Crusade of Eagles

by J. A. Johnstone

  Kelly saw Dunaway standing down at the end of the bar. Nobody else was around him, and he was staring morosely into his beer. His ear had stopped bleeding, but it was crusty from old blood.

  Kelly walked up to him.

  “What do you want?” Dunaway asked.

  “He cheated you,” Kelly said.

  “What?”

  “Well, when you challenge a man to draw, you expect him to turn around and face you, then draw. I seen what happened. You challenged him to draw, but he pulled his gun first, then turned around. You, bein’ a fair man, wasn’t expectin’ that.”

  “You’re right!” Dunaway said. “I wasn’t expectin’ it. I mean, by the time he turned, he already had his gun in his hand. What was I to do?”

  “You done what any sane man would do,” Kelly said. “You kept your gun in your holster.”

  “Yeah. A lot of good it did me,” he said, putting his hand up to his earlobe. “The son of a bitch shot me anyway.”

  “You know what I think?” Kelly asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think if you kilt him now, nobody would blame you for it. I mean, hell, ever’one in here seen him shoot off part of your ear. It would be self-defense, pure and simple.”

  “Yeah,” Dunaway said nervously. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And I’m going to face him down, too, I just need to—uh . . .”

  “Why do you need to face him down?” Kelly asked. “Just do it.”

  “What do you mean, just do it?”

  “Just kill the son of a bitch,” Kelly said. “Ever’body seen him threaten you, ever’body seen him try to kill you. He missed and hit you in the ear, but make no mistake, he was aimin’ to hit you right between the eyes.”

  “No, I think he was—”

  “He was aimin’ to hit you right between the eyes,” Kelly said, interrupting Dunaway. “Ever’body seen it. That means if you kill him, no matter how you do it, it would be self-defense.”

  “I’ll do it,” Dunaway said resolutely. “You want a drink?”

  “I don’t mind if I do.”

  “Barkeep, bring a drink for my friend,” Dunaway called.

  “You said you were going to do it,” Kelly said as the bartender brought the drink. “You’re going to do what?”

  “I’m going to kill MacCallister,” Dunaway said.

  Kelly lifted the drink to his lips, noticing the bartender’s reaction as he did so.

  Even as Kelly was talking to Dunaway, he was forming a new plan. Rather than killing MacCallister and blaming it on Dunaway, why not let Dunaway actually do the killing? Kelly could go with him, not only to goad Dunaway into actually doing it, but also to take care of things when it was over.

  What Kelly planned to do was to knock Dunaway out after MacCallister was killed. That way he would be able to take the saddlebags without any interference, and he would leave Dunaway there to take the responsibility.

  “I’ll go with you if you want me to,” Kelly said.

  “What? Go with me where?”

  “Why, to kill MacCallister, of course,” Kelly said.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because you’re my friend,” Kelly said. “I wouldn’t want to see my friend have to face someone like MacCallister all by yourself. No, sir, when you kill that son of a bitch, I’ll be there.”

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely. And I’ll tell people how you beat him fair and square,” Kelly added. He smiled. “Think of it . . . the Colorado Kid kills Falcon MacCallister in a head-to-head gunfight.”

  “I thought, uh, I thought you said I wouldn’t have to face him.”

  “You don’t have to face him,” Kelly said. “I’m just saying what I’ll be telling others about it.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Dunaway said. “Yeah, that’s good.”

  Kelly looked at the clock standing on the wall at the back of the saloon. According to the clock it was eleven-fifteen.

  “Come on,” Kelly said. “I heard him say that he was going to take a room at the Morning Star. This would be as good a time as any to take care of it.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Dunaway said a little hesitantly.

  “By this time tomorrow, the Colorado Kid will be known all over the West as the man who kilt Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Yeah,” Dunaway said. He finished his drink and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah!” he said more resolutely. “Come on, what are we waiting for?”

  The lobby of the Morning Star hotel was only dimly lit by a lantern that was burning very low. They could hear snoring, and knew that it was the night clerk.

  Kelly held his finger to his lips; then the two of them walked quietly across the lobby floor to the counter. There, Kelly turned the book around and, moving it into the light of the lamp, looked at the registered guests. He found what he was looking for on the bottom line.

  Falcon MacCallister, MacCallister Valley, Col—Room 12

  He pointed the entry out to Dunaway; then the two of them started up the stairs to find Room Twelve.

  The hallway was long and narrow, flanked on both sides by numbered doors. Because of the way the numbers were running, Kelly knew that the room they were looking for would be at the far end of the hallway.

  The hallway was illuminated by lanterns that were mounted along the wall. Kelly reached up to extinguish the first lantern. Dunaway extinguished the next and, as they progressed down the hall, they were followed by lengthening shadows behind them.

  Falcon wasn’t sure what woke him up. It may have been a creaky board from someone walking in one of the other rooms, but something had awakened him. He lay in bed, very quietly, trying to hear another sound, but he heard nothing.

  Then, a little flash of some kind caused him to look up into the transom window over his door. The transom was open to encourage a cross breeze from his open window. Because of the way the transom was tilted, he could see, in the window’s reflection, the glowing lights of the hallway.

  And yet, even as he looked, he saw a lamp go out. It wasn’t until then that he realized that more than half the hallway was now in darkness. It seemed pretty strange to have the lanterns all burning out at approximately the same time.

  Then he saw, in the window’s reflection, two men moving up the hallway. He saw one reach up to extinguish a lantern, and he knew that the lights were being purposely extinguished.

  But why?

  As the two men moved closer to his room, he no longer had to ask why the lights were being put out. He recognized one of the men as Denny Dunaway, the young man with whom he had had a confrontation in the bar. Both Dunaway and the man with him had their pistols drawn and they were coming quietly, but determinedly, toward his room.

  Sliding his pistol out of the holster that hung from the bedpost, he stepped quickly to one side of the room and waited.

  Looking back at his bed, he could see quite clearly that nobody was in bed.

  Moving quickly, Falcon stepped back over to his bed, fluffed up the pillow and the covers, then returned to his position on the side of the room.

  As the men got closer, the angle of the transom window was such that it no longer showed their position, so he lost the advantage of being able to watch as they approached.

  He waited.

  Suddenly his door burst open, having been kicked in by the two men who were outside.

  “Draw, MacCallister!” Dunaway shouted. He began shooting at the bed, the muzzle flashes of his pistol filling the room with light as the crashes of gunfire filled it with noise.

  “Dunaway! I’m over here!” Falcon shouted.

  “What?” Dunaway replied. “What the hell?”

  Dunaway whirled toward Falcon and fired.

  Falcon had to give the young man credit. His reaction was much faster than Falcon had expected it would be, no doubt because he was already committed to what he was doing.

  Dunaway’s bullet burned by Falcon’s head, just missing returning
the favor of a mangled ear. The bullet plunged into the wall beside Falcon with a thocking sound, just as Falcon returned fire.

  Dunaway had fired a total of five rounds before Falcon even fired. Falcon fired only once, but he needed only one shot. Dunaway fell out into the hallway floor.

  “Dunaway!” Kelly shouted.

  It wasn’t until then that Falcon remembered that he had seen two men in the hall. That meant there was another one out there after him.

  Falcon moved quickly to the door to be able to confront the other man, but he had already run to the far end of the hall, disappearing into the darkness. Falcon started after him, but couldn’t fire because he couldn’t see and was afraid someone innocent might open the door to their room, just to see what all the noise was about.

  From the far end of the hallway, Falcon heard a crash of glass. The son of a bitch had leaped through the window to escape!

  Chapter Twenty

  Answering Marshal Kingsley’s request that he do so, Falcon MacCallister showed up in Judge T. Bonley Craig’s office the next morning. Craig’s office was in the back of the town courthouse, and he stepped out of his office when Falcon and Kingsley arrived.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Judge Craig said. “I hear we had a little excitement last night.”

  Craig was a tall, gaunt, white-haired man in his late seventies. He had been a colonel during the Civil War, assigned to the Judge Advocate Corps.

  “That’s right, Your Honor,” Kingsley said.

  “And this is the man who was involved in the shooting ?” Craig nodded toward Falcon.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, there must be a pretty strong case of justifiable homicide; otherwise, you would have him in jail.”

  “Your Honor, if you would allow me, I would like to give you the results of my investigation,” Kingsley said.

  “By all means, please do so, Marshal,” Craig said.

  “Wait out here, would you, Mr. MacCallister, until I speak with the judge?” Kingsley said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Mr. MacCallister, I trust you will still be here when the marshal finishes his report,” Craig said. “But just to make it official, I hereby bind you with a court order to wait right here until I release you.”

  “I’ll be right here when you come out,” Falcon said.

  As Falcon waited, he studied a Currier and Ives lithograph titled: “American Express Trains, Leaving the Junction.” It was a painting of two trains, running together on parallel tracks, with their bell-shaped stacks sending smoke billowing up into the night. There was a cloud cover in the sky, but a hole in the clouds allowed a full moon to peek through, limning the clouds in luminescent silver. Huge gas lamps glowed just in front of the stacks, while every window of every passenger car was bright with light.

  It was a pleasant picture to contemplate, and Falcon could easily understand why the judge had it on his wall.

  The door to Judge Craig’s inner office opened, and he and Kingsley stepped out.

  “Still here, I see, Mr. MacCallister?” Judge Craig said, his voice jovial.

  “Yes, sir. I’m still here,” Falcon answered. He smiled. “I’m not about to violate a court order.”

  “Well, it’s good to see that you are a man of your word,” Craig said.

  “My pa used to say that a man’s worth had nothing to do with how much money he had. A man’s worth was measured by things like integrity, loyalty, courage, honor, and his word.”

  “I met your father once, during the war,” Judge Craig said. “Yes, sir, Jamie Ian MacCallister was a man who could be measured by every one of those qualities.”

  “I believe he was, sir.”

  “Now, about this ruckus in the hotel last night,” Judge Craig said, stroking his jaw with a long, thin hand that was spotted and wrinkled with age. “Marshal Kingsley has done a thorough investigation of the case. There were several witnesseses in the Long Trail who said they would testify that they saw the decedent challenge you last night. They said that you could have killed him then, and had every right to do so, but you spared his life. And the bartender will testify that later, after you had already left the saloon, he heard Dunaway say he was going to kill you.

  “And if that wasn’t enough, there are five empty cartridges in Dunaway’s gun, and there are four bullet holes in the pillow on the bed, and one in the wall. He was shot one time, and when the marshal examined your gun, he found only one empty cartridge. Is that about right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Falcon replied.

  “Do you have anything to add?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Craig looked at Kingsley, surprised to hear that Falcon had something to add. Kingsley lifted his shoulders as if saying he had no idea what Falcon was about to say.

  “All right then, let’s hear it,” Judge Craig said.

  “There was someone else out in the hall last night,” Falcon said. “Someone was with Dunaway.”

  “Oh, yes, Kingsley did mention that,” Craig said. “Did you get a look at him?”

  “No, I did not. I think that, as part of their plan to attack me, the two men extinguished all the lamps out in the hall, and by the time I got to the door, the second assailant, whoever he was, was already back into the dark end of the hall.”

  “What about before, in the saloon? Was Dunaway with anyone that you could tell?” Craig asked.

  Falcon shook his head. “As far as I could tell, he was alone.”

  “All right,” Judge Craig said. “Marshal, I congratulate you on a very thorough investigation. I don’t believe there is any need to hold an official inquiry. That is, unless you have other evidence to report.”

  “I’ve given you everything I have, Your Honor.”

  “Then, in the matter of the death of Denny Dunaway, I rule it justifiable homicide and will have a court document drawn up declaring same. Mr. MacCallister, the court order requiring you to remain here is lifted. You are free to go.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Falcon said.

  When Judge Craig extended his hand, Falcon shook it. Then, Falcon extended his hand to Marshal Kingsley.

  “Thank you, Marshal, for, as the judge said, a most thorough investigation.”

  “I was glad to be of service to you, Mr. MacCallister. I just wish I had some idea as to who the other man was. It could be dangerous not knowing. He could try again.”

  “I’ll just have to be vigilant,” Falcon said.

  “Ha! As if you weren’t all the time,” Kingsley replied.

  Falcon reached for his saddlebags, then slung them across his shoulder.

  “Marshal, this has taken up most of the morning. It’s nearly noon now. How about letting me buy you lunch?” Falcon asked.

  Kingsley smiled. “I never turn down the opportunity for a free lunch,” he said. He pointed to the saddlebags. “You’ve been carrying those things ever since I saw you. Would you like me to lock them up in my office for you?”

  “No, thanks, they’re no trouble. I can keep up with them,” Falcon said without elaboration. “Now, about lunch, do you have a suggestion as to where we might eat?”

  “Ziegenhorn’s?” Kingsley suggested.

  Falcon smiled painfully. “Uh, no offense, Ziegenhorn is a nice fellow, but I’ve eaten at Ziegenhorn’s. Is there any other place you might suggest?”

  “Well, we could go to Tinkers’ Café I supposed. He charges a little more than Ziegenhorn.”

  “Is his food better?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s about as good a place as any in town,” Kingsley said.

  “I don’t mind paying a little extra if the quality is there,” Falcon said.

  Tinkers’ Café was at the far end of town from the courthouse, and as they passed by the newspaper office, Blanton came running out.

  “Mr. MacCallister, would you grant me an interview about the events of last night?” Blanton asked.

  “We’re just going to lunch, Tom,” Kingsley said.

  “
No problem. I’ll just lock up and come to lunch with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” Kingsley began, but Falcon interrupted him.

  “I’ve offered to buy him lunch and he’s not sure how far the invitation goes,” Falcon said to Blanton. “I had a good night at the card table last night, so come along.”

  “Yes, I heard you taught Mr. J. T. Finley a lesson in how to run a bluff,” Blanton said, chuckling. “Just let me lock up.”

  Falcon and Kingsley waited until the newspaper editor locked his office; then the three of them continued on down the street until they reached Tinkers’ Café.

  Tinkers’ Café was a small, white building with two large windows in front. Even before they reached it, they could smell the delicious aromas of today’s fare.

  They found a table at the back of the room, and when Falcon took the chair that put his back to the wall, neither of the other men challenged him.

  They were halfway through their meal when Falcon saw him. He was tall and slim, and wearing an oversized handlebar mustache. Falcon had seen him the night before, in the saloon. Only, when he saw him last night, there was no scar on his forehead.

  “That man,” Falcon said.

  “What man?” Kingsley asked, his mouth full of chicken and dumplings.

  Falcon nodded toward the man who had just come in.

  “That man over there. He has a scar on his forehead.”

  Kingsley chuckled. “Is that what we’re doing now? Because whoever was with Dunaway jumped out the window, we should be looking for men with scars?”

  “Fresh scars,” Falcon replied. “When I saw him in the saloon last night, he had no scars. Now he has a long, red slash on his forehead. And if we got a closer look at him, I expect he might have scars in other places as well.”

  “Well, I can’t just go up to people and ask them to let me look for scars,” Kingsley said. He was twisting around in his seat as he spoke. “On the other hand, if you think he is . . . what the hell?” Kingsley said, interrupting his statement right in the middle.