Thunder of Eagles

Chapter Eighteen

The next day, Falcon was visiting Titus Calhoun’s office, playing a game of checkers with the marshal, when Sheriff Belmond and Ike Clinton came in.

“Calhoun, I hear a few of my boys may have gotten drunk and a little out of hand yesterday,” Clinton said.

“They were a lot out of hand,” Calhoun replied.

“And you’ve got them in jail, do you?”

“I do.”

“Well, no harm done,” Clinton said. “I’m willing to pay for any damage they may have done to the newspaper office.”

Falcon looked up at him. “How did you know it was a newspaper office?”

“I guess word just got around,” Clinton replied.

“Or you sent them in town to tear up the newspaper office,” Falcon suggested.

“Are you saying I’m behind this?” Clinton demanded.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Falcon replied. “I think you put them up to it because you didn’t like Mr. Denham’s article.”

“That ain’t true,” Ike said. “More’n likely, the boys read it and was pissed off by what they read.”

“Really?” Calhoun said. “They read it and were pissed off because they didn’t like what they read? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Clinton said.

“That’s interesting,” the marshal replied. He pulled open one of the desk drawers and took out a paper. “This is their arrest form,” he said. “Here is where they signed.” He pointed to the bottom of the page.

“What is all this about? What do I care about the arrest form, or where they signed?”

“Look at their signatures,” Calhoun said.

Clinton looked at the form.

“If you notice, all four men made their mark where they were supposed to sign,” Calhoun said. “Not one of them can read or write, Mr. Clinton. Yet you insist they tore up the newspaper office because they didn’t like what they read.”

“I don’t know,” Clinton said, clearly agitated. “Maybe somebody told them about the article.”

“You sent them, didn’t you, Clinton?”

“Did they tell you I sent them?”

“No.”

Clinton smiled broadly. “Then you got no case, do you? All right, I’m here for them now. Turn them loose. I’m paying the bail.”

“That’s not possible,” Calhoun said. “Bail hasn’t been set yet.”

Now it was Clinton’s time to smile, and he turned to Sheriff Belmond.

“Tell ’em, Belmond,” he said.

“I spoke with the judge this morning,” Belmond said. “Bail has been set at twenty dollars each for the four men.”

“Twenty dollars?” Calhoun said. “Bail is set for twenty dollars?”

“For each of them.”

“That’s preposterous!” Calhoun said. “It should be at least five hundred dollars apiece.”

Belmond shook his head. “It’s not your place to set bail. Pay the man, Mr. Clinton.”

Clinton counted out four twenty-dollar gold pieces, then put them on the desk in front of the checkerboard. “Whoever is red has a jump here,” he said, pointing to the board.

“Sheriff Belmond, you know damn well that twenty dollars is not an equitable bail for these men,” Calhoun complained.

“Like I said, it’s not for you to decide. Now, let the men out.”

After a long, angry glare at Belmond, then a surrendering sigh, Calhoun walked to the back of the jail cells. A moment later, he returned with the four men. Two of the men had their left eyes blackened, and swollen shut.

“What happened to you two?” Clinton asked.

“Ask that big son of a bitch,” Clyde said, pointing to Falcon. “He laid his pistol upside my head for no reason, and without warnin’. I wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t about the same thing he done to Cletus, if you think about Cletus’s black eyes.”

“Clyde is correct,” Clinton said. “You seen my boy’s eyes, Belmond, you know what they look like. Looks to me like this fella enjoys bullyin’.”

“They were resisting arrest,” Calhoun said.

“Resisting arrest? What does resisting arrest have to do with MacCallister?”

“I made him my deputy,” Calhoun said.

“That’s sort of convenient, isn’t it?” Belmond asked.

“About as convenient as having bail set at twenty dollars, I’d say. Anyway, as I said, they were resisting arrest.”

“We wasn’t doin’ nothin’ of the sort,” one of the other prisoners said.

“You’re the one they call Jesse, aren’t you?” Calhoun asked.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Well, Jesse, I say you were resisting arrest, and I have got half the town as witnesses who will swear that you were. So, if you want to take this all the way to court, I’m willing to do so.”

“Shut up, Jesse,” Belmond said. “That goes for the rest of you, too. Don’t say another damn word, or I’ll throw you into jail myself.”

“I was just—” Jesse began.

“You was just nothin’,” Belmond said. Then to Calhoun: “They have now been bailed out of the city jail. That ends your responsibility toward them.”

“Then get them out of here,” Calhoun growled. He looked at the four men and at the smug expressions on their faces.

“I reckon you don’t have as much power as you thought you did, huh?” Bart said to the marshal.

Calhoun held up his index finger. “Here’s how much power I have, sonny,” he said. “If ever I see any of you in my town again, I will throw you in jail again.”

“For what?” Bart asked defiantly.

“For breathing without permission,” Calhoun said pointedly.

“What about our guns and such?” Virgil asked. “You plannin’ on givin’ ’em back to us?”

“They’re hangin’ over there,” Calhoun said, pointing to four pistol belts, handing from nails protruding from the wall.

The four cowboys recovered their guns, then looked over at Ike with huge smiles. “Hey, Mr. Clinton, can we stop by the Hog Waller for a bit before we get back home?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Just get on your horses and get back to the ranch, or leave your horses—they’re mine, remember—and go off on your own. But we ain’t stoppin’ by the Hog Waller.”

Falcon had been quiet during the entire episode, but after Clinton, Belmond, and the four men left, Falcon spoke up.

“You’re going to have trouble with those men,” he said.

Calhoun chuckled. “Hell, I’ve already got trouble with them.”

Falcon shook his head. “No, I mean real trouble.”

“You goin’ to talk or play checkers?” Calhoun asked.

The two men returned to their checker game. Calhoun won that one, Falcon won the second one, and they were on the third set to determine a winner for best two out of three.

“Damn, I’m getting so sleepy I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ my eyes open here,” Calhoun said. He stretched, then stood up. “I’ve got some coffee over there. Would you like a cup?”

“That would be good, thanks,” Falcon said.

Calhoun walked over to take two cups down from their hooks; then he picked up the coffeepot.

“Don’t you be movin’ none of them pieces now, you hear me?” he teased.

“Hell, Titus, you’ve got me in such a pinch now, I wouldn’t even know what pieces to move to help me,” Falcon replied.

“Ha! What are you tryin’ to do, lull me into a trap? You’ve got more pieces on the board than I do. I’m not even sure—unhh!”

Concurrent with Calhoun’s grunt, came the sound of breaking glass. That was followed almost immediately by an entire barrage of shots, smashing through the front window and zinging around the room.

Falcon dived to the floor behind the desk, just as one bullet penetrated the chair where he had been but an instant before.

Even as the bullets were flying through the room, Falcon was on his stomach, working his way across the floor to Calhoun’s prostrate form. But, by the way Calhoun way lying, and by the open eyes and slack jaw, Falcon knew, even before he put his hand on the marshal’s neck to feel for a pulse, that the marshal was dead.

Suddenly, the shooting stopped, and Falcon heard the sound of receding hoofbeats as the assailants galloped away from the marshal’s office. Standing up, Falcon grabbed a Winchester from the gun rack on the wall, then ran out into the street. By now, the two shooters were already more than one hundred yards away, scattering pedestrians as they fled the scene of the assassination.

Both sides of the street were lined with citizens of the town who, when they heard the barrage of gunshots, had poured out of the houses and businesses onto the boardwalks to see what was going on. There were two people crossing the street between Falcon and the fleeing men.

“Get off the street!” Falcon shouted, waving his hand. “Get out of the way!”

Seeing the galloping horses, as well as seeing Falcon standing in front of the marshal’s office with a rifle, the pedestrians were galvanized into movement, and they ran to clear a path between Falcon and the fleeing gunmen.

Falcon didn’t bother to check to see who might be in the street beyond the fleeing men. He didn’t have to. He knew that the bullets would not be going any farther than his intended targets.

Jacking a round into the chamber, Falcon raised the rifle to his shoulder, brought the front sight down on the rider on the left, then squeezed the trigger.

The rifle roared, and kicked back against his shoulder. The rider on the left tumbled from his saddle, and even before the smoke of the discharge had drifted away, Falcon had levered another shell into the chamber and fired a second time, knocking the other rider down. The two horses, now with empty saddles, continued to gallop.

From the Higbee Journal

MURDER SO FOUL!

Marshal Titus Calhoun Murdered.

ASSAILANTS KILLED WHILE FLEEING!

On the afternoon of the 15th, instant, Virgil Tate, Bart Gray, Jesse Jimmerson, and Clyde Newbury were arrested by Marshal Titus Calhoun. These four miscreants had busied themselves with the vandalizing and destruction of private property, to wit: this newspaper. Their stated motive for the vandalism was dissatisfaction with an article that had appeared in the Journal two days prior.

After spending but one night in jail, the four were freed from jail when their employer, Ike Clinton, paid bail. Shortly after being released, Jesse Jimmerson and Virgil Tate returned to the marshal’s office and, firing through the window, killed Marshal Calhoun.

Falcon MacCallister, who was visiting with the marshal at the time, armed himself with a Winchester .44-.40 and with exceedingly accurate rifle fire slew both assailants as they attempted to flee.

Funeral for Marshal Calhoun will be held Saturday next.

The body of Marshal Titus Redfern Calhoun lay in a highly polished black coffin, liberally decorated with shining silver accoutrements. The lining of the coffin was white satin and the marshal, wearing his finest suit, lay in the coffin with his hands folded across his body and his head resting upon a red felt pillow. The undertaker had used clay to cover the bullet hole in his temple, and though he had been quite skillful, a close examination could locate the fatal wound.

The marshal lay in state in the front of the sanctuary of the Higbee Church of the Redeemer. The top half of the casket was open as mourners filed by to pay their last respects. At the request of the marshal’s two brothers, Travis and Troy, Rachael played the piano.

The music Rachael chose was from Joseph Haydn’s Mass in G, and as she played, the music filled the church and caressed the collective soul of the congregation. If there was anyone in town who did not know of the talent of the beautiful young pianist who played at the Golden Nugget, they soon realized that they were listening to a concert pianist of great skill.

Not one person in the congregation had ever read the story in the London Times, written by a British music critic, about Rachael Kirby, but if they had read it, they would have agreed with everything he said:

Although some may question whether or not a woman can play music of concert quality, no one could question the renderings of Miss Kirby on this night. Her music was something magical, and one could almost believe that the very composers whose music she recreated were looking down upon her with deep appreciation of her skills.

It rained on the day of the funeral, and the Reverend E. D. Owen stretched out the eulogy and the service in an attempt to wait out the rain. He reviewed every aspect of the marshal’s life, from the time he was a boy back in Ohio, through his military service during the terrible war that had so recently torn asunder the very fabric of civilization as brother fought brother, till his time as a peacekeeper, both in Arizona and there in Colorado. The Reverend Owen told about the marshal’s two brothers, Travis and Troy, who had come to Higbee to join him and to begin a restaurant.

Finally, when it began to grow apparent that the mourners would rather brave the rain than listen to the preacher talk any longer, he brought the service to a close and indicated by a nod of his head that the pallbearers could now close the coffin and carry the body to the waiting hearse.

It was a measure of the respect that the citizens of the town had for Titus Calhoun that all braved the rain, standing under umbrellas as the coffin was lowered into a grave that was quickly filling with muddy water. After the funeral, many of the mourners gathered in the home of Troy Calhoun, where Troy and his wife had prepared cake, pie, and coffee.

At the gathering, Mayor Coburn; Carl Moore, proprietor of the general store; Harold Denham; Prentiss and Corey Hampton; as well as Travis and Troy Calhoun, all approached Falcon.

“We’ve been talking it over,” Mayor Coburn said. “Falcon, we would like for you to become our new marshal.”

Falcon’s first reaction was to refuse the offer so vehemently that it wouldn’t be repeated, but he knew that they were serious about it, and he knew also that the offer was actually one of honor and respect. He did not want to accept the job, but neither did he want to refuse it in a way that would be discourteous.

“I appreciate the offer,” Falcon said. “But the truth is, if I accept the position, I would be bound by law to acting only within the city limits of Higbee. As it is now, working for General Garrison, I have a much wider range of authority.”

“I don’t understand,” Mayor Coburn said. “What authority could you possibly have working for Wade Garrison?”

“I can explain that,” Garrison said, stepping into the conversation.

“Please do.”

“Although not one mile of track has yet been laid, the Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas Railroad has been granted a charter. And because we are a chartered railroad, I am authorized to hire a railroad detective. By the state laws of Colorado and Texas, as well as federal and territorial laws which cover New Mexico and cross state lines, Falcon MacCallister is granted police enforcement authority. Gentlemen, by accepting an appointment as city marshal, you are limiting his jurisdiction to an area of about two square miles. But as a railroad detective, he has jurisdiction over fifteen hundred square miles.”

“You mean he has jurisdiction over Sheriff Belmond?” Troy asked.

Garrison shook his head. “No, not over Belmond, but he has concurrent authority with Belmond on anything that pertains to the railroad.”

Mayor Coburn laughed. “Why, that’s wonderful,” he said. “Mr. MacCallister, no disrespect meant, but the offer to be marshal of Higbee is hereby withdrawn.”

“What do we do now?” Moore asked.

“I have a suggestion,” Falcon said. “That is, if you are open to it.”

“Yes, we’re open to anything,” Mayor Coburn replied.

Falcon looked up at Travis and Troy. “Both Travis and Troy have been acting as deputies,” he said. “I would suggest that you hire one of them as the new marshal.”

“Oh, no,” Lucy Calhoun said, stepping up beside her husband. “We have two children. I don’t want to take a chance of what happened to Titus happening to Troy.”

“Darlin’, there’s always been that chance,” Troy replied. “Even when I was deputying for Titus.”

“It’s not the same,” Lucy insisted.

Troy shrugged his shoulders and looked at the mayor. “Sorry,” he said. “But I guess that lets me out.”

“I’ll do it,” Travis offered. He looked at Troy. “But that will put more work at the restaurant onto you.”

“I’ll help at the restaurant,” Lucy said.

“I think you’d make a fine marshal, Travis,” Troy said.

“Gentlemen, we have a new marshal,” Mayor Coburn announced.