Thunder of Eagles

Chapter Seventeen

From the Higbee Journal

DISRUPTION AT DANCE!

But One More Example of Clinton Mischief.

Saturday night last, nearly everyone in town repaired to the Morning Star Hotel for the fifth annual Higbee dance. The music was provided by a group of musicians headed by Edwin Mathias, who is regarded by many as the finest fiddle player in America. Beautifully decorated, the reception hall of the Morning Star Hotel was an ideal place for the festivities, and the dance was proceeding with high spirits and merriment.

But such was not to be for very long, for the Clinton brothers, Ray and Cletus, in keeping with their nature of troublemakers, did institute a fight.

Alas, the brothers Clinton did not consider the consequences of their plan, for the man with whom they picked the fight was none other than Falcon MacCallister. Having attended the dance, this reporter was there to witness the action, and it was a joy to behold the two thugs get their comeuppance. Falcon dispatched both Clinton brothers with little effort on his part.

If picking a fight and disturbing the peaceful pursuit of a pleasurable evening be the only offense of Ray and Cletus Clinton, this paper would have little to say of the issue. But there is strong evidence that the Clintons have been involved in dealings of a much more serious, and nefarious nature.

It is no secret that Ike Clinton wishes to prevent General Garrison from constructing a railroad that would benefit all. Would that he express his dissatisfaction with the railroad by peaceful petition, one might espouse some sympathy for his position. But his protest has already erupted into violence and bloodshed, costing, at last count, some five lives.

It is the strong opinion of this newspaper that the Clinton family in whole, and Ray and Cletus in particular, were directly involved in all five deaths. For that reason, this paper will institute a vigorous campaign to urge the sheriff to begin an investigation of the Clintons and all their activities.

It was noon on Wednesday, and Falcon was in the Golden Nugget, having a beer with Marshal Calhoun; Harold Denham, the newspaper editor; and Corey Hampton. The marshal was reading Denham’s article and, after finishing it, laid it down, nodded, then picked up his mug of beer.

“That’s it?” Denham asked. “All you are going to do is just nod? Aren’t you going to say anything about the article?”

“Well, what is there to say, Harold?” Calhoun replied. He shook his head. “I’ll give you this, that’s one hell of an article. It might be a bit overstated, but it is one hell of an article.”

“What do you mean it’s overstated? It’s true,” Denham insisted. “Every word of it is true.”

Calhoun sighed. “As far as the fight at the dance is concerned, there were more than one hundred witnesses, so I don’t think anyone is going to disagree with you. But as to the other, we have no direct proof that the Clintons were involved.”

“Come on, Titus, you know damn well they were. Hell, everyone in town knows that they were.”

“Knowing and proving are two different things,” Calhoun said. “You can’t prove something in a court of law simply by saying that you know it to be so. You have to have solid evidence and concrete proof, or it won’t make it past the judge and jury.”

Denham chuckled. “Well now, that’s where I’ve got you, Titus,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“In my profession, I don’t need to prove anything in a court of law. All I have to do is prove it in the court of public opinion, and that, my friend, I can do.”

“He’s got you there, Titus,” Falcon said. “There is nobody who is going to read this article without a sure and certain belief that the Clintons are as guilty as sin.”

“Let’s say that’s true. What good will it do to prove this in the court of public opinion? That has no bearing on the legal status.”

“The Clintons are a school of sharks,” Denham said. “And sharks need a friendly ocean in which to swim. In the case of the Clintons, the people of Higbee and the county of Bent make up their ocean. If the people aren’t friendly to them, they won’t last long.”

Calhoun chuckled. “You do believe in the power of the written word, don’t you?”

“It’s why I chose this profession, Marshal,” Denham replied.

“Marshal! Marshal Calhoun!” someone was shouting from outside. Falcon could hear the rapid approach of boots on the boardwalk; then the batwing doors slapped open and the grocer, Moore, ran inside, while the batwing doors swung back and forth behind him.

“Marshal Calhoun!” Moore called. “Is the marshal in here?”

“I’m back here, Mr. Moore,” Calhoun called out. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the newspaper office, Marshal,” Moore said. “There are some fellas down there now, tearing the place up something fierce.”

“There are people in my office?” Denham shouted, standing up quickly. “What is it? What are they doing?”

“I don’t know what all they are doing,” Moore said. “But I can tell you for sure that it isn’t anything good. It’s probably best that you get down there and look for yourself.”

Denham started toward the door, but Calhoun called out to him.

“Hold on, Harold! Don’t you go gettin’ down there before the rest of us! If there are a bunch of people down there tearing up your office, it wouldn’t be too smart for you to confront them all by yourself.”

“All right, I’ll wait, but hurry, Titus. Please hurry,” Denham said.

As they got closer, Denham called out in anger and alarm. “My type!” he said. “That’s my type in the street!”

Two other trays of type came hurtling through the broken window and Calhoun, with his gun drawn, ran toward the newspaper office. He stepped in through the front door just as four men were trying to pick up the Washington Hand Press that Denham used to print his paper.

“Hold it!” Calhoun shouted. “Get your hands up!”

The four cowboys who had been trashing the newspaper office stopped and lifted their hands.

“Oh, now, Marshal,” one of them said, laughing. “You had to come along and spoil our fun.”

“Fun? You call this fun?” Denham yelled, barely able to control his anger. He looked around at the trashed office. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“We work for the Clintons, and we don’t like what you said about ’em.”

Denham waved his hand over the mess. “It’ll take me all day to put this together again.”

“No, it won’t,” Falcon said.

Denham shook his head. “I’m afraid it will.”

“No, these boys are going to pick it all up for you.”

“Ha! In a pig’s ass we will,” one of them said.

Suddenly Falcon drew his pistol. Then he brought it around hard alongside the head of the cowboy who had just spoken. The cowboy went down.

“Hey, what the hell did you do that for?” one of the three remaining cowboys shouted. “Marshal, did you see that? He hit Bart right up alongside the head.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Calhoun replied.

“What do you mean, you didn’t see anything? What the hell, you was standin’ right here.”

“Start picking up the type and everything else you threw out of here,” Falcon said.

“Why should we do that? Marshal, if you’re goin’ to take us to jail, go ahead and take us now. Mr. Clinton will more’n likely bail us out first thing in the mornin’. I’ll go to jail, but I’ll be damn if I’m goin’ to pick up one damn thing.”

“That’s too bad,” Falcon said. Again, his gun was out, and again he slammed it against the head of the cowboy who had just stated he wasn’t going to pick up anything.

“Shit! He did it again!” one of the two remaining men said in alarm.

“It would have been an easier job if all four of you had done it,” Falcon said. “Now there are only two of you, unless one of you wants to refuse.”

“Mister, about the only way you’re goin’ to make me pick up anything is to shoot me.”

“Your terms are acceptable,” Falcon said, speaking in a very quiet, cold, and calm voice. He pointed his pistol at the head of the cowboy who had just spoken, and cocked it.

“Mister, do you think I actually believe you are going to shoot me?”

“Shut up, Clyde,” the other cowboy said sharply. He continued to stare at Falcon. “I believe this son of a bitch would shoot us. Marshal, you heard him. This fella just threatened to kill us, and he ain’t no lawman. I demand that you arrest him.”

“Mr. Falcon, I hereby appoint you a temporary deputy,” Calhoun said.

“That ain’t legal for you to do that,” Clyde said.

“You see any judges around here?” Calhoun asked.

“What? No, I don’t see no judges.”

“Then for the time being, it’s legal, simply because I say it is legal. Now, pick all this up, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

The two cowboys looked at each other, then, under the guidance of Harold Denham, they began picking up, and reassembling, the scattered type and other components of the newspaper office. A few minutes later, the other two cowboys, still groggy, began helping as well.

All the while the four men were working, citizens of the town were gathered around, laughing and calling out instructions to them.

“Bart! You missed the piece over here!”

“Virgil, it don’t look to me like you’re holdin’ up your end.”

Finally, the newspaper office was put back together except for the broken window. And even though it couldn’t be repaired at the moment, all the shattered glass was swept up.

“Damn,” Denham said after Marshal Calhoun marched the four down to jail. “It’ll take me two weeks to get a replacement for that window.”

“No, it won’t,” Corey Hampton said.

“What do you mean it won’t?”

“One of the windows back at the Golden Nugget is cracked. It’s about the size of this window, and I’ve ordered a replacement. It should be here in a few more days. I’ll let you have that one, and I’ll order another one.”

“Would you? That’s damn decent of you, Corey.”

“Well, like you, I believe in the power of the press,” he said.

“Really? Well, if you believe in the newspaper that much, why not increase your advertising?”

Corey laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Harold. You are always doing business.”

Totally unaware of the fact that four of his father’s employees were currently locked up in the jail, Billy Clinton rode into town that night. He’d told his brothers and his father that he planned to have dinner at the Vermillion, then stop by the Golden Nugget to hear Miss Kirby play the piano.

“Ha!” Cletus teased. “It’s too bad we don’t have an opera house. ’Cause more’n likely Billy would go there ever’ night for tea and trumpets.”

“That’s crumpets,” Billy said.

“Crumpets? What are crumpets?”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter what they are,” Billy said with a sigh. “You just go your way and I’ll go mine.”

It was dark by the time Billy got into town and tied his horse at a hitching rail in front of the Golden Nugget, which would suggest to anyone who recognized his horse that Billy was in town enjoying a drink at the saloon. But in fact, Billy slipped through the darkness alongside the saloon to the alley behind. Then, with his movements masked by the night, he hurried up the alley to the Garrison house, where he climbed a picket fence, then stood in the dark shadows of a cottonwood tree. The shadows were necessary because the moon was exceptionally large and exceptionally bright tonight, and if he wandered out from under the tree, he could easily be seen.

Looking up to the second floor, to the window on the extreme right side of the house, he saw that the room was well lit. He knew also that this was the window of the room that belonged to Kathleen.

Billy had come down the alley a few times, thinking about calling up to Kathleen, but always before he had lost his nerve before climbing the fence. Kathleen did not know, nor did he ever want her to know. He would come, look up toward her room whether it was lighted or not, and feel closer to her.

Tonight, just standing in the alley wasn’t enough, so he climbed the fence and moved into her garden. It was not his intention to let her know he was here tonight, but as he started to leave, she stepped out onto the balcony and, because the moon was so bright, he was forced to remain, very quietly, in the shadow cast by the tree.

“Señorita Garrison, you should have a coat,” a maid’s voice called from inside the room. “You will catch your death out there in the cold.”

“It is not so cold, Maria,” Kathleen replied. She wrapped her arms about herself. “Oh, the moon is glorious tonight. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“Yes, I have,” Billy answered, though speaking too quietly to be heard. “You are more beautiful than the moon, the sun, or all the stars.”

“Maria, have you ever been in love?” Kathleen asked.

“Si, señorita. Everyone has been in love,” Maria answered, still from inside Kathleen’s room.

“Yes,” Kathleen said. “Everyone has been in love, haven’t they? Why, then, did it become my fate to love someone who’s very name is an abhorrence to my father? If only I could be a Smith, or a Jones, or even a Gonzales.”

“Señorita, no, you cannot say such a thing,” Maria said. “That would be denying your father.”

“I would gladly deny my father if Billy would deny his,” Kathleen said.

“You cannot ask someone to deny who he is, señorita.”

“You don’t understand, Maria,” Kathleen said. “I’m not asking him to deny who he is, only to deny his name. If he were a Miller or a Kelly, he would still be Billy. What is the old saying? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?”

“I have never heard that saying, señorita.”

“Trust me, it is a famous saying,” Kathleen said. She giggled. “I just don’t know who said it.”

“Your bed is turned down, señorita,” Maria said. “I am going now. Good night.”

“Good night, Maria,” Kathleen said.

Billy waited until he was sure that the maid was gone. Then he called up to the balcony.

“For your love, Kathleen, I will call myself by any name you choose.”

“What?” Kathleen gasped. “My God, Billy, what are you doing out here hiding in the dark?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I’m not frightened of you, don’t you understand? I’m frightened for you. If my father finds you here—or your brothers, I don’t know what would happen.”

“I’m not afraid of your father or my brothers,” Billy said. “The only thing I fear is losing you.”

“Billy, go now, please,” Kathleen said. “I think I hear my father coming up the stairs.”

“I’m not going until you tell me you love me.”

“I do, I do love you. Now, please, go. Go quickly.”

“Kathleen?” Billy heard Garrison call from within the house. “Kathleen, are you up here?”

“Good night, Kathleen,” Billy called. Moving quickly, he darted through the moon-splashed garden, then climbed over the fence.

Kathleen watched him until he reached the fence, then breathed a sigh of relief that he was gone before her father appeared.

“I thought I heard voices. Were you talking to someone out here?” Garrison asked, as he came onto the balcony.

“I was talking to the moon, Papa,” Kathleen said, pointing to it. “Have you ever seen it more beautiful? It is huge, and golden.”

“Yes, it’s what they call a harvest moon,” Garrison said. He chuckled. “You know, I proposed to your mother under such a moon.”

Her father suspected nothing, and Kathleen was relieved.

“Why, Papa,” Kathleen said, laughing. “I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

“I said I proposed to your mother under such a moon,” Garrison said. “I didn’t say I stood out on the balcony talking to it.”

“Is it true you met Mama while you were a cadet at West Point?”

“Yes, that’s true,” Garrison said. “Her father owned a livery stable near there.”

“Mama was a Northern girl, but you were a Southerner, from Virginia.”

“That’s true.”

“Grandpa could not have been too happy with you when you resigned your commission in the Union Army so you could fight for the South.”

“Whew,” Garrison said, shaking his head and chuckling. “That’s putting it lightly. From the day I resigned my commission, your grandfather never had another thing to do with me.”

“And yet, you and Mama loved each other and your marriage was strong.”

“Yes, it was very strong, until the day she died,” Garrison said. Then, suddenly, he realized where Kathleen was going with this conversation. “No, it’s nothing like that,” he said. “It’s nothing at all like the situation between you and the Clinton boy.”

“Yes it is, Papa. It’s exactly like that,” Kathleen insisted.

“No. Your mother and I were already married when the war split up our family. And it was the war, Kathleen—the war, something that was far bigger than any of us.”

“Papa, didn’t you tell me that you and the Clintons were at war?”

Garrison shook his head. “It’s not the same thing,” he said again. He shivered. “It’s getting cool. I think I’m going to bed. I would recommend that you do the same thing.”

“Yes, Papa.” Kathleen kissed her father on the cheek. “I love you, Papa,” she said. She thought, but did not verbalize, no matter what happens.