Massacre at Powder River

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MACCALLISTER, THE EAGLES LEGACY: The Killing

A family of Scottish warriors.

A stranger in a new land ...

From the bestselling authors

William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone,

the blazing saga of Duff MacCallister,

heir to a legacy of courage.

Duff MacCallister fled the Scottish Highlands for a new world in Wyoming Territory. Betrothed to a good woman, Duff has the bad luck to be standing in the Chugwater Bank when a violent robbery explodes around him. With one man dead by Duff’s gun, and another under arrest, a team of bandits swarms outside of town. As witnesses, Duff, a banker and a beautiful barmaid are whisked into the town’s hotel for safekeeping as the outlaws threaten the defenseless town with a bloodbath if their fellow bandit isn’t set free.

Except no MacCallister has ever run from trouble. With a scoped Creedmoor rifle, he goes after the Taylor gang, one bad guy at a time ... But Duff doesn’t know that fate—and a little twist of frontier justice—will give the Taylor Gang one last chance for a shocking, treacherous act of revenge ...

MACCALLISTER, THE EAGLES LEGACY:

The Killing

On sale March 2012, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold

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 which 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 that was 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.

Chapter One

One year later

Duff Tavish MacCallister was a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders and muscular arms. At the moment, he was sitting in the swing on the front porch of his ranch house in the Chugwater Valley of southeastern Wyoming. This particular vantage point afforded him a view of the rolling grassland, the swiftly moving stream of Bear Creek, and steep, red escarpments to the south. He had title to twelve thousand acres; but even beyond that, he had free use of tens of thousands more acres, the perimeters limited only by the sage-covered mountains whose peaks were snowcapped ten months of the year.

He had once owned a cattle ranch in Scotland, but it wasn’t called a ranch, it was called a farm, and he had only three hundred acres of land. He was a Highlander, meaning that he was from the Highlands of Scotland, but compared to the magnificent mountains in the American West, the Highlands were but hills.

In the corral, his horse Sky felt a need to exercise, and he began running around the outside edge of the corral at nearly top speed. His sudden burst of energy sent a handful of chickens scurrying away in fear. High overhead, a hawk was making a series of ever-widening circles, his eyes alert for the rabbit, squirrel, or rat that would be his next meal.

“I was talking to Guthrie yesterday,” Duff said. “He said if I wanted to build a machine shed he could get the plans and all the material together for me, but I’m not so sure I need another building now. What do you think, Elmer?”

Elmer Gleason was Duff’s foreman and, at the moment, he was sitting on the top level of the steps that led up to the porch. Elmer was wiry and rawboned. He had a full head of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He leaned over to expectorate a quid of tobacco before he replied.

“’Peers to me, Duff, like you near ’bout got ever’thing done that needs doin’ in order to get this ranch a-goin’,” Elmer said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t see no need for you to be buildin’ a machine shed till you get yourself some cows.”

“I expect you are right,” Duff replied.

“I’ll say this,” Elmer said. “Once you get them critters here, there won’t be a cow in Wyomin’ livin’ in a finer place than Sky Meadow.”

Duff’s house, which was no more than a cabin a year ago, was now as fine a structure as could be found anywhere on the Wyoming range. Made of debarked logs fit together and then chinked with mortar, it was sixty feet wide and forty feet deep, with a porch that stretched all the way across the front.

Duff’s ranch was set between Bear and Little Bear Creeks, both streams year-round sources of good water. In an area where good water was scarce, the creeks were worth as much as the gold mine that was on the extreme western end of his property. Duff gazed thoughtfully across the rolling green pastureland to Bear Creek, a meandering ribbon of silver. He followed it with his eyes as far as he could see.

The insulating mountains not only made for beautiful scenery, but they tempered the winter winds and throughout the spring and summer sent down streams of water to make the grass grow green. Over the past year he had come to love this piece of ground, and had put in long hours of each day getting it ready to become the ranch he knew it could be.

He had named his ranch Sky Meadow, not only because the elevation of the valley was at five thousand feet, but also because it kept alive the memory of Skye McGregor, the woman he would have married had she not been murdered back in Scotland.

“Where are you, Duff?” Elmer asked.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You been gazin’ out over the land here for the last five minutes without sayin’ a word. You been lookin’ at the land, but I’ll just bet you ain’t a-seein’ it. Your mind is some’ers else, I’m a-thinkin’.”

“You’re partly right and partly wrong,” Duff said, his Scottish brogue causing the “r’s” to roll on his tongue. “I was for seeing my land, for I find the view to my liking and soothing to my soul. But ’tis right you are that my mind was back in Scotland.”

“You were thinking of your woman?” Elmer asked.

“Aye, the lass was much on my mind. ’Tis a shame I’ve all this, and no one to share it with me.”

“You’re a young man, Duff. You’ll not be single all your life I’m bettin’.” Elmer chuckled. “What about the young woman who runs that dress shop in Chugwater?”

“Ye would be talking about Meghan Parker, I expect,” Duff said.

“Who else would I be talkin’ about? Of course I’m talking about Meghan Parker. She’s all sass and spirit, with a face as brown as all outdoors, and yeller hair as bright as the sun. She’s as pretty as a newborn colt and as trustin’ as a loyal hound dog. Why, she could capture your heart in a minute if you would but give her the chance.”

Duff laughed. “Elmer, ’tis a bit of the poet you have in that ancient soul of yours.”

“I wasn’t always a poor castaway creature of the desert,” Elmer said.

Elmer was Duff’s only ranch hand. When Duff came to take possession of his land last year, he’d heard stories of a ghost in the old, abandoned and played-out mine that was on his property. When he examined his mine, he found the ghost who had kept others frightened away, and he also found that the mine was anything but played out. The ghost was Elmer, who was “protecting” his stake in the mine. At the time, Elmer was more wild than civilized; he had been living on bugs and rabbits when he could catch them, and such wild plants as could be eaten.

By rights and deed, the mine belonged to Duff, but he wound up taking Elmer in as his partner in the operation of the mine, and that move was immediately vindicated when shortly thereafter, Elmer saved Duff’s life. The two men became friends then, and over the last year, Duff had seen occasional glimpses into Elmer’s mysterious past.

Although Elmer had never told him the full story of his life, and seldom released more than a bit of information at a time, Duff was gradually learning about him.

He knew that Elmer had been to China as a crewman on a clipper ship.

Elmer had lived for two years with the Indians, married to an Indian woman who died while giving birth to their son. Elmer didn’t know where his son, who would be ten, was now. He had left him with his wife’s sister, and had not seen him since the day he was born.

And once Elmer even let it slip that he had ridden the outlaw trail with Jesse and Frank James.

Because of the goldmine, Elmer had money now, more money than he had ever had in his life. He could leave Wyoming and go to San Francisco to live out the rest of his life in ease and comfort, but he had no desire to do so.

“I got a roof over my head, a good friend, and all the terbaccy I can chew,” Elmer said. “Why would I be a-wantin’ to go anywhere else?”

Elmer stood up, stretched, and walked out to the fence line to relieve himself. Just before he did though, he jumped back in alarm.

“Damn!” he shouted.

“What is it?” Duff called from his swing. “What is wrong?”

“There’s a rattlesnake here!”

Duff got up from the swing and walked to the front of the porch. “Where is it?” he asked.

“Right over there!” Elmer said, pointing toward the gate in the fence. “Iffen I had been goin’ through the gate, I woulda got bit.”

“I see him,” Duff said.

Duff pulled his pistol and aimed it.

“You ain’t goin’ to try’n shoot it from way back there, are you?” Elmer asked.

For his answer, Duff pulled the trigger. The gun flashed and boomed, and kicked up in Duff’s hand. Sixty feet away, with an explosive mist of blood, the snake’s head was blasted from its body. The headless body of the snake stretched out on the ground and continued to jerk and twist.

“Sum’ bitch!” Elmer said. “I been to war, sailed the seas, and seen me a goat ropin’, but I ain’t never seen shootin’ like that.”

Elmer reached down and picked up the carcass, and then laying it on the top rung of the fence, pulled out his knife and began skinning it.

“What are you doing?” Duff asked.

“I’m goin’ to make us a couple of snakeskin hatbands, and we’re goin’ to have us some fried rattlesnake for supper,” Elmer said.

After supper that evening, consisting of batter-fried rattlesnake, fried potatoes and sliced onion, Duff pushed his plate away, then rubbed his stomach with a satisfied sigh.

“I never thought I would eat rattlesnake, but that was good.”

“You can eat purt’ nigh ever’thing if you know how to cook it,” Elmer said.

“Aye, and I’m sure you do know how to cook it,” Duff said.

“I et me a Tasmanian Devil oncet,” Elmer said. “We put in to an island just off Australia. Tougher’n a mule, he was, and had ’im a strong stink, too. But after six weeks at sea with naught but weevily biscuits, molderin’ fatback and beans, why, it weren’t all that hard to get around the stink.”

The two worked together to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen; then they went back out onto the front porch. To the west, a red sun moved heavily down through the darkening sky until it touched the tops of the Laramie Mountain Range. After the sun set, it was followed by a moon that was equally as red.

“Elmer, ’tis thinking I am that I’ll be goin’ back to Scotland,” Duff said.

“What?” Elmer asked, surprised by the comment.

“Not to stay, mind you, but for a bit of a visit. I received a letter from Ian telling me that there are no charges against me, so there’s no danger in my returning.”

“When will you be leaving?”

“I’ll ride to Cheyenne tomorrow, take the train the next day. I’ll leave from New York two weeks from today.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Nae more than two months, I’m thinking. Then when I come back, I’ll be for getting some cattle on the place.”

Elmer laughed.

“What is it?”

“I didn’t want to say anything, you bein’ the boss an’ all. But I was beginnin’ to wonder iffen I was goin’ to have to tell you that in order to have a cattle ranch, you’ll be needin’ to have some cattle.”

“Oh, I know we need cattle,” Duff said. “That’s not the question. The question is what kind of cattle we need.”

“What do you mean, what kind of cattle do we need? Longhorns is the easiest. But lots of folks are raising Herefords now. Is that what you are thinkin’?”

“No, I’m thinking about introducing an entirely new breed.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Black Angus. The kind that I raised back in Scotland.”

“Is that why you are going back to Scotland? To get some of them black, what did you call ’em?”

“Angus. Black Angus.”

“That seems kind of foolish, don’t it? I mean goin’ all the way back to Scotland to get some special kind of cow when you can get Herefords here.”

“That’s not why I’m going back to Scotland. I’m going back in order that I might give a proper good-bye to those that I left so suddenly.”

Elmer nodded. “A proper good-bye, yes, I can see that.”

Scotland, Donuun in Argyllshire

Duff stood in the middle of the cemetery behind the Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Donuun in Argyllshire. Holding a spray of heather in his hand, he looked down at the grave.

SKYE MCGREGOR

1866 – 1886

Beloved Daughter of IAN and MARGARET

a light of love ...

too quickly extinguished on this world,

now shining ever brightly in Heaven above

Duff leaned down to place the flowers on the well-tended grave, then put his hand on the marble tombstone. Saying a silent prayer, he stood, then walked a half mile to the Whitehorse Pub.

The pub was filled with customers when Duff stepped inside, and he stood there unnoticed. Ian McGregor, the owner of the pub, had his back to the bar as he was filling a mug with ale. For just a moment he had a start, for there was a young woman, the same size and with the same red hair as Skye, waiting on the customers. But the illusion was destroyed when she turned.

Ian had just handed the ale to the customer and was about to put the money into the cash register when he looked toward the door.

“Duff!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Ian’s shout alerted the others to Duff’s presence, and so many swarmed toward him that he was immediately surrounded. All wanted to shake his hand or pat him on the back. Duff smiled and greeted each of them warmly as they escorted him over to one of the tables. He had just taken his seat, when Ian placed a glass of Scotch in front of him.

“And would ye be for staying here now, lad?” Ian asked.

“Nae, ’tis but a visit,” Duff replied.

“For remember, ’tis no charge being placed against you. Three witnesses there were, who testified that you acted in self-defense.”

“Aye, ’twas explained to me in a letter,” Duff said. “But I’ve started a ranch, I’ve made friends, and I’ve begun a new life in America.”

“Then what brings you to Scotland?”

“As you recall, I had to leave very quickly,” Duff said. “I had no time to say a proper good-bye to Skye. ’Tis ashamed I was, that I was not here for her funeral.”

“You were here, lad,” Ian said. “Maybe not in the flesh, but there wasn’t a person in the church, nae nor in the cemetery when she was lowered into the ground, that did not feel your presence.”

Duff nodded. “Aye. For with all my heart and soul, I was here.”

Ian had to get back to work, but for the next two hours, Duff was kept busy telling his friends about America. Finally, when the last customer had left and the young woman, whose name was Kathleen, told the two of them good night, Duff and Ian sat together in the pub, dark now except for a single light that glowed dimly behind the bar.

“Have ye made friends, Duff?” Ian asked.

“Aye. Good friends, for all that they are new.” Duff told Ian about Biff Johnson, whose wife was Scottish, and Fred Matthews and R.W. Guthrie. He told him about Elmer Gleason, too.

“As odd a man as ever you might meet,” Duff said, “but as loyal and true a friend as you might want.”

“Have ye left anything out, lad?” Ian asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve made no mention of a woman. Is there no woman that has caught your fancy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ye dinnae know? But how can it be that you dinnae know?”

“I have met a young woman, handsome, spirited, gritty.”

“Handsome, spirited, gritty? Duff, ye could be talking about a horse. Surely there is more.”

“I don’t know,” Duff said. “I—Skye, it’s just that ...” he was unable to finish the sentence.

“Skye isn’t here, laddie,” Ian said. “And if she could speak from her grave, she would tell you nae to be closing your heart on her account.”

“Aye,” Duff said. “I believe that is true. But Skye is in a corner of my heart, Ian, and I cannae get her out.”

Ian reached across the table and put his hand on Duff’s shoulder. “There is nae need for ye to get Skye out of your heart, but keep her in that corner, so ye have room to let another in.”

“You’re a good man, Ian McGregor. ’Tis proud I would have been to be your son-in-law.”

“Duff, sure ’n you are my son-in-law, in my eyes, and in the eyes of God, if not in the eyes of the law.”

Chapter Two

The next day, Duff visited Bryan Wallace. Wallace was one of the most knowledgeable men about cattle that Duff had ever met, and he was the same stock breeder who had provided him with the cattle he used to start his own small farm before he left Scotland. After a warm greeting, Duff filled him in on where he had been for the last two years.

“I’ve built a nice ranch, with good grazing land, water, and protection from the winter’s cold blast,” Duff said. “And now the time has come for me to put cattle upon the land. Most would say I should raise Longhorn, for surely they are the most common of all the cattle there, and they are easy to raise. But there are some who are raising Herefords, and ’tis said that I might try that as well.”

“Aye, Herefords are a good breed and they do well in the American West,” Wallace replied.

“But I’m remembering with fondness the Black Angus I was raising here, and ’tis wondering I am, if you could be for telling me a bit o’ the background of the Black Angus?”

“Aye, would happy to, for ’tis a story of Scotland itself,” Wallace replied. “A man by the name of Hugh Watson was raising hornless cattle in Aberdeenshire and Angus. Doddies, they were called then, and good cattle they were, but Watson thought to improve them. So he began selecting only the best black, polled animals for his herd. His favorite bull was Old Jock, who was born 1842 and sired by Grey-Breasted Jock. Today, if you look in the Scottish Herd Book, you’ll be for seeing that old Jock was given the number ‘one.’

“In that same herd was a cow named Old Granny. Old Granny produced many calves, and today every Black Angus that is registered can trace its lineage back to those two cows.”

“And how would the cows do in America?”

“Ye’d be thinkin’ of raising Black Angus on the new ranch of yours, are ye?” Wallace asked.

“Aye, if I thought they would do well there.”

“Ease your mind, Laddie, they do just foine in America, for they are there already.”

“Really? In Wyoming?”

“Nae, I think there be none in Wyoming. But they are in Kansas, Missouri, and Mississippi. And, there is already an American Aberdeen Angus Association which has their headquarters in Chicago. If ye be for wanting information about the breed in America, I would say that’s where you should go.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wallace.”

“You’ll be going back to America then, will you?”

“Aye. I’ve set down my roots there, now.”

“What do you think of the country?”

“’Tis as big and as wonderful as you can possibly imagine,” Duff replied enthusiastically.

“Do me a favor, Lad, and drop me a line when you get your herd established. I have been keeping track of where all the Black Angus have been started. ’Tis a thing I do for the Scottish Breeders Association.”

“I’ll be happy to,” Duff said.

Chugwater, Wyoming Territory

When Meghan Parker checked her mail she was surprised, and pleased, to find a letter from Duff MacCallister. Excitedly, she started to open it; then, just before opening the flap, she hesitated.

What if it was a letter telling her that he was not coming back? What if he was writing to tell her that he was going to stay in Scotland?

No, surely he wouldn’t do that. He has a ranch here. He has made friends here.

But, he is from Scotland. And though Meghan didn’t know all the particulars, she did know that he had been in love there, and that the love, for some reason, was unrequited.

Of course, she was just being silly thinking about all this, anyway. In the past year, Duff had made no overtures beyond being just friendly to her. He had even come to a few of the dances and had danced with her. But even then, he had been somewhat reticent, refusing to occupy too much of her time because the single men so outnumbered the single women that she was always very much in demand at the dances.

Still, it did seem that he went out of his way to speak to her, or to find some reason to see her on his infrequent visits to town.

Was this a letter of good-bye?

There was only one way to find out, and that was to open it. Closing her eyes and breathing a little prayer of petition, Meghan opened the envelope, and withdrew the letter. The writing was bold, and neat, but she would have expected no less from him.

Dear Miss Parker—

Even as I pen the words upon the page of this missive, I am gazing out over the moors, lochs, and highlands of my beautiful Scotland, and I find myself wondering why I ever left its shores.

Meghan dropped the letter down and held it to her breast, afraid to read any further. Was he about to tell her that he wasn’t coming back to America?

Then I think of the beauty of my ranch, Sky Meadow, and the joy of the friends I have made since I came there, and I know that America is truly my new home.

Again, Meghan dropped the letter to her chest, but this time, not in fear, but in joy.

“Yes!” she said aloud.

Looking around then to make certain that no one was observing her odd behavior, she continued to read the letter.

I will be back within one month of your receipt of this letter. My visit here has been both personal and for business, and I now know the next step I am going to take with my ranch. I hope your memory of me has been kept green in my absence.

Yours Truly,

Duff MacCallister

The last time Duff crossed the Atlantic from Scotland, he had done so as a crewman onboard the Hiawatha, a three-masted, square-rigged sail ship. This time, he was a paying passenger on the HMS Adriatic, a steamship that had already set a record in crossing. The trip was fast and pleasant, with good weather and good food. When he put in to New York, he visited with Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister, the famous brother-and-sister team of stage players who were his cousins.

“You simply must tell me about your ranch,” Rosanna said. They were having dinner at Delmonico’s. Duff’s train was due to leave Grand Central Station at eleven that same evening.

“Truly, it is a beautiful place,” Duff said. “It sets between timbered hills that stretch down to the rolling green plain below, through which the Bear and Little Bear creeks run, shining like strands of polished silver.”

“Oh, it sounds lovely,” Rosanna said. “I should love to visit it some day.”

“And I would love to have you as my guest,” Duff replied.

“How many head of cattle are you running?” Andrew asked.

“Counting my milk cows,” Duff said, pausing for a moment, then added, “two.”

“Two? You have two cows on the entire ranch? Well, are you raising sheep?”

“Sheep? Oh, heavens no,” Duff said, laughing. “I’ve taken enough teasing from the others for having no cattle. But I wanted to get the ranch exactly right before I introduced cattle, and also, ’tis a certain breed of cattle that I want. A breed that is not now in Wyoming.”

“What breed would that be?” Andrew asked.

“Black Angus.”

Duff explained what he considered to be the plus side of raising Black Angus, adding that he had raised the breed back in Scotland.

“And you will be the first to introduce them to Wyoming?” Andrew asked.

“Aye, as far as I know, I will be.”

Andrew smiled and put his hand on Duff’s shoulder. “Then you will be making history, cousin,” he said.

Andrew and Rosanna went to the train station with Duff and waited with him until it was time for his train. With a final wave good-bye, Duff passed through the door that read TO TRAINS. Out under the train shed, he could smell the smoke and the steam, and feel the rumble of the heavy trains in his stomach as he walked toward track number eight. Then he walked down the narrow concrete path that separated the train on track number eight from the train on track number nine. Half an hour later, the train pulled out of the station and began its overnight run to Chicago.

Chicago, Illinois

In Chicago, Duff looked up the address of the American Aberdeen Angus Association, and after a few preliminary questions was directed to a man named Eli Woodson.

“Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister, we are absolutely encouraging the expansion of Angus cattle in America,” Eli Woodson said, when Duff told him what he had planned. “And you say that you have been around them before?”

“Aye. When I was in Scotland, I was growing the breed.”

“Good, good, then I won’t have to be selling you on them, will I? You know what a fine breed they are. Tell me, where will you be ranching?

“In eastern Wyoming, a place called Chugwater Valley. It is just north of Wyoming.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Woodson said. “Wyoming is a big cattle area. It would be good to have the noble Angus represented there.”

“My question now is, where do I purchase the animals?”

“Well, I can set you up with a bull, and maybe ten heifers from here. You can ship them back on the train.”

“Thank you, but I would like to start with a much bigger herd.”

“How large is much bigger?”

“I want at least five hundred head,” Duff said.

Woodson blinked. “You intend to start your herd with five hundred head?”

“Aye.”

“Mr. MacCallister, do you have any idea how much something like that would cost?”

“I think no more than thirty dollars a head. Maybe a little less,” Duff said. “And I can do the math.”

Woodson smiled. “Well, now. If you are fully aware of the cost of starting a herd with such a number, and, nevertheless want to pursue it, I’m sure we can find enough cattle for you. How long will you be in Chicago?”

“I plan to take the train to Cheyenne tomorrow.”

“Do you have a hotel for tonight?”

“I do. I will be staying at the Palmer House.”

“Good. Enjoy your stay there, while I do some research. I will telephone the front desk at the Palmer House and leave a message for you when I get the information you need.”

“Thank you.”

The Palmer House was seven stories high. The room, compared to all the other hotel rooms Duff had occupied, was quite large and luxuriously decorated. It also had a private bathroom with hot and cold running water.

After taking a bath, Duff went downstairs and into the barbershop to get a haircut. The marble tiles of the barbershop floor were inlaid with silver dollars. It, like the entire hotel, was well illuminated by electric lights. A wax recording machine sat in the back of the barbershop, and one or more of the barbers kept it playing all the time Duff was in the barber chair.

From the barbershop he went into the restaurant where he saw Angus steak on the menu, and ordered it. By the time he finished dinner, it was dark, but still too early to go to bed, so Duff decided to take a walk around the city. He wound up at the Chicago River and stood there by the bridge for a while, watching the boat traffic.

“No! Please, no!”

The voice was that of a woman, and she sounded frightened. The sound was coming from under the bridge, but when Duff looked underneath, it was far too dark to see.

“Oh, please, don’t hurt me. I am but a poor woman, I have done you no harm.”

Moving quickly, Duff climbed over the railing of the bridge, then down the embankment.

“Miss?” he called. “Miss, where are you?”

“Help, oh please help!”

Duff started toward the voice.

“We’ve got one, Percy, don’t let him get away!” a woman’s voice said excitedly. It was the same woman who had been calling for help.

Duff realized at once that he had fallen for a trap. And in the time it would take others to figure out what was wrong, Duff was already reacting. He knew that where he was standing would make him stand out in silhouette against the reflections off the Chicago River. He moved quickly to step farther under the bridge and to put the dark part of the embankment behind him.

“Where the hell did he go?” a gruff voice asked.

Duff looked toward the sound, using a trick he had learned when fighting on the desert in Egypt at night. By not looking directly at the object, but slightly to one side, a person could see better at night. Duff saw a shadow moving toward where he had been, but a moment earlier.

“Find him, Percy!” the woman’s voice said. “Don’t let him get away!”

Percy was holding one arm out in front of him.

“I’m going to cut him up good,” Percy said.

Duff breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that it wasn’t a gun. He wasn’t armed, and under the circumstances, he thought it would be a lot easier to deal with someone who was holding a knife than it would be to deal with someone who had a gun.

“I’m over here, Percy,” Duff said.

“What?” Percy said. He moved quickly toward where Duff had been when he spoke. But Duff had stepped to one side, and he felt, heard, and saw Percy make a wild and unsuccessful swipe with his blade.

Duff reached out at the exact moment Percy’s arm was most extended. Putting one hand on Percy’s elbow and the other on Percy’s wrist, he jerked the arm back, breaking it at the elbow.

“Ahhh!” Percy screamed in pain.

Duff heard the knife hit the ground, and reaching down quickly, he picked it up and tossed it into the river, hearing the little splash as it went in.

“Percy!” the woman shouted.

“He’s here,” Duff said.

“Percy, what happened?”

“The son of a bitch broke my arm!” Percy said, his voice strained with pain.

“Aye, but ye should be glad ’twas your arm I broke, and not your neck,” Duff said.

“You son of a bitch! You broke Percy’s arm?” the woman said, angrily.

“Tch, tch, such language from a lady,” Duff said. “Sure now, lass, an’ I’m beginnin’ to think ye were in nae danger at all, now, were ye?” Duff asked.

“Kill him, Percy! Kill him!” the woman said, her voice rising in fear.

“Kill him? I can barely move, you dumb bitch! How am I going to kill him?”

“I would be for betting that I’m nae the first ye have invited down here by your ruse,” Duff said. “But ’tis thinking I am that I might be your last.”

“I need a doctor,” Percy said. “M’arm is about to fall off.”

“Aye, if I were you, I would get that arm looked at,” Duff said. Stepping out from under the bridge, he climbed back up the embankment. Behind him, he could hear Percy and the woman arguing.

“I got him down here for you. The rest was up to you, but you couldn’t handle it.”

“He broke my arm,” Percy replied. “Can’t you understand that? He broke my arm. I need a doctor.”

Their angry and accusing voices faded behind him as he walked through the night back toward the hotel.

“Mr. MacCallister,” the hotel clerk called to him as he crossed the lobby.

“Aye?”

“You’ve a message, sir, from a Mr. Woodson.” The clerk handed a note to Duff.

“Thank you,” Duff said.

Duff took the message over to one of the sofas in the lobby and sat there as he unfolded it to read.

The Kansas City Cattle Exchange can make all the arrangements to provide you with Black Angus Cattle. Good luck with your enterprise.

Woodson.

Smiling, Duff put the note in his pocket. As soon as he got back to Wyoming, he would contact the Kansas City Cattle Exchange and make whatever arrangements as might be necessary.