Slaughter of Eagles. William W. Johnstone
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anyone who kills
FALCON MACCALLISTER
$1,000.00 will be paid,
when Proof of Death is furnished to
Luke Mueller.
“You know this here Mueller feller, do you?” Sheriff Ferrell asked.
“Sort of,” Falcon answered.
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“I killed his brother a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, yes, I read about it in the paper. The Muellers held up a bank and murdered a couple folks over in MacCallister, if memory serves.”
“Memory serves you right,” Falcon replied. “I reckon what Luke Mueller is trying to do now, is get even with me.”
“Do you think one of these men was Luke Mueller?”
“That was the name I heard called out,” Falcon said. “But he isn’t one of the ones I killed.”
“He got away, did he?”
“Yes.”
“That feller seems to make habit of that, doesn’t he?” Ferrell asked. “Getting away, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Falcon said. “But it won’t be forever. It would appear that I’ve got a trap set for him now and sooner or later, he’s going to step into it.”
“You have a trap set?”
Falcon laughed, a low, mordant chuckle. “Yeah,” he said. He held up the reward poster the sheriff had given him. “I just realized this is the trap set for him. He set it himself, and I am the bait.”
Sheriff Ferrell chuckled. “I reckon I see what you mean,” he said. “You ever run a trap line, Falcon?”
“Oh, yes, I have.”
“Well, if you have, you’ll notice somethin’, I’m sure.”
“What’s that?”
“Even though you trap your prey, the bait purt’ near always gets took. So do me a favor and be careful, will you?”
“I’m always careful,” Falcon said.
It hurt to touch his ear, but Luke Mueller wanted to know how badly he had been hit. From what he could determine, his earlobe had been shot off, leaving a bloody piece of mangled flesh. It could have been a lot worse. One more inch to the left, and the bullet would have plowed into the back of his head.
He stopped by a stream, then jumped down from the horse to check out his ear in the reflection of the water. The current was running too swiftly to provide an image, but allowed him to clean his ear. And the cold water eased the pain a little.
Chapter Six
Superstition Mountain
Had someone been on top of Superstition Mountain looking down on the reddish brown canyon floor, they would have seen one man, walking slowly and with a slight limp, leading a mule. The man was walking with a definite purpose, for earlier he had picked out the exact spot where he intended to make camp for the night.
Although he had not been keeping an exact count, it would be the three hundred and fifteenth consecutive night spent in the desert. The old prospector’s name was Ben Hanlon. Not knowing the exact date or year he wasn’t sure how old he was—in his late fifties or early sixties he believed. He could pretty much estimate the month by the position of the sun, and he was fairly certain he could come within a year or two of the correct year, though he wouldn’t bet on it.
He made his camp at the foot of Weaver’s Needle—a tall rock obelisk so precisely formed it looked almost as if it had been made by the hand of man. Weaver’s Needle guarded Superstition Mountain and as Hanlon settled in for the evening, he looked up at the mountain. “Well, Mr. Mountain, you have beaten a lot of men,” he said. “And you may beat me as well, but I plan to give you one hell of a battle before I cross over that canyon.”
He was tired from a full day of digging into crevices and breaking open rocks. It was all part of his ceaseless quest for the gold treasure of Superstition Mountain, known by everyone as the Peralta Vein.
A kangaroo rat scampered out from under a mesquite tree, then waited quietly for a long moment to get its bearings. Ben saw the rat, but the rat did not see Ben. Very slowly, Ben reached for his short handle pickax. With one quick, practiced move, he brought the pick down on the rat’s head, killing it instantly.
“Well, little feller, you dropped in just in time,” Ben said to the rat’s carcass. He pulled his knife from its scabbard, and started to work. “I was beginning to wonder what I was going to have for supper.”
Working quickly, and expertly, Ben skinned, cleaned, and spitted the rat. He cooked it over an open fire, watching it brown as his stomach growled with hunger. The rat was barely cooked before he took it off the skewer and began to eat it ravenously, not waiting for it to cool. When all the meat was gone he broke open the bones and sucked out the marrow.
After his meal, he allowed himself a smoke, filling his pipe three fourths with dried sweetgrass and one fourth with tobacco, in order to conserve his tobacco. Finally, with his hunger satisfied, he stretched out on the ground, more hospitable in the cool of evening. Listening to the quiet, almost melodious hoots of a great horned owl, he drifted off to sleep.
Somewhere in Kansas
Janelle had read about it, of course, but she had no idea how large America was until she started her journey two days ago. All day long, except for the occasional stops at places so tiny she wondered how they could call themselves towns, there had been nothing to see through the windows but open space.
Earlier she had asked the conductor if he could supply a board so she could write a letter and he had obliged her with one. As it grew too dark for her to see anything outside, she used the light of the wall mounted kerosene lantern to write a letter.
My Dearest Sister Sue,
My heart is heavy with sadness over being separated from my baby, but I know that what I am doing now is the right thing. With every mile of distance I place between myself and New York, I am removing myself from the scandal and shame I brought on myself. Not until I am well clear of that scandal and shame, will I be able to recover some sense of dignity and self-worth.
I will try and describe for you some of the sights I have seen on this trip. First, I had no idea of the size of this country. From New York we can easily travel to Boston, or Philadelphia, or Baltimore within a day and, for the entire trip be well aware of the civilization which surrounds us. And, though the distance was long, such was the caseas far as St. Louis, which likes to call itself the Gateway to the West. It is modern and civilized in every way. As we crossed the Mississippi River, I counted almost forty great riverboats tied up on the banks of the river. The city itself is filled with big buildings and teeming with masses of people. Except for the rather peculiar, flat sounding accents, one could almost believe they were in New York.
But the farther west I go, the less of civilization I see. For this entire day, we could have been at sea, so flat and featureless is the land. Often the horizon is so far away, and so clearly delineated, that one gets the impression of seeing all the way to the outer edge of Earth itself. I find it all exciting and rather strangely magnificent, and were my heart not heavy with sorrow over the conditions which have placed me here, I rather think I might enjoy it.
Please take care of my baby, and tell Mother and Father that I love them dearly. I do this so as to bring them no more sorrow. And, Sue, my dearest, dearest darling sister, know that my love for you exceeds all bounds.
Your sister,
Janelle
Finishing the letter, Janelle put it in an envelope, sealed it, and affixed to it a gray blue Franklin, one-cent postage stamp. When the conductor walked by a short while later,