that case, I appreciate being regarded as your friend,” Falcon said.

  “I’m told that a group of men came through here the other day,” Falcon said when Ziegenhorn returned with the beers. “One of them was an albino.”

  “That’s right,” Ziegenhorn said. “I’ve seen albinos before, but I’ve never seen one like this fella. He was as white as a maggot.”

  “If they are who I think they are, it would be a bunch who escaped from jail back in Colorado Springs. In fact, they literally escaped from the hangman, because they were going to be hanged later that same day. Loomis Tate and . . .”

  “Loomis! Yes, that’s the name!” Kingsley said, interrupting Falcon and striking his hand with his fist. “One of them called the other Loomis. By damn, I thought I’d heard that name before.”

  “You said you was going to look it up,” Ziegenhorn said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Kingsley said. “But what with all the excitement of the MacCallisters coming through, I forgot.”

  “Did Tate and the others know that my sister and brother were coming through?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes, we told them. Well, we told everyone about it,” Blanton said. “Oh, my God,” he said, covering his mouth with his hand. “It’s our fault, isn’t it?”

  “What’s our fault?” Kingsley said. “What are you talking about?”

  “The men that were here,” Blanton said. “We told them that the MacCallisters were coming through, and they are the ones who took the MacCallisters off the train.”

  “You’re right, we did tell them,” Ziegenhorn said. “Oh, Mr. MacCallister, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Falcon said dismissively. “You did nothing wrong simply by telling them that Andrew and Rosanna were coming through here. They are the ones who took them off the train. They are the ones who are guilty.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” Kingsley asked.

  “I don’t know,” Falcon said. “Maybe if we talk enough, we’ll come up with something helpful.”

  “They were only riding five horses when they came through here,” Blanton said. “But one of the passengers on the train insisted that he counted tracks for seven horses.”

  “That means they got two more horses somewhere,” Falcon said. “Do you know if anyone is . . .”

  “Landers,” Blanton said. “Josh Landers.”

  “Who?” Kingsley asked.

  “It’s a story I ran a couple of days ago. Happened just north of here. Hank, you have Tuesday’s paper?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Ziegenhorn said. He walked down to the far end of the counter, reached under it, then pulled out a paper. “Here it is,” he said.

  “Bring it here,” Blanton said.

  Ziegenhorn brought the paper back and Blanton handed it to Falcon. “Bottom story, left column,” he said. “I didn’t run it any bigger because it didn’t happen in our county. Besides which, this is mostly a story I just took from another paper.”

  YOUTH MURDERED!

  Horses Stolen.

  WALLACE, KANSAS: News has reached the Prono
uncement of a terrible crime committed just north of our fair city. According to a reliable source, Josh Landers, owner of a small farm, told the sheriff of St. Joseph County that his older son, Johnny, had been murdered by a band of men who rode through his property.

  Landers said that Johnny and his younger son, Jesse, were swimming when the men came by and began taking the two boys’ horses. Johnny, by all accounts a very brave young lad, confronted them and was shot and killed for his effort. Jesse, as resourceful as his brother was brave, hid from the murderous thugs by lying on the bottom of the pond and breathing through a hollow reed.

  Jesse was unable to describe any of the men, but stated that he believed one man was wearing a white hood over his face.

  Jesse is eleven years old. Johnny, his brother who was killed, was fourteen.

  “I remember reading that story,” Ziegenhorn said. “I thought it was a tragic story, but I didn’t make any sort of a connection between that and the MacCallisters being taken from the train.”

  “The white hood,” Falcon said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The boy said one of the men was wearing a white hood over his face.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. It seemed rather odd to me that only one would be masked,” Ziegenhorn said.

  “Unless the boy was too far away, and too frightened to see clearly,” Falcon said. “In which case the white hood could be the white face of an albino.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Kingsley said. “You may have something there.”

  “But they took the horses from a couple of boys,” Ziegenhorn said. “I mean, wouldn’t you think they would take them from a ranch or something? They were taking a chance on what kind of horses they would be getting from a couple of young boys. Don’t you think that, as far as quality is concerned, they would have more to choose from if they had taken them from a ranch?”

  “No, that is precisely another reason why I think it might be Tate and his bunch,” Falcon said. “They weren’t interested in quality; they were interested in opportunity.”

  “Opportunity?” Kingsley said.

  “Yes. They needed horses, the horses were there, it was a simple matter to just take them.”

  “All right, but why would they have killed the boy? And why did they try to kill the other one?” Ziegenhorn asked.

  “When they came here, did any of you recognize them as wanted men?” Falcon asked.

  “ No. ”

  “And they want to keep it that way. I think they killed the boy because he saw them, and could describe them. If they had robbed your store, Mr. Ziegenhorn, they would have killed all three of you as well.”

  “Oh, my,” Ziegenhorn said, nervously pulling his shirt collar away from his neck. “Oh, my, I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Which is why I believe that they have no intention of letting my brother and sister live, whether I give them the money or not,” Falcon concluded.

  “Damn,” Ziegenhorn said. “That’s not even something I want to think about.”

  “It’s all right, our intentions even out,” Falcon said with a humorless smile.

  “What do you mean?” Blanton asked.

  “I don’t intend to let them live,” Falcon said resolutely.

  “So, what are you going to do now?” Kingsley asked.

  “It’s too late to do anything tonight, so I thought I’d find a saloon and have a few drinks, then get a room and spend the night. Tomorrow, I’ll go out to the Landers farm and talk to the boy. Then I might see if I can pick up some tracks from there.”

  “Would you like me to go with you?” Kingsley asked.

  “No, I work better by myself.”

  “All right,” Kingsley replied, trying not to show how relieved he was at having his offer for help refused. “I really wouldn’t have any jurisdiction there anyway. I’m a city marshal. You’d need to deal with the sheriff of St. Joseph County, or perhaps a United States marshal.”

  “I understand, but I don’t intend to bother them. I’ll take care of this myself. Now, where’s the nearest saloon?” Falcon asked.

  “We have two,” Ziegenhorn said. “I wouldn’t recommend the Jayhawker, it’s pretty rough. You might try the Long Trail, though.”

  “Long Trail,” Falcon said. He nodded. “Thanks.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Falcon had purposely left out mentioning anything about the note from Loomis telling him to be in the Long Trail Saloon at four the next afternoon. He said nothing because he wanted a free hand to do whatever needed to be done. Also, he didn’t want to have to worry about looking out for anyone else, should trouble start.

  As he approached the two saloons, the Long Trail was on the west side of the street and the Jayhawker was on the east side, and he could see why the Long Trail was the recommended of the two.

  The Long Trail Saloon was one of the more substantial-looking buildings in the entire town. It was a real two-story building, as opposed to the false fronts of several of the other buildings along the street. There was a roof over the porch of the building, and the roof acted as a balcony for the second story. Hanging from the roof was a large sign. At the end of the sign was a very good representation of a rider following a trail, which stretched out before the rider, twisting itself into cursive letters to form the saloon’s name, The Long Trail. The letters were red, outlined with yellow.

  As soon as Falcon pushed through the batwing doors, he stepped to one side, then backed up against the wall as he surveyed the saloon. He wasn’t supposed to be met until the next day, but there was a possibility that, like him, someone had come a day early. A quick perusal did not turn up any face that he recognized. He felt safe to move on into the saloon, because he believed he would have recognized Loomis or any of his men. He had a clear memory of them, from having encountered them at the stagecoach way station where they killed the shotgun guard and attempted to steal the money the stage was transporting.

  The saloon was filled with its evening trade. At first it seemed a little quieter than normal; then he realized that the ubiquitous sound of piano music was missing. At the rear of the room, an empty beer mug and a half-full ashtray conveniently placed by the piano provided the evidence that, though nobody was playing the piano at the moment, there was a piano player.

  Falcon stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer, and when it was served, he turned around to survey the room as he drank it. The bar was crowded and most of the tables were full, but he did not see one person that he recognized.

  Four people were sitting at the table nearest the piano—three young cowboys and a bar girl. The table had one empty whiskey bottle and a second that was half-full, indicating that the bar girl was doing a very good job of pushing drinks.

  Falcon took a swig of his beer and smiled as he saw the bar girl flirtatiously playing with the ear of one of the cowboys with one hand while, with the other, she was refilling his glass from the bottle on the table.

  At one of the other tables, a lively card game was in progress. The table was crowded with stacks of money in coin and paper, as well as empty beer mugs. There were two brass spittoons within easy spitting distance of the players.

  “How the hell did you do that? I had a pair of kings showin’. How’d you know I didn’t have ’em backed up? You usin’ mirrors or somethin’?” one of the cardplayers asked, obviously agitated by the hand just played.

  “Now, just hold on here. You’re not accusin’ me of cheatin’, are you, Hayes?” one of the other players asked. “Because I don’t think I would like that very much.”

  “No,” Hayes said, holding his hand up as if to deny the suggestion. “I ain’t said you was cheatin’, or nothin’ like that. I’m just wonderin’ how you can do that, is all.”

  The slender, well-dressed man began pulling a pile of money toward him from the middle of the table. He chuckled in satisfaction as he did so.

  “I did it, Hayes, because I am a professional gambler and I know that, despite what the a
verage cowpoke believes, poker is not about luck.”

  “What do you mean, it ain’t about luck? You gotta have the cards,” Hayes said.

  “Oh, yes, you have to have the cards, but if you are in a game with three other players, the odds are that each of the four will get winning cards twenty-five percent of the time. Something has to change that balance so that one person wins more than the others. That something is skill. I have spent many years developing my skill as a poker player. And one thing I have learned is to tell when someone is trying to run a bluff. No one, absolutely no one, can run a bluff on me. I always say that’s what separates the professionals from the amateurs. You, Hayes, are an amateur. Whereas I am a professional.”

  Falcon drank his beer and watched as the gambler continued to hold court.

  “Look at it this way, young man. When you play with J. T. Finley, you can plan to lose more than you win. On the other hand, you could regard it as going to school to learn just how to play the game. You are paying for an education.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Hayes said.

  “Are you ready for another lesson?” Finley asked he shuffled the cards for another deal.

  “Deal me out,” Hayes said, getting up from the table.

  Finley turned toward Falcon.

  “Sir, I see you have been watching us. As you can see, there is now a chair open. Would you care to join the game?”

  Falcon tossed the rest of his drink down, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He had learned long ago that it was sometimes easier to pick up information through casual conversation over a few drinks and a deck of cards than to ask for it outright. That was justification enough for joining the card game, though in truth, he did enjoy a good game now and then. And it might be fun to send this pompous ass to school.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. He handed his mug to the bartender in a silent request for a refill.

  “Finley is the name. J. T. Finley. And you are?”