Slaughter of Eagles. William W. Johnstone
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to Idaho Springs. He had received it two days ago.
Dere Mr. Macalster
I heer that you are lookin for Luke Mueller and if you are willing to pay me some mony come to Idaho Springs and I will tell you where he is at. I will be at the hotel. Don’t tell nobody I tode you where at to find him.
Yurs truly
Bill Jones
Falcon MacCallister should have seen it coming. Normally he was much more observant, more aware of his surroundings, but he had no reason to sense danger. He was in Idaho Springs, Colorado which wasn’t too far from MacCallister Valley, and therefore was almost like a second hometown to him.
He had just ridden into town when he felt the impact of the bullet as it plunged into his horse’s neck. He saw a stream of blood gush out as his mount went down, even as he heard the sound of the shot. He leaped from the saddle to avoid being fallen on by the horse, and as he did so he saw a white puff of smoke drifting up from just behind a sign that read J.C. BEALE’S HARDWARE.
Snaking his rifle from its saddle sheath and holding it low in one hand, Falcon darted out of the center of the road, then dived for cover behind the watering trough. A bullet plowed into the dirt just behind him, and another plunked into the trough, kicking up water and causing it to gurgle out. He saw several people running for cover, screaming and shouting in alarm, though they weren’t the target.
Crawling on his belly, Falcon reached the end of the trough, then looked up toward the hardware store where he had seen the gun smoke. Jacking a shell into the chamber he sighted down the barrel and waited. The shooter on the roof lifted his head above the false front, just far enough to take a look. He saw the muzzle flash of Falcon’s rifle, but before he could assimilate it, he was dead, with a bullet in his brain.
Falcon determined there were two more adversaries in the loft of the livery stable, and another one standing behind the corner of Murchison’s Gun and Ammunition shop. He turned his attention toward the livery loft, but couldn’t see anything through the opening because of the darkness inside. He knew the shooters had the advantage—they could see him quite clearly as he was outside in the sunlight.
Another bullet plunged into the watering trough, and the water began running out more swiftly. Falcon threw a shot toward the livery where he had seen the muzzle flash, not with any real expectation of hitting anything, but to drive them back. He turned his attention to the corner of the gun and ammunition shop where, earlier, he had seen another man firing at him. Falcon perused the alley opening next to the shop, but saw nothing. While his attention was directed toward the shooters on top of the hardware store and in the loft of the livery, the gunman behind the corner of Murchison’s had apparently gotten away.
Turning his head he saw Tom Murchison standing just inside the window of his store, waving fiercely. Succeeding in getting Falcon’s attention, he pointed toward a stack of salt blocks in front of McGill Feed and Seed.
Looking in that direction Falcon saw a shadow cast against the feed store wall. He watched the shadow move toward the edge of the stack of salt blocks, then cocking his rifle he aimed at the extreme corner of the stack of blocks, and pulled the trigger. The bullet cut through the corner, sending out a spray of salt before hitting the would-be shooter. The shooter fell heavily to the wood plank porch.
Falcon turned his attention to the two men in the loft of the livery. Getting up from his position behind the watering trough, he left his rifle on the ground and, with pistol in hand, ran toward the door of the stable. Two shots rang out—one so close Falcon felt the breeze of it as the bullet whizzed by. He darted through the wide, double door into the barn before another shot could be fired and moved under the loft so his adversaries above had no shot at him.
“Mueller! Do you see him?” someone called. “Where is he?”
“Collins, you damn fool! Don’t be a’ shoutin’ my name out like that.”
“I’m goin’ to get over here and see if I can see him,” Collins said.
Falcon heard the sound of footfalls on the loft above, and looking up, saw bits of straw fluttering down through the cracks between the boards. He followed the falling straw, then raising his pistol, fired three quick shots.
“Ahhh!” the man yelled, and Falcon saw him pitch over the edge of the loft, catching his foot in the rope and tackle used to lift bales of hay into the loft. The man fell, headfirst, ensnared by his ankle, both arms extended. Hanging down, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, he swung back and forth across the open front door.
Even as Falcon looked toward the swinging body, he heard the sound of a horse behind him. Running through the barn to the back door, he saw a rider leaning over the horse’s neck, slapping the reins from one side to the other as he urged the animal into a fast gallop. Falcon fired at him, and saw the rider slap his hand to the side of his head.
He raised his pistol to take another shot but, realizing that the rider was already out of range, he eased the hammer down, then lowered his weapon. He watched as the rider continued on, sitting strong in his saddle. He must not have hit him.
By the time Falcon left the barn the citizens of the town were spilling back into the street. Most were gathered around the two bodies, one lying in the dirt in front of the hardware store, the other on the porch in front of the feed store. Some were looking at the body hanging upside down from the hay-lift rope.
Falcon went to check on his horse and, though the horse was still alive, there was a lot of blood bubbling from his mouth. “Damn. I’m sorry,” he said as he pointed his pistol at the horse’s head and pulled back on the hammer. “I’m really sorry.”
The expression in the horse’s eyes was one of acceptance, as if he knew what Falcon was about to do, and welcomed it.
Falcon pulled the trigger, and the horse died instantly.
Falcon stood there for a moment longer, holding the pistol pointing straight down by his leg, feeling a profound sense of sadness over having had to end the life of the noble animal.
“I know it hurts, Falcon, but it had to be done,” a voice said, and turning, Falcon saw a man, wearing a badge, coming toward him.
“I know,” Falcon said.
“Are you all right?” Sheriff Ferrell asked, solicitously.
“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks, Billy,” Falcon replied, returning the pistol to his holster. He motioned toward the horse. “He was a good one.”
“It’s a shame when animals get caught up in the doin’s of man. They wind up sufferin’ through no fault of their own,” the sheriff said.
“Yeah. The others dead? The one by the hardware and the one by the feed store?”
“They are, and so is the one hanging from the livery. Tell me, Falcon, you got ’ny idea who these fellers are, or why they tried to ambush you?” Ferrell asked.
“I didn’t have any idea when the shooting started, but when I came into the barn, I heard a couple names. One was Collins, and the other was Mueller. I’m thinking it is probably Luke Mueller.”
“Yeah, that fits,” the sheriff said.
“Fits what?”
“It fits with what I’m thinkin’, because I know what it was about.”
“Do you now? How do you know?”
“You’re a wanted man, Falcon.”
“What? Impossible! There’s no paper out on me.”
“There is now,” the sheriff replied. “I took this off the feller lyin’ over there in front of the feed store,” the sheriff said, handing a circular to Falcon. “You’re wanted all right, but not by the law. Take a look at this.”
Sheriff Ferrell gave Falcon a poster. It was exactly like the reward dodgers the law put out for wanted men. In every way, shape, and form, this was a wanted poster.