Crusade of Eagles Page 8

  But belt and buttons on a dishrag

  I never saw before.

  “Why, you old fool! Don’t you know what she’s doing to you?” someone in the front row yelled.

  I came home the other night

  As drunk as I could be.

  And what do you think my wondering eyes should see?

  A head, on the pillow,

  Where my head should be.

  “I told you!” one of the men in the audience shouted. “You should’ve figured it out the moment you saw that strange horse.”

  Andrew raised his hand and pointed his finger. He made a face like an irate husband, challenging his wife with irrefutable evidence.

  So I said to my wife, my pretty little wife,

  “Explain this thing to me.

  What is this head doing on my pillow,

  Where my head should be?”

  And she said, “You old fool, you drunken fool,

  Can’t you plainly see?

  That’s nothing but a mushmelon

  My mama sent to me.”

  “A mushmelon?” one of the audience yelled. “She said it was a mushmelon and you believed her?”

  Well, I’ve been around this country,

  Maybe ten times or more.

  But a mustache on a mushmelon

  I never saw before.

  Yes, a mustache on a mushmelon

  I never saw before.

  Andrew finished his song with a sweeping bow, and then left the stage to the howls of laughter from an appreciative audience.

  When Andrew was finished, Rosanna returned to the stage. She had changed costumes, and was now wearing a beautiful green dress that showed off her hair, skin, and exquisite shape to perfection. She was holding a single yellow rose as she began to sing:

  Over in Killarney

  Many years ago,

  Me Mither sang a song to me

  In tones so sweet and low.

  Just a simple little ditty,

  In her good ould Irish way,

  And I’d give the world if she could sing

  That song to me this day.

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li,

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry!

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li,

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that’s an Irish lullaby.

  The audience, which had been roaring with laughter over Andrew’s ditty, now wiped tears from their eyes at the purity and sweetness of Rosanna’s voice.

  The best form of advertisement is word of mouth, and word of the MacCallisters’ performance spread throughout Colorado and even into the adjacent states. Extra trains were put on, and Pourtales had to bring in extra chairs to accommodate the increased audience. Andrew and Rosanna finished their last night’s performance to a crowd that was standing room only. After that, they were invited to a dinner given by Count Pourtales to honor Andrew and Rosanna. The members of the band and the stage crew had also been invited.

  Falcon was invited as well, and he sat at the head table with Pourtales and his brother and sister.

  “My friends,” Pourtales said from the head table to all the guests in the room. He lifted his glass. “I drink a toast to the most talented two performers in the world: to Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister.”

  “Hear, hear,” someone else said, and they all lifted their wineglasses and drank.

  Andrew stood to speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of this wonderful city of Colorado Springs, I must confess that when my brother approached us to come here, I was somewhat reticent. After all, my sister and I had trod the boards of the New York stage and played the theaters of Europe. What could there possibly be for us here?

  “Well, I was wrong. I was very wrong. Never have we appeared in a more beautiful setting; never have we been better received than by the marvelous audiences who applauded our meager effort. To the talented and skilled cast and production staff who served us, and to Count James Pourtales, our most gracious host who made all possible, my sister and I give you our heartfelt thanks.”

  City Gives MacCallisters A Gala Send-Off

  The day broke fair and beautiful this morning, seeming to smile upon the occasion. At an early hour the streets began to fill with people and there was the sound of music and marching feet. Many of the merchants decorated their stores with flags and bunting in honor of the two noted thespians who, for the two weeks previous, have so gallantly graced our city by their presence.

  The parade started promptly at nine o’clock, forming opposite the city hall on Nevada Avenue. First came a platoon of volunteer firemen, all attired in uniform and presenting their usual fine and commanding appearance. Then came the sheriff and all his deputies, mounted upon spirited horses. Following came the Centennial State band with fourteen pieces discoursing martial strains par excellence led by Drum Major M.O. Barns, the band fully sustaining its well-merited standing as one of the best in the West. Next came the school cadets with twenty-one men in line and with their neat and attractive uniforms and their glistening rifles attracting more than usual attention. They were followed by a marching element of the Knights of Pythias, then the Pikes Peak lodge of I.O.O.F. That was followed by a rifle and drum corps of the Grand Army of the Republic. Next came Mayor Sprague and members of the city council, after which came the children of the city schools, many of them carrying wreaths and bouquets of wildflowers in the full glee and merriment of childhood, presenting one of the most pleasing features of the procession. Their participation will doubtless ensure that, even into the next century, stories will be told of this festive event, for it shall long be remembered by them.

  And, finally, as the last unit of the parade, came the subjects of the city’s adoration. The world-famous actors, Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister, were riding with James Pourtales in his shining green and gold carriage, driven by a liveried coachman and attended by two elegantly uniformed footmen.

  The parade ended at the depot, where the entire town sent the two off with song and glad tidings.

  Chapter Eleven

  Although he wasn’t sure how far they had come, Loomis Tate believed that they were at least two hundred miles east of Colorado Springs.

  For several minutes now, they had been approaching a small town. It had risen before them almost as if it were a natural part of the terrain, the buildings blending into the prairie with both their irregular shape and indistinct color.

  At the edge of town they saw a building, a rambling, unpainted wooden structure that stretched and leaned and bulged and sagged until it looked as if the slightest puff of wind might blow it down. A sign out front read:

  ZIEGENHORN’ S

  Groceries–Eats–Rooms

  Loomis started heading toward the building.

  “Hey, Loomis, what are you goin’ in there for? Let’s go on into town and find us a real saloon,” Strayhorn said.

  “Yeah,” the albino agreed. “I’m so thirsty I could spit dust.”

  “We need some supplies,” Loomis said. “We’ll get ’em here, then go find a saloon.”

  “What we could use is some more money,” Kelly said. “I think we should rob the place.”

  “No,” Loomis said. “Not here. Not yet.”

  “Well, tell me, Loomis, just how much longer do you expect we can get by on what little money we got?”

  “We’ll get some more money,” Loomis said. “We just ain’t goin’ to get it here, is all.”

  The men tied off their horses out front, then stepped onto the porch. A nondescript yellow dog was sleeping in the shade of the porch, so secure with his position and the surroundings that he didn’t even open his eyes as they went around him to go inside.

  The interior of Ziegenhorn’s was a study of shadow and light. Some of the light came through the door, and some came through windows that were nearly opaque with dirt. Most of it, however, was in the form of gleaming dust motes that hung suspended in the still air, illuminated by the bars of sunbeams that s
tabbed through the cracks between the boards.

  There were three men sitting around a cracker barrel at the back of the room. One of them, wearing an apron, was obviously the proprietor. But one of them, Loomis noticed with some alarm, was wearing a badge.

  “Howdy,” the proprietor said affably. “What can I get for you gents?”

  “Your sign out front says you have groceries,” Loomis said.

  “Yes, sir, we got groceries, we got dry goods, just about anything you might need, you can get it right here.”

  “How about whiskey?” the albino said.

  “No, sir, town ordinance says you can’t serve liquor unless you got a license, and since the marshal is right here keepin’ an eye on me, well, I reckon I better not do that,” the proprietor said with a chuckle. “But you might try the Long Trail, it’s . . .” It wasn’t until that moment that the proprietor actually noticed the albino, and so startled was he by the pasty white appearance that he stopped in mid-sentence.

  “Something wrong, mister?” the albino asked.

  The proprietor shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, sir, nothing at all is wrong. Uh, you said you wanted some supplies.”

  “For travelin’,” Loomis said.

  “Where you boys from?” the man with the badge asked.

  “We’re up from the South,” Loomis said.

  At the same time Loomis was saying “South,” Kelly said “West.”

  The lawman looked confused. “Well, which is it? South or West?”

  “Both,” Loomis said.

  “Both?”

  “We’re from Arizona. That’s south and west of here.”

  The lawman chuckled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I can see where the confusion might come in. Well, you boys are certainly a long way from home. Where you headed?”

  “That depends on where we are,” Loomis said.

  “What?”

  “What’s the name of this place?”

  “Eagle Tail,” the lawman replied. “It’s not much of a place now, but we’re on the railroad so I expect we’ll be growin’ somewhat. My name is Crack Kingsley, the fella that owns this place is Hank Ziegenhorn, and this is Tom Blanton. Blanton here is the editor of the paper,” he added, indicating the man who was sitting on one of the other chairs around the table.

  “You the sheriff ?”

  Kingsley chuckled. “Hardly. I’m the city marshal is all. I didn’t catch your names,” Kingsley said.

  “We ain’t nobody important,” Loomis answered. Then, to Blanton, in order to change the subject away from their names, he said, “Newspaper editor, huh? Well, shouldn’t you be out gathering news or something?”

  “No better place to gather news than right here,” Blanton replied. “Lots of folks come in here right off the train. Sometimes I get news just by talking to them; other times I get news from the newspapers they leave behind.”

  It now seemed obvious that the lawman had not recognized them, and Loomis was not really interested in the conversation, but he let the editor continue.

  “Yes, sir,” Blanton continued. “Before I came here and started publishing the Pronouncement, I worked as a reporter for the St. Louis Republican. And now I use their stories, like the piece I did today about the MacCallisters.”

  “Your piece about who?” Loomis asked, suddenly showing more interest in the conversation. “Did you say MacCallisters?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s in the paper today,” Blanton said. “The great thespians Andrew and Rosanna MacCallister came all the way out to Colorado Springs just to put on a show.”

  “Oh,” Loomis replied, his interest waning again.

  “Can you imagine that?” Blanton asked. “Why, the MacCallisters have played on the stage in New York, London, Paris—just about all over the world, I reckon, and they came all the way out here to put on a show for Westerners.”

  Loomis didn’t reply and the newspaper editor, anxious to continue the conversation, spoke again.

  “I know some folks are wondering why they did it, but it’s not hard to figure out when you know the history of their family. I mean, their father was the famous James Ian MacCallister, and some say their brother Falcon is just as famous.”

  Once again, Loomis was interested.

  “Did you say their brother is Falcon MacCallister?” he asked.

  “Yes indeed. Heard of him, have you?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Loomis said.

  “Well, I don’t doubt it. After all, they say that Falcon MacCallister is the most feared gunman in the West. And yet, or so it is told, he never uses his gun for evil, only for good and justice. You say you have heard of him. Do you know Falcon MacCallister, sir?”

  “I’ve met him,” Loomis said.

  “What is he like? I’m told he is a prince of a fellow.”

  “That’s him, all right,” Loomis said. “None better.”

  Loomis could feel the eyes of the others on him, but no one said anything.

  “Perhaps you would like to meet his brother and sister,” Blanton suggested.

  “Thanks,” Loomis said. “But we’re not headed for Colorado Springs.”

  “You misunderstand me, sir. You wouldn’t have to go to Colorado Springs,” Blanton said. “They’re coming here.”

  “Here?” Loomis said. “Wait a minute, you’re tellin’ me how famous they are, how they’ve played all over the world, but they’re going to come here and do a show?”

  Blanton, Kingsley, and Ziegenhorn all laughed.

  “Heavens, no,” Ziegenhorn said. “They won’t do a show here. Of course, I would love it if we could get them to sing just one song for us, but I don’t think they will do that either. But they are going back to New York and their train will be passing through here tomorrow afternoon. And there is a chance that they might come out just long enough to wave at us.”

  “What makes you think they’d do that?” the albino asked. “I mean, for a little town like this?”

  “Well, for all that they are rich and famous, I am told that they are very nice people,” Blanton replied. “And I believe we can prevail upon them to at least say hello.”

  “We’ve made a sign,” the proprietor said.

  “What sort of a sign?”

  “It’s down at the depot. When you leave here, you should ride by and take a look at it.”

  “Maybe we’ll just do that,” Loomis said.

  “Oh, and if you’re planning on staying overnight so as to be here when they come through tomorrow, I’ve got some beds in the back,” the proprietor said. “Maybe you seen my sign out front.”

  “Didn’t notice,” Loomis replied.

  “Yes, sir, ten cents for a bed and a nickel for a blanket.”

  “We ain’t got that much money,” Loomis said. “I see no need in wastin’ it on rooms, when we can sleep outside. But I will be takin’ them supplies now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ziegenhorn said. “I’ll be glad to do that. What do you need?”

  “Coffee, flour, bacon, beans, and salt, enough to last the five of us for two weeks.”

  “Will that be all?”

  “Yeah, that’ll be all.”

  “Hey, Loomis, would you look here at this? Someone has actually written a book about the son of a bitch,” Strayhorn said. He was looking at a display of books, and he picked up a penny dreadful to show to Loomis.

  FALCON MACCALLISTER’S GREAT TRIUMPH

  A Story of the Wild West

  By

  Jack Coulter

  “Oh, are you a reader, sir?” Ziegenhorn asked, pointing to the book. “I have several books about Falcon MacCallister. Being as he is a friend of yours, you might particularly enjoy this one.”

  “I’m not much of a reader,” Loomis said. He turned to Strayhorn. “Put the book down and let’s go.”

  “He called MacCallister a son of a bitch,” Ziegenhorn said after the five men left. “That doesn’t sound like much of a friend to me, does it to you?�
��

  “No, I can’t say that it does,” Blanton said.

  “Hank,” Kingsley said. “The fella that picked up the book, did he call the other Loomis?”

  Ziegenhorn paused for a moment and stroked his chin.

  “Yeah, I believe he did,” Ziegenhorn said. “Loomis, Doomis, something like that. Why? Have you ever heard of him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kingsley said. “But there’s somethin’ about the name that sort of sticks in my craw.”

  “Maybe you seen him on one of your wanted posters,” Ziegenhorn suggested.

  “Could be,” Kingsley replied. “I’ll take a look when I get back to the office.

  As Loomis and the others rode by the depot, they saw a big sign stretched out in front of the building.

  EAGLE TAIL WELCOMES

  ANDREW AND ROSANNA MACCALLISTER

  “That’s somethin’, them bein’ MacCallister’s kin, ain’t it?” Strayhorn asked.

  “Yeah,” Loomis replied. “Come on, let’s go have that drink you fellas been bellyachin’ about.”

  The Long Trail smelled of whiskey, stale beer, and sour tobacco. There was a long, polished mahogany bar on the left, with towels hanging on hooks about every five feet along its front. A large gilt-edged mirror was behind the bar.

  Over against the back wall, near the foot of the stairs, a piano player sat at the handsome upright piano furnishing background music. There was a bowl on the piano for tips.

  Out on the floor of the saloon, nearly all the tables were filled. A half-dozen or so bar gals were flitting about, pushing drinks and promising more than they really intended to deliver. A few card games were in progress, but most of the patrons were just drinking and talking. The subject of their conversation was the upcoming visit by the MacCallisters.

  “I don’t know what ever’one is so excited about,” one of the patrons was saying. “It ain’t like they’re goin’ to stop here and put on a show or nothin’.”