Eagles Legacy: The Killing

Chapter Nineteen

As he had every day since he arrived in town, Crack Kingsley went to the Western Union Office to see if there was a telegram for Carl Butler. When he walked in today, a smiling telegrapher handed it to him.

“Here you go, Mr. Butler. You must be a happy man today.”

Crack read the telegram.

BABY BOY BORN THIS MORNING. MOTHER IS DOING WELL.

That was the agreed-upon code, and it meant that MacCallister would be coming through Fremont tonight.

“It’s tonight,” Kingsley told Clem Crocker when he met him at the OK Saloon.

“Let me get this straight,” Crocker said. “All I have to do is spot him, then come back and tell you. Right?”

“That’s all you have to do.”

“And I get a hundred dollars for it?”

“You’ll get a hundred dollars for it,” Kingsley said. “Meet me back here tonight at eleven o’clock.”

Despite the coffee the porter had brought him earlier, Duff had drifted off to sleep while sitting up in his seat, his head resting against the window.

He was sitting on the front porch of his house at Sky Meadow. In front of him he could see cattle: Black Angus for as far as the eye could see.

“They are beautiful. You were right to insist upon Black Angus. We do have the finest ranch in all of Wyoming.”

Duff reached across the gap between them and took Skye’s hand in his. Standing, she bent over him.

“I love you, Duff Tavish MacCallister,” she said.

As she leaned over to kiss him, Duff looked up and saw not Skye McGregor, but Meghan Parker!

“Sir! Sir,” the porter said, shaking his shoulder gently. “We’re comin’ in to Fremont.”

Duff sat up and looked around. He wasn’t on the front porch of his house; he was on a train. And neither Meghan nor Skye was with him. No, that isn’t true. They were both with him now, so much a part of him that they peopled his dreams. And that just made everything even more confusing for him.

“Thank you, Porter,” he said, yawning and stretching before getting out of his seat, then walking to the back of the car to step out onto the platform.

Only six more people left the train: a preacher in liturgical dress, a man, his wife, and their three sleepy children.

Duff, with his attaché case in hand, went into the depot.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” the night agent asked.

“I’m going on through to Kansas City; I just want to make certain that my luggage goes through as well.”

“You can go out and stand by the baggage car to make certain it gets off,” the depot agent said.

“Good idea.”

Duff stood by as the baggage was taken off the train and loaded onto a large pushcart. He saw his suitcase, and saw that it was transferred over to another cart marked “Missouri Pacific.” Satisfied that his luggage was accounted for, Duff inquired as to the location of a hotel and, given directions, left the depot with briefcase in hand.

Clem Crocker had been told to look for a man carrying a small satchel, and he saw a man getting off the train carrying one. That really didn’t matter, though. Only three men had stepped down from the train: one was a preacher, and the other was a father and family man, so this had to be him.

As the man made arrangements for his luggage, Crocker hurried on up South Union Street to Dodge Street. The hotel was on Dodge between Clarkson and Irving, and Kingsley was waiting there in the space between Watkins’ Mercantile and Freeman’s Hardware store.

At least, he was supposed to be waiting there, but when Crocker got there, he didn’t see him.

“Kingsley?” he called. “Kingsley, you here?”

“Shut up, you fool,” Kingsley called from the dark shadows between the two buildings. “Don’t be shoutin’ my name out like that.”

“I seen ’im. He’ll be comin’ along in a few minutes.”

“Is he carryin’ a satchel?”

“Yep, just like you said.”

“Go across the street and wait. When you see him comin’, step back in between them buildin’s so’s he can’t see you, then light a match. Whenever I see the match, I’ll know he’s near here.”

“What are you goin’ to do?”

“What difference does it make to you, as long as you get your hundred dollars?”

“You’re right. It don’t make no difference to me at all,” Crocker said.

Crocker hurried back across the street, stepped in between White’s Drugstore, and Wong’s Laundry, then looked back toward Union. It was dark here, and he had to urinate, so he did. He was just finishing when he saw the man he was looking for turn off Union onto Dodge, then pass under the street lamp.

“Damn, I’m glad I seen him,” Crocker said to himself. “If I had’a missed him while I was takin’ a leak, that would have been one expensive pee.” He giggled at the thought.

Crocker moved back toward the street and watched until the man with the satchel got closer. Then, when he thought he was close enough, he stepped farther back in between the two buildings, and lit a match.

Kingsley saw the flare of the match, then stepped up to the corner of the building and pulled his gun from its holster. Turning it around, he grabbed the barrel of his pistol and waited.

He heard the sound of footfalls on the boardwalk, gauging by the sound how close Duff was coming. When he knew he was just about there, he raised his pistol and, as MacCallister passed by, he brought the butt of the pistol down on his head. MacCallister dropped to the boardwalk and didn’t move.

Quickly, Kingsley grabbed the briefcase and opened it, just as Crocker came running across the street.

“Did you kill ’im?” Crocker asked.

“I don’t know,” Kingsley said. He pulled out a little packet of bills, then closed the attaché case before Crocker got there. He counted off five twenties and handed them to Crocker.

“How much money is there?” Crocker asked.

“What does it matter to you? I promised you a hundred dollars, here it is. And all you had to do was tell me when he was comin’.”

“Yeah, I guess you are right,” Crocker said.

“Ain’t no guessin’ to it,” Kingsley said. “Here’s your money.”

With the briefcase firmly in his grasp, Kingsley hurried on down Dodge Street. Crocker watched until he disappeared in the darkness.

“Damn, I better get out of here my ownself,” Crocker said aloud. Just as he started to leave, he saw a piece of yellow ribbon lying on the sidewalk, some feet away from the man Kingsley had hit. Thinking it may have been dropped as someone was leaving Sheinberg’s Mercantile, he walked over to pick it up. When he did so, he noticed that it had a lock of hair attached to it. He could also smell perfume on it.

“Well, now, lookie here,” he said. “I wonder what woman dropped this.”

“Get up. Get up and get on out of here. I don’t need some drunk lyin’ up agin’ the front of my store. You’ll be runnin’ off my customers.”

Duff MacCallister opened his eyes and saw that he was, indeed, lying on the boardwalk. It was daylight, and he had no idea why he was lying here. The last thing he could remember was walking from the depot toward the hotel.

“Get up, I tell you,” the man said with an angry voice. He hit at Duff with the straw end of his broom. “Get up before I sweep you off this walk with the rest of the trash.”

Duff sat up, and when he did, he was so dizzy that when he tried to stand, he lost his balance and sat back down, hard.

“Look at you. You’re still drunk.”

Duff stood up, bracing himself against the wall of the store as he did so. What was he doing lying on the boardwalk? He put his hand around to the back of his head, then winced when he touched a knot. When he brought his hand back around, there was blood on his fingers.

“My money!” he said. Looking around for his briefcase, he saw that it was gone. “I’ve been robbed.”

“Mister, you mean you weren’t drunk last night?” the storekeeper asked.

“No,” Duff said. “I came in on the train and I was going to the hotel. I don’t remember anything after that. I must have been hit over the head, and whoever did it took my money.”

Duff reached around to his back pocket and felt his wallet. Taking it out he opened it and saw that the money there was untouched.

“Don’t look to me like they took your money,” the storekeeper said.

“Not this money,” Duff said. “The money I had in my briefcase. Where is the constable?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The police, or town marshal, or whatever law you have.”

“We have a town marshal. His office is right over there,” the store owner said, pointing across the street.

“Thank you.”

Duff started across the street, but again a wave of dizziness overtook him and he had to grab hold of the post that supported the overhanging roof.

“Are you going to be all right? Do you need help walking?” The tone of the storekeeper’s voice had changed from one of irritation to consideration.

“Thank you, I’ll be all right,” Duff said. He stood for just a moment until the dizziness passed, then he crossed the street and went into the marshal’s office. There were two men inside, both drinking coffee. One was sitting behind the desk with his feet on the desk, the other was sitting in a chair that was tipped back against the wall. Evidently, one of them had said something funny, because both men were laughing when Duff stepped inside.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” the man behind the desk asked. He didn’t take his feet down.

“Aye, or at least ’tis hoping I am, that you can be of help,” Duff answered. “I was robbed last night.”

“Where?”

Duff looked through the window toward the store where he had been when he regained consciousness. The storekeeper was still sweeping the porch and walk. He read the sign on the store.

“Watkins’ Mercantile,” he said.

“Wait a minute, you say you were robbed at Watkins’ Mercantile store last night? What time?”

“Just before midnight.”

“Mister, what were you doing in his store at midnight? I know for a fact that Billy closes his place at seven o’clock.”

“I did not say I was in the store. It was at the store, I was. I left the train at half-past eleven, and was walking to the hotel. I woke up but a moment ago, lying on the boardwalk in front of the store.”

“Hey, that’s right, Marshal Bivens, I was goin’ to say somethin’ about that only I forgot,” the man in the tipped chair said. “I seen him lyin’ over there this mornin’ when I come in to work, but I just figured he was drunk. I was goin’ to give him a chance to wake up on his own, only if he didn’t, I was goin’ to go over and wake him up myself and put him in jail. So, you’re sayin’ that was you I seen lyin’ drunk on the walk in front of Sheinberg’s?”

“Aye, ’twas me you saw, but I was not drunk.” He bent his head down to show them the lump.

“Look at this, Deputy Archer. He took quite a lick,” Bivens said.

“It’s no wonder you lay there ’til dawn,” Archer said. “In fact, it’s a wonder you wasn’t kilt.”

“Like as not, it was somebody that got drunk in the OK Saloon last night,” Marshal Bivens said. “Prob’ly got drunk and lost some money playin’ cards, so he figured to make it up by stealing a few bucks off someone that just got off the train. I’ll do some checkin’ around. How much money did he get?”

“Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars,” Duff said.

Archer’s chair came down with a bang on the floor at the same time Bivens swept his feet down off the desk. Both peace officers looked at Duff in openmouthed shock.

“Wait a minute. How much money did you say he got?” Bivens asked.

“Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars,” Duff repeated.

“Mister, uh, what is your name?”

“MacCallister. Duff Tavish MacCallister.”

“Mr. MacCallister, excuse me for askin’, but just what in hell were you a’ doin’ carryin’ so damn much money? Do you always carry that much with you?”

“I am a rancher in Chugwater, Wyoming. I was on my way to Kansas City to buy five hundred head of cattle. That’s why I was carrying so much money.”

“I see. Well, whoever stole it hit the jackpot, didn’t they? I mean, here they figured to get maybe twenty or thirty dollars and they got over fifteen thousand,” Bivens said. They got lucky.”

Duff shook his head. “No, ’twas not luck, I’m thinking. Not at all. Whoever did it knew I would have the money, and they knew I would be here in the middle of the night last night, to change trains today to complete the trip to Kansas City.”

“You don’t say,” Bivens said. “Now would you like to tell me just how in the Sam Hill you come up with that idea?”

Duff pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it to show to the marshal. “I have two hundred thirty-seven dollars in my wallet. That’s exactly how much I had in my wallet when I stepped down from the train. If someone just happened to rob me, he would have gone directly to my wallet, and probably wouldn’t even have looked in the briefcase I was carrying.”

Marshal Bivens stroked his chin. “I don’t know,” he said. “You may have a point there. But how would anyone in Fremont know that? You don’t know anyone in town, do you?”

“I don’t know a soul. And I doubt that the person, or persons, who robbed me even live here.”

“All right, if what you say is true, if someone was lyin’ in wait for you here, how did they know about you?”

“That’s what I’m going to have to find out,” Duff said.

“How do you plan to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Duff admitted. “I’ve got the what I need to do all figured out. What I don’t have figured out is how I’m going to do it.”

“I’ll give you what help I can,” Marshal Bivens said. “But you got to understand that if the fella that done this is outside the town limits, there really ain’t nothin’ I can do.”

“I know,” Duff said. “I need to get myself a hotel room, and I also need to send a couple of telegrams.”

“The telegraph office is in the depot,” Marshal Bivens said.

“Thank you.”

There was a train just pulling into the station when Duff stepped into the depot. The train was going west, and for a moment, Duff considered getting back on it. But only for a moment. He stood back against the depot with his arms folded across his chest, watching as the arriving passengers disembarked and the departing passengers boarded. A man and his wife got on the train. So did an attractive young woman, after a tearful good-bye to her parents. Duff overheard enough of their preboard-ing conversation to know that she was going farther west to teach school, and Duff thought of Meghan and how it must have been for her when she left her home to come west.

A young man, who had no one to see him off, got on the train. Duff watched him board, wondering if, perhaps, he might be the one who had robbed him last night.

Why couldn’t he remember anything? He had no memory at all between the time he left the train, and when he awoke this morning.

He wanted to go grab the young man before he boarded and search him to see if he had his money, but he knew that he couldn’t do that.

He felt a queasiness in his stomach, and it wasn’t all from the blow on his head. He had lost a lot of money, a year’s work in the mine, and perhaps the future of his ranch.

The engineer blew the whistle for two long blasts, signaling the conductor that the brakes had been released and he was about to proceed. The actuating cylinder puffed loudly, then there was a series of very quick hisses as the great driver wheels spun in place a couple of times before gaining traction. Then the train, with noisy, steady gushes of steam, moved forward, pulling out all the slack between the cars with a succession of rattles. Gradually, the train began increasing speed as it hurried out of the station.

Duff went inside and, locating the telegraph office, walked over to it.

“I would be for sending a telegram if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, sir, there’s the form,” the telegrapher said.

MR. JAY MONTGOMERY, KANSAS CITY CATTLE EXCHANGE

HAVE ENCOUNTERED UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTY. WILL BE DELAYED.

DUFF MACCALLISTER.

The second telegram he sent back to Chugwater to Elmer Gleason.

ELMER. HAVE RUN INTO A BIT OF A PROBLEM. PUT SKY ON THE TRAIN, SEND HIM TO ME IN FREMONT, NEBRASKA. DUFF.

Duff considered sending another one to Meghan, but knew that Elmer would tell, not only Meghan, but Biff and Fred as well.

“That will be sixty-six cents,” the telegrapher said.

Duff paid the fee, then, getting his luggage, went outside and hired a buckboard to take him and his luggage to the hotel. There he secured a room where he washed the wound on his head. It wasn’t until then, that he realized he had lost the yellow ribbon Meghan had given him. Compared to the loss of all his money, losing the ribbon was an insignificant thing, but he found it upsetting, nevertheless.