Eagles Legacy: The Killing

Chapter Twenty-five

Fremont

When Meghan arrived in Fremont, it was nearly midnight. Hiring a cab, more for the escort than the need for a ride, she had him drive her to a hotel where she took a room.

The next morning after breakfast she called upon the city marshal. The marshal and his deputy were playing a two-hand game of poker, but both of them stood when Meghan stepped into the office.

“Can we help you, ma’am?”

“I hope so, Marshal ... ?”

“Bivens, ma’am. And this is my deputy, Archer.”

Deputy Archer touched the brim of his hat and nodded at her.

“Marshal Bivens, I am concerned about a friend of mine. The last word any of us had from him was from here in Fremont, when he sent a telegram saying that he had, as he put it, ‘run into a bit of a problem.’”

“Who is it?” Bivens asked. “And did he say what the problem was?”

“No, he didn’t say what the problem was. I was hoping you could help me with that,” Meghan replied. “His name is Duff MacCallister.”

“Duff MacCallister. A Scotsman, is he?”

Despite her nervousness, Meghan smiled. “Very much the Scotsman,” she said.

“Then that was him, Marshal,” Archer said quickly. “The same feller she’s talkin’ about.”

“Was him?” Meghan asked, her voice cracked with worry. “What do you mean ‘was’ him? Please, God, has something happened to him?”

“No, no, didn’t mean to worry you none,” Deputy Archer said quickly. “I mean, yes, something has happened to him, but he hasn’t been hurt, or anything like that.”

“What happened to him?” Meghan asked, nervously.

“He was robbed,” Bivens said.

“Robbed? No, that doesn’t seem possible. Duff MacCallister is an extremely capable man. He is more than able to take care of himself.”

“Yes, ma’m, I think he probably is. But apparently the brigand who robbed him stepped out of the alley in the middle of the night and struck him from behind.”

“And here is the thing,” Deputy Archer threw in. “They must have known he was carrying as much money as he was, because they took only the briefcase—they didn’t take his wallet.”

“I see. Where is he now?”

“He found out who it was that robbed him—a murderin’ scoundrel by the name of Crack Kingsley. And he and another fella, an older man, raw-boned, gray hair and a gray beard.”

“Yes, that would be his friend, Elmer Gleason,” Meghan said.

“Yes, ma’am, I believe Gleason was his name. Anyhow, Mr. MacCallister and Mr. Gleason went after Kingsley.”

“Have you heard from them since they left?”

“Not exactly, but we have certainly heard about them,” Marshal Bivens said.

“What do you mean, you have heard about them?”

“Like you said, ma’am. It would appear that this fella MacCallister can take care of himself. According to the police in Lincoln, Kingsley and three other men tried to bushwhack your friends MacCallister and Gleason. Jumped them in a saloon, it was. There was a shoot-out, and three of the four men who attacked MacCallister were killed.”

“And Duff?” Meghan asked anxiously.

“He wasn’t hurt none at all,” the marshal said. “And neither was Gleason.”

“You said the police informed you of this. Are Duff and Mr. Gleason in any kind of trouble?”

“No ma’am. There were enough witnesses there to tell the police exactly what happened, so there ain’t no charges or anything against them.”

“Do you know if Duff is still in Lincoln?”

“I doubt it. Kingsley, the man MacCallister is after, got away. Not knowin’ MacCallister any better than I do I would still be willin’ to make a bet that he left town after Kingsley.”

“Yes, I’m sure he did,” Meghan said.

“Will you be goin’ on to Lincoln to try and find him?” Marshal Bivens asked.

“No,” Meghan said. “I have some business in Kansas City that I must take care of.”

“I don’t expect him to be comin’ back this way,” Marshal Bivens said. “But just in case he does, do you have a message for him?”

“Yes, tell him that I ...” Meghan stopped in the middle of the sentence. What message would she have for him? That she loved him? Did she? She wasn’t sure, but whether she did or didn’t, it wasn’t a message to be conveyed by a marshal who was a stranger to both of them.

“Tell him what, ma’am?” Marshal Bivens asked.

“Just that his friends back in Chugwater are anxious about him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marshal Bivens said. “If he comes back through here, I’ll be sure and tell him that.”

Plymouth, Nebraska

The little town that rose in front of Kingsley was no more than a scattering of buildings, some of wood, some of sod. It had one street, Main, that ran through the middle of town, then a cross street, Columbus, which formed the letter X. The only buildings that were constructed of lumber were the commercial buildings, and they were all on Main Street. All the houses were constructed of sod, and they lined both sides of Columbus.

Kingsley hoped the town would have a saloon, and he was gratified to see a crudely painted sign in front of one of the buildings that read: BROWN DIRT SALOON.

He rode up to the saloon and dismounted in front, just as two cowboys came out. One of them had just said something funny, and they were both laughing.

One of them noticed Kingsley’s horse.

“That’s a nice-looking horse, Mister,” the cowboy said. “Where did you get him?”

“I bought him.”

“Oh? Where did you buy him? And when?”

“Sometime back, don’t remember exactly. Why are you asking?”

The two cowboys checked out the brand.

“Sum’ bitch, Jed, look at this. You see this here brand?”

“What’s your name, Mister?” the cowboy called Jed asked.

“It’s Carl Butler, if it’s any of your business. What is all this about?”

“The Brand is CB. Could be Carl Butler, I guess.”

“Sure looks like Crawlback’s brand though.”

“If you boys is questionin’ whether or not I stole this horse, why don’t you come right out and ask it, and let’s get this settled once and for all. I’ve got the paper says I own this horse, and I’ll show it to you if you want to see it. Then, like as not, I’ll kill you for questioning me.”

Kingsley was bluffing. He had no paper. But he figured that if he came down hard enough, and aggrieved enough, that he could run his bluff.

“Here, now, Mister, no need in gettin’ all upset over nothin’. We was just commentin’ on how much your brand looks like the brand for Crawlback is all,” Jed said.

“There ain’t nothin’ fancy about it,” Kingsley said. “And one CB is goin’ to look pretty much like another CB.”

“I reckon that’s true,” Jed said. “Come on, Arnie, let’s go.”

Kingsley watched them mount their own horses, then ride off. Not until they reached the end of the street, then urged their horses into a gallop, did he go inside.

He was pretty sure that MacCallister and Gleason were following him, but he hoped that the rain that had been falling off and on for the last two days had washed out enough of his tracks to cause them to lose the trail. And whether they were trailing him or not, he was hungry. He also wanted a drink. No, he needed a drink.

“Beans, bacon, biscuits,” the bartender answered Kingsley’s question about food.

“That’ll do fine. I’ll take the bottle,” he said, putting a twenty-dollar bill down on the bar.

“You got ’nything smaller than this?” the bartender asked. “This’ll just about take ever’ bit of the change I got in the cash register.”

“Keep the change,” Kingsley said.

“What? Mister, are you sure?”

“I’m hungry, and I want a drink,” Kingsley said. “And I want to be left alone. Will this twenty get all that for me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“I’ll be over there in the corner,” Kingsley said as, with bottle in hand, he started across the saloon floor.

He was just pouring himself a glass of whiskey when someone walked up to his table.

“Hello, Crack. It’s been a long time,” the man said.

Looking up, Kingsley saw the man who had been his cell mate at the Nebraska State Penitentiary at Lincoln a few years earlier.

“Scooter Margolis. I thought you was serving life,” Kingsley said.

Margolis smiled. “Yeah, that’s what Warden Wyman thought too. Only I had other ideas. And by the way, I’m callin’ myself Donovan now. Pat Donovan.”

“What are you doin’ in this little burg?”

“Workin’ down at the stable. What are you doin’ here?”

“I’m just passin’ through,” Kingsley said.

“You got somethin’ goin’, do you?” Margolis asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you, Kingsley. You’ve always got somethin’ goin’.”

“What if I do?”

“I want in on it.”

“It ain’t like you think.”

“Don’t matter to me what it is. I’m so tired of shovelin’ horse shit, I’m willin’ to do anything. What have you got goin’?”

Kingsley’s food was brought to the table so he said nothing until the server left.

“I might have somethin’ goin’,” Kingsley said.

Margolis smiled broadly. “I knew it! The moment I seen you come into this place, I knew you was up to somethin’. What is it?”

“It don’t really matter what it is,” Kingsley said. “Because the truth is, I got a couple of people doggin’ my trail, and until I get rid of them, I can’t do nothin’ else.”

“Who you got after you?”

“Bounty hunters. There’s a lot of paper out on me. You too, I reckon.”

“Yeah, last I heard there was five thousand dollars out for me. Son of a bitch, I hate bounty hunters.”

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing. They are after me right now, but to them, one is as good as another. If they was to get wind that you was here, hell, they might even forget about me and go after you. Especially since you are worth more than I am.”

“Who are they?” Margolis asked. “Do you know their names?”

“I don’t know their names,” Kingsley said. “But I know what they look like. If you’ll help me take care of ‘em, why, I could see lettin’ you come in on me for my next job.”

“You ain’t told me yet what your next job is goin’ to be,” Margolis said.

Kingsley shook his head.

“No, I ain’t. And I ain’t goin’ to, ’til after we take care of the two bounty hunters. Are you in, or not?”

“I don’t know. I could just leave, I reckon. I mean, if they are trailin’ you, chances are they don’t even know that I am here.”

“You could do that,” Kingsley said. He put his hand inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a bound packet of twenty-dollar bills, from which a few had already been taken. “Or, you could take this four hundred dollars and help me take care of the problem.”

“What?” Margolis said. “Where the hell did you come up with this much money?”

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Kingsley said. “Once the bounty hunters are out of the way.”

Margolis reached for the packet of money, but before he could touch it, Kingsley pulled it back.

“Are you in or out?” he asked.

“I’m in!” Margolis said. “Hell yes, I’m in!”

Kingsley pushed the money across the table to him. “Good,” he said. “Now, as soon as I finish eating, we’ll go set up a welcome for them.”

Two miles out of town the road crossed a stream known as Little Blue Creek. The stream could be forded, but it was a deep enough ford to slow the horses down. Also, the stream was running very quickly, so that the horses had to fight to stay on their feet. Just beyond the stream, the road made a turn to the right. On the left side of the road, just as it made its turn, was a low-lying ridge crowned by oversized flat rocks. That created a perfect observation post from which to monitor the approaching road. It was here that Kingsley set up his ambush.

Crack Kingsley lay on top of one of the flat rocks, looking back along the trail.

“How do you know they’ll be comin’ this way?” Margolis asked.

“They’re comin’. I fixed it so they would.”

“How did you fix it?”

“Don’t matter none how I did it. I did it. You just be ready.”

“I’m ready,” Margolis said.

“There’s two of ’em now,” Elmer said. “I wonder where he picked up a friend. Hell, more than that, what kind of man would be his friend in the first place?”

“He has fifteen thousand dollars in cash,” Duff said. “It matters little how evil a person is. With that much money, he can buy friends.”

“You got that right,” Elmer said. “There’s another cigar butt.”

“Odd,” Duff said. “That’s the third butt we’ve seen in the last mile.” Duff dismounted, picked up the cigar butt, examined it, then held it to his nose and smelled it.

“It’s just what I thought,” he said.

“What?” Elmer asked.

“This cigar hasn’t even been smoked. I thought it was strange to find three of them so close together.”

“Damn, he’s leading us on, ain’t he?” Elmer asked. “He’s wanting us to find him.”

“Aye.”

“You know what that means, don’t you? That means he’s plannin’ to set up an ambush.”

“So it would appear.”

“Well hell, we ain’t goin’ to just ride into it, are we?”

“We are,” Duff said. “But remember, forewarned is forearmed.”

“Yeah,” Elmer said. “That sounds pretty good. I just wish I knew what the hell it meant.”

“It means that when he springs his ambush, we shall be ready for him.”

“Margolis, there they are,” Kingsley said. “Get ready. As soon as they get into the stream, start shooting. Their horses won’t be able to react fast enough, and we’ll have ’em dead in our sights.”

“What if they don’t come across the creek?” Margolis asked.

“They’ll come. They want me too bad to hold back. Get ready.”

Both Kingsley and Margolis cocked their rifles and waited.

“Now!” Duff shouted, and both men leaped down from their horses, just as they approached the edge of the creek.

The road exploded with the sound of gunfire as Kingsley and Margolis opened up on what they thought would be easy targets. Instead, their bullets whizzed harmlessly over the empty saddles of the riderless horses, then whined off into empty space.

Duff and Elmer had chosen their position perfectly, for after they leaped down from their horses, they separated, Duff getting behind a rock on the left side of the road, while Elmer found one on the right.

“What the hell?” someone shouted. “Kingsley! Do you see ’em? Where did they go?”

Duff fired toward the sound of the voice, and the man behind the voice fired back. There was silence for several seconds, and then came the bark of Elmer’s rifle. Immediately after Elmer fired, Duff heard a grunt of pain, and then he saw a rifle come sliding down the rock and splash into the water. A second or two later a man followed the rifle, sliding belly up, down the rock, winding up, as did the rifle, in the water.

It wasn’t Kingsley.

Nobody moved for several moments; then, carefully, first Duff, then Elmer, came out. Not being fired upon, they ran across the creek, then, gradually, worked their way up to the top of the rock where the shooting had been coming from.

They found a few empty cartridges, ejected from the rifles, but there was no one there.

Kingsley had gotten away.