Crusade of Eagles Read online

  “This is what I want to talk to you about,” Pourtales said, taking in the ballroom with a sweep of his hand.

  “You want to talk about this room?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes. I believe I could put in seats enough to hold one thousand people quite comfortably,” Pourtales said. “What do you think?”

  The room was exceptionally large, perhaps one of the largest rooms Falcon had ever seen.

  “I suppose you could,” he said.

  “And with special trains put on to bring visitors to Colorado Springs, I believe I could fill it for at least ten nights. If I charged five dollars per ticket, and filled it to capacity for ten nights, I would gross fifty thousand dollars.” Pourtales smiled broadly. “More than enough to pay off the debt on this place.”

  “Five dollars for a ticket is pretty expensive,” Falcon said. “What sort of show could you have that would warrant such a charge?”

  An exceptionally pretty young woman appeared then.

  “Count Pourtales, dinner is ready for you and your guest,” she said.

  “Thank you, Louise,” Pourtales said. As she walked away, Pourtales looked over at Falcon. “I apologize for her calling me Count,” he said. “But I’ve found that, for business purposes, it does give me a certain élan.”

  “I understand,” Falcon said.

  The table was elegantly set with shimmering china, glistening crystal, and shining silver. Dinner was roast beef, roasted potatoes, green beans, rolls, and apple pie.

  It was over apple pie and coffee that Pourtales finally got around to making his proposal.

  “I want you to see if you can get Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister to come here and give a show in this place,” he said.

  “Oh, James, I don’t know,” Falcon said.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see them again? Don’t you think your family would enjoy seeing them again? I would have you and your entire family as my special guests. You would all get royal treatment, have the best seats, and enjoy elegant meals and comfortable rooms. And I’m sure that Andrew and Rosanna would enjoy a trip back to the place of their childhood.”

  “I admit that I would like to see them come back,” Falcon said. “But their schedule is always so filled.”

  “That isn’t a problem,” Pourtales said. “They merely have to add the Broadmoor to their performance schedule, that’s all. Trust me, I am willing to make it well worth their while.”

  “What, exactly, are you willing to pay to make it worth their while?”

  “Thirty percent of everything that the show makes,” Pourtales offered.

  “Fifty percent,” Falcon countered.

  “Thirty-five,” Pourtales said.

  “Fifty.”

  Pourtales chuckled and shook his head. “That’s not the way you do it. You are supposed to say forty-five, and I’ll counter with forty.”

  “Fifty percent,” Falcon repeated.

  Pourtales nodded. “All right,” he said. “If you can get them to come here, it will be worth half of whatever I make.”

  “That is the big question,” Falcon replied. “If I can get them. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Three

  Ben Jackson had been a popular man in Colorado Springs and because of this, on Thursday the courtroom was filled.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, this court will now come to order, the Honorable Judge E. A. Colburn presiding. All rise.”

  There was the scrape of chairs and the rustle of pants, petticoats, and skirts as the spectators in the courtroom stood. A spittoon rang as one male member of the gallery made a last-second, accurate expectoration of his tobacco quid.

  Judge Colburn was a small man, but with a manner that was much larger than his size, thus making his presence immediately felt. He moved to the bench with authority, fixed a commanding gaze over the gallery, then sat down.

  “Be seated.”

  Before the trial even began, Eli Crader, the court-appointed defense attorney, objected to having all four men tried at the same time, but Judge Colburn denied the objection.

  The prosecuting attorney was C. E. Stubbs, and he called his first witness.

  “Your name is Billy McClain, and you were the driver of the stage on the day the murder took place, is that right?” Stubbs asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the gentleman who was murdered was who?”

  “Ben Jackson, my shotgun guard.”

  “Why was he murdered?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Crader shouted. “Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Withdraw my question, Your Honor,” Stubbs said. He paused for a moment, then asked another question. “Were you carrying anything of value that day?”

  “Yes, sir. We was carryin’ ten thousand dollars for Mr. Pourtales.”

  “Did Loomis Tate, his brother Drew, and their associates attempt to rob you?”

  “Yes, sir, and they would have, too, but Mr. MacCallister stopped them.”

  “When was the last time you saw Ben Jackson alive?”

  “Well, sir, we had coffee that mornin’; then, while the passengers was havin’ their breakfast, Ben went out to the barn to harness the team.”

  “And when was the next time you saw him?”

  “When the albino and the redhead”—Billy pointed to Michaels and Strayhorn—“drug him out of the barn.”

  “Was he dead then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, no further questions. Your witness, Counselor,” Stubbs said to Crader.

  Crader was a young man who had only recently begun the practice of law. He approached the witness.

  “You said that Mr. Jackson was your shotgun guard,” Crader began. “Would you also say he was your friend?”

  “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “Was he a close friend?”

  “My closest friend,” Billy answered.

  “Is it fair to say, Mr. McClain, that you would like some revenge for his death?”

  “You’re damn right I would like some revenge.”

  “So, in order to get that revenge, is it possible that you might enhance your story?”

  Billy looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean by enhance.”

  “Make your story strong enough to convince the jury that my clients are guilty,” Crader explained.

  “Hell, the sons of bitches are guilty,” Billy said.

  There was a ripple of laughter through the court, and Judge Colburn rapped his gavel once. Once was all that was required.

  “No, sir, Mr. McClain, it is not for you to decide whether or not the defendants are guilty,” Crader chastised. He pointed to the jury box. “That is something these twelve gentlemen must decide. Now, you told the court that you saw Mr. Michaels and Mr. Strayhorn drag Mr. Jackson’s body out of the barn. But did you see anyone kill Mr. Jackson?”

  “Well, yeah, I seen ’em kill Ben,” Billy said. “That’s what I been tellin’ you.”

  “You’re lyin’,” Loomis called from the defense table. “You wasn’t even in the barn when we kilt him.”

  The gallery laughed at Loomis’s outburst, and Crader winced. This time, it took several raps of the judge’s gavel before the defense attorney could continue his cross-examination.

  “I put it to you again, Mr. McClain. Did you actually see any of these men kill Mr. Jackson?”

  “Well, no, I mean, not if you’re goin’ to put it that way. But I did see them—”

  The lawyer held up his hand to stop Billy.

  “Thank you, no further questions.”

  “But they done it,” Billy said. “Hell, you just now heard Loomis say that they done it.”

  “Your Honor, please instruct the witness,” Crader said.

  “You are excused, Mr. McClain. Say nothing more unless you are asked.”

  Billy nodded, then glared over at the defense table as he stepped down from the witness chair.

  After all the witnesses were called
and examined, Colburn invited the lawyers to present their summations. Crader was first.

  Crader walked over to address the jury, but was silent for several seconds before he began his summation.

  “I feel a little like someone who has been ordered to sit in a poker game and play a hand that has already been dealt,” he said. “It is not an easy hand to play, and if this really was poker, I would fold. But this is real life, and I can’t fold. I am the court-appointed defense attorney for these men and I am honor-bound to do the best job for them that I can possibly do.”

  He paused again; then he raised his finger in admonition.

  “But you, gentlemen of the jury, are bound by that same code of honor. If there is the slightest doubt in your mind as to whether or not my clients killed Mr. Jackson, then you must acquit them. Now, you heard Mr. Tate’s outcry during my cross-examination of Mr. McClain.

  “It might seem to you that Mr. Tate convicted himself by his words, but I submit to you that it was no more than a disoriented outcry upon hearing McClain say something that he knew was not true.

  “McClain first stated that he had witnessed the killing; then, he recanted that statement and said that what he had witnessed was Mr. Jackson’s body being dragged from the barn.

  “Without an eyewitness who can testify that he actually saw the act of murder, then we have nothing more than speculation as to who killed Ben Jackson, or even how he died. For all we know, he could have been kicked by a horse, and my clients seized upon that opportunity as a means of extorting the money.

  “Yes, I will grant you that there may have been intent to commit robbery, but no robbery was committed, and we aren’t trying for robbery anyway. We are trying for murder and, with no actual eyewitnesses to the event, you cannot, in good conscience, find my clients guilty. Thank you for your patience.”

  Nervously running his hand through his hair, Crader returned to his chair.

  “Prosecution, your summation,” Judge Colburn called.

  Stubbs stood, but did not approach the jury. “Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury, ladies and gentlemen of the gallery . . .”

  “Mr. Stubbs, you know better than to address the gallery,” Colburn interrupted.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Honor, and I withdraw my salutation to the gallery. But before I begin my own summation, I would like to congratulate my young and most worthy opponent.” Stubbs looked over at Crader. “As you said, Mr. Crader, you were dealt a very difficult hand, and you played it brilliantly. Brilliantly, sir, and my hat is off to you.”

  Stubbs made a small bow toward Crader, who nodded back.

  Stubbs then turned his attention to the jury. “But as brilliant as my opponent was, he was not only dealt a bad hand, he was dealt a losing hand. It is obvious to anyone with any degree of reason that his clients committed this murder. It’s not necessary that there be an actual eyewitness to the murder. It is only necessary that there be a preponderance of evidence to enable you to feel, beyond any reasonable doubt, that these men murdered, or were complicit in the murder of, Ben Jackson.

  “The evidence and testimony presented here today will make that finding very easy for you.

  “I rest my case.”

  To no one’s surprise, the jury found Tate, Logan, Michaels, and Strayhorn guilty.

  Less than an hour after Judge Colburn had entered the courtroom, the four men stood convicted for capital crimes.

  “Bailiff, would you position the prisoners before the bench for sentencing, please?” Judge Colburn asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The four men were brought before the bench. Though Logan, Michaels, and Strayhorn stood with their heads bowed contritely, Loomis Tate stared defiantly at the judge.

  “Get it over with, old man,” Loomis said. “I ain’t got all day.” He giggled at his own joke.

  “Loomis Tate, Matthew Logan, Ron Michaels, and Ken Strayhorn, I hereby order the sheriff to lead you to the gallows at ten of the clock on Saturday morning where the four of you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead, and dead.”

  Chapter Four

  Pourtales’s carriage stopped in front of the Denver and Rio Grande depot. Built of brick, the depot was one of the more impressive-looking buildings in town. It had a red-tiled roof with dormers and a cupola on top from which someone could observe the train traffic on the eight sets of tracks that made up the yard.

  “I appreciate you going to New York for me,” Pourtales said.

  “It’s not that much of an imposition,” Falcon said. “I will enjoy having the opportunity to see my brother and sister again. And I’ve been to New York before. It is an interesting town.”

  “Indeed it is,” Pourtales said. “I must admit, though, that I’m somewhat surprised you aren’t going to stay in town for the hanging this Saturday.”

  Falcon shook his head. “I’ve seen men hanged,” he said. “It’s not something I enjoy.”

  “Nor do I,” Pourtales said. “But Ben Jackson was a very popular man here, and I think many are going, just to satisfy themselves that justice is done.”

  “And almost as many just to see the spectacle,” Falcon replied.

  “I can’t argue with that,” Pourtales said. “But it’s nothing new. The Romans made an art of it with their games in the Colosseum.”

  The carriage driver returned, then gave a ticket to Falcon.

  “Your luggage has been checked through, Mr. MacCallister. It’ll be in New York when you are.”

  “If it doesn’t get on the wrong train in Denver, and wind up in San Francisco or New Orleans,” Falcon joked.

  “You’ll arrive in New York when?” Pourtales asked.

  “Next Wednesday evening,” Falcon said.

  “Less than a week. My, we do live in a marvelous age.”

  “I’ll say. It took my pa three months to get out here,” Falcon said.

  They heard the sound of a whistle, and Pourtales turned in his seat to see the glow of a distant headlamp.

  “Here it comes,” he said.

  Falcon nodded, then climbed down from the carriage before reaching back up to shake Pourtales’s hand. “I’ll send you a wire as soon as I talk to them,” he said.

  “I hope they will come,” Pourtales said. “But whether they do or not, it has been an honor to have met you.”

  “Likewise,” Falcon said.

  By now the train was rolling into the yard and the sound of the puffing engine was quite audible. The engineer blew the whistle, then rang the bell, and as the train drew closer, Falcon could hear the hissing of steam and air, and the squeal of metal on metal as the brakes were applied. With a final wave, he started toward the platform, arriving at about the same time as the train.

  Passing a paperboy, Falcon bought a copy of the Gazette and took it on the train. There would be no Pullman cars available until he left Denver. The paper, he thought, would help him pass the time.

  FOUR MEN TO BE HURLED INTO ETERNITY!

  Notorious Loomis Tate One of the Men.

  His Brother Drew Killed

  by Falcon MacCallister.

  SPECIAL TO THE GAZETTE: In a trial presided over by the Honorable E.A. Colburn, Judge of El Paso County, and brilliantly prosecuted by Mr. C.E. Stubbs, the fates of Loomis Tate, Ron Michaels, Ken Strayhorn, and Matthew Logan were placed before a jury of twelve men, good and true.

  Despite a spirited defense offered by young Eli Crader, all four men were found guilty and sentenced to be hanged on Saturday next, at the morning hour of ten. A fifth member of the nefarious gang, one Drew Tate, known for his skill with a pistol, was spared from hanging, because he made the mistake of challenging Falcon MacCallister to a gunfight. Drew was dispatched on the spot.

  By the time Falcon finished with the newspaper, the train was well out of town and traveling at the speed of more than twenty-five miles per hour. Falcon leaned back in his seat, put his knees on the seat in front of him, then tipped his hat down over his eyes. He had better get
used to train travel. He had almost a week of it in front of him.

  Back in Colorado Springs the next morning, Matthew Logan paced back and forth in the cell that he was sharing with the other three condemned men. At one point he stopped his pacing and just stared straight ahead at the block wall.

  “What are you tryin’ to do, Logan, stare a hole in the wall?” Strayhorn asked.

  The albino chuckled. “Maybe he thinks he can stare a hole in the wall and we can all just walk through it.”

  “Shut up, Michaels,” Logan said angrily. “If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be about to get our necks stretched. You’re the one should be getting’ hung, not us.”

  The sound of the pulley straining with the sand-weight floated across the town square outside the cell and in through the tiny barred window. As the weight slammed down against the trapdoor, Logan jumped.

  “What are they doin’ that for?” he asked in a tight voice. “That sound—it’s drivin’ me crazy!”

  “You ought to be glad they’re testin’ it out like that, Logan,” Strayhorn said. “If they don’t get ever’thing just right, why, like as not you’ll just hang there and choke to death.”

  “Or else, it’ll jerk your head clean off your body,” the albino said. His cackle was like laughter from hell.

  The albino put his hand to his neck. “I never thought I’d be hung. I figured I might get shot someday, but I never thought I’d get hung.”

  “We ain’t been hung yet,” Loomis said. He was lying on the bunk with his arm across his eyes, and this was the first thing he had said in a long time.

  “Yeah, but we’re goin’ to be, and I wish they’d just go ahead and do it and get it over with,” Logan said.

  Outside, they tested the gallows again, and the men in the cell heard the trapdoor fall open and the sandbag hit the ground with a violent thud.

  “Stop, damn you, stop!” Logan shouted. He put his hands over his ears.

  The albino laughed again, a dry, skeletal laugh.