Destiny of Eagles (2 page)

“And the pride!”
Andrew finished.

As they finished their lines, both faced the audience, and Rosanna curtsied as Andrew gave a sweeping bow. The curtain fell to a thunderous applause.

“Oh,” Anna Heckemeyer said, clasping her hands over her heart. “Oh, that was the most wonderful thing I ever saw.” She turned to Falcon. “Thank you, sir, for you generous hospitality.”

“You are welcome,” Falcon replied.

Falcon enjoyed being able to share his box with the young women, and afterward he enjoyed introducing them to his famous brother and sister.

Both Andrew and Rosanna were used to the accolades of adoring fans, and they were warm and cordial to the three young women, entertaining them with humorous stories. Falcon, who was inexperienced with the fawning expressions of fans, sat quietly in the corner of the reception room until the theater managers told the girls they must leave.

“Wait just a few minutes until we are out of makeup and costume, Falcon,” Andrew said to Falcon. “Then we will take you out to dine at Delmonico's. I assure you, there is nothing back home that can compare with this.”

Delmonico's was a fine restaurant and Falcon ate well. But it didn't take long for him to realize that New York just didn't agree with him, and though Andrew and Rosanna begged him to stay longer, he left after another week, promising to return someday soon. Even as he was giving the promise, though, he doubted that he would ever keep it, and he knew that his brother and sister didn't expect him to keep it either.

Returning to Colorado, Falcon tried to settle down, but the restless discontent that had driven him for many years did not go away.

Then one day, out of the blue, Falcon got a letter from a man he hadn't seen or heard from in a long time.

Falcon decided to throw the letter away without even answering it, so he wadded it up and started to toss it into a wastebasket.

Then he hesitated, stared at the wadded paper for a moment, and finally smoothed it out to reread it.

He did remember Billy Puckett, remembered him as sort of a short, stocky man who laughed a lot. He remembered him as being a physically strong man too, though he didn't know if he really was that strong, or it just seemed so from the perspective of a twelve-year-old.

Falcon hoped that he had made a good life for himself, and he wondered if Puckett had ever heard about what happened to Falcon's father . . . how he had been murdered by an assailant who mistook Jamie MacCallister for his son Falcon.

What did he mean when he said he had something he needed to get off his chest? Whatever it was, was it something Falcon even wanted to know about?

Damn.

He needed to know now, just to satisfy his curiosity.

Falcon had become somewhat of a recluse over the last three years, protected by his small circle of friends from inquiring reporters who wanted to write his story for the big newspapers back East. It was only natural then that rumors would start. One story had it that he had been killed in Abiline, shot in the back as he played a hand of poker. Another insisted that he had been hanged out in Tucson. The wildest and most improbable rumor suggested that he'd joined the crew of a windjammer and was sailing the seven seas. Falcon got quite a laugh from that one.

One thing those rumors did do, though, was help him maintain his privacy over the last three years. And in order to preserve that privacy, he'd been about to discard this letter until he started having second thoughts about it. Finally, he decided that three years was long enough to wallow in self-pity. It was time to step back into the world, and how better to do so than to answer an invitation from an old friend?

Falcon went down to the telegraph office and sent a wire back to Belfield.

 

The Convention Hall in Chicago was crowded with people, filled with cigar, cigarette, and pipe smoke, and festooned with American flags and red, white, and blue bunting. In addition to the hall decorations, each delegation was identified by a placard that identified its particular state, while large posters, photographs, and banners were thrust up on poles over the various delegations. Most prominent were the names of those men who had put themselves forward as candidates for the nomination of their party for President of the United States.

In addition to the primary delegates who were seated in chairs on the floor, alternate delegates crowded the balcony that encircled the auditorium.

A man wearing the hat of a Western Union messenger was walking the floor, calling aloud for “Mr. Powers, of the Third District of Michigan! Telegram for Mr. Powers, of the Third District of Michigan!”

Many others were roaming the floor too, most of them working the delegates for their particular candidates. Amos Crockett from Maine was one such delegate, campaigning for fellow Mainer James G. Blaine. He, and Joe Murray, who wasn't a delegate but was present at the convention, and also campaigning for Blaine, had called Roosevelt to one side. Roosevelt was a delegate from New York.

“Teddy, I'm going to ask you again to switch your support from Senator Edmonds to James G. Blaine,” Murray said.

“I can't do that, Joe,” Roosevelt said. “I believe Mr. Blaine to be a corrupt man.”

“I'll have you know, sir, that Mr. Blaine is from Maine,” Crockett said. “You call him corrupt?”

“I call him corrupt because he is corrupt,” Roosevelt said. “Everyone knows how he manipulated those railroad stocks to enrich himself at the expense of the smaller stockholders. I know that, you know that”—he pointed to the crowded floor of the assembly hall behind them—“everyone on this floor knows that. And yet the sad truth is many, if not most, of the delegates to this convention will vote for him for reasons that have nothing to do with what is best for the country.”

“You are stating opinion, Mr. Roosevelt. Not fact,” Crockett said.

“I'm sorry,” Roosevelt replied. “I'm supporting Senator John Edmonds.”

“I am curious. Why Edmonds over President Arthur?” Crockett asked.

“President Arthur did a good thing when he did away with the spoils system by establishing a civil service, but that's as far as he went. There is more to be done, and John Edmonds is a reformer who will do it,” Roosevelt said.

“John Edmonds is a radical who will lose the support of half the people in the nation who call themselves Republicans,” Crockett said.

“Do you really think Blaine can win the election?” Roosevelt asked.

“He'll win the nomination tomorrow,” Murray replied.

“I didn't ask that, Joe. I asked if you thought he would be elected President of the United States.”

“Of course he will,” Crockett replied.

“I'm asking you, Joe.”

Murray got a pained expression on his face, then turned to Crockett. “Mr. Crockett, would you excuse us for a moment while I talk to my friend?”

“I hope you talk some sense into him,” Crockett said. Then, as he left, he shouted out to those nearby, “Blaine, boys! Don't forget to vote for James G. Blaine!”

“Mr. President! Mr. President! Virginia requests the floor!” someone was shouting close to where Roosevelt and Murray were standing. Above the shout of the delegate from Virginia could be heard the almost incessant pounding of the gavel.

Three delegates walked by, laughing and talking loudly, obviously drunk.

“It pains me to think that the future of our nation might be in the hands of people like that,” Roosevelt said, nodding toward the inebriated delegates.

“You aren't going to switch your vote, are you?” Murray asked.

Roosevelt shook his head. “No.”

“Then let me ask you this. If Blaine wins the nomination tomorrow, will you support him in the general election?”

“As God is my witness, the Democrat, Grover Cleveland, is a better man,” Roosevelt said.

“Surely you won't bolt the party and vote for a Democrat?” Murray asked with some alarm.

“No, I won't do that,” Roosevelt said. “I will support Blaine in the general election.”

“Then I can tell Crockett and the others that you will support Blaine once he gets the nomination?”

“Yes.”

“I hope that will be enough.”

“Enough?”

“To save your political career,” Murray said. “Teddy, you are a practical politician, for heaven's sake. Since you know Blaine is going to get the nomination, and since you have already said that you will support him in the general election, won't you please reconsider and switch your vote tomorrow?”

“No, I can't do that.”

“You realize, don't you, that if you don't switch your vote tomorrow, you will have absolutely no place in Blaine's campaign this year?”

“I know,” Roosevelt said. “But that doesn't matter. I have other plans.”

“Other plans?”

“I'm going West.”

“What do you mean, you are going West?”

“I'm going to the Badlands.”

“You are going to bad lands? Why on earth would anyone go to land that is bad?”

Roosevelt chuckled. “The Badlands,” he said. “Not land that is bad. I'm going to my ranch in the Dakota Territory.”

“Wait a minute? That's . . . that's a long way from New York, isn't it?”

“Yes, a very long way.”

“What are you going to do out there?”

“Why, I'm going to ranch, of course,” Roosevelt replied.

Murray shook his head. “Teddy, don't do this. If you do, you are saying good-bye to all hopes of any future in politics.”

Roosevelt sighed, then put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Can't you tell, Joe, that I am just paying lip service to these entire proceedings? Oh, I'm making my own little statement as to integrity by honoring the pledge that I made to Edmonds to stay with him until the last ballot. But I am here in shadow only. I can't really explain it. My heart and soul are still back in New York with the lingering ghosts of my wife and my mother.”

“How will your going to the Badlands help that?” Murray asked.

“I hope to become so immersed in my new life out there that the memories of my dear Alice will stop being painful and become beautiful. And I believe that hard work and fresh air are just the ticket I need to accomplish that.”

“You're serious about this, aren't you? You really are going West.”

“Yes, I'm serious,” Roosevelt said.

A loud cheer erupted on the floor as the Virginia delegation pledged all of its votes to James G. Blaine.

“All right,” Murray said. “When are you going?”

“Right away. As soon as this convention is over.”

Murray extended his hand. “I wish you the best of luck on your journey,” he said. “And if you need anything, if there is anything I can do for you, write to me. In fact, write to me anyway, just so we can keep in touch.”

“I will,” Roosevelt promised as he shook Murray's hand warmly.

Three men were mounted; a fourth was dismounted, holding the reins of his horse as he relieved himself against the piling of the trestle. It was dark, but the moon was full and bright, and the twin ribbons of iron gleamed softly as they stretched east and west along this part of the Dakota Territory.

“Damn, Thad, how long you plannin' on peein'?” Rufus Wade asked. “Seems to me like you been peein' now for the better part of half an hour.”

Buddy Taylor and Curly Latham laughed.

“I ain't done no such a thing,” Thad Howard answered. Finished, he buttoned his pants and remounted his horse.

“Hey, Rufus, you ever seen them hydraulic mining operations?” Buddy asked. “You know, the way they use steam power to build up the water pressure, then squirt these big pipes of water against the mountain?”

“Yeah, I've seen 'em,” Rufus answered. “What about 'em?”

“You think we could get any money by rentin' ole Thad here out for such an operation?”

Rufus and Curly laughed.

“Well, boys, I'm glad my pecker's providin' you with all this entertainment,” Thad said. “But damn if it don't make me worry a mite about what kind of fellas I've done hooked myself up with.”

They heard something in the distance, a high, keening, lonesome sound.

“Is that the train?” Curly asked

They heard the sound again.

“Coyote,” Rufus said.

They heard the sound again, and this time there was no mistaking it. It was a train whistle.

“No, by damn, that's the train,” Curly said.

“Curly's right,” Thad said. “We'd best get ready.”

“Buddy, you got ever'thing you need?” Curly asked.

“I've got torpedoes on the track,” Buddy said. “And I've got this here red lantern.”

“How do you know that'll stop him?”

“I was a fireman for a while, remember? I give it up because the work was too damn hard. Believe me, this'll stop him. When the wheels hits them torpedoes and the engineer sees the red lantern, he'll figure the bridge across Heart River is out. Torpedoes and a red lantern will stop any engineer who doesn't want to run his train into the river.”

They heard the whistle again, and this time, as they looked off in the distance, they could see the faint glow of the gas headlamp.

“I wonder how much money she's carryin',” Buddy said.

“My brothers said it would be carryin' a couple thousand dollars, or maybe more,” Thad said. “They'll meet us in Sheffield.”

“To get their cut,” Rufus said. There was an edge of sullenness in his voice.

“You got a problem with that?” Thad asked.

“I ain't got no problem,” Rufus said. “Only thing is . . . we're takin' all the risk, and they're gettin' the same cut as we are.”

“They're the ones that found out about the money shipment, and they're the ones who planned it,” Thad said. “If you don't like the way it's set up, why, you can just ride off now.”

“I ain't pullin' out now. I was just sayin', that's all,” Rufus said.

“Don't say,” Thad replied. “Just do your job.”

The train whistled again and now, for the first time, they could also hear the puffing sound of escaping steam from the engine.

* * *

If anyone had been out on the plains alongside the track witnessing the passing of the Midnight Special, they would have been treated to a sight to stir the soul. Thousands of tiny, glowing, red sparks lifted from the stack and drifted up to join the stars. Smoke, blacker than the night, streamed back along the top of the train.

A great, gleaming gas lantern threw a beam ahead of the train, while a flickering orange glow bathed the interior of the engine cab.

Clyde Baker was the fireman, and having just thrown in several loads of coal, he closed the door to the firebox and sat down to catch some of the breeze generated by the forward progress of the train.

“What's the pressure like, Cephus?” he asked.

The engineer checked the gauge. “One hundred sixty PSI,” he said. “You've got a good fire going, Clyde. We're running high, wide, and handsome.” Cephus held a tin cup under the water keg and drew a cup of water, then handed it to his sweating and panting fireman. “Here, have a beer. You earned it,” he said.

“Thanks,” Clyde said, taking the proffered cup. He drank the tepid water, then smiled. “Best beer I ever had,” he teased.

Cephus pulled the cord to blow the whistle, playing with it to alter the pitch.

Clyde laughed. “Ain't nobody can make music with a whistle like you can.”

“Yeah, well, I always did want to play me one of them calliopes,” Cephus said.

“A what?”

“A calliope. It's a big thing, sort of like an organ, only it has steam whistles. They have 'em on riverboats sometimes.”

“I'll be damned. I never heard of such a thing.” Clyde smiled. “I expect it's somewhat louder than an organ.”

Cephus laughed. “Well, I don't think you'd be wantin' to play one in a church,” he said. To accent his point, he blew the whistle again, again coaxing two long, sweet, mellow tones from it.

Behind the engine and tender came the dark baggage car, then the express car. Behind the express car was a stock car wherein, in comfortable stalls, were six horses, belonging to passengers who had paid the extra fare to bring their mounts with them.

There were only two windows in the express car, but they were shining brightly because inside the moving post office, Fenton Bowles, the mail clerk, was busy sorting mail and putting it into the pouch for delivery at the next town. In a safe in the corner of the mail car, there was an oversized white bag. Bowles had signed for the white bag when he came aboard, so he knew that it contained exactly $1,817. That was a lot of money, almost two years of his salary, and he was responsible for it. Being responsible for so much money made him nervous, and he would be glad when they reached Belfield, so he could be rid of it.

There were four passenger cars behind the express car. Although this was a night train, there were no parlor cars on this run because, essentially, it was a local, stopping at just about every town along the route. Vance Dexter, the conductor, was in the last seat of the last car. There was light in this car, as there was in the other passenger cars, but it was soft and unobtrusive. The illumination came from low-burning kerosene lanterns that were mounted on gimbals on the walls of the car. Some of the passengers were awake and talking quietly among themselves, but most seemed to be trying to grab some sleep, though, as the seats did not recline as they did in some of the more plush parlor cars, sleep was rather difficult to come by.

Dexter took out his pocket watch and examined it in the light of the lantern that was just over his seat. It was just after midnight. They weren't due in Belfield for nearly two hours.

He felt himself growing drowsy, so to ward off falling asleep, he got up and took another walk through the entire length of the train.

When he reached the second car, he stopped and looked at the man halfway up on the left side. He was a big man, with hair the color of straw. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and his chest was forward on his chin. His arms were folded across his lap.

From time to time, Dexter had celebrities ride on his train, and this passenger fit that category. He wasn't sure that Falcon MacCallister would qualify as a celebrity in everyone's book, but as far as he was concerned, MacCallister was as famous as any passenger he had ever carried. He was said to be one of the most accomplished men with a six-gun to ever roam the West. Stories about him were told and retold until they reached legendary proportions and Falcon MacCallister seemed larger than life.

When Dexter learned that Falcon MacCallister was to be one of his passengers, he was actually quite surprised. He had heard so many stories about him that he wasn't sure he really existed, or if he existed, was still alive. Many of the later stories told of MaCcallister's death. One insisted that he had been surrounded by a gang of thirteen outlaws, but had killed twelve of them, succumbing only when the last bullet from his two guns had been fired. And even as the thirteenth outlaw shot him, MacCallister, according to the story, killed him by throwing his knife at him as he fell.

Dexter learned who his passenger was only because MacCallister paid extra to have his horse transported in the stock car ahead.

Although MacCallister had neither done nor said anything to suggest that he might be dangerous, Dexter was somewhat frightened of him. He was leery each time he walked by MacCallister's seat, and he paused now to study the noted gunman while he took a deep breath to steel his courage.

“Come on by me, conductor, I'm not going to bite,” MacCallister said quietly. He neither lifted his head nor opened his eyes, and Dexter wondered how he knew he was there.

“Thanks, uh, I just didn't want to disturb you, is all.”

Dexter passed him by, then walked all the way up to the front car. When he reached the front car, he stepped out onto the platform for a moment to let the fresh night air help revive him.

That was when he heard the torpedoes.

* * *

There were three warning torpedoes on the track, and they popped loudly as the engine ran over them.

“Cephus! Torpedoes!” Clyde shouted, but even as he did so, Cephus was already on the brake lever.

“I heard 'em!” he called back. “There's a red lantern wavin' ahead too!”

“Damn!” Clyde said. “The trestle must be out!”

“See if you can see anything!”

Clyde leaned out of the side of the cab and stared ahead, but though the headlamp threw its beam through the night, it showed only an unbroken line of track.

The wheels squealed as they skidded along the track, steel sliding on steel. Behind them, the Westinghouse Air Brakes had automatically set the brakes on all the cars, so the train was losing momentum rapidly.

* * *

“If I was you, I wouldn't be standin' in the middle of the tracks like that,” Thad said.

“I want to be sure he sees me,” Buddy replied.

“Well, hell, you know he did. He's slowin' down now, you can hear the wheels a-squealin',” Thad said. “Ever'body, get your masks on.”

The four men had kerchiefs tied around their necks, and they lifted them now so that their noses and mouths were covered. Then they watched as the train, though slowing noticeably now, continued its forward momentum. Finally, it came to a complete stop about thirty feet down the track from where Buddy stood with his lantern.

“Okay, boys, that's it!” Thad said. “Buddy, you go up to talk to the engineer and keep him busy. Rufus, you and Curly come with me.”

Buddy walked directly down the track toward the train, which now sat puffing rhythmically as the relief valve vented off the unused steam. Thad and the other two moved up the other side of the track, staying out of the light of the headlamp.

The engineer stepped out onto the platform at the rear of the engine cab.

“What is it?” he asked as Buddy came walking up alongside. “Is there a bridge out?”

Buddy raised his pistol and pointed it at the engineer.

“Nah, there ain't no bridge out. This here is a holdup,” Buddy said. “You and the fireman step on down from that engine cab,” he ordered.

“The hell we will!” Cephus stepped back into the cab and pushed the throttle forward. Even as he did so, Thad and Rufus were climbing up onto the engine from the other side of the track. Thad shot the engineer, hitting him in the back.

“Get this train stopped!” he yelled, turning the gun toward the fireman.

Clyde closed the throttle and applied the brakes. The train, which had started forward when Cephus opened the throttle, once more jerked to a stop.

“Let all the steam out,” Thad said.

“I'm just the fireman,” Clyde said. “That's not my job.”

Thad fired at Clyde, and the bullet shredded an earlobe. With a cry of pain, Clyde slapped his hand to his ear.

“Now let all the steam out like I told you,” he said. “Or I'll shoot your other ear, and I'll take it clean off.”

Shaking in fear, Clyde pulled the relief-valve cord and steam began rushing from the valves. The steam pressure dropped to way below 100 PSI.

“Now, you sit there and be a good boy while we take care of our business.”

“Can I see about the engineer?”

“Sure, look over him if you want. He's not going anywhere,” Thad said. “And without the steam, neither is this train.”

By now the conductor was out of the train, walking up alongside the track to see what was going on.

“What's going on here?” he called when he saw Buddy standing beside the engine. “What'd you stop us for? And why is the steam being vented?”

Buddy turned toward Dexter. It wasn't until then that Dexter noticed that he was wearing a kerchief over his nose and mouth and was holding a gun. He raised it, and pointed it toward Dexter.

“Wait,” Dexter said in sudden fear. He threw his hands up and backed up a few steps. “Wait,” he said. “Don't shoot me. Please don't shoot me.”

Thad stepped to the side of the engine then and stood there, bracing himself with his right hand on the back of the engine cab and his left raised up to the cab roof.

“Well, now, Mr. Conductor, I'm just real glad you are here,” Thad said. “Open the door to the express car.”

“I can't do that,” Dexter said.