Crusade of Eagles Read online

  “What’s your name?” Falcon asked.

  “The name is Drew. Drew Tate.” Drew smiled broadly.

  “Tate, huh?” Falcon said. He nodded toward Loomis Tate. “Would you two be brothers?”

  Drew smiled. “Yep. I see that you’ve heard of me.”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Falcon replied.

  Drew looked shocked, and a little chagrined, that Falcon had not heard of him. Actually, Falcon had heard of him, but it was part of his strategy to let Drew think that he hadn’t.

  “What do you mean you ain’t never heard of me?” Drew asked in consternation. With his left hand, he reached up and preened his mustache. “Why, I’ve kilt me seven men,” Drew said. “Faced ’em down, man to man.”

  “Is that a fact?” Falcon said. “And did you already have your gun in your hand when you did that?”

  Drew glanced down at his gun, then back at Falcon. “Oh, don’t you worry none about that, mister. I’ll put the gun back in my holster and we—”

  “No,” Falcon interrupted.

  “No?” Drew said. “No what?”

  “No, you won’t put your gun back in your holster. If you try, I’ll kill you. If you touch your mustache again, I’ll kill you. If you even twitch, I’ll kill you. The only thing you can do now to keep me from killing you is to drop the gun.”

  “Mister, are you crazy? Maybe you ain’t never heard of me, but even if I was a nobody, there’s two of us holdin’ a gun on you, and you don’t even have a gun in your hand,” Drew said.

  “You are a nobody,” Falcon said calmly.

  Drew’s eyes narrowed. “Mister, you are just beggin’ to get yourself kilt, aren’t you.”

  “Drop the gun or make your play now,” Falcon said.

  “Shoot ’im, Drew, shoot ’im!” Loomis shouted.

  Drew moved his thumb to pull back the hammer, but he never made it. Before his thumb even reached the hammer, Falcon’s gun was in his hand. Falcon pulled the trigger and a finger of fire spat out into the gray, wet morning. The bullet plunged into Drew’s chest, causing a red mist to spray out from the entry wound.

  Drew stood there just for a second, his face registering more shock than fear or pain. He turned toward Loomis.

  “Big brother, he’s kilt me,” he said in a strained voice.

  Drew let his pistol spin forward around his trigger finger, so that the barrel was pointing down and the pistol butt pointing up. He looked down at the hole in his chest, then fell back into a mud puddle, where he lay on his back, with rain falling into his open, but sightless, eyes.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Logan shouted, dropping his gun and putting his hands up.

  “Logan, you cowardly son of bitch, shoot him!” Loomis shouted angrily. Loomis started for his own gun, but stopped before he even touched it when he saw that Falcon was now pointing his gun at him.

  “Drop your gunbelt,” Falcon ordered. “And tell that pasty-faced son of a bitch and the fur ball with him to do the same thing. Then, all of you, put your hands up,” Falcon ordered.

  Reluctantly, Loomis and the others did as Falcon ordered.

  “Billy, get the stage hooked up and take these good folks on into town,” Falcon said.

  “What about you?” Billy asked.

  “Send the sheriff out here with his Black Maria to pick up his prisoners. I’ll ride back with them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Billy said. He looked at his passengers, all of whom were registering some degree of shock over the events of the morning.

  “You folks get on back inside where it’s warm and dry,” Billy said. “I’ll call you soon as the team’s hitched.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Gulley offered.

  “What about us?” Loomis asked. “Ain’t you goin’ to get us out of the rain?”

  “You can wait in the barn,” Falcon said.

  Chapter Two

  Sheriff W. A. Smith closed the cell door, then locked it. Logan, the albino, and Strayhorn went meekly to the bunks and sat down, but Loomis remained standing, just inside the bars.

  “Prison didn’t hold me before, Sheriff,” Loomis snarled. “What makes you think it’s going to hold me this time?”

  “Oh, it won’t hold you,” Sheriff Smith said.

  “Ha!” Loomis said, laughing. “So, you don’t think so either, huh? Well, maybe you ain’t as dumb as you look.”

  “You won’t be going to prison,” Smith said. “We’ll hang you right here in Colorado Springs.”

  “Hang me? Hang me for what?”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of reasons to hang you. But I knew Ben Jackson. We served some in the army together, and he was a good man. Fact is, I figure he saved my life more’n once. So, I’m goin’ to take particular pleasure in hangin’ you for killin’ ole Ben.”

  “I didn’t kill ’im,” Loomis said. “The albino killed him.”

  “Loomis, you squealin’ son of a bitch!” the albino shouted angrily.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” the sheriff said. “The albino will hang as well. As a matter of fact, all of you will hang, because in the eyes of the law, it doesn’t matter which one of you done the actual killin’. You was all a part of it.”

  “That ain’t right!” Loomis shouted. “That ain’t no way right.”

  “It’s a little late for you to be worryin’ about what’s right and what’s wrong, ain’t it?” the sheriff said. “Now, you folks just make yourselves comfortable back here. You won’t have to stay for too long. The judge will be comin’ through next week. He’ll try you on Thursday and, like as not, you’ll all four be dead come sunrise on Saturday.”

  “What about MacCallister? He killed our pard in cold blood,” Loomis said. “We all seen ’im do it. You goin’ to try him as well?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, he just saved the county the cost of a rope,” the sheriff said. “I’ll have supper brought back to you in a little bit.”

  “Supper? We ain’t had our dinner yet.”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? The county is trying to save money, so you’ll only be eatin’ twice a day while you’re stayin’ with us. Though, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t feed you anything. You’re all going to be dead in a few days anyway, and there’s no way you could starve to death between now and then. It would save the county the cost of feedin’ you.”

  The sheriff turned and started back toward the front of the jail, chased by the challenging bellow of Loomis Tate.

  “I ain’t hangin’! Do you hear that, Sheriff? I ain’t hangin’ !”

  Sheriff Smith closed the door to the back half of the jail, then saw Falcon MacCallister sitting on a bench, reading the newspaper. Smith had been surprised when the stagecoach driver told him that MacCallister had captured Loomis Tate and his entire band when they attempted to hold up the stage. But what had really shocked him was the driver’s description of the gunfight between MacCallister and Drew Tate.

  According to the driver, Drew, who had already built up quite a reputation as a fast gun, had his gun in his hand, while Falcon’s gun was still in its holster. And yet, Falcon drew his gun and killed Drew before Drew could pull back the hammer.

  Nobody is that fast, are they? the sheriff asked himself.

  He stood for just a moment, looking at Falcon before he approached him. He knew that at one time there was paper out on Falcon MacCallister. It came out shortly after Falcon went on a killing spree, avenging the death of his wife and pa. But the killing was clearly justified, and the paper had all been withdrawn and MacCallister cleared of all charges.

  That was good. The last thing Sheriff Smith wanted was to try and arrest Falcon MacCallister.

  Realizing that the sheriff had been staring at him for some time, Falcon looked up in question.

  “Is there anything wrong?” Falcon asked.

  “No, no,” the sheriff answered quickly, chastising himself for staring so long. No matter which side of the law he was on, Falcon MacCallister was not a man you wanted to ma
ke nervous. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “Well, sir, I know there is a reward for Loomis Tate and his brother, Drew,” Sheriff Smith said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t a reward for the others.”

  “A reward, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, and unless I miss my guess, it’ll be a pretty good reward. Looks like you earned yourself a payday.”

  “I don’t want the money.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t want the money? It’s goin’ to be paid. What do you plan to do with it?”

  “If there is a reward, give it to charity,” Falcon said.

  “What charity?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have an orphanage here in Colorado Springs? A children’s home, or something like that?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Yes, of course we do,” he answered. “And that is an excellent idea. You’re a good man, Mr. MacCallister.”

  “Call me Falcon,” Falcon said. Holding up the newspaper he was reading, he pointed to an advertisement that ran down the right hand side of the front page.

  BROADMOOR DAIRY

  The Oldest Dairy in Colorado Springs

  Baby cries for it.

  Relatives sigh for it.

  Old folks demand it.

  All the wise ones get it.

  Daddy pays for it.

  Mother prays for it.

  Others crave it.

  Only a few don’t get it.

  Remember, it pays to buy . . .

  Broadmoor Milk and Cream

  The Purest and the Best

  “This would be James Pourtales, I take it?” Falcon said, pointing to the ad.

  “Yes,” the sheriff said. He sighed. “I think James would have been much better off to stick with the dairy business. This new thing of his is going to bankrupt him, I fear.”

  “You’re talking about the Broadmoor Casino?”

  “Not just the Broadmoor. He’s also digging a lake, and building homes for the wealthy.”

  “Building homes for the wealthy? Not the poor, but the wealthy?”

  “Yes, he’s calling it the Cheyenne Lake and Land Improvement Company,” Sheriff Smith said. “So far, he has put two hundred and forty acres of good dairy farmland, as well as nine thousand dollars of his own money, into it.”

  “That would explain why he was shipping so much money by stage,” Falcon said. “I was wondering what he wanted with such a large amount.”

  “Yes, well, he ought to be particularly grateful to you for saving his money for him. If you have any favors you are wanting to ask of him, I’d say now would be the time,” the sheriff said.

  Falcon shook his head. “Nope, can’t think of anything I’d want from him.”

  “But you came here just to see him, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Curious, I guess. He contacted me and said he wanted to discuss a business proposition. I just came to see what it was all about. You don’t need me for anything else, do you?” Falcon nodded toward the back of the jail. “I mean, about the prisoners?”

  “No, though before you leave town, if you are serious about giving the reward money to the orphanage, I’d like you to drop by and sign something saying that.”

  “All right,” Falcon said. He started toward the door, but just as he reached it, the sheriff called out to him.

  “Falcon?”

  Falcon turned back toward the sheriff. “Yes?”

  “That’s a fine thing you’re doin’, donatin’ the reward money to charity like that. I’ll be sure and let ’em know where it came from.”

  “Tell them it came from Ben Jackson,” Falcon said.

  The sheriff paused for a second, then nodded. “Ben Jackson, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, ole Ben’s got no family, so this will be a way for folks to remember him. I thank you for that.”

  Falcon touched the brim of his hat, then stepped outside.

  “I’ll get you for this, MacCallister!” Loomis shouted just as Falcon was leaving the jail. “Do you hear me? I’ll get you for this, if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Loomis’s voice was so loud and evil-sounding that it frightened some of the people who were passing by on the street out front.

  Falcon was waiting in the lobby of the hotel when he saw someone come in, then stand just inside the door as if looking for someone. The man had neatly combed hair, a high forehead, wire-rimmed glasses with narrow lenses, an expansive mustache, and a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a tie and a white shirt with turned-up collar.

  Falcon got up from the sofa and walked toward him.

  “Would you be Count Pourtales?” he asked.

  The man smiled. “I would be if we were in Germany,” he said, speaking English clearly, but with a pronounced German accent. “Here, I am just James Pourtales. May I take it that you are Mr. MacCallister?”

  “Call me Falcon,” Falcon said, extending his hand.

  James shook it.

  “The actors, Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister,” Pourtales said. “I am told they are your brother and sister. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Falcon said. “I’m their brother. Do you know them?”

  Pourtales shook his head. “I’ve never met them, but I have seen them perform, both in my own country and here in America, in New York,” he said. “They are positively brilliant. You must be very proud of them.”

  “I am proud of them,” he said. “But I must confess that I am surprised you know that they are my brother and sister. We don’t exactly have the same circle of friends or social contacts.”

  “I make it a point to find out all I can about people who interest me. And you interest me, Mr. MacCallister. In fact, I find your entire family fascinating.”

  “I do have some interesting people in my family, all right,” Falcon confessed.

  “Come,” Pourtales invited. “I have a carriage out front. I’ll take you to the Broadmoor, where we can discuss business.”

  “I have to confess, James, I’m very curious about the business you want to discuss. That’s what brought me here.”

  “Business is best discussed over a fine meal,” Pourtales said.

  A Victorian carriage was parked in front of the hotel, its driver sitting on the seat holding the reins of a matching pair of chestnuts. Climbing into the carriage, Pourtales gave the signal, and the driver snapped the reins against the back of the team. The team moved out sharply and they proceeded down Cascade Avenue, the gravel hard-packed from a recent rolling.

  Pourtales had a pipe clamped in one side of his mouth, and he tamped down the tobacco, then lit it, the aromatic smoke drifting by the curved arms of his full mustache.

  He continued his conversation as if there had been no break.

  “Back to your family,” he said. “The most fascinating of all, of course, was your father, Jamie Ian MacCallister, one of only two survivors from the battle at the Alamo. He and your mother, Kate, pushed deep into uncharted territory that would one day be called Colorado. There, he discovered a long, wide valley, nestled between towering mountains, with dark, rich dirt, fed by a wide, deep stream, and lush with timber.

  “Today that is known as MacCallister Valley, and since James fathered nine children, a whole brood of blond-haired, blue-eyed children who produced another brood of blond-haired, blue-eyed children, it is literally filled with your brothers and family. They say that in that part of Colorado if one shakes a tree, a MacCallister will fall out. Am I correct so far?”

  Falcon chuckled. “It’s like I’m at a testimonial dinner,” he said.

  Pourtales laughed as well. “Then, let me continue. I never saw your father, but people say that you are the spitting image of him, not just in looks, but in the way you are: a gunfighter, a gambler, a skilled tracker, a solitary hunter, a formidable foe, a valuable friend, and a man with a strong core of right and wrong. That is why you risked your life to save my money.�
�

  Now, Pourtales’s unabashed praise was beginning to make Falcon uncomfortable, so he coughed and made a joking comment.

  “You’d think I was running for governor or something.”

  “You would make a very good governor, but forgive me, my friend,” James said. “It was not my intention to embarrass you. I just wanted you to know that I know who and what you are. Enjoy your ride through Colorado Springs. I’ll be quiet until we reach our destination.”

  As the carriage turned in through a gate, Falcon was surprised to see a lake, placed right in the center of the mesa, with several roads radiating out from it. A dam that ran along the eastern edge of the lake provided visual evidence as to how the lake was formed.

  “The lake is three hundred feet wide by fifteen hundred feet long,” Pourtales explained. “As I develop the property, every house will have a nice view of the lake. And of course you see here . . .”

  As if responding perfectly to the timing of Pourtales’s comment, the carriage made a turn so that they were heading directly for a very large building.

  “The Broadmoor Casino,” Pourtales continued.

  The building was a two-story wooden structure with a white colonnade across the front, as well as large, arched windows. The porch, which encircled the top floor, also created a covered walkway on the ground floor.

  “You can’t tell from this perspective,” Pourtales said, “but my guests can enjoy the promenade to view the dramatic scenery to the east. And the back of the top floor faces out over the lake where there is a boathouse that allows small trips out onto the water.”

  A grassy berm in front of the building had the word BROADMOOR spelled out in flowering plants.

  The carriage let them out in front of the building, and Pourtales led Falcon inside. The interior was designed with simple elegance. The large entrance hall was paneled with dark oak. Two staircases led to the second floor. The bar and gaming rooms were to the left of the entrance along with a spacious area for billiards. The ladies’ salon and kitchens were to the right of the entrance, and on the upper floor, the stairways opened directly into the ballroom, where concerts could be held. Pourtales led Falcon upstairs.