Thunder of Eagles

Chapter Seven

Falcon was standing on the depot platform at MacCallister, Colorado, when the train pulled into the station, a symphony of hissing steam and rolling steel. It was a beautiful engine, painted a forest green, with shining brass trim. The lettering was yellow, and the huge driver wheels were red.

The engineer was hanging out the window looking at the track ahead, in order to find where to stop. He held a pipe clenched tightly in his teeth. The cars slowed and squeaked as they came to a stop. The conductor, who was standing on the boarding step of the first car, was the first to get off the train.

“MacCallister!” he called. “This here is MacCallister!”

The conductor was followed off the train by a dozen or so others: cowboys, miners, drummers, as well as a woman who may have been pretty at one time and was trying, unsuccessfully, to restore with makeup what nature had taken away. In addition, there were a couple of women who were tending to children.

“Grandma!” one little girl shouted as soon as she stepped down from the train. Falcon watched her run into the arms of an older woman who had come to meet the train.

From time to time when Falcon saw such displays, he thought of what he had lost in his own life. His mother and father had both been murdered, as had his wife and children. The twins, a boy and a girl, would have been about twelve years old today. By now, the boy would know how to ride, shoot, hunt, and track, and the girl would just be showing some of the beauty that so characterized her mother. Not one to dwell on such things, however, Falcon turned his attention back to the train.

When all the arriving passengers were off the train, the conductor pulled out his pocket watch and examined it.

“Board!” the conductor called.

Falcon watched the other departing passengers exchange good-byes, then board the train. He waited until everyone else had boarded before he stepped up into the car.

“Good afternoon, Mr. MacCallister,” the conductor said. “It’s good to have you traveling with us today. But then it’s always good to have you.”

“Hello, Syl,” Falcon replied. “How is the family?”

“They are doing well. Oh, and my boy is at West Point now thanks to the letter you sent.”

“I was glad to do it, Syl. Charley is a fine young man,” Falcon said.

Once on board, Falcon moved halfway down the car, then chose a seat on the opposite side from the depot. He watched the other passengers get settled. Then, with a jerk, the train started forward.

It would be an overnight run to La Junta, but as the train was primarily a local, there was no sleeper car. It didn’t bother Falcon that there was no sleeper car. During the war, he had slept in holes, filled with mud by drenching rainstorms, while undergoing artillery barrages. Since that time, he had slept in desert heat, mountain blizzards, and even in the saddle, so the prospect of spending a night in a padded seat in a train car was not in the least daunting.

Shortly after the train got under way, Falcon took a letter from his pocket. The return address indicated the letter was from Wade Garrison. Falcon had known a Brigadier General Wade Garrison during the war. The letter had come as a surprise, because he had not seen Garrison in over fifteen years. But any question as to whether or not this was the same Wade Garrison had been answered when he saw the address the letter was mailed to:

Major Falcon MacCallister

General Delivery

MacCallister, Colorado

Dear Major MacCallister,

I reckon I’m about the last person on earth you ever expected to get a letter from. But it’s me, the same man you junior officers used to salute to my face and cuss to my back.

I’ve settled in a place called Higbee, Colorado. It’s a fine little town, and I have plans to build a railroad that will connect Higbee with the rest of the country, which means the town will grow and prosper. Unfortunately, though most all the citizens of the town and the surrounding ranchers support my plan, there is one rancher who is opposed, and in fact, is rallying other ranchers to his cause.

Now, a little business opposition I could handle, but this gentleman—and I do use the term gentleman with some reservation—is opposing it in a way that is causing me some concern. Recently, three wagons which were carrying supplies I needed were attacked. The drivers, good men all, were killed, and the wagons burned. I can replace the supplies, but the drivers are irreplaceable.

There have been no charges made; indeed, nobody has even made any accusations because the operation was too clean to have left any physical clues as to who did it. However, there is no doubt in my mind as to who did it. I just need the proof.

I’ve kept up with you since the war, Falcon. I know that you have gained quite a reputation for what the dime novels call “derring-do.” I would like to call upon you to come to Higbee for a visit. While you are here, I can apprise you of the situation and if you can see your way to lend a hand, I would be eternally grateful.

Sincerely,

Wade Garrison

“Eternally grateful,” Falcon said, whispering the words. Folding the letter, he put it in his pocket, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, and in that state of half-awake, half-asleep, he recalled a place named Palmetto Hill in Southern Texas.

It was in late May of 1865, and elements of the Texas 15th had boarded a train for its run south over the bucking strap-iron and rotted cross-ties of the railroad.

The regiment that boarded the train was less than thirty percent of the mustering-in strength. Of the thirty-five officers who had taken to the field with the brigade when the war started, all had been killed except for Dooley Perkins and Falcon MacCallister. Both were majors now, though they had started the war as second lieutenants.

Lieutenant Colonel Matthew Freeman was now in command of the regiment, having been put in that position by General Wade Garrison.

“Major MacCallister, I gave Freeman the command because he outranks you,” Garrison told Falcon when the regiment received the assignment to proceed to Palmetto Hill. “But in truth, you have more experience, and a better knowledge of the regiment than anyone else. So, even though Freeman is in command, I’m going to be counting on you to keep an eye on him. And to be honest, at this point, it doesn’t really make that much difference who is in command. I just got word this morning that General Lee surrendered back in Virginia, in a place called Appomattox. For all intents and purposes, the war is over.”

“I beg your pardon, General?” Falcon said. “Did you just say that the war was over?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you mind tellin’ me why we are going to Palmetto Hill?”

“Duty, honor, country,” Garrison said.

“General, if we’ve surrendered, we don’t have a country,” Falcon said. “And if we don’t have a country, then we have no duty.”

Garrison held up his index finger. “You may be right, my boy,” he said. “But we still have honor. We’ll always have honor.”

Falcon was quiet for a long moment, then, with a sigh, he nodded.

“You’re right, General. We still have our honor,” he said.

“Look, Falcon, I know your soldiers are tired, hungry, and dispirited, and I doubt that many of them could understand the concept of fighting, and perhaps dying, for something as abstract as honor.

“But tell them this. Some of the Yankee commanders are not paroling the men they capture. They are putting them in prison. Especially those of us out here in Texas. They consider all of us to be irregulars, not covered by the rules of civilized warfare. They’ve even hung a few. If we make a good showing at Palmetto, we can at lest sue for better terms.”

Falcon chuckled.

“What is it? Why are you laughing?”

“General, the terms don’t have to be all that good to be better than hanging,” Falcon said.

General Garrison laughed as well.

“I guess you’re right at that,” he said. He sighed. “I am sorry about having to put Colonel Freeman over you.”

“Don’t worry about it, General. Colonel Freeman is a good man. I’m fine with him in command,” Falcon replied

“God go with you, Major. I’m eternally grateful for all that you have done for the South. It would pain me greatly to see you killed now.”

They were less than a mile from their final destination when the train came to a sudden and catastrophic halt. Though neither Falcon nor anyone else in the train knew exactly what had happened, an accurately placed cannonball had burst the boiler and knocked the engine off the track. As a result of the sudden stop, the first three cars of the train telescoped in on themselves, causing a tremendous number of casualties, killing Colonel Freeman and five other regimental officers.

Falcon was riding in one of the rear cars, and his only indication that something had happened was in the fact that the train came to an almost immediate stop, throwing men onto the floor. Even as some of the men were swearing about the incompetence of the engineer, Falcon realized that something drastic had happened, and he started urging the men to get off the cars.

The same soldiers who had attacked the train were now waiting in ambush, and they opened fire as soon as the men of the regiment began pouring off the train.

Falcon and Major Perkins rallied the regiment.

“Take cover in the train wreckage!” Falcon shouted, and the men scrambled to do so.

The Yankees had one artillery piece, the same cannon that had destroyed the engine. And now they were using it to devastating effect, sending the heavy balls crashing through the remaining cars, sometimes using solid shot to further break up the wreckage, other times using shells to burst overhead and spray the soldiers with flaming bits of hot metal.

In addition to the effective artillery piece, the Yankee solders were bold and well led. Three times they came across the field, and three times they were repulsed, but not without casualties on both sides. Falcon was hit in the left arm and left leg. Fortunately, the bullets only creased him, rather than remaining buried in his flesh, but the creases were deep, bloody, and painful.

“Perkins, how are we holding out?” Falcon asked.

“It’s that damn gun, Falcon,” Perkins said. “It’s not only killing and maiming our men, it’s got them so rattled that some of the men aren’t even shooting back.”

Before Falcon could answer, another cannon round came screaming in. This one was fused, and as it hit, it burst with a loud bang, followed by whistling bits of shrapnel. Some of the men cried out in pain and fear.

“What do you mean they aren’t shooting back?” Falcon asked. “Hell, some of these boys have been with us from the beginning.”

“That’s just it,” Perkins said. “They’re tired, they don’t have anything left.”

“That’s a hell of a note,” Falcon said.

“I’m going to take that gun out,” Perkins declared.

“Are you sure you want to do this? They can’t have an unlimited amount of powder and ball for that thing. Seems to me like the smarter thing to do would be to wait until they run out of ammunition.”

Perkins shook his head. “I don’t know that our boys can wait that long,” Perkins said. “I’m goin’ after the gun,” he said.

Falcon sighed. “We’re equal in rank,” he said, “so I don’t have the authority to stop you. And the truth is, you may be right. So let me know when you are ready and we’ll give you as much cover as we can.”

Perkins shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, all right, I’ll give you the word when I’m ready.”

A few minutes later, Perkins had three volunteers prepared to go with him. He gave the signal to Falcon that he was ready.

“All right men, keep Major Perkins covered!” Falcon shouted to the others.

Rifles, carbines, and pistols roared and gun smoke billowed up from the Confederate soldiers in the wrecked train. As he had hoped it would be, the Confederate line was answered by the Union soldiers who were firing back just as vigorously. The reason Falcon wanted the Yankees to match his own troops in the intensity of their firing was because it enabled Perkins and his three volunteers to disappear quickly into the clouds of billowing smoke.

For the next thirty minutes, the gunfire continued at such a pace that Falcon was afraid they would soon run out of ammunition. Then he noticed that the artillery fire had stopped.

“The cannon has stopped!” Captain Thomas said, putting to words what Falcon had only thought. “Major Perkins must’ve gotten through.”

“Yes,” Falcon agreed. “Let’s just pray that he and his men get back all right.”

Then, out of the cloud of gun smoke that obscured the field, they saw the volunteers returning. Only this time, one of the men was being carried. Even from where he was, Falcon could tell that the wounded man was Major Perkins.

“Captain Thomas,” Falcon shouted.

“Yes, sir?”

“Set fire to the grass. As soon as the smoke has built up, order the men to pull back. Major Perkins bought us some time…let’s take advantage of it.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Thomas replied.

Within moments, the smoke from a dozen grass fires mixed with the gun smoke to completely blot out the field. Then, outnumbered and outgunned, Falcon withdrew his men, thus avoiding the necessity of surrender.

Some five miles away from the point of the ambush, Falcon called a halt to the retreat. Looking around, he counted thirty-six men. Just thirty-six from a regiment that was once six hundred strong.

“Major MacCallister,” Captain Thomas said. Like Falcon, Thomas had a bloody bandage around his left arm.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I thought I ought to tell you, sir. Major Perkins just died.”

“Damn.”

“What do you want to do now?” Thomas asked.

“Nothing,” Falcon said.

“Nothing, sir?” Thomas asked, surprised by the response.

“That’s right, Captain, I want to do absolutely nothing. Yesterday, General Garrison told me that General Lee had already surrendered and all we were doing now was trying to reposition ourselves to get better terms. As far as I’m concerned, we’ll make our own terms, right here, right now. You knew Major Perkins from before the war, didn’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Thomas said. “The major’s pa lived on the farm next to my pa. He and I grew up together. I reckon I’ve known him longer than I’ve known anyone.”

“I would like for you to take Major Perkin’s body back to his family. I don’t know how you are going to manage that, with no wagon or horses, but I’d like to see it done.”

Captain Thomas nodded. “I’ll get it done. But I’ll be coming back. I wouldn’t feel right abandoning the regiment.”

“What regiment?” Falcon replied.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Look around you, Jerry,” Falcon said. He took in the thirty-six men with a wave of his hand. They were sitting, or lying, on the grass, some asleep, others just staring morosely off into space. Nearly all were sporting bloody bandages around arms, legs, or heads. “Do you see a regiment?”

“I guess I see what you mean,” Captain Thomas said.

“Men,” Falcon called, and everyone looked up at him. “Men, it has been my honor and privilege to serve with you throughout this long war. But as many of you may have heard, Robert E. Lee surrendered all the military in his command to the Yankees at a place called Appomattox. That means the war is over.”

“Hell, Major, we ain’t in Lee’s command,” one of the men said. “We’re in your command.”

“Yeah,” one of the others said. “What do you say we should do?”

“What if I told you I wanted to go back and attack the men who attacked us back there?” Falcon asked.

“Major, give the word and we’d soak our britches in coal oil and attack the devil in hell,” a sergeant said.

Falcon chuckled and nodded. “I know you would,” he said. “But it’s over for us. General Garrison said we were fighting this one last battle for honor. As far as I’m concerned, honor was achieved. This regiment is hereby officially disbanded. I want you to all go home and try to put your lives together again.”

“Regiment, attention!” the one remaining NCO shouted, and slowly, painfully, but determinedly, every soldier in the regiment stood up. Then they aligned themselves into a military formation.

“Present, arms!” the sergeant said, and every soldier brought his rifle up into a salute.

Both Falcon and Thomas, the only two officers remaining, returned the salute.

“Regiment, dismissed,” Falcon said.

“Hoohrah!” the soldiers replied as one. Then, forming little groups of twos and threes, the soldiers left, starting their long walks back home.

“What about you, Major?” Thomas asked.

“I’m no longer a major,” Falcon said.

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. Then he chuckled. “I mean, yes. But what are you going to do? Where are you going to go?”

“I had a pa and brothers who fought on both sides of this war,” Falcon said. “I reckon I’ll be going back home to Colorado and hope they all show up.”

“Some of your family was fightin’ for the Yankees?” Thomas asked.

“Yes.”

“How do you think that’s all going to work out when you get back together again?”

“Pa made us feel free to choose whichever side we thought was right. The war’s over now, and we’ve all done our duty as we saw fit. I don’t know about the rest of the country, but for the MacCallisters, the war will be behind us once and for all.”

At that moment, the train passed over a rough section of railroad, jarring Falcon from his memories and bringing him back to the present. He sat in his seat for just a second, only slowly becoming aware that the war was long behind him. He had been recalling the last battle in which he had been engaged, and wounded. And though he did not know it at the time, his brother Matthew MacCallister had commanded the troops across from him in that very battle. And, like Falcon, Matthew had also been wounded.

Once more, Falcon pulled the letter out to look at it. This was the first time he had heard from General Garrison since that time in Texas so long ago.

Pueblo

“Hey, boys, watch this,” Ray said. “I’m going to do me the fandango.”

Ray, Cletus, and Billy Clinton were at the Four Aces Saloon in Pueblo. Their meeting with the cattle buyer wasn’t until the next day, and though Billy suggested they might just have a good dinner and go to bed, neither Ray nor Cletus would hear of it. They were determined to go to a saloon, and Billy had no choice but to go with them. Billy, in keeping with the promise he had made to keep an eye on his brothers, had nursed a single beer for most of the night.

“Ha!” Cletus said. “What makes you think you can get your big ass to do a fandango?”

“Just watch,” Ray said.

Ray, who was so drunk he could barely stand, hauled his big frame up and began stomping around in what he assumed was a fandango dance. Cletus started clapping his hands in accompaniment. Ray got his feet tangled and fell hard to the floor.

“Haw!” Cletus said, laughing out loud. “If you are a fandango dancer, I’m a Injun chief.”

As Ray tried to get to his feet, he fell again, only this time he fell into a table where four other men were sitting.

“What the hell?” one of the men asked angrily. Roughly, he shoved Ray off the table and onto the floor. “If you can’t hold your liquor, mister, you got no business drinkin’.”

Getting pushed to the floor had a temporary sobering effect, and Ray got up slowly, then started toward the man who had pushed him. The man, noticing then how large Ray was, held up his hands and tried to back away from him.

“I don’t want no trouble now,” he said.

Ray smiled, then picked the man up and threw him. He landed on another table, crashing through it. Several others rushed Ray then, and grinning broadly with pure enjoyment, Ray began taking them on, singly and in pairs.

Finally, someone drew a gun and, pointing it toward the ceiling, fired it. The noise of the gunshot got everyone’s attention, including Ray’s.

“Stop it, you big ape! Stop it now!” he shouted.

“Friend, that’s my brother you are pointing your gun at, and if you don’t put it down now, I’m going to kill you,” Cletus said in a low, menacing tone.

“Your brother, huh? Well, unless you want your brother killed, you’ll lower your gun,” the armed saloon patron said.

Cletus cocked his pistol. “I don’t care what you do to him. I think I’ll just kill you anyway,” he said.

“What?” the armed patron shouted, his anger turning to fear. He threw his gun down. “No! My God, no!”

The others at the table scattered, and all the rest of the saloon patrons moved quickly to get out of the way.

Suddenly, Cletus collapsed to the floor, having gone down because Billy had stepped up behind him and hit him over the head with the butt of his pistol.

“What the hell, little brother?” Ray said. “Whose side are you on?”

“Think about it, Ray,” Billy said. “If Cletus kills that fella, he’ll wind up hangin’.”

Ray nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess you are right.”

“Gentlemen, I would like to apologize for both of my brothers,” Billy said to the men at the table, though his apology extended to everyone else in the saloon at the moment. “I’m afraid they are both a little drunk.”

“They are both a lot of drunk,” one of the men who had been sitting at the table said. “Seems to me like the best thing for them would be to sleep it off in a jail cell tonight.”

Billy shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “No, sir, I’m not going to let that happen.”

“Then will you at least get them out of here?”

Billy nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That, I will do. Ray, pick up our brother.”

With little effort, Ray picked Cletus up and threw him over his shoulder. The three brothers left the saloon, then walked across the street to the hotel where, earlier, they had taken a room.

“Is your friend all right?” the hotel clerk asked when he saw Cletus draped over Ray’s shoulder.

“He’s fine,” Billy said. “He’s just drunk.”

Billy shepherded both his brothers upstairs to the single room they had rented. Ray and Cletus fell into the one bed and, almost immediately, began snoring. Billy threw a couple of blankets out on the floor, intending to sleep there, but after tossing and turning for several minutes, it became obvious to him that sleep wasn’t coming.

Billy got up. Then, shaking his head in frustration, he sat down in a chair beside a lamp table. Turning up the lamp, Billy took out a tablet and pencil and began writing.

To Kathleen

Like a blooming flower to behold,

Your beauty shines through.

If only I were so bold

To declare my love for you.

But cruel is the fate

That keeps us apart.

Divided by families that hate,

I cannot speak what is in my heart.

Billy had never shared his love of writing poetry with anyone in his family. More importantly, he had not shared with anyone his feelings for Kathleen Garrison.