Slaughter of Eagles. William W. Johnstone
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over to examine the right forefoot of each horse. He struck pay dirt on the third horse he checked. The paint had a tie-bar shoe, the same shoe he had been following for the last two days.
Falcon stepped up onto the porch and used the edge of the wide, weathered planks to scrape mud from his boots. He could hear the discordant pounding of an out of tune piano, and the loud guffaw of a man laughing, followed by the higher trill of a woman’s cackle.
Falcon slipped out of his poncho and hung it on a nail sticking out of the front wall. Taking his hat off, he poured water from the top of the crown, then put it back on his head. Finally, he eased his pistol from the holster and spun the cylinder to check the loads, satisfying himself he was ready for any contingency. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed through the swinging bat wing doors and stepped just far enough inside to be out of the rain blowing in.
The inside of the saloon was a golden bubble of light. A dozen lanterns hung from a couple wagon wheel chandeliers. A large cloud of drifting tobacco smoke spread throughout the room, dimming the light and creating an artificial fog sufficient to becloud the view. The features of people standing no more than a few feet away looked as if they were being viewed through a film of gauze cloth.
The wood burning stove put off enough heat to remove the chill from the damp, dreary day, and the room was redolent with the smell of burning wood, tobacco, stale beer, and wet clothing. It was noisy, with a dozen or more conversations, periodic outbreaks of laughter, and music—if the cacophonous result of a piano player banging away at the old, scarred, upright piano could be called music. The saloon was crowded. After a brief perusal, Falcon’s attention was drawn to a table in the far corner, where four men and two bar girls were laughing and engaged in loud, animated conversation.
“Honey, if you are going to put your hand there, you are going to have to pay for it,” one of the girls said with a loud squeal, her laughter joined by that of the others.
“Darlin’ I’ll be happy to pay for it,” the man replied. “Me’n my pards here done got us a lucky streak in a big poker game.” The speaker had only three fingers on his left hand.
“Yeah,” one of the other men said. “That’s what it was. It was a poker game.” He was wearing an eye patch over his right eye.
The others laughed, as if sharing some sort of inside joke.
“With all the money you boys are spendin’, that must have been quite a game,” the bar girl said.
“It was, darlin’, it was.”
Falcon moved a little closer so he could get a clearer look at the men.
He had been looking for five men, but there were only four. However, with one of them wearing an eye patch, another with only three fingers on his left hand, and a third noticeably shorter than the other three, he was convinced they were the men he had been following. The fourth man, as described, was unremarkable in any way. Those four men, as well the horses that were tied up outside, perfectly fit the descriptions of the men he had been following; the ones who had held up the bank in MacCallister.
Falcon had never seen the Mueller brothers, but he was well aware of them. Not since Frank and Jesse James had a pair of brothers become so notorious, and not even the James brothers had a reputation for killing to match the Muellers. Luke Mueller, particularly, was known to be a deadly gunfighter—deadly because he was both quick with a gun, and willing to use it. The one with the loud mouth was clearly the dominating figure among the four, in spite of being the smallest. Falcon was certain he was one of the Muellers—though which one he didn’t know. He had no idea where the other Mueller was.
“Tell you what, darlin’,” the little man said to one of the bar girls. “Why don’t me’n you go on up and join my brother and that big ol’ gal he is with?”
“What? In the same room?” the bar girl gasped. She shook her head. “No, sir, I couldn’t do anything like that.”
“Don’t get yourself all in a tither,” the little man said. “I didn’t mean join ’em in the same room. I just meant go upstairs like they did. We’ll find our own room.”
“Oh, well, that’s more like it,” the soiled dove replied. “I thought you’d never ask. I was beginnin’ to think you didn’t like me.”
“Oh, I like you, darlin’. I like you just fine. How ’bout gettin’ a bottle to take up with us?”
“All right.”
“Never mind the bottle, miss, he won’t be needing it,” Falcon called out. “None of them will.”
The four men sitting at the table looked at him in surprise, wondering who had the audacity to make such a confrontational declaration.
“Mister, what do you mean I’ll not be needin’ me a bottle of whiskey?” the little man asked.
“You won’t be needing it, because you will either be going back to MacCallister with me to stand trial for bank robbery and murder, or you’ll be dead.”
Falcon’s voice was loud and sharp, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. All conversation halted. The piano playing came to a ragged end, save for the last discordant note that hung in the air as everyone in the room turned to look at the man whose words had been so challenging.
The little man stared incredulously at Falcon for a moment, then he started laughing. The other three men who were sitting around the table with him laughed as well.
“You’re a funny man, mister. You’ve give me a good laugh. But tell me, what makes you think we held up a bank in MacCallister? Where is MacCallister, anyway? They ain’t none of us ever even been there.”
“Oh, you’ve been there all right,” Falcon said. “I know that, because I trailed the five of you from there to here.”
“You trailed us?” the little man asked in surprise. “Wait a minute. That was you?”
“It was me,” Falcon said.
“But I thought—”
“That you had got me with a rock slide. Yeah, that was close.”
“Who the hell are you, anyway? What’s your name?”
“The name is Falcon MacCallister.”
“Falcon MacCallister?” Terrell gasped. “You and your brother said takin’ that bank would be real easy. Jesus. Now we got Falcon MacCallister after us!”
“Shut up, Terrell, you damn fool! Don’t you realize you just confessed to murder in front of a dozen witnesses!” Mueller said.
“What the hell you talkin’ about? I didn’t kill nobody!” Terrell shouted. “Your crazy brother Luke is the one that done the killin’.”
“I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Mueller said angrily.
The bar girls standing near the table moved away quickly, while all the others in the saloon, sensing something was about to happen, moved back against the walls, opening up the center of the saloon. Falcon and the four men were at center stage in the unfolding drama.
Mueller smiled. Rather than softening his features, the smile twisted his face into a macabre, harlequin mask.
“You seem to have put yourself into a bit of a pickle here, Mr. MacCallister,” Mueller said. “There’s only one of you, and there’s four of us. ’Pears to me like you would’ve been a heap better off, just stayin’ out of this. I’m goin’ to enjoy this.”
“Take your guns out of your holsters and put them on the floor,” Falcon ordered.
Mueller shook his head, quietly. “Huh,” he said. “You want us to take our guns out of the holsters and put them on the floor, do you?” Mueller laughed. “Well now, MacCallister, I would call that bold talk for someone who’s not only outnumbered four to one, but who ain’t even holdin’ a pistol. I’ll tell you right now, the only way my gun