Slaughter of Eagles. William W. Johnstone
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hear what Arnie said? The sheriff and all his deputies are downstairs now.”
“Besides which, now ever’one knows you five robbed a bank and kilt a couple people over in MacCallister,” Cates added.
“What? How do they know that?”
“Your brother purt’ near confessed to it,” Cates said. “And what with the sheriff and all his deputies down there, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“He kilt my brother,” Luke said.
Patsy nodded. “That’s right, he did. Even if you manage to kill MacCallister, your brother will still be dead. What’s more than likely though, especially with the sheriff and his deputies there, is you’ll wind up gettin’ yourself kilt.”
Luke lowered his pistol and sat there for a moment, then he sighed. “You’re right,” he said. “I can wait a while. I do plan to kill the son of a bitch, I just won’t do it tonight.”
Luke had finished dressing and was reaching under the bed where he had put the money sack, when there was a loud knock on the door.
“Miss Patsy? It’s Sheriff Gibbons, Miss Patsy. Anyone in there with you?”
Without a word, Luke fired through the door. There was a grunt and moan from the other side, then the sound of a body falling.
Patsy screamed. “What have you done?”
Luke reached again under the bed for the sack, when he heard a loud crash against the door. Abandoning the sack, he moved across the room to the window, raised it, then crawled through it, onto the mansard roof. At that moment a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated him. He jumped, just as the sheriff’s deputies and Falcon burst into the room.
“Where is he?” one of the deputies shouted.
“He went out through the window!” Cates shouted.
The deputies looked outside, but there was only a small space between the hotel and the building next door, so they saw nothing.
Falcon turned and ran to the end of the hall, which had a window that looked onto the street. Even though he had a view of the road, he could see nothing in the dark and the rain.
Hurrying back to the room he saw the sheriff sitting up, holding his hand over a wound in his shoulder.
“Did you see the son of a bitch?” the sheriff asked, his voice strained with pain.
“No,” Falcon answered.
“He got away.”
“For now,” Falcon said.
Falcon went into the room where he saw an over-weight, naked woman, trying to hide something under the bed quilt.
“I’ll take that, miss,” Falcon said, holding his hand out.
“It’s nothing but laundry,” the woman said.
“Really?” Falcon took the sack from her, and opened it.
“I’ll be,” the whore said, feigning surprise. “There is money there. Who would have thought that?”
Falcon chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “Who would have thought it?”
Luke Mueller managed to make it to the far end of town without getting shot, but his horse was still tied up in front of the saloon. He stole a horse to make good his escape, and rode through the downpour, cursing Falcon MacCallister, and swearing revenge on him. Though in truth, he was more angry over the loss of the money than he was over the fact that his brother had been killed.
He began planning ways to kill MacCallister. He wouldn’t get his money back, but somehow, he would get revenge.
Downstairs in the Lucky Nugget Saloon, the bodies of the four men Falcon had shot were lying in a neat row alongside the wall, next to the piano. Manuel, the fourteen year old boy who worked at the saloon, had a bucket of water and a mop, and was cleaning up the blood from the floor.
Most of the regular customers of the saloon had already satisfied their curiosity, but Hodge Deckert, the barkeep, was doing a brisk business as people from the town kept coming in to get a look. Of the four bodies stretched out on the floor, Caldwell garnered the most attention. The eyes of the other three were shut, but Caldwell’s one eye was open and appeared to be glaring. It gave him a macabre look, juxtaposed as it was alongside the puff of flesh where his other eye should have been.
Patsy had come back downstairs and was sitting at a table with two other women. They were talking quietly among themselves.
Sheriff Gibbons was sitting in a chair by the stove, with his shirt off, while Dr. Urban treated the wound in his shoulder. Falcon stood close by, with his arms folded across his chest.
“Did you count the money?” Sheriff Gibbons asked.
“Yes. Except for twenty dollars, it is all here,” Falcon said.
“You probably ran them so hard they didn’t have a chance to spend any of it, and Hodge says twenty dollars is just about what they spent here. I imagine the bank back in MacCallister will be pretty pleased to get—damn! What are you doing, Doc? That burns!”
“I’ve poured alcohol on your wound,” Dr. Urban replied. “You don’t want it to mortify on you, do you?”
“No, I reckon not. But I didn’t plan on you settin’ me on fire, neither.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Dr. Urban growled as he began applying the bandage.
“You goin’ after Luke Mueller?” the sheriff asked Falcon.
Falcon shook his head. “Not right away. First thing I need to do is get this money back to the bank in MacCallister. Folks back there will be needing it.”
“You starting back tonight? In this weather?”
“No, I thought I would get a room tonight, start back first thing tomorrow.”
“You can spend the night in one of the jail cells if you’d like,” Sheriff Gibbons said. He chuckled. “Believe me, you’ll be as comfortable there as you would be in anything that passes for a hotel here.”
Luke Mueller found a rock shelf that enabled him to get out of the rain, but it was a cold, wet, miserable night and he spent every waking moment of it, thinking about Falcon MacCallister. He had never met MacCallister. But everything changed from the moment MacCallister came onto the scene. By rights, Luke thought, he should be waking up in a whore’s bed, having a breakfast he didn’t cook, and spend the day drinking and planning on how to spend his money. Money that he no longer had—money that Falcon MacCallister took from him.
Oh, how he hated that son of a bitch.
From the MacCallister Eagle:
JUSTICE DISPENSED:
Falcon MacCallister the Dispenser
Readers of this newspaper are well aware of the dastardly murder, last week, of Reverend Charles Powell, and his wife, Mrs. Claudia Powell. There are few men to whom the town of MacCallister owes more gratitude than it owes to Reverend Powell. He had been specially selected to offer the convocation to the Lord in the dedication of the statue of Colonel Jamie Ian MacCallister. The good reverend was one of Colonel MacCallister’s contemporaries in time, and his peer in service to his friends, neighbors, and indeed, the whole valley.
This newspaper is pleased to report nearly all the perpetrators of the appalling murders of this saintly man and his good and loving wife have been brought to justice.
Clete Mueller, Ollie Terrell, Bo Caldwell, and Clarence Poole, four of the five brigands who underhandedly murdered the Reverend and Mrs. Powell, have been sent to appear before their maker for final judgment. The instrument of their demise was Falcon MacCallister who was so moved by the most foul bank robbery and murder committed by the villains, he tracked them down and brought them to justice. Confronting