Crusade of Eagles Page 5

  “You bastard!” Elam Rafferty yelled, shocked by what he had just seen. Surprising Strayhorn, who was supposed to be watching him, Elam jumped up from his chair and leaped onto Loomis, knocking him down. He began struggling to get the gun from Loomis.

  “Get him off of me! Get him off of me!” Loomis screamed.

  Strayhorn redeemed his mistake in watching his prisoner by stepping over quickly and putting the end of the gun no more than an inch away from Elam’s temple. He pulled the trigger and blood and brain matter spewed from the bullet hole as Elam fell dead beside his son.

  “Papa! Jimmy!” Lucy screamed. She dropped to her knees beside them and put her hands over her eyes trying desperately to deny what was before her.

  “Murderers!” Jimmy’s mother yelled. She tried to stand up, but the pale-faced one shoved her back down in her chair, then cut a nick in her face with the tip of his knife. A bright red stream of blood began flowing from the cut. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she screamed.

  Loomis, who had by now gotten up from the floor, looked over at Sue. “Shut up, woman,” he ordered, “or I’ll have the albino slit you open from gullet to gizzard.”

  Sue bit her bottom lip and trembled with terror and grief as she saw both her husband and her son lying dead on the kitchen floor.

  “You, girlie, what’s your name?” Loomis asked the young girl.

  “My name is Lucy.”

  “Get up, Lucy. Get over there with your mama.”

  Lucy did as she was ordered; then she reached down and grabbed her mother’s hand.

  “Have you got ’ny money in this house?” Loomis asked.

  “It’s over there in the hutch,” Sue said. “In the middle drawer.”

  Loomis went over to the hutch and opened the drawer. He saw some money there, but when he pulled it out and counted, he frowned.

  “Forty dollars?” he said. “All you have is forty dollars?”

  “Elam did not believe in keeping much cash in the house. He keeps all our money in the bank.”

  “Well, then, forty dollars and breakfast will have to do,” Loomis said. “Oh, and we’ll be borrowing a few horses when we leave,” he added.

  Kelly laughed. “Borrowing a few horses,” he said. He laughed again. “Like we’re goin’ to bring ’em back.”

  “Loomis, there’s somethin’ else here we could use,” the albino said.

  “What?”

  The albino looked pointedly at Lucy. “Are you a virgin?” he asked.

  “What?” Lucy asked, shocked by the question.

  “It’s a simple question, girlie. Are you a virgin? Have you ever been with a man?”

  “No! No, of course not!”

  “What are you getting’ at, Michaels?” Loomis asked.

  “There’s people in Mexico willin’ to pay a lot of money for white women,” he said. “And they’ll pay just real good for a young virgin girl.”

  Loomis looked at Lucy and at her mother; then he shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to Mexico till I deal with MacCallister.”

  “Whatever you say,” the albino said. “I just hate to be wastin’ these two women is all.”

  Loomis smiled, then rubbed himself.

  “Oh, don’t you be worryin’ none about that,” he said.

  “We ain’t goin’ to waste ’em,” he added. He reached out and put his hand on the neck of Lucy’s dress, then jerked it down, tearing it away to expose her nubile, young naked body.

  “Oh, yeah,” Loomis said, leering at her. “You’re tit-tied up just real good.”

  “What about this woman?” the albino asked.

  “We’ll take our turns with both of ’em,” Loomis said as he began opening his belt. “But I got first on this one.”

  Chapter Six

  Falcon remembered having read somewhere that Union Station in St. Louis was the busiest railroad hub in the entire world, with more than 25,000 passengers per day passing through the station. It was a claim he could easily believe as he stepped into the passenger ticketing and waiting room.

  An enormous gaslight chandelier, hanging from a sixty-five-foot-high vaulted ceiling, dominated the Grand Hall. The floor teemed with humanity: men and women moving to or from trains, children laughing or crying. As the trains entered or departed from the great covered train shed, Falcon could feel the floor rumbling under his feet.

  Falcon went to an information booth.

  “Good evening, sir,” one of the agents in the booth greeted said. “May I help you?”

  “I’m changing trains here, going on to New York,” Falcon said, showing his long row of multisectioned tickets. “I just want to make sure I’m on the right train at the right time.”

  The agent examined the tickets. “You came from Colorado Springs, I see,” he said. “You are making quite a long journey.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ahh, here it is. You will board the Flying Eagle on track number twelve at eight o’clock.” The agent looked up at a huge clock. “It’s just after seven-thirty and you have first-class passage. They are boarding first-class passengers now, and I am sure you will find the parlor car seats much more comfortable than the hard wooden benches of the waiting room.”

  “Yes, I believe I would. Thanks,” Falcon said, starting toward a door under a sign that read: TO TRAINS.

  When Falcon stepped through the door, it was almost as if he had stepped from one world to another. Behind him was the large, domed waiting room. Before him was the great train shed with thirty-one tracks.

  As the heavy trains moved in and out of the shed, Falcon could not only hear them, he could feel them in the pit of his stomach. He could smell the aroma of coal and wood smoke, and overheated bearings and gearboxes. Wisps of steam drifted through the shed, almost iridescent in the lampposts that illuminated the long, cement platforms that ran the length of the tracks between sitting trains.

  Falcon found track number twelve, then showed his ticket to the conductor.

  “Yes, sir,” the conductor said. “You are in a Wagner Palace car, the third car back from the baggage car. It is number one-seven-six.”

  “Thank you,” Falcon said, starting up the long, narrow, walkway between the Flying Eagle and the Chicago Limited, which was parked on the adjacent track.

  Inside the Palace car, the lanterns were all at their brightest as the few privileged passengers prepared for the long trip. Falcon entered the car, passing a beautiful young woman who was trying to put a hatbox in the overhead rack. The young woman was stretching to reach it, but it was beyond her reach.

  Her effort to reach the overhead rack showed every curve of her body in a way that caused Falcon to stop, just for a moment, to enjoy the view. Then, stepping up to her, he offered his help.

  “Allow me,” Falcon said. He smiled graciously at the lady and reached up to put the hatbox in place.

  “Thank you, sir,” the young woman replied.

  “My pleasure, miss,” Falcon said, touching the brim of his hat.

  Unlike the day car he had taken out of Colorado Springs, this car was handsome and elegant in every detail. It was richly paneled inside with burled walnut and golden gilt; the seats were large and mounted on swivels to allow the passengers to enjoy the view through the window, or to turn the seats inward for conversation with other passengers. The seats also reclined for comfort during the day, but when night arrived, there were private sleeping compartments at each end of the car.

  Falcon had not been in his seat for more than a few minutes when a young boy, wearing a Western Union cap, came into the car.

  “Mr. MacCallister? Is there someone in here named Falcon MacCallister?” the boy called.

  “I’m Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon said, lifting his hand.

  “I have a telegram for you, Mr. MacCallister,” the boy said.

  “A telegram?”

  “Yes, sir, it actually come this afternoon, but it said you’d be on this train.”

  �
��All right, thanks,” Falcon said, handing the boy a half-dollar.

  The boy smiled broadly. “Gee, thanks, mister,” he said.

  Falcon opened the telegram.

  MR MACCALLISTER

  LOOMIS TATE AND HIS GANG MURDERED GUARD

  AND ESCAPED JAIL THIS MORNING STOP THOUGHT

  YOU SHOULD BE INFORMED OF SITUATION STOP

  JAMES POURTALES

  It was midnight when the train reached Indianapolis, but Falcon left it long enough to go into the depot and send a telegram back to Pourtales. He asked the entrepreneur if he still wanted Falcon to bring his brother and sister back to perform in the Broadmoor.

  The answer reached him the next day as the train paused briefly in Buffalo.

  YES STOP THIS CHANGES NOTHING STOP

  Falcon arrived at Grand Central Station in New York on the evening of the sixth day of travel. He had not informed his brother and sister that he was coming to New York, and he made no effort to contact them now. Instead, he got a room in the Bixby Hotel on Broadway, bought a copy of the New York Times, then went to his room to relax and read the paper.

  As it turned out, under the “Entertainments” Section, he saw an article about Andrew and Rosanna.

  For two months now, since the start of the season, the more sophisticated playgoers in New York have enjoyed a performance that is so lavish in its staging, so rich in its orchestral presentation, and so aptly played by the actors, that no other offering is its equal.

  I am talking about the play entitled The Mulligan Guard Ball, which has enjoyed a very successful run at the Bijou Opera House on Broadway.

  Of course, The Mulligan Guard Ball has been presented on the New York stage before, but never with the plentitude of talent as displayed by its two principal players, Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister. Equal to Sarah Bernhardt and Edwin Booth in their thespian skills, the two MacCallisters give a performance that must be seen by any aficionado of the theater.

  Such is the pity that tomorrow night will be the last night of this fine show. Any who have not seen this play, and can avail themselves of the opportunity to do so, would be well advised to take advantage of this, the last performance, not only of this company’s production, but perhaps of any future production.

  Falcon put the paper aside, extinguished the lantern, then laid his head on the pillow. He’d been going to contact them where they live, but after reading the paper, he had a better idea.

  Chapter Seven

  The message on the marquee of the Bijou Opera House advertised the performance in letters so large that even passengers in the carriages on Broadway could read it quite clearly.

  LAST NIGHT ! ONE PERFORMANCE ONLY !

  ANDREW AND ROSANNA MACCALLISTER

  ~Starring in~

  HARRIGAN AND HART’S

  “The Mulligan Guard Ball”

  A colorful poster in front of the theater had a photograph of the principal players wearing the military costumes of their roles.

  Hired cabs and liveried carriages disgorged patrons in front of the theater as they filed in to catch this, the very last night.

  “Have you ever seen the MacCallisters?” one woman was asking another. “They are brilliant.”

  “Were they already in the theater when they met and married?”

  “Oh, my dear, they aren’t married.”

  “They aren’t? But their names . . .”

  “They are brother and sister.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes, and they are from quite a colorful family. Their father was Daniel Boone, or Davy Crockett, or some such person.”

  “Andrew also has quite a colorful background on his own, from what I hear,” another said.

  “Curtain time! Five minutes until curtain time!” a young man in a maroon uniform shouted as he walked through the crowded lobby. “Curtain time! Five minutes until curtain time!”

  “We’d better hurry inside.”

  Within moments, the lobby cleared as everyone moved quickly into the theater to claim their seats. After the noise of settling in quieted, the curtains opened to disclose the two stars standing on the stage.

  The crowd applauded.

  Rosanna MacCallister, wearing the ill-fitting parody of a militia uniform, was playing Kate. In character, she stepped to the middle of the stage, then, clasping her hand across her heart, emoted loudly enough to be heard by all fifteen hundred patrons.

  KATE

  McSweeney, what’s the name of the hall the young Mulligans have hired for the ball?

  Andrew MacCallister, her costar and brother, wearing a similar uniform, was playing “McSweeney.” He listened attentively, then, spreading his arms wide, turned to the audience to deliver his response.

  McSWEENEY

  Sure’n ’tis the Harp and Shamrock, Katie m’darlin’.

  KATE

  I want to see the hall look nice. Will you do what I say?

  McSWEENEY

  Yes, sling on anything, Kate, I’m with you.

  KATE

  No, but fix the hall the way I want it. Get a row of American flags on the right hand, with the Irish flags blending between them. Then get a row of wax candles on the balcony, and put a sign on it, “Look out for the drip.” Get about thirty-three canaries, and some blackbirds, in cages, and hang them on the chandeliers, and give word to the leader of the band, if a Dutch tune is played the whole night, he’ll not get a cent.

  (laughter from the crowd)

  Will you do this?

  McSWEENEY

  I will, you bet your life, Kate.

  KATE

  Come on. Do ye remember the old tune?

  KATE (singing)

  We shouldered arms

  And marched

  And marched away,

  From Baxter Street

  We marched to Avenue A.

  With drums and fifes

  How sweetly they did play

  As we marched, marched, marched

  In the Mulligan Guards.

  McSWEENEY (staggering, as if drunk)

  When we’d get home at night, boys,

  The divil a wink we’d sleep;

  At this, Andrew put his thumbs under his armpits, then tilted his head and winked at the audience. The audience responded with laughter, and Andrew had to wait for a moment before continuing with his song.

  McSWEENEY

  We’d all sit up and drink a sup

  Of whiskey, strong and neat.

  Then we’d all march home together,

  As slippery as lard;

  The solid men would all fall in,

  And march in the Mulligan Guard.

  Now, arm in arm, and responding to the music of the band, Andrew and Rosanna did a parody of a march around the stage. Their antics received raucous laughter from the audience.

  The show revolved around two rival groups renting the same hall on the same night, and it continued for three acts of song, dance, and dialogue as the Mulligan Guard attempted to work out the problem with the Knights of Bronx.

  At the conclusion of the show, Andrew and Rosanna came together, held hands, and made a deep bow to the applauding audience. The curtains closed, then opened to the continuing applause of the audience. Andrew held out his hand to welcome the other players on stage, appearing in reverse order of their importance to the play.

  The other players came out in ones and twos, until finally all were standing on the stage. Then, taking his sister’s hand, Andrew stepped to the front with Rosanna for one final bow.

  As the curtains closed for the final time, everyone rushed off the stage in order to get out of makeup and costumes.

  “Dinner at Delmonico’s?” Rosanna called to her brother as they hurried through the dim corridors backstage.

  “Delmonico’s it is,” Andrew called back.

  “Ha! If you don’t watch yourself with such midnight dinners, you’ll grow so fat that the oversized costume you are wearing on stage may actually fit,” a man’s voice call
ed from the shadows.

  “What?” Rosanna replied, stung by the words.

  “Sir, how dare you make such a remark to my sister!” Andrew said in an angry, challenging voice.

  “Well, she’s my sister, too, Andrew,” Falcon MacCallister replied, stepping out of the shadows with a wide smile spreading across his face.

  “Falcon!” Rosanna screamed in joy. She ran to him with her arms spread wide. “Oh, what a pleasure to see you here!”

  Falcon embraced and kissed his sister, then shook hands with his brother.

  “How wonderful to see you!” Andrew said. Then, the expression on his face showed worry. “Oh, is anything wrong? Our family?”

  “All are well,” Falcon said.

  Both Andrew and Rosanna heaved a sigh of relief.

  “That is good news to hear,” Andrew said. “But what are you doing here?”

  “Can I not come to New York to visit my brother and sister?”

  “Yes, yes, of course you can, anytime!” Rosanna said. Then, frowning at Andrew, she added, “Andrew, what is wrong with you? Does our little brother need a reason to come to New York?”

  “Little brother?” Andrew said with a laugh. Though he was the youngest, Falcon had grown up to be the largest of the MacCallister clan. Towering almost six inches over Andrew, Falcon was the same size as, and many said the spitting image of, his father, Jamie Ian MacCallister.

  “And of course he doesn’t need an excuse,” Andrew continued. “It is just that, well, quite frankly, I do not think of Falcon as being a man of the city. I believe him to be much more at home on some remote Western mountain peak than on Broadway.”