Eagles Legacy: The Killing

Prologue

Eight men had come to kill Duff MacCallister, and eight men now lay dead in the streets of Chugwater, Wyoming Territory. Before he headed back home, the entire town of Chugwater turned out to hail Duff as a hero. Duff had a few people of his own to thank: Biff Johnson for shooting the man off the roof who had a bead on him, Fred Matthews for tossing him a loaded revolver just in time, and Meghan Parker, who risked her own life to hold up a mirror that showed Duff where two men were lying in wait for him. Meghan also reminded Duff that Chugwater held a dance once a month in the ballroom of the Dunn Hotel.

It was about a ten-minute ride back home, and as he approached, he saw a strange horse tied out front. Dismounting, he was examining the horse when Elmer Gleason stepped out onto the front porch.

“Mr. MacCallister, you have a visitor inside. He is a friend from Scotland.”

Duff smiled broadly. Could it be Ian McGregor? He stepped up onto the front porch, then went inside. “Ian?” he called.

It wasn’t Ian; it was Angus Somerled. Somerled was standing by the stove, holding a pistol that was leveled at Duff.

“Somerled,” Duff said.

“Ye’ve been a hard man to put down, Duff Tavish MacCallister, but the job is done now.”

Duff said nothing.

“Here now, lad, and has the cat got your tongue?”

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Duff said.

“Nae, I dinna think you would. Would you be tellin’ me where I might find my deputy?”

“Malcolm is dead.”

“Aye, I thought as much. Killed him, did ye?”

“Aye—it seemed to be the thing to do.”

“There is an old adage: ‘if you want something done right, do it yourself.’ I should have come after you a long time ago instead of getting my sons and my deputies killed.”

“That night on Donuum Road, I was coming to give myself up,” Duff said. “None of this need have happened. Your sons would still be alive, Skye would still be alive. But you were too blinded by hate.”

“We’ve talked enough, Duff MacCallister,” Somerled said. He cocked the pistol and Duff steeled himself.

Suddenly the room filled with the roar of a gunshot—but it wasn’t Somerled’s pistol. It was a shotgun in the hands of Elmer Gleason. Gleason had shot him through the window, and the double load of 12-gauge shot knocked Somerled halfway across the room.

“Are you all right, Mr. MacCallister?” Gleason shouted through the open window. Smoke was still curling up from the two barrels.

“Aye, I’m fine,” Duff said. “My gratitude to ye, Mr. Gleason.”

Gleason came around to the front of the cabin and stepped in through the front door.

“Seein’ as how I saved your life, don’t you think me ’n you might start callin’ each other by our Christian names?”

“Aye, Elmer. Your point is well taken.”

“Sorry ’bout tellin’ you he was your friend. But that’s what he told me, and I believed him.”

“And yet, you were waiting outside the window with a loaded shotgun.”

“Yes, sir. Well, considerin’ that the fella you went to meet in Chugwater was from Scotland, and wasn’t your friend, I just got to figurin’ maybe I ought to stand by, just in case.”

“Aye. I’m glad you did.”

Gleason leaned the shotgun against the wall and looked at the blood on the floor of the cabin.

“I reckon I’d better get this mess cleaned up for you,” he said.

“Elmer, I’m sure you don’t realize it, but you just did,” Duff said.