Massacre of Eagles

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sheridan, Wyoming Territory

The Occidental Hotel was on North Main. A fine log structure, the hotel was built by Charles Buell. It advertised itself as the finest hostelry establishment between Chicago and San Francisco, and the boast was not without some justification. The lobby of the hotel was well appointed with overstuffed sofas and chairs, a dark blue carpet, and several brass spittoons. A chandelier and a few strategically placed lanterns provided some light, but not brightness.

There were several people in the lobby, but they were gathered in separate conversational groups speaking quietly, so that there was relative quiet. The desk clerk was sitting in a chair behind the sign-in desk, reading a copy of the Sheridan Bulletin. He was wearing a brown three-piece suit with a white shirt, detachable collar, and bow tie. Except for a small line of hair above each ear, he was bald. He looked up as Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham came into the hotel.

“Buffalo Bill Cody,” the desk clerk said, setting his paper aside as the three men walked up to the desk. “I heard that you had taken passage on the Queen of the West. How wonderful to see you again.”

“Hello, Paul,” Cody said. “May I introduce my two friends? This is Falcon MacCallister.”

“Yes, indeed, I have heard much about you, sir. And all of it flattering,” Paul said.

“And this gentleman is a writer who we can’t seem to get rid of. His name is Prentiss Ingraham.”

“Prentiss Ingraham? The Prentiss Ingraham?”

“You have heard of me?”

“Indeed I have, sir. And I have read every one of your books. In fact, I have one here that I would ask you to autograph for me, if you would be so kind.”

“Why, I would be delighted to autograph your book for you,” Ingraham said, beaming in delight over the unexpected recognition.

The clerk reached under the check-in counter and pulled out a copy of Buffalo Bill’s Spy Trailer—The Stranger in Camp and handed it to Ingraham.

“Oh, you’ve chosen well,” Ingraham said as he autographed the book. “This is one of my personal favorites.”

That was the same thing he had said to the boat ticket agent about Falcon MacCallister and the Mountain Marauders, and as Ingraham signed the book with a great flourish, Falcon and Cody looked at each other and chuckled.

“Mr. Cody, I saw in the newspaper that you are going to be holding auditions for your show. Up in Cinnabar, I believe?”

“Indeed I am,” Cody replied. “How about it, Paul? Do you want to try out for the show?”

Paul laughed. “Not unless you have a place in your show for hotel clerks,” he said. He turned toward a board filled with keys hanging from hooks, took three of them down and handed one to each of them. “These rooms are on the second floor near the front,” he said. “All three are together, two of them are adjoining rooms, and the third one is immediately across the hall.”

“Thanks,” Falcon and Cody said. Ingraham finished signing the book and then handed back to the clerk.

“Thank you, sir,” the clerk said with a broad smile. “I will treasure this.”

Like the lobby, the hotel room was nicely furnished. More spacious than most hotel rooms, this one had a bed, a settee, a chest of drawers, a chifforobe, and a dry sink. A porcelain pitcher and bowl sat on the dry sink.

After settling their luggage into the room, Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham decided to take a turn around the town to see what it was like.

“The reason I wanted to look over the town is because I expect that Cody will be much like this one,” Cody said. “After all, Mr. Beck founded and built this town, and he is the principal architect for Cody, which is to be built some fifty miles west of here.”

The town was well laid out, not only with a very fine hotel, but with many other conveniences a town would need: a mercantile, a leather goods store, a feed and seed store, a hardware store, a butcher shop, a livery, a gun shop, and, of course, a saloon. In this case the saloon was called the North Star Saloon, and it was a rather substantial building. Unlike many of the others, it was painted a gleaming white.

Buffalo Bill Cody had been to the town of Sheridan many times over the last few years, and he knew several of the people who were, at the moment, patronizing the saloon. They all greeted him effusively, and Cody returned the greetings with equal enthusiasm, introducing Falcon and Ingraham to them. Nearly all had heard of Falcon and Prentiss Ingraham, much to the delight of Ingraham, who enjoyed sharing stories of both his books and adventures.

As Falcon and the others listened with interest to Ingraham’s tall tales, the sound of a slap could be heard all through the saloon.

“Ouch! Don’t do that!” a woman called out, the pain and fear evident in the tone of her voice.

“Don’t tell me what to do, whore!” a man’s gruff voice replied. “I done bought you four drinks and you say you I can’t lie in your bed?”

“I’m a bar girl, I’m not a prostitute,” the woman replied.

“She’s right, Slayton,” the bar tender said. “Lucy is not a soiled dove. None of the girls here are. If you want that kind of woman, you need to go down the street to the cribs.”

“Don’t tell me where to go, and don’t tell me she ain’t no whore,” Slayton said. He drew his hand back and turned toward Lucy. “You’re goin’ to lie with me, or I’m going to beat you to a pulp,” he said with a menacing growl.

“Mister, back away from the lady,” Falcon ordered, loudly.

“Say what?” Slayton replied. Slayton was nearly as big a man as Falcon. He didn’t have a beard, but neither was he clean-shaven. He had what looked like a five-day stubble. The most noticeable thing about him was his teeth. Irregular and yellow, one front tooth was broken and the one next to it was missing.

“I said back away from the lady. Now,” Falcon said.

Slayton turned toward Falcon and pointed at him. “Mister, you are buttin’ in where you got no call. Now my advice to you is to sit down and mind your own business.”

“Mister, you might want to rethink,” Falcon said.

“Really? And what is it I need to rethink?”

“Your entire attitude.”

Don’t you be worryin’ none about my attitude,” Slayton said. “If there is anyone in here that’s needin’ to rethink, it’s you for buttin’ in where you got no business. You bein’ a stranger in town, you may not know that I ain’t the kind of man you want to mess with.” He had been pointing at Falcon, but now he started to drop his arm.

“Huh, uh. Don’t drop your arm, don’t make a move,” Falcon said.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Falcon said. “Don’t make a move. If you so much as twitch, I’ll kill you.”

“Mister, you don’t even have a gun in your hand. Do you think you can run a bluff on me? Nobody runs a bluff on me.”

“Friend,” Buffalo Bill said. “I’ve known Falcon MacCallister for some time now, and I don’t believe I have ever seen him run a bluff.”

“I don’t believe that is Falcon MacCallister,” Slayton said. He started to drop his arm, but no sooner did he twitch than he found himself staring at the black hole of the business end of Falcon’s pistol.

“I told you not to move,” Falcon said.

“No! Wait!” Slayton shouted. He put both arms up. “Don’t shoot, Mister, don’t shoot!”

For the moment the loudest sound to be heard was the steady tick-tock of the regulator clock which hung just above the fireplace mantle. The other customers in the saloon were viewing the unfolding scene as intently as anyone who had ever watched a Buffalo Bill Wild West Exhibition. And in a way, they were spectators of a show, but in this case the scene being played out before them was much more intense than anything Buffalo Bill had ever produced. This was a drama of life or death.

Unable to control the sudden twitch that started in his left eye, Slayton looked around the saloon to see if he could count on anyone for help.

“Are you people going to just let him get away with this?” Slayton called out. “He’s a stranger! I’m one of you!”

“You ain’t never been one of us, Slayton,” a cowboy over at the bar said. The cowboy was standing with his back against the bar, leaning back with his elbows resting on the bar. “You ain’t done nothin’ but run roughshod over the rest of us ever since you got here. As far as I’m concerned, he can shoot you right now and I’d say good riddance.”

Slayton looked back at Falcon, realizing now that not only was he on his own, but he had come up against someone who was far his superior.

“Please, Mister,” Slayton said with a whimper. “What are you going to do?”

“Yes, Falcon, what are you going to do?” Cody asked.

“What do you think, Buffalo Bill? Do you think I should just shoot him and be done with it?” Falcon asked.

“My God,” Slayton said, his bottom lip quivering now. “Falcon MacCallister and Buffalo Bill?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Ingraham said. “Falcon, suppose you put your pistol back in your holster. I’ll count to three, then both of you can draw. A duel to the death like that would make much better story than if I wrote that you merely shot him. You would like that better, wouldn’t you, Slayton? I mean if Falcon MacCallister put his gun away and actually gave you a chance to draw against him? It wouldn’t be much of a chance, I admit—but it would be a chance. Better than him just shooting you, here and now.”

“Yes,” Slayton said.

Falcon put his pistol back in his holster.

“I mean no!” Slayton shouted, quickly, holding both his arms out in front of him, palms facing outward. “I mean no I don’t want to draw against you at all. I ain’t goin’ for my gun! Do you see? I ain’t goin’ for my gun!”

The young woman was tending to her bleeding lip, and she looked up at Slayton. One of her eyes was black and nearly swollen shut. “If it was left up to me, I would tell you to shoot him,” she said.

“No,” Slayton said. He began shaking uncontrollably, and he wet his pants. “Please, don’t kill me,” he begged. “I swear, I’ll never touch the girl again. Please, don’t kill me.”

Lucy turned to the others in the saloon. “Did you all hear the promise Mr. Slayton just made?”

“We heard it, Miss Lucy,” one of the other patrons asked.

“Will you see to it that he keeps his promise?”

“Oh, he’ll keep his promise, all right,” the cowboy who was leaning back against the bar said. “’Cause if he don’t keep it, me an’ some of the boys will find him, and we’ll string him up ourselves.”

“Go home, Mr. Slayton,” Lucy finally said in a cold voice. “And don’t come back here until you know how to behave around a lady.”

“Behave around a lady?” Slayton said in a contemptuous tone. “What do you mean around a lady?”

The next sound was the deadly double-click of a pistol sear engaging the hammer and rotating a shell under the firing pin. Once again, Falcon was holding his pistol pointed at Slayton.

“Are you going to try and say that you don’t see any ladies around here?” Falcon asked.

“What? No, no, I see a lady,” Slayton stammered. He looked around at the other bar girls. “I see a lot of ladies around here!” Still holding his hands out in front of him, as if warding Falcon off, he turned to leave.

“Wait a minute,” Falcon called.

Slayton stopped.

“Before you leave, shuck out of that gun belt. The pistol stays here,” Falcon said.

“Who the hell says that it stays here?” Slayton asked, in one last attempt at bravado.

“I say it,” Falcon replied as calmly as if he were giving the time.

Slayton paused for a moment longer, then, with shaking hands, unbuckled his gun belt. He let it drop to the floor.

“Now you can go,” Falcon said.

“When do I get it back?” Slayton asked.

“Whenever the lady says you can have it back,” Falcon said.

“Are you crazy? I ain’t leavin’ my gun with no whore!”

“I will give it back to you, Mr. Slayton, when you have learned to behave as a gentleman,” Lucy said.

As soon as Slayton stepped outside, there was a collective sigh of relief, then everyone started talking at the same time.

“Did you see that?”

“I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it in my whole life.”

“Never thought I would see anyone back down Ethan Slayton,” one of the patrons said.

“Well, it wasn’t just anyone,” another said. “It was Falcon MacCallister.

Falcon reached down to pick up the gun and belt that Slayton had shed. Carrying it over to the bar, he handed it to the bartender.

“It might be a good idea to empty the bullets before you hand the pistol back to him,” Falcon suggested. “Someone with a temper like he has is liable to start shooting the moment he gets his hands back on it.”

“Don’t you worry none about that, Mr. MacCallister,” the bartender said. “I’ll have this gun empty before you can say Jack Sprat.”

“Johnny,” Lucy said.

“Yes, Miss Lucy?”

“Would you please pour these three gentleman a drink, on me?” she asked, referring to Falcon, Cody, and Ingraham.

“Yes, ma’am, I’d be glad to,” Johnny said, reaching for the house’s finest bourbon. “But you are only goin’ to pay for half of it. I’m payin’ the other half my ownself.”

Preston Ingraham’s notes from his book in progress:

After assuring the gallant General Nelson Miles that he did not believe the great Sioux Chief, Sitting Bull, was behind or planning any nefarious activity, Buffalo Bill Cody, Falcon MacCallister, and your humble scribe left the Standing Rock Indian Reservation to continue their sojourn through the West, proceeding from the above location by way of train to Miles City. There, the two Western heroes were feted by the commandant of the nearby army post, Fort Keogh, named for the gallant officer who died with Custer. Colonel Whitehead, the fort’s commandant, allowed the ladies of the post to produce a military ball in their honor. Although the ball was held in the bare hall of a Suttler’s Store, the ladies of the fort succeeded with their clever and colorful decorations to convert the stark building into as inviting a ball room as in the finest Eastern salons. And, as I am travelling with Cody and MacCallister, I was also privileged to attend the ball, and enjoyed dancing with the lovely ladies of the post.

Leaving Miles City, we traveled by riverboat on the Tongue River, with Sheridan as the destination.

Shortly after arriving in Sheridan, a small town in Wyoming Territory, a brutish fellow imagined himself offended by a young woman of the bar, and he struck her several times. Falcon MacCallister, upon seeing the altercation, interceded.

“Here, sir, do not strike that woman again.”

His words rang with authority, and not one person in the room was there, who did not realize that a challenge was being issued.

The brigand, a most disreputable fellow of the lowest type, was a known bully by the name of Ethan Slayton, a person whose disrepute was known by all.

“Mister, what I do to this woman ain’t none of your business,” Slayton replied in a voice dripping with arrogance and venom.

“You err, sir, for I have made it my business,” the valiant Falcon MacCallister said. “For one who attacks a defenseless woman, attacks all that is good and noble.”

Pointing his finger at Falcon, Slayton issued a challenge that would have made the blood run cold in most men. “Mister, you have butted in where you have no business. My advice to you is to back away or be prepared to face the ire of Ethan Slayton.”

It is to be supposed that brute was of the opinion that mere mention of the name Ethan Slayton would be sufficient to make most men withdraw meekly. But Mr. Slayton made a serious miscalculation, for Falcon MacCallister is not a man who is easily frightened. His reply, intoned in a voice that was dripping with danger, brought instant silence to all in the saloon.

“Friend, if you so much as twitch, I will kill you,” Falcon MacCallister said, his words cold and piercing.

“I will not be buffaloed, by you or any man,” Slayton said, and to prove his point, moved his hand in the direction of his pistol, but ere his hand reached his holster, a Colt .44, as if by magic, appeared in the hand of Falcon MacCallister. Slayton gasped in surprise and fear.

“You should feel no shame sir, for having been bested by this man,” Buffalo Bill Cody said from aside. “For this is Falcon MacCallister, and his gunmanship is superior to all in the West. Were you to test him any further, he would have put a ball in your heart.”

Realizing that he was beaten, the disagreeable Slayton made no further attempt to extract his weapon from his holster. Begging for his life, he was allowed to leave the saloon, but only after offering his apology to the young woman whom he had assaulted, and surrendering his pistol.