MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy (17 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone,J. A. Johnstone

Tags: #Fiction, #Westerns, #General

BOOK: MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy
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Cheyenne
 
As Duff and Falcon journeyed by train to Cheyenne, Duff read of the city in his copy of
Williams Pacific Tourist Guide.
M
AGIC
C
ITY OF THE
P
LAINS
 
516 miles from Omaha; elevation, 6,041 feet, Cheyenne is at present the most active and stirring city on the entire line. Cheyenne is well laid out, with broad streets at right angles to the railroad and has an abundant supply of pure water.
Travelers will here take a dinner in comfortable style at one of the best kept hotels between the two oceans. It is a good place to rest after a tiresome journey, and it will pay to stop a few days and enjoy the pure air and genial sun in this high altitude. The Inter-Ocean Hotel is owned by the railroad company and is 150 feet long by 36 feet wide, with a wing 25 feet square. It is two stories high, the upper floor being well furnished with sleeping rooms for guests.
 
The first place Falcon and Duff went after arriving in Cheyenne was the land office. A small bell attached to the top of the door tinkled as it was pushed open. The land clerk, a very thin man with white hair and glasses, was sitting at a table behind the counter that separated his area from the front.
“Yes, sir, can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, looking up as Duff and Falcon entered.
“I have come to file a claim on some land,” Duff said.
“And you are?”
“MacCallister. Duff MacCallister.”
“Have you picked the land out yet, Mr. MacCallister?”
“I have not. I have just arrived on the train.”
“Well, then, welcome to Wyoming. It is always good to get new people in the territory. What do you say you come back here and we’ll take a look at the map and find some property for you?”
Falcon and Duff both stepped around the counter, then up to the wall whereupon was attached a large map. The map was of Laramie County, which stretched from the Colorado border more than halfway up the eastern part of Wyoming.
“Now here is a piece of land you may like, Mr. MacCallister,” the clerk said. “It is quite near the town of Chugwater. The land is situated between the Little Bear and Bear Creeks, starting at the confluence of the two creeks and extending for three quarters of a mile to the west, bordered on the north by the Bear and on the south by the Little Bear.”
“Do the creeks have water year around?” Duff asked.
“Very good question, Mr. MacCallister, and the answer is, yes, they do. And the land between the two streams is gently rolling grassland, so it is ideal for farming or ranching. You can homestead six hundred and forty acres of federal land and two thousand acres of Wyoming territorial land. And, as it is free range there with no adjacent claims, it means you will have an additional ten thousand acres of grazing land available to you.”
“What do I have to do to make this come about?” Duff asked.
“Just sign these forms, then occupy and improve the land,” the clerk replied. “It is vital that you improve it.”
“And that means?”
“You must build and occupy a structure.”
“I shall be in need of a horse,” Duff said as he signed the papers the clerk put before him. “Have you any suggestions?”
“Beeman’s Barn sells horses,” the clerk said. “You might start there.”
The clerk took the application form from Duff, examined it, then pulled a pre-printed form from his desk. He signed it with a flourish, then picked up a stamp, inked it, and pressed the stamp onto the form. Then he pulled out a second form and did the same thing.
“This is a provisional deed to the six hundred and forty federal acres,” he said. He handed the second form to him. “And this is a provisional deed to the two thousand acres of Wyoming Territory land.”
“Provisional?”
“The land is yours in all respects,” the clerk said. “Provisional just means that if you abandon the land in the first five years, it reverts back to the government. But if you occupy it for that whole time, it is yours without reservation.”
Duff took the documents, looked at them, then smiled at Falcon. “How quickly I have improved my lot from pauper to landowner,” he said.
“Welcome to America.”
“I believe I am going to like my new country.”
“My name is Depro. Dennis Depro. If you have any questions about your land, feel free to call on me,” the clerk said.
“Mr. Depro, ye have my gratitude, sir,” Duff said.
Chapter Seventeen
 
Falcon had brought his horse on the train to Cheyenne, but Duff was without a mount. Since the only way to the land he had just claimed was by horseback, it was necessary for him to buy one. Taking the land clerk’s advice, Duff walked down to Beeman’s Barn, a large livery that sat at the end of the street. The two men stepped inside the barn through the big, open, double doors. It was considerably darker inside the barn as it was illuminated only by the sun that spilled in through the doors, or slashed down through the cracks between the wide, unpainted boards. There were little bits and pieces of hay drifting down from the overhead loft, and the barn was redolent with the pungent aroma of hay and horseflesh and horse droppings.
“Yes, sir, can I do somethin’ for you gents?” a man asked, coming toward them from the back of the barn. He was wearing bibbed coveralls over a red flannel shirt and had the stump of a pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Are you Mr. Beeman?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Beeman, I should like to make the purchase of a horse,” Duff said.
“You are a foreigner, ain’t you?”
“Have you an ordinance against selling horses to foreigners?”
Beeman laughed. “No, sir, none at all. Your money is as good as anyone else’s money.” Suddenly the expression on his face changed. “I mean, you will be using American money, won’t you?”
“I thought I might effect the purchase with Japanese yen.”
“Say what?”
“I am teasing you, Mr. Beeman. Of course I will use American money.”
Beeman’s smile returned. “Then in that case I reckon we can do business. I have a horse that you might be interested in. Wait here and I’ll bring him to you.”
Beeman walked out into the corral and Falcon called out to Duff, “He has saddles and rigging here. You might take a look.”
“Aye, it’s for sure I’ll be needing such,” Duff said.
Duff picked out a saddle, saddle blanket, saddlebags, and bridle and had them pushed to one side when Beeman came back in, leading a horse.
“I think you’ll like this one,” Beeman said.
Duff began examining the horse, not only with his eyes, but with his hands. After a moment, he shook his head.
“No, this animal is too fat,” he said. “There is a crease down his back, you can’t even feel his ribs, and his withers are fat. This one won’t do.”
“Would you like to step out back and look for another one?” Beeman invited.
“Aye, thank you.”
Duff and Falcon walked to the rear of the barn with Beeman and looked out over a gathering of about thirty horses. Duff saw one that he liked and pointed to it. “That one,” he said. “The golden one.”
“Gary! Bring the palomino over!” Beeman shouted to one of his employees.
Gary, a boy still in his teens, led the horse over. It stopped and stood quietly as Duff examined it. The horse was just over sixteen hands high, and Duff saw a lot of intelligence and a bit of whimsy in the horse’s eyes. As he had before, he began running his hands over it.
“This is more like it,” Duff said. “His back is flat, you can’t see his ribs but you can feel them, the withers are rounded, and the shoulders and neck blend smoothly into the body. I’ll take this one.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll get the bill of sale ready,” Beeman said.
“You know horses,” Falcon said to Duff as the two waited for Beeman to return with the bill of sale.
Duff chuckled. “We do have horses in Scotland,” he said. He began saddling the horse with the saddle he had selected.
When Beeman returned with the bill of sale for the horse, Duff negotiated for the saddle as well and, fifteen minutes later, rode out of the barn on his own horse.
“We’ll have to go to the general store and get some supplies,” Falcon said. “But before we do that, how about dropping in at the saloon for a drink?”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” Duff replied.
Both men now mounted, they rode down the street to find a saloon. Duff stopped when he saw the sign hanging in front of one of the buildings. He stared at it, dealing with a lot of memories and feelings as he did so.
WHITE HORSE
Falcon, at first not realizing that Duff was no longer riding alongside him, rode on for another few feet before he noticed that he was riding alone. He stopped and turned around to look back toward Duff. Duff was staring at the sign.
“Is something wrong?” Falcon asked.
Visions of the White Horse Pub, Ian McGregor, his friends, and especially Skye, were dancing in Duff’s head.
“No,” Duff said. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Is the White Horse all right with you?”
“Aye, ’tis fine with me.” Duff clucked at his horse and rode up alongside Falcon, keeping pace with him for the last few yards.
The two men dismounted in front of the saloon and tied off their horses at the hitching rail out front. Duff had his sea bag tied to the horse’s saddle, but he took the bagpipes in with him. When they pushed through the swinging doors they saw a saloon that was filled with people, mostly men, and a piano player who was grinding away at the back of the room. There were half a dozen bar girls flitting about the room, carrying drinks to one table, taking orders at another, and flirting with the customers at still another table. Duff and Falcon stepped up to the bar.
The bartender was wearing a low-crown straw hat with a band that read:
ASK US ABOUT OUR BITTERS
.
“What can I do for you, gents?” the bartender asked.
Duff set the bagpipes on the floor beside him. “I’ll have an ale,” he said.
“I’m sorry, we have no ale. But we have a fine, locally brewed beer.”
“Beer it will be, then,” Duff said.
“I’ll have a beer as well,” Falcon said.
“Coming right up,” the bartender said, jovially, as he grabbed two mugs and held them under the spigot of the beer barrel.
“’Tis not at all like the White Horse,” Duff mumbled after he got his beer and looked around.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This place,” Duff said, lifting the beer mug and moving it by way of encompassing the saloon. “It has the same name as the pub I frequented back in Scotland. ’Twas owned by the father of my fiancée and ’twas there that my Skye worked.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come in here,” Falcon suggested. “I would not want to be causing you any discomfort from unpleasant memories.”
Duff waved his free hand dismissively. “’Tis only the name that is alike and nothing more,” he said. “And any memory of Skye is a pleasant one.”
Falcon set his beer down on the bar. “I need to step out back to the privy for a moment,” Falcon said. “I’ll be right back.”
Duff nodded, then turned his back to the bar and perused the place as he took his first swallow.
“Hey, you!” a man yelled toward Duff and Falcon. “What’s that ugly-lookin’ thing you got a’ layin’ on the floor beside you?”
Duff looked over toward the loud-mouthed man. He was sitting at a table near the cold stove, and he had long hair and a beard. He was the perfect example of the cowboy figures Duff had read about in
The Williams Pacific Tourist Guide.
“Tell me now, sir, and would it be me ye are addressing?” Duff asked.
The man saw Duff looking at him. “Yeah, I’m addressin’ you. You see anyone else standin’ up there with what looks like an ugly pile of horse apples layin’ on the floor beside him?” He laughed at his own joke.
“
Och
, then ’tis me you are addressing. And would you be for tellin’ me, what is the nature of your query?”
“What the . . .” the bearded man replied. He looked at the man sharing the table with him. Like his questioner, the man was gruff looking, but with shorter hair and no beard. “Billy Ray, you want to tell me what the hell this feller just said to me?”
“Well, Roy, it sounds to me like he wants to know what you are askin’ him.”
Roy turned back to Duff. “What I’m a’ wantin’ to know is, what the hell is that thing that’s a’ layin’ there on the floor beside you?”
“Pipes.”
“Pipes? What do you mean pipes? It don’t look like no pipe I ever have seed.”
“I suppose I should have said bagpipes.”
“A bag of pipes? So, what you are sayin’ is, you have come in here carryin’ a bag full of pipes.”
Duff turned back to the bar.
“Hey, Mister, don’t you be a’ turnin’ your back on me when we’re havin’ a conversation,” Roy said.
This time he shouted the words in anger, and that caused everyone in the saloon to stop their own conversations and to look on in curiosity at the discourse between the two men. Even the piano player stopped and the last discordant notes hung in the air.
Duff turned to face him again. “I’m sorry, but when I engage someone in conversation, I have to assume they are possessed with a modicum of intelligence, or at the very least that they are sentient. You don’t seem to enjoy either of those qualities.”
Roy’s face drew up in an expression of total confusion. He looked at Billy Ray.
“What the hell did he just say?”
“I believe he is funning you,” Billy Ray replied.
“Are you funnin’ me, boy?” Roy asked, turning back toward Duff.
“By funning, I take it you want to know if I am teasing you?”
“Yeah. You tryin’ to tease me? ’Cause I don’t take too kindly to folks that try and tease me.”
“Then, Roy, ye may put your mind at ease. I don’t tease people that I don’t like. And though I have just met you, you have made reproachful comments about my pipes. I have heard the call of the pipes when engaged in deadly combat, so I dinnae take kindly to those who pass disparaging remarks about something that is so dear to my heart. So, for that reason, if for no other, I don’t like you.”
“You’re a foreigner, ain’t ya?” Roy asked.
“Aye. I am Scot.”
“I didn’t ask you your name. I asked you iffen you was a foreigner.”
“When I say I am Scot, I’m not telling you my name. I’m telling you my nationality. I am from Scotland. You do seem to have some difficulty in speaking English, don’t you?”
“I know’d you wasn’t American,” Roy said. “What are you doin’ here? You’re a long way from home, ain’t you?”
“On the contrary, I am quite close to home. I’ve just arranged for a parcel of land near here,” Duff said. “So, Roy, it looks as if you and I are going to be neighbors. And because of the inauspicious meeting, I do not think we could ever be friends, but I think we should at least make an effort to get on with each other.”
“You think that, do you? Well, you know what I think? I think you should go back to Scotland.”
“I’ve no plans to go back to Scotland.”
“You ain’t goin’ to like it here,” Roy said. “You’re goin’ to find a lot more people like me, who don’t cotton to strangers. Especially strangers who come from some foreign country.”
“I appreciate your concern, Roy, I really do, but I fully intend to stay here,” Duff said. He took another swallow of his beer, but he didn’t take his eyes off Roy.
“I see you’re wearin’ a gun. Are you very fast with it?” Roy asked.
“I cannot answer that question with certainty, as I have never had to make a rapid extraction of my pistol. So if you are asking if I would be very proficient in that particular act, I think I would have to say that, in all probability, I am not.”
“Mister, I don’t even know what the hell you are talking about,” Roy said. “Why don’t you talk in plain English?”
“He says he ain’t very good,” Billy Ray said.
“Ain’t very good, huh?” A humorless smile spread across Roy’s lips. Roy stood up, stepped away from the table, and let his arms hang loosely by his sides. That was when Duff saw that Roy was not only wearing a pistol, he was wearing it low, as Falcon had instructed him to do.
“Well, Mister, you’re goin’ to have to get good just real fast, ’cause I’m callin’ you out,” he said.
“Now I must confess that it is I who am confused. I have no idea what calling me out means.”
“It means I’m goin’ to give you a chance to draw your pistol ag’in me. Me’n you’s goin’ to settle this little disagreement we got.”
“I have no desire to engage you in a gunfight,” Duff said.
“What if I put a bullet in that bag of pipes you got there? Would that give you a desire to draw?”
“Oh, I don’t think I would like that very much,” Duff said.
“Well, that’s what I’m a’ goin’ to do,” Roy said. “I’m goin’ to put a bullet right through that bag of pipes, and then I’m a’ goin’ to put a bullet right through you.”
As Roy’s hand dipped toward the pistol in his holster, Duff threw the beer mug at him, hitting him in the nose.

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