The Eagles Legacy

Chapter Twenty-six

Sky Meadow

Falcon was tightening the cinch strap on Lightning as Duff stood by watching.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay awhile longer?” Falcon asked. “If this man Malcolm finds you, I might come in handy. Besides, I can help you build the barn.”

“Falcon, you have been more than helpful,” Duff said. “But the time has come when I must stand on my own. Besides, I’ve hired Mr. Gleason. As far as any further construction is concerned, I think the two of us can get the job done.”

“I’m sure you can as well. It looks like you’ve made a fine start.”

Gleason came out of the house carrying a little cloth bag. He handed it to Falcon.

“This is in case you get hungry on the train,” he said. “I baked you somethin’.”

“Mr. Gleason, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Falcon said.

Gleason chuckled. “What do you think, that I cooked up a rat? I didn’t always eat rats and bugs and such. Before I got the gold fever, I was a belly robber for Mr. Richard King on his ranch down in Texas. And I was a good one, if I say so myself. I cooked you up a batch of sinkers. I think you’ll like them.”

Falcon opened the sack and looked down inside. As the aroma hit him, he smiled. Then he pulled one of them out and took a bite.

“Uhhmm,” he said. “Mr. Gleason, this is delicious. Cousin, if he can’t drive a nail for you, he’s worth keeping around just for his sinkers.”

“I don’t know what a sinker is,” Duff said.

“Some people call them doughnuts,” Falcon said. He broke off a piece of the one he was eating and handed it to Duff. “Try this.”

Duff tasted it, then smiled. “Mr. Gleason, I do hope you didn’t give all of them to Falcon.”

“Sonny, do you think I don’t know where my bread is buttered?” Gleason said. “I gave him a few, but I kept most of them back.”

Falcon laughed, then swung into his saddle. “Duff, I think I am leaving you in good hands,” he said. “You know how to get hold of me if you need me.” Slapping his legs against Lightning’s sides, Falcon rode off, throwing a wave as he left.

“He’s a good man,” Gleason said.

“Aye, I have found that to be so,” Duff agreed.

Chugwater

It created some curiosity when eight men rode into Chugwater together. That was because while groups of cowboys who were involved in trail drives often traveled together, this was not the time for a trail drive. Also, news of the bank robbery in Cheyenne had already reached Chugwater by telegraph message. So when Malcolm and the others tied up in front of Fiddler’s Green, Fred Matthews, who was standing at the window in the front of his mercantile store, saw them.

“Lonnie,” he called to the sixteen-year-old who worked for him.

“Yes, Mr. Matthews?”

“Go down to Marshal Craig’s office and tell him that he might want to check in on that bunch of men who just went into Fiddler’s Green. I’ve got a feeling about them.”

“Who do you think they are?”

“I think they may be the bunch that held up the bank down in Cheyenne.”

“You think they’re maybe goin’ to rob our bank? I got me near thirty dollars in that bank.”

“I don’t know,” Fred admitted. “But I think the marshal should know about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Biff Johnson had just finished tapping a new barrel of beer, and he held a mug under the spigot, then operated it to see if it was working properly. A steady stream of golden liquid flowed from the spigot, so, satisfied that the flow was all right, he shut it off, then took a sip to see if the beer tasted all right. It was necessary that he do that, because the beer came by train from Denver to Tracy, then by wagon from Tracy up to Chugwater, and sometimes it got a little stale. But that wasn’t the case now, because this beer was fine.

Biff was putting the mug in a tub of water when he saw the eight men coming into his saloon. Though that wouldn’t have been unusual during the cattle season, it was unusual now, and he looked up at them in curiosity.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Fiddler’s Green.”

“We’ve ridden long and hard, and we’re thirsty,” one of the men said. He was a small man, with nostrils so prominent that they reminded Biff of a pig’s snout. He chided himself for having such a thought, though. After all, these were customers.

“Well, gentlemen, I have just the thing for thirst. I have only this moment tapped a new keg of beer.”

At the marshal’s office, Russell Craig, a man in his early sixties, had just poured himself a cup of coffee when young Lonnie Mathers came into his office. “Good morning, Lonnie,” the marshal said.

“Marshal, them folks that robbed the bank in Cheyenne is in town,” Lonnie said.

Craig had just lifted the cup to his lips, but he brought it down quickly when Lonnie said that.

“What? How do you know?”

“That’s what Mr. Matthews said. They’s eight folks just rode into town an’ they all went into Fiddler’s Green. Mr. Matthews said he’s sure they was the ones that robbed the bank.”

“He said that? He said he’s sure?”

“Well, no, sir, not exactly. But he said he believes they might be the ones.”

“He believes they might be the ones,” Craig repeated. This time he did raise the cup to his lips.

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Lonnie. You can tell Fred that I will look into it.”

“Yes, sir,” Lonnie replied. “I’ll tell him that.”

Marshal Craig watched Lonnie walk back down the street to the mercantile store, then he went over to a hook on the wall and took down his holster and pistol. Strapping the gunbelt on, he pushed through the door of the marshal’s office and started toward Fiddler’s Green.

Back at Fiddler’s Green Lucy and Peggy, the only two bar girls remaining since Annie had been killed, were sitting at a table in the corner having a cup of coffee. It was just ten-thirty in the morning, and their normal work hours didn’t start until two o’clock in the afternoon, but they had no place else to go and they often just relaxed and visited with each other before starting to work.

“Peggy, let’s get out of here,” Lucy said quietly.

“Get out of here? Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t care. Anywhere but here. I don’t like the looks of this.”

“What? You mean all those men?” Peggy asked.

“Yes,” Lucy said. “There’s something not right about this.”

Marshal Craig came into the saloon, then stopped and stood for just a moment inside the door. Malcolm and the men with him looked around at him.

“Liam Pettigrew,” Craig said, recognizing one of them. “I thought you were in prison.”

“I got out,” Pettigrew said.

“So I see. What are you men doing here?”

“Good morning, Constable,” Malcolm said. “We have come to find a friend of mine, a fellow countryman.”

Upon hearing Malcolm’s accent, Marshal Craig’s eyes narrowed. The telegram he had received telling about the bank robbery in Cheyenne identified two of the men by name. One was Pogue, no first name available, and one, who spoke with a Scottish brogue, was Rab Malcolm.

“You would be Rab Malcolm, I take it?”

Malcolm looked surprised. “Aye. How do you know that?”

“Son of a bitch!” Pogue shouted. “Malcolm, he knows about the bank robbery, that’s how he knows about it!”

Upon hearing Pogue’s shout, Marshal Craig went for his pistol, but he was too late. Pogue, Pettigrew, and McKenna all beat him to the draw. Their three guns fired almost as one. Craig pulled the trigger on his pistol, but as he had not brought his gun to bear, the bullet plunged into the floor. Craig fell facedown with three bullets in him.

By now all the other outlaws had drawn their pistols as well, and they stood there holding them at the ready as the smoke from four discharges floated up to form a blue-gray cloud just under the ceiling.

Malcolm turned toward Biff Johnson just as he was reaching for the shotgun that he kept under the bar.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Malcolm said, pointing his pistol at the bartender.

Biff backed away from the bar.

“You killed the marshal,” Biff said.

“You saw it, barkeep,” Malcolm said. “We really had no choice.”

“He was a good man,” Biff said.

“Ha!” Pettigrew said. “Well, he’s a dead man now.”

“Barkeep, I want you to do a favor for me,” Malcolm said.

“Why should I do you a favor?”

“Because if you don’t do that favor for me, I shall kill one of these ladies,” Malcolm said, pointing his pistol toward Lucy and Peggy. “And here is the interesting thing. I am going to let you pick the one that I kill.” He smiled at the two women, who had been stunned into silence by what they had just witnessed. “What do you think, ladies? Which one of you will he pick?”

“You can’t do that!” Biff said. “I’m not going to choose which one you kill. Are you insane?”

“Insane? No, just curious as to which one you will choose.”

“I’m not going to choose either one.”

“Never mind, I will choose. And after I kill one of them, if you still won’t do the favor, I will kill the other one. What do you think about that? And so, you see, it really doesn’t matter which one you would have chosen, because I will kill them both if you force my hand. And if you still won’t do the favor, then I will simply kill you and find someone else who will do me the favor.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to go find Duff MacCallister and bring him to me.”

“Duff MacCallister? What do you want with him?”

“He is a countryman of mine,” Malcolm said.

“Somehow I have the idea that you don’t want him for a reunion of old friends.”

“Do ye now?” Malcolm said. He laughed. “You are most astute. Now, will you fetch MacCallister for me? Or shall I choose one of these ladies to die?”

“No, no, there is no need for that. I will go.”

“Good for you. You have made a wise choice.”

“And Falcon MacCallister,” Pettigrew added quickly. “Don’t forget to bring him along as well.”

“Aye,” Malcolm said. “Do, please, bring Falcon MacCallister along as well,” Malcolm said. “Mr. Shaw?”

“Yeah.”

“You have a loud voice. Kindly step out into the street and announce that we have two women as hostages. If anyone comes into the pub, we will kill them. If anyone makes a move toward us, we will kill the women.”

“All right,” Shaw said.

“I wonder where Biff is going,” Fred Matthews said as he saw Biff riding away.

“The marshal, he ain’t come out yet,” Lonnie said.

“This doesn’t look good.”

Next door to the saloon was Megan’s Dress Emporium. The proprietor and seamstress was Megan Parker, a very pretty young woman. Mrs. Finley, one of her customers, had just finished trying on a dress and was about to leave when Megan held out her hand.

“No, Mrs. Finley, I don’t think you should leave yet,” she said.

“Oh, dear me,” Mrs. Finley said. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

At that moment Shaw came out into the street and began yelling at the top of his voice.

“All you people, hear me now!” Shaw shouted. “We just kilt your marshal! We got some business to take care of in this town and we’re goin’ to stay here till that business is done! Don’t nobody come into the saloon! If you do, we’ll kill you! Don’t nobody make any moves toward us, ’cause we got us two whores in here, and we’ll kill them.”

“Did he say they killed Marshal Craig?” Mrs. Finley asked.

“That’s what he said,” Megan replied.

“Oh, my. Poor Gladys.”

Sky Meadow

“He is Scottish, you say?” Duff asked.

“He is Scottish, all right,” Biff said. “I would recognize the brogue anywhere.”

“I’m sure it is Rab Malcolm,” Duff said. “He is nothing if not persistent.”

“Malcolm, yes, that is his name. I heard the marshal call him that.”

“And you say he has men with him?”

“Counting the Scotsman, there are eight of them,” Biff said. “One of them asked that I bring Falcon back as well. I think they want him as much as Malcolm wants you.”

“Aye, Falcon had spoken of the enemies he has made, and ’twould be like Malcolm’s way to recruit others by using Falcon as his bait. But Falcon isn’t here. He left yesterday, to go back home.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Did ye not say that Malcolm has threatened the ladies if I don’t appear?”

“Not exactly. He threatened them as a means of persuading me to come after you,” Biff replied. “I have kept my end of the bargain, I have come after you. I think that is all that’s needed to keep Lucy and Peggy safe.”

“I would not want to count on that,” Duff said. “Malcolm is a man with fewer redemptive qualities than a bilge rat. I had better go into town and get this settled, once and for all.”

“You forget, he isn’t alone.”

“I think there will be no problem with the others. ’Tis obvious they want Falcon. They hold no animus toward me.”

“Duff, you don’t understand,” Biff said. “People like that don’t have to be angry with someone in order to kill them. They can kill a human being as easily as they can step on a bug.”

“He’s right, Mr. MacCallister,” Gleason said. “You bein’ from a foreign country an’ all, maybe you don’t understand what kind of polecats we have over here. I’ve known fellas that would as soon kill you as look at you. And this here bunch that’s gathered around Malcolm strikes me as that kind.”

“If you have another gun, I’ll go in with you,” Biff offered.

“I’ll go as well,” Gleason added.

“No, I appreciate the offer, but this is my fight,” Duff said.

Chugwater

Back in Fiddler’s Green, Malcolm saw that the men with him were taking advantage of Biff Johnson’s absence by helping themselves to all the drinks they wanted. Malcolm was sitting at the table with Lucy and Peggy, and he wasn’t drinking. And, though he said nothing about it, he was getting concerned that the amount of alcohol the others were consuming would hinder their effectiveness.

“Why do you want Duff MacCallister?” Lucy asked.

“Ye may not know this, lass, but I am a deputy sheriff back in Scotland. And there, he is wanted for murder. That’s why I am here.”

“You are a deputy sheriff, but you robbed a bank and you just killed our marshal,” Peggy said.

“Aye, well, it has gotten a bit—complicated, let us say.”

“Who did Duff MacCalliser kill?”

“He killed the sheriff’s three sons and two of my friends.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“’Tis of no matter to me, lass, whether you believe it or not.”

“You talk just like him,” Lucy said. “But you aren’t like him.”

“What the hell?” Shaw suddenly said, holding up his hand. “Ever’one, be quiet and listen. What the hell is that sound? Do you hear it?”

Everyone stopped talking and, as they did, all could hear the sound. It was a high, skirling sound, underscored by a constant drone.

“’Tis the pipes!” Malcolm said, standing up so quickly that the chair in which he was sitting fell over with a bang.

“The what?” Pettigrew asked.

“The pipes! MacCallister is playing the pipes! Everyone get into position, he’s coming!”

The others moved quickly to get into the positions they had already selected. Malcolm, with pistol in hand, moved to the bat-wing doors and looked out into the street as Pogue and Shaw went about clearing it.

“Get off the street! Get out of the way!” Pogue and Shaw were shouting. “Get out of the street or get shot!”

The pipes continued to play “Scotland the Brave,” which only Malcolm recognized as the incitement to battle. The fact that pipes were being used against him gave him a chill, and though he wouldn’t mention it to any of the others, it frightened him.

Everyone in town heard the pipes being played, from R. W. Guthrie, to Fred Matthews, to Megan Parker, the beautiful young dressmaker who, as she was disembarking from the coach, had noticed Duff on the first day he came to town. She knew that he was the one playing the pipes, because she had heard him play them at the funeral of one of the bar girls.

At first she felt a little thrill at hearing the pipes being played. But when she saw armed men running everyone off the street, she felt a great sense of apprehension and knew, somehow, that Duff MacCallister, the handsome young Scot, was the center of all this, and was in danger.

She stood to one side of the big window in front of her shop and leaned over to peek outside. The street was absolutely quiet, except for the sound of the pipes.

Then the pipes fell silent.