Destiny of Eagles (13 page)

“Yeah, well, that don't change the fact that they was caught and was almost hung when we tried to rob that bank. And for all that, we didn't get practically nothin' at all from the bank.”

“Well, let me ask you this. Did you know the clerk couldn't open the safe?”

“No,” Yerby answered.

“Then how the hell was I supposed to know?”

“Let's quit jawin' about the bank and think about the money we're goin' to take off this here dude,” Shaw suggested.

“Yeah, that's what I say,” Childers said. “There ain't no sense in cryin' over spilt milk.”

“Where do you want to hit him?” Shaw asked.

“Well, according to what them fellas back at the tradin' post was sayin', his ranch is right on the other side of that range that's just ahead of us. That means that whenever he goes to town, he's going to have to come right through that draw there,” Childers said. He pointed. “Look up there at them rocks about halfway up the wall. We'll be waitin' up there. Soon as he comes in, we'll open up on him.”

“When will he come?”

“Today's Saturday, ain't it?”

“Yes.”

“He comes into town ever' Saturday.”

* * *

“Whoa,” Roosevelt said to his horse.

The horse stopped, and Roosevelt took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a big red bandanna. He looked at the bandanna and chuckled.

“If the people back in New York could see me now,” he said. “Sweating like a dockhand, carrying this . . . this . . . tablecloth of a bandanna. I tell you, they would have a laugh.”

Roosevelt knew that talking to his horse was only slightly above talking to himself, but it was a habit he had developed recently. The long, lonely rides were necessary for him to work out the grief, but often he felt the need to express himself verbally, and the only way to do that was to talk to his horse.

“Besides, you are a good listener,” he said. “About the only one I've ever spoken to who wasn't just waiting patiently for his own time to talk.” This time he didn't chuckle, he laughed out loud.

Putting his hat back on his head, he leaned over to retrieve his canteen.

That was when he heard it . . . the angry whine, like the buzz of a bee . . . whizzing by overhead.

Almost simultaneous with the buzz came the cracking sound of a rifle being fired.

The horse bolted in fear, and even though Roosevelt was an accomplished horseman, he was in an awkward position when the horse bolted. Because of that, he was unseated.

Even that incident, which normally would have been embarrassing, saved his life, for two more shots rang out immediately following the first. And, like the first shot, they missed.

The echo of the shots reverberated through the canyon in such a way as to make it very clear what was happening. Roosevelt was being shot at, and he knew it.

Roosevelt wasn't wearing a pistol, but he had a rifle in his saddle sheath. Even as he realized that, though, he saw his horse moving away from him.

“Whoa, horse,” Roosevelt shouted.

The horse paused for a moment, and Roosevelt was nearly to him, would have made it, at least in time to recover his rifle, had there not been another shot. This one hit a rock, then ricocheted off with a loud, keening whine. Again, his horse bolted, running away as his hoofs clattered over the hard rocky surface.

For a moment, Roosevelt stood there, looking at the fleeing horse. Then, another rifle shot, so close by that he could practically feel the concussion of its passing, reminded him that he was unarmed and defenseless against whoever it was trying to shoot him. He had no choice but to run toward a nearby ridge, where he took cover just as a bullet ricocheted off the ground right by his feet.

* * *

Falcon heard the shots and, looking toward the sound, saw Roosevelt running toward the ridge as his horse galloped on up the draw. He also saw bullets kicking up around the rancher. Turning his gaze up the wall of the draw, he saw a little puff of smoke drifting away from a rock outcropping. Even as he was looking, two more rifles fired, almost simultaneously.

Falcon slapped his legs against the side of his horse, urging Diablo into a gallop. At the same time he snaked out his rifle, jacked a round into the chamber, and snapped off a shot.

Reaching the ridgeline where Roosevelt had taken cover, Falcon leaped from his horse, slapped it on the rump to get it out of danger, then fired again at the rocks halfway up the wall.

“Are you all right?” Falcon asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I wasn't able to offer you much help the other day, but looks like you could use it this time.”

“Yes, indeed,” Roosevelt said. “There is something to be said for persistence. If at first you don't succeed in offering help, try, try again. I'm glad you tried again.”

The shooting stopped and Falcon raised his head to look up toward the rocks. He saw three men moving quickly up a path toward the top of the cliff.

He had not yet seen the men he was trailing, so he couldn't identify them on sight, but he would have bet cash money these were the same three. He raised his rifle and aimed at one of them.

“Please don't shoot him,” Roosevelt said, reaching his hand up to pull the rifle down.

Sighing, Falcon lowered his rifle. “Why the hell not?” he asked. “I've been trailing these sons of bitches for a couple of weeks now, and they just tried to kill you.”

“Yes, but I'm in no danger now, thanks to you.”

“Mr. Roosevelt, you don't know what these men have done,” Falcon said.

“No, but if you shoot them now, I know what you would be doing. You would be acting as their judge, jury, and executioner. I don't think you really want to do that now, do you?”

Falcon eased the hammer back down. “All right,” he said. “You win.”

“Thank you.”

“Any idea why they were after you?”

“Oh, yes. I'm quite sure they wanted to rob me,” Roosevelt said.

“You carry enough money with you to tempt a robbery?”

“I have about one thousand dollars on me now,” Roosevelt said, taking out a roll of money to show Falcon.

“Put that away,” Falcon said sharply. “Damn, mister, don't you have any more sense than to go flashing around that much money? You're unarmed. How do you know I won't take it?”

“I may still be learning about the West,” Roosevelt answered, “but I am quite skilled in reading people. I know you won't take it.”

“Well, you're right. I won't. But some people can fool you, so you should be more careful.”

“Oh, indeed I will be more careful from now on, thank you,” Roosevelt said.

“Your horse ran away. If I can run mine down, I'll go see if I can find him for you,” Falcon said.

“Thank you, but that won't be necessary,” Roosevelt said. Sticking two fingers into his mouth, Roosevelt let out a loud, ear-piercing whistle.

“What the hell? How did you do that?” Falcon asked.

“Believe me, it is a necessary skill when summoning a hack in New York.”

Within moments, Roosevelt's horse came clattering back down the draw.

“If you will wait here,” Roosevelt suggested, “I'll recover your horse for you.”

“Thank you,” Falcon said.

Roosevelt chuckled. “Under the circumstances, it is the least I can do.”

* * *

“A piece of cake, you said. Some Eastern dude that carries a lot of money. All we have to do is shoot him, then take the money, you said. Well, we listen to you and that MacCallister person shows up and we damn near got ourselves killed,” Yerby complained.

“Dalton, you'd bitch if you was hung with a new rope,” Childers said.

Percy Shaw laughed out loud.

“What are you laughing at?” Yerby asked.

“You'd bitch if you was hung with a new rope,” Percy said. “That's funny.”

“There ain't nothin' funny 'bout gettin' hung, new rope or no,” Yerby said. “In case you don't remember, Corey and Ethan was near 'bout hung. And if we'd'a been caught, why, we would'a all hung, 'cause there wouldn't of been anyone to get us out the way we done for Ethan and Corey.”

“Why do you reckon that MacCallister fella is after us?” Shaw asked. “Is he a lawman?”

“He ain't no lawman, that's for sure,” Yerby said. “Fact is, I've heard they's paper out on him. Whoever kills him would get a reward.”

“You don't say. How much of a reward?” Shaw asked.

“Believe me, whatever it is it ain't enough,” Childers said.

“Yeah, well, I don't know much about him, but I'll say this. That son of a bitch can shoot,” Yerby said. “From the gallop, he purt' near put a bullet through my head. And if you want to know the truth, I've had about a bellyful of him.”

“So, what are we goin' to do now?” Shaw asked.

“What do you mean, what are we goin' to do now?” Childers asked.

“About money,” Shaw replied. “We 'bout out of the money we got from sellin' them horses, and now we're so broke that if piss pots was a dime a dozen, all we could do is shout ain't that cheap.”

“I'll come up with somethin',” Childers promised.

“Yeah? What?” Yerby asked.

“I don't know, I have to think about it for a while.”

“Now there's something to look forward to,” Yerby said sarcastically. “You a'thinkin'. So far, there ain't nothin' you've come up with that's worth a plugged nickel.”

* * *

On board the Northwest Flyer, Anna Heckemeyer was writing in her journal.

“Welcome home, Miss Heckemeyer,” the conductor said, stopping at her commodious and comfortable seat in the Wagner Parlor Car.

Anna smiled up at him. “Well, hello, John, when did you get on the train?”

“At Bismarck,” John said. “I've missed seeing you. How long has it been now?”

“Four years,” Anna replied. “Though I did get home two years ago.”

“You were back East somewhere, weren't you?”

“Yes, I went to school in New York.”

“And how was it?”

“It was wonderful, and I'm sure that it was all worthwhile. But I must confess that I am very happy to be back.”

“What seating do you want for lunch?”

“I'm in no hurry,” Anna replied. “I'll take the third seating.”

“Very well, I'll take care of it,” John said.

Anna watched the conductor move through the car to get the seating preferences from the other passengers. John Norton had been a conductor on the Northern Pacific for as long as Anna could remember. He had been there to provide help to Anna and her father when they traveled to Bismarck for shopping expeditions, and he had been there four years ago when Anna took the train east to finish her education in New York.

“If we want to continue to elect Republicans, we are going to have get some more of the Western territories in as states,” Judge Heckemeyer was saying. “It is the only way to counterbalance the Democratic South.”

“That's all well and good, Andrew, but we, as a party, can't afford to just turn our back on the other states. Take my own state of New York, for example. It went Democratic for the most recent election, but I know we can get it back into our column. Though I'm not sure we have put forth the best candidate in James G. Blaine.”

Roosevelt enjoyed his visits with Andrew Heckemeyer because the judge was well versed in politics and their discussions kept Roosevelt sharp.

“What about your own future, Teddy?” Heckemeyer asked. “Have you plans?”

“I don't know,” Roosevelt replied. “At one time I was entertaining various plans, mayor of New York, governor, the U.S Congress or Senate maybe. But I may have burned a few bridges with my steadfast support of John Edmonds at the convention in Chicago. I was completely shut out of Blaine's campaign.”

“Maybe that is not such a bad thing,” Heckemeyer suggested.

“How so?”

“Well, if Blaine is as corrupt as you say he is, then some of that corruption may rub off on some of his supporters and advisors. If you are out of the picture, you will be clean.”

Roosevelt nodded. “You may have a point,” he said. “At any rate, since my Alice died, it all seems inconsequential. I've rather lost interest in politics, and politics has lost interest in me.”

“Nonsense,” Heckemeyer said. “You are a good man, Teddy. And the nation can always use a good man.”

“Speaking of a good man,” Roosevelt said, “I have recently had two encounters with someone who is my idea of the true Western hero.”

Heckemeyer chuckled, as he relit his cigar. “You don't say. Well, who is this man who has so captured your imagination?”

“His name is MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister,” Heckemeyer said.

The smile left Heckemeyer's face and he bit down hard on the cigar. “Falcon MacCallister, you say?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

Meckemeyer nodded. “I know him,” he said.

Roosevelt studied the expression on Judge Heckemeyer's face.

“From the way you are reacting to his name, I take it that you don't agree with my assessment of the gentleman.”

“Believe me, he is no gentleman,” Judge Heckemeyer replied. “And you are right, I don't agree with your assessment.”

“Is there something about him I should know?” Roosevelt asked.

“For one thing, he is too quick to use the gun. Let me give you two recent examples.

“He was a passenger on a train when the train was stopped and boarded by train robbers. Instead of remaining quiet like the other passengers, MacCallister engaged them in a gun battle, killing three of them. And despite all that, one of the robbers managed to get away with the money.”

“You fault him for trying?”

“Yes, I fault him for trying,” Heckemeyer said. “The gun battle took place inside the train, in the midst of all the passengers.”

“Heavens, did he wound or kill any of the passengers?”

“In fact, one passenger was killed, though the statements of the other passengers said that he was killed by the robbers before the gun battle ensued.”

“Then isn't it possible that Mr. MacCallister prevented more passengers from being killed?”

“It is possible,” Heckemeyer admitted. “Though it is just sheer luck that more weren't killed in the shoot-out.”

“You said you had two incidents,” Roosevelt said.

“Yes, I do. I told you about the case that I tried in Belfield. The bank robbery and murder?”

“Yes.”

“Falcon MacCallister happened to be in town when the bank was robbed, and he turned the town into a shooting gallery by shooting at the robbers as they were fleeing. He is reckless and irresponsible.”

“Did he hit any of the bank robbers?” Roosevelt wanted to know.

Reluctantly, Heckemeyer nodded. “Yes, he shot two of them from their saddles, and when another dismounted to see to them, MacCallister subdued him as well.”

“So, for resisting a bank robbery attempt, and for stopping three of them, you say he is reckless and irresponsible?”

“I do indeed.”

“But wasn't he just doing his civic duty?” Roosevelt asked.

“Two men were killed as a result of that shoot-out. Sheriff Billy Puckett and an innocent bystander. As it turns out, it wasn't MacCallister's bullets that killed either of them, but I'm convinced that had he not opened fire like that, those two men would still be alive.”

“I suppose there is that possibility,” Roosevelt admitted. “But it would seem to me that you are stretching the possibility to reach the conclusion.”

“The man is a killer,” Judge Heckemeyer said.

“If by defending himself he has killed, then I could believe that. But if you are calling him a killer by nature, I do not believe that. I'm sorry, but I cannot believe ill of someone who saved my life,” Roosevelt insisted.

“You say MacCallister saved your life? How did he do that?” Judge Heckemeyer asked.

“Yesterday, while I was riding into town, I was set upon by a band of outlaws. Their first shot startled my horse, he bolted, and I was unseated. I suddenly found myself dismounted without a weapon of any sort, and being shot at by three armed and desperate men.”

“That's a hell of a situation to be in. What did you do?” Heckemeyer asked.

“I ran to a nearby ridge to seek cover, but I knew that wouldn't help because, once they discovered I was unarmed, there would be nothing to prevent them from just coming toward me as bold as you please, killing me, and relieving me of my money.”

“Teddy, I've told you before, and I will tell you again. You shouldn't make it a practice to go about with so much money. This is a far cry from the civilized streets of New York,” Heckemeyer said, scolding gently.

“I know. I really should be more careful. But I guess the Man Upstairs was looking out for me that day, because He sent someone to my rescue.”

“That someone, I take it, was Falcon MacCallister?”

“Yes,” Roosevelt said. “He appeared from out of the blue and, with a few well-aimed shots, soon sent my attackers on the way.”

“He appeared from out of the blue, you say.”

“Yes. Just when things were most desperate, there he was.”

“Did he kill any of them?”

“No, he just shot at them and, evidently, came close enough to convince them that killing and robbing me wasn't going to be as easy as they thought. Why did you ask that?”

“From time to time I have warrants transmitted to me, authorizing the immediate arrest and incarceration of Falcon MacCallister for aggravated manslaughter,” Judge Heckemeyer said. “Invariably, those warrants are withdrawn within a few weeks after they are issued.”

“Why are they withdrawn?”

“According to the documents that request the withdrawal, it is because new information has come to light suggesting that the manslaughter incidents have all been justifiable homicides.”

“If the homicides are justifiable, why are you so down on him?”

“Because I don't believe anybody can find themselves enmeshed in that many justifiable homicides, unless he is actively seeking the opportunity to, as you describe, ‘suddenly appear out of the blue.' His bold and restless activity in Belfield bears me out on that. However, having said that, I must confess that I am glad that he was there to save your life.”

“Even so, that hasn't changed your opinion of him, has it?” Roosevelt asked.

“I'm afraid not,” Judge Heckemeyer replied. “But you do have the advantage over me in that you have seen him in one of these life-and-death situations, so you are better able to judge his actions than I am.”

Roosevelt thought back to the incident in question. Falcon MacCallister had raised his rifle and aimed at one of his assailants, even as they were withdrawing. Had it not been for Roosevelt's interference, at least one of the outlaws would have been dead at Falcon's hand.

And though the death would have no doubt been ruled justifiable homicide, it was not actually needed to save his life.

“What is it?” Heckemeyer asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were thinking about something just now.”

“It was nothing.”

“No, I think it was something. What happened when MacCallister intervened on your behalf?”

“Nothing happened, other than the fact that Mr. MacCallister drove away the outlaws.”

Roosevelt thought of, but did not voice, the fact that he had pulled Falcon's arm down to prevent him from shooting one of the outlaws as they were leaving.

Heckemeyer chuckled. “Teddy, you are the consummate politician. Something did happen, you just don't want to tell me.”

“And you are the consummate jurist,” Roosevelt replied. “Always looking for more than you are told.”

At that moment, Judge Heckemeyer's law clerk stuck his head into the room. “Excuse me, Judge?”

“Yes?”

“We just received a telegram from the sheriff at Sentinel Butte. They're ready to hold the trial.”

“I thought the defense counsel asked for another week,” Judge Heckemeyer said.

“Yes, but he withdrew the request and is now asking that the trial be conducted immediately,” the law clerk said.

“Well, you just telegraph them back and tell them,” Judge Heckemeyer started to say . . . then, stroking his chin, he stared at Teddy Roosevelt for a moment.

The judge's daughter was supposed to arrive on the afternoon train. If he left this morning for Sentinel Butte, he wouldn't be here to meet her train. He had the authority to postpone the trial until the originally agreed-upon date, and that was what he'd started to do.

On the other hand, what better and more natural opportunity was there for him to arrange a meeting between Roosevelt and his daughter than this?

He smiled.

“Yes, Judge?” the clerk asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You asked me to telegraph them at Sentinel Butte and tell them . . . what?”

“Oh,” Judge Heckemeyer replied. “Why, tell them I'll be there, of course.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Teddy, I wonder if you could do a favor for me?” Judge Heckemeyer asked.

“Yes, I'd be glad to. Anything you ask,” Roosevelt replied.

“You know about my daughter, Anna, who has been away in school?”

“Yes, you showed me her picture. She is a lovely young woman.”

“Thank you, I think so as well, though I admit that it may be a father's prejudice. At any rate, she is arriving on the three o'clock train this afternoon. Would you be so kind as to meet her and make certain that she and her luggage reach the house safely?”

“Yes, I would be delighted to do that for you,” Roosevelt said. “But suppose I don't recognize her?”

“You will,” Judge Heckemeyer replied. “I may be a doting father, but I can tell you without hesitation to simply look for the most beautiful woman to leave the train.”

* * *

The arrival of a train in Medora was always an event. Trains brought mail and newspapers from the East, fresh produce from the South, and people from all over, and in so doing, connected the small town with the rest of the world. As a result, there were generally many more people gathered on the depot platform than there were people who had a legitimate reason for meeting the train.

As Teddy Roosevelt sat in the backseat of the carriage, waiting for the train to arrive, he stuck his hand down into a small paper bag and pulled out a piece of horehound candy. Popping a piece into his mouth, he handed the bag forward, offering some to his driver.

“Candy, Willie?” he asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Roosevelt, I don't mind if I do,” the liveried and dignified-looking black man replied. He stuck his own hand down into the bag.

“Willie, have you ever heard of a man by the name of Falcon MacCallister?”

“Why, yes, sir. I reckon just about ever'one's heard of the MacCallisters.”

“The MacCallisters? You mean there is more than one?”

“They's lots of them, I don't know exactly how many. I do know they one of the families that opened up the West.”

“And Falcon MacCallister is one of that bunch?”

“Yes, sir. Fact is, except for maybe his pa, he's the most ripsnortin' of 'em all.”

“What do you think of him?”

“I think maybe he wouldn't be a man I'd want as an enemy,” Willie said.

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, sir, that is a fact,” Willie said. “On the other hand, anyone that can call him a friend is a lucky man.”

“I have only met him twice, but I think I could call him a friend,” Roosevelt said.

“That makes you a lucky man, Mr. Roosevelt,” Willie said. “Yes, sir, it do make you a lucky man. But if you don't mind my sayin' so, that cuts both ways,” Willie said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. MacCallister can call hisself a lucky man too, for havin' you as a friend,” Willie said. “Anybody who can call you a friend is a lucky man.”

“Why, thank you, Willie,” Roosevelt said. “Thank you very much. And I hope that you include yourself in that number, for I consider you to be a friend.”

“Yes, sir, I'm proud to say that I do,” Willie said.