Read MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone,J. A. Johnstone
Tags: #Fiction, #Westerns, #General
MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing (17 page)
BOOK: MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing
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“No need to wait. We can go into Glasgow and be married on the morrow,” Duff suggested.
“Duff MacCallister, sure and m’ mother has waited my whole life to give me a fine church wedding now, and you would deny that to her?”
Duff chuckled. “Don’t worry, Skye. There is no way in the world I would start my married life by getting on the bad side of my mother-in-law. If you want to wait, then I will wait with you.”
“What do you mean you will wait with me?” Skye asked. “And what else would you be doing, Duff MacCallister? Would you be finding a willing young lass to wait with you?”
“I don’t know such a willing lass,” Duff replied. “Do you? For truly, it would be an interesting experiment.”
“Oh, you!” Skye said, hitting Duff on the shoulder. It was the same shoulder Alexander had hit in the fight and he winced.
“Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry. You just made me mad talking about a willing lass.”
Duff laughed, then pulled Skye to him. “You are the only willing lass I want,” he said.
“I should hope so.”
Duff bent down to kiss her waiting lips.
“I told you, Ian! Here they are, sparking in the dark!” a customer shouted and, with a good natured laugh, Duff and Skye parted. With a final wave to those who had come outside to “see the sparking,” Duff started home.
Duff had to get Skye out of his mind. Not out of his heart; he would always have a place for her in his heart, but he had to get her out of his mind or the grieving would never stop.
He inhaled the perfume of the little yellow ribbon again and thought of Meghan. He knew that she could help him get Skye out of his mind, but would it be fair to Meghan? Would he just be using her as a means of getting over the grief, once and for all?
Duff was an astute man; he knew what Meghan was feeling for him. And if he was honest with himself, he would admit that he appreciated it. More than that, he believed that he reciprocated it.
He took another sniff of the ribbon, then he got ready for bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Fremont, Nebraska
When Crack Kingsley arrived in Fremont, he told people that his name was Carl Butler, that he worked for the Kansas City Cattle Exchange, and was there to check out the local ranchers and farmers to ascertain for his employer whether or not they had any cattle for sale. He let it be known that he would be hanging out in the OK Saloon and would be willing to talk to any rancher or farmer who cared to come see him.
He was “inter viewing” now.
“So, let me get this straight,” Lloyd Evans was saying. “The Kansas City Cattle Exchange will buy ever’one of my cows, pay top dollar for ’em, an’ all I got to do is drive ’em in here to the railroad? They do the shippin’?”
“That’s right,” Kingsley said.
“Well, hell yes, I’d be willin’ to do that. What you’re sayin’ is I’ll be savin’ money on the shippin’ cost. Sign me up.”
Kingsley laughed and held out his hands. “Don’t be so quick. All I’m doin’ now is what is called makin’ a survey. The company wants to see if there will be enough people interested to actually make it worthwhile.”
“Well, you can definitely sign me up for bein’ interested,” Evans said. “I don’t know how anybody wouldn’t be.”
“Good, I’ll put your name down.”
“Where?”
“What?”
“Where at are you goin’ to put my name down? You ain’t got no book nor paper nor nothin’ like that with you.”
“Oh, I meant before I leave to go back to Kansas City,” Kingsley said.
In the last two days he had interviewed four farmers and two ranchers, promising all of them that the Kansas City Cattle Exchange would not only buy their stock at top dollar per head, but would also arrange and pay for all shipping. While he was waiting for the train on which his target would be riding to arrive, he decided that it might be good to have someone with him, just as a bit of insurance. During his two days, he’d watched the saloon customers as they came and went. On the evening of his first day in Fremont, he had also witnessed an exchange between the deputy town marshal, and a man named Clem Crocker.
“Crocker, where were you last night at about eight o’clock?” the deputy, whose name was Archer, asked.
“Why is it any business of your’n where I was?” Crocker replied.
“Because someone broke into Larry Thrower’s Grocery store and stole twenty-seven dollars.”
“What makes you think it was me?”
“You done it once before, that’s why I think it was you.”
“Iffen I was goin’ to break into another store, do you think I’d be dumb enough to break into the same one twicet? It wasn’t me. I was right here last night, from six o’clock ’til nigh midnight. An’ you can ask anyone here.”
“That’s right Deputy,” the bartender said. “Crocker was here the whole time.”
“Yeah, well,” Archer said. He pointed an accusing finger at Crocker. “You just keep yourself on the straight ’n narrow, Crocker, ’cause I’m goin’ to be keepin’ an eye on you.”
“I ain’t done nothin’, so you can just quit jawin’ on me,” Crocker replied.
Archer hitched up his gun belt, then looked around at the others in the saloon to see if anyone would dispute the story told by Crocker and the bartender, then he turned and left.
Kingsley had done nothing then, but this afternoon, seeing Crocker sitting at a table alone, he took a bottle of whiskey and his glass over to Crocker’s table, then sat down to join him. He refilled Crocker’s glass.
“What’s this for?” Crocker asked. “You’re wastin’ your time with me, Mr. Butler. I ain’t got no cows to sell.”
Kingsley smiled. “That’s all right. My name’s not Butler, it’s Kingsley. Crack Kingsley. And I’m not here to buy any cows.”
“What do you mean? Ain’t that what you been doin’ here these past two days? Talkin’ to folks about buyin’ their hogs ’n cows?”
“Yeah, that’s what I been doin’, but only because that’s what I’m wantin’ folks to think.”
“Then what are you doin’?”
Kingsley pulled out a Long-Nine cigar, though he did not offer one to Crocker. “I’m gettin’ set to make some money,” Kingsley said, as he struck the match. He took several puffs before he continued. “You can too, if you’re interested.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Nothing you ain’t never done before, if the deputy was right yesterday,” Kingsley said, squinting at Crocker through the tobacco smoke.
Crocker held up his hand, palm out, and he shook his head. “I didn’t break into Thrower’s store the other night.”
“Not the other night, but you did do it before, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. But I done served six months in jail for that.”
“How much money did you get?”
“Twelve dollars.”
“Was it worth serving six months for twelve dollars?”
“No. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Have you now? Tell me, Crocker, what lesson have you learned? Not to steal again? Or just not to steal such a small amount of money?”
Crocker drank his whiskey before he spoke again.
“What are you gettin’ at?”
“Suppose you was to get a hundred dollars?”
Crocker shook his head. “Ain’t no store in town keeps that much money overnight, except the bank. And I ain’t about to try an’ hold up the bank. Hell, I couldn’t get away with it anyway. Ever’one in town knows me.”
“The job I’m talking about has nothing to do with a local store. Or anyone local, for that matter. And you won’t have to be breaking in. In fact, the only thing you are going to have to do is spot my target, and be my lookout.”
“How am I supposed to spot your target, if it ain’t someone local? Like as not, I won’t have no idea who it is.”
“I’ll tell you how to spot him,” Crocker said.
“And I’ll get a hundred dollars for that? Just for spottin’ the man you’re goin’ to rob, and bein’ a lookout for you?”
Kingsley shook his head. “Yes.”
“All right. You got yourself a deal.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Union Pacific Depot in Cheyenne was located at the south end of Capital Street just catty-corner from the Inter Ocean Hotel. The depot was the biggest building in town, two stories high and a block long. It also had a tower in the middle, which was the highest structure in the city, and from which many photographs of the town had been taken.
Sixteenth and Main were two of the busiest streets in town, and Duff, who was carrying a suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other, had to wait for three wagons, a stagecoach, and an omnibus to pass before he could cross the road.
There were at least seven hacks, one fine carriage, and a few buckboards parked in front of the depot. Some were standing empty with the teams secured by hitching posts, but others had drivers waiting for fares. A few of the drivers were reading books or the newspaper, while a couple more had their heads lolled forward, napping. Reaching the road where all the vehicles were parked, Duff, with his suitcase in one hand and briefcase in the other, picked his way through.
The inside of the depot seemed much larger than one would suppose a town the size of Cheyenne would be able to support. It rivaled depots in the much larger cities of Denver, St. Louis, and Chicago. But such was the confidence in the growth of the town that Union Pacific had spared no expense in the building. Its defenders pointed out, though, that the large depot was justified by the fact that Cheyenne was an important stop for passengers who were traveling through from coast to coast. As many passengers came through Cheyenne in one week as there were citizens in the entire town.
Just inside the depot, there was a big chalkboard with the schedules of east- and westbound trains. One column had the name of the train; the next, whether it was west- or eastbound; the next the time it was due; and the final column was labeled “Latest telegraphic intelligence on train schedule.”
Next to the blackboard with the train schedules was another, smaller one, with information on stagecoaches.
The train Duff would be taking was the “Western Glory,” and according to the “latest telegraphic intelligence on train schedule,” it was on time.
There was also a stagecoach schedule there and, in the corner, a booth for stagecoach ticket sales. This might seem contradictory, as the two transportation systems were competitive; but in another real way, as recognized by the stagecoach ticket booth in the railroad depot, they were also symbiotic.
Duff stepped up to the railroad ticket window.
“Yes, sir, where to?”
“Kansas City, Missouri.”
“Would that be one way? Or round trip?”
“Round trip.”
The ticket agent got out a long string of connected tickets, then began writing on them. After that he picked up a stamp, pushed it down into an ink pad, then affixed the stamp to the four tickets.
“These two are the ones you will use going out,” he explained. “You will change trains in Fremont, Nebraska, and you’ll need this one. When you come back, you’ll change trains there again, and you’ll need this one when you board in Kansas City and this one when you change in Fremont.”
“Thanks.”
“Will you be wanting a roomette on the train?”
“What time will I get to Fremont?”
“About eleven-thirty tonight. And the train from Fremont to Kansas City will leave at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“No, I don’t need a roomette. But a sleeper berth would be nice.”
“Very good, sir,” the ticket agent said. “That will be five dollars extra for the berth.”
“Is there a dining car?”
“Yes, sir, you will need lunch and dinner, that will be seventy-five cents.”
Duff paid the fare.
“Will you be checking your luggage through?”
“Just the suitcase,” Duff said. “I have some work in my satchel that I shall need to attend to.”
Duff had no intention of letting the briefcase get out of his hand.
“I need to send a telegram,” Duff said.
“Yes, sir, the telegrapher’s window is at the end,” the ticket agent said.
Duff stepped up to the Western Union window, then filled out the telegraph form.
MR. JAY MONTGOMERY, KANSAS CITY CATTLE
EXCHANGEDEPARTING KANSAS CITY AT 8:30 A.M. ON THIS DAY. WILL ARRIVE IN KANSAS CITY AT 9:30 P.M.TOMORROW. WILL COME TO YOUR OFFICE ON THE DAY FOLLOWING.DUFF MACCALLISTER
With his tickets in one hand and his briefcase in the other, Duff walked through the cavernous waiting room, his footfalls echoing back from the marble floor and the arched ceiling until he was out on the depot platform.
There was a snake-oil salesman standing out on the platform of the depot, pitching his wares to a captive audience.
“Yes, sir, this here extract of buchu can be used in treating any disease known to man. Men, do you suffer from catarrh, or problems too delicate to be mentioned in public company? Women, are you afflicted with bearing down feelings, or private problems? Then extract of buchu is for you. It will cure cancer, consumption, and dropsy. But don’t go askin’ any doctor for it, ’cause you ain’t goin’ to get no doctor to give it to you.”
“Why is that?” someone from the gathering crowd asked.
“Why, Mister, I can answer that question for you in a heartbeat,” the medicine salesman said. “There ain’t no doctor goin’ to give this to you ’cause if he did, and if word got around as to how wonderful this here miracle drug is, why, doctors would just naturally be out of business.”
Duff smiled at the spiel as he walked over and sat on a bench to await the arrival of the next eastbound train.
“Oh, Mama! Here comes the train!” a young girl said excitedly, and the crowd on the platform moved expectantly toward the track. Even from his position on the waiting bench just outside the depot, Duff could hear the approaching train, first the whistle, then the sounds of puffing steam. As the train moved into the station, two more sounds were added: that of a clanging bell, and the squeak of brakes being applied. The train rushed by with steam pouring from the actuating cylinder as the operating rod moved back and forth, powering the driver wheels. The train was so heavy that as it passed by, Duff could feel it in his stomach.
Finally, the train came to a halt and the conductor stepped down from one of the cars, then stood there as the arriving passengers disembarked. In the year Duff had been in America, he had gone twice, by train, back to New York. He had learned from such trips that the composition of the passengers was different, depending on which way you were going.
Most of the westbound passengers were embarking upon new adventures, and they were high of spirits and eager with anticipation to see what their new lives would present. The passengers going east consisted of two groups: those who had succeeded in their ventures and were now going back in triumph, and the much larger group who were returning dispirited and frustrated by their lack of success.
When all the arriving passengers had disembarked, the conductor looked at his watch importantly; then, just as importantly, called out his order.
“All aboard!”
Duff waited as all the other passengers stepped aboard, then he boarded as well. He chose a seat facing forward; and just across from him, facing to the rear of the train was an elderly gentlemen with white hair, a beard, and wearing a three-piece suit. He introduced himself.
“Henry Pollard is the name, sir,” he said, holding his hand out.
“Duff MacCallister.”
‘I’m going back to Boston,” Pollard said. “I spent most of my adult life away from the place, and now that I am retired, I intend to go back to Boston to live out the rest of my days in the city of my youth.”
“I hope you have a pleasant trip,” Duff said.
“I intend to, sir, I intend to, thank you very much.”
Duff kept his answers pleasant, but did nothing to initiate any further conversation. He much preferred to make the trip alone, with his own thoughts.
Pollard obliged Duff until lunch, at which time they found themselves seated at the same table in the dining car.
The tables were already set, and little flashes of light bounced off the shining silverware, the sparkling china, and the softly gleaming stemware. Here, Pollard resumed his conversation.
“Mr. MacCallister, have you ever stopped to consider what a marvelous time we live in? I mean, think of all those people who came west by wagon train. The trip was arduous, dangerous, and months long. Today, one can go by train from coast to coast in but a week’s time, enjoying the luxury of a railroad car that protects them from rain, snow, beating sun, or bitter cold. They can dine sumptuously on meals served in dining salons that rival the world’s finest restaurants. They can view the passing scenery, while relaxing in an easy chair, and they can pass the nights in a comfortable bed with clean sheets.
“And not only that, we enjoy electric lights, and in all of the cities in the East, and an increasing number of cities in the West, one can use the telephone to talk to a friend or a relative in some distant location. Yes, sir, the times are mar velous.”
“They are, indeed,” Duff said.
“Mama, how fast are we going?” a little girl sitting at the table across the aisle from them asked.
“One moment, young lady, and I will tell you,” Pollard said. He pulled out his pocket watch, opened it, and stared at it for a short while. “We are doing eighteen miles to the hour,” he said.
Duff chuckled. “That sounds about right,” he said. “But how can you say with such certainty?”
“It’s quite easy,” Pollard said. “One need only count the clicks made as the train passes over the rail joints. The number of clicks you can count in twenty seconds, represents the speed in miles per hour.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was my business, young man,” Pollard said. “Until last month, when I was retired because of my age, I was a railroad engineer for Northern Pacific.”
Kansas City
When Denman got the telegram from Duff saying that he was on his way, he checked the rail schedule so he would know when MacCallister would arrive in Fremont. Then, in accordance with a pre-arranged code, he sent a telegram to Kingsley, letting him know when MacCallister would be arriving. After that, he returned to his desk, then began contemplating what he would do with all the money he would be getting. Even after Kingsley’s share, he would still have enough money to pay off all his debts and save his father-in-law’s property.
But more and more, another thought began entering his mind. He could pay off his debts and save his father-in-law’s property, that was true. But, he would also have the money to leave Kansas City, leaving his debts, father-in-law, and wife behind him. He could start new, somewhere else. He could change his name, get a job in a bank somewhere, and live comfortably.
It was certainly something worth considering.
Fremont
Because it would be the middle of the night when Duff left the train, he had purposely not taken a Pullman parlor car. He did take a sleeper car, and though the porter came through to make up all the beds when it got dark, he waved the porter off, instead sitting in his seat looking out into the dark as the train raced across the prairie. His seat companion, who had chosen the top bunk “because up there, there is no window to distract me,” bade Duff good night and went to bed.
Nearly everyone else in the car went to bed as well, leaving Duff and the porter, who sat in a chair at the front of the car, as the only two people who weren’t in bed. And, because the porter was napping in his chair, Duff was the only one in the car who was still awake.
Once, he thought of the little yellow ribbon Meghan had given him, and he stuck his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled it out. He had a small electric reading light between the windows, and he turned it on to look at the ribbon. He ran his fingers over the little lock of hair, then he lifted it to his nose to smell the perfume.
About half an hour later, the porter came back to his seat. “You want me to make your bed now, sir?” he asked.
“Thank you, no. I will be getting off just before midnight, so I won’t be going to bed.”
“Very good, sir,” the porter said. He walked away and Duff began looking through the window. It was a cloudless night, and the moon was full and high. Because of that, he could see more of the scenery outside than one might expect, though nighttime had robbed the world of all color except for silver and black.
A few minutes later, the porter returned.
“Seein’ as you ain’t sleepin’ like all the others, I went up to the dinin’ car and brung you back a cup of coffee. Hope you likes it black, ’cause I didn’t put nothin’ in it.”
“Aye, black is just fine, thank you,” Duff said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out half a dollar.
“Oh, no, sir, no need for you to be tippin’ me none just for doin’ a good deed,” the porter said, waving the money away. “I just thought you might want some coffee.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” Duff said.
“You ain’t from here, are you?”
“No, I’m from Scotland.”
“I ain’t never been to Scotland, don’t even know where that is. I don’t think we have any trains that go through there.”
Duff chuckled. “There are trains in Scotland,” he said. “But not the Union Pacific.”
“You said you wasn’t goin’ all the way through. Where you gettin’ off?”
“I’ll be changing trains at Fremont.”
“Fremont, is it? Well, you don’t have much longer to be on the train. We’ll be pullin’ in to Fremont in just about an hour.”
“Thanks.”
The porter walked on to the back of the car and Duff killed the light, then sipped his coffee as he continued to look out into the blackness beyond the window.
When he left the train in Fremont an hour later, it was nearly midnight, a great dark emptiness, quiet under a panoply of very bright stars. From Fremont, he would leave the Union Pacific Railroad and take the Missouri Pacific Railroad to Kansas City.
He reached for the attaché case on the seat beside him and thought of the money in it, and how lucky he was to have it. He knew that he would not have it, had it not been for the mine he and Elmer, and to be honest, mostly Elmer, had been working for the last year.
BOOK: MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy: The Killing
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