Bloodshed of Eagles. William W. Johnstone
I would warn you,” Falcon said.
“What do you mean there are some men up ahead? Arnie Sessions, the driver, asked. “How many? What do they want?
“I saw at least two,” Falcon replied. “And since they were trying to stay out of sight, I expect that whatever they want is not good.”
“You got ’ny ideas?” Sessions asked.
“Yes. When we make the next cutback, stop and let your passengers out. You’ll be out of sight then, so they won’t see what we are doing and won’t get suspicious. Then, when we get up there, we’ll be ready for them.”
“Sounds like a good idee,” Sessions said. “There’s a second scattergun down here at my feet. You want it?”
“No, keep it ready for yourself. I prefer the pistol.”
When the coach reached the next cutback, it stopped, and Falcon jumped down, then opened the door.
“Folks, we need you to all get out here,” he said.
“What? Why, this is preposterous!” the lawyer said. “Why should we get out?”
“Because there are some men up at the top of this grade, and I have a hunch they aren’t there just to wave at us as we go by,” Falcon said. “I believe you will be safer if you wait down here.”
“You are going to put us out just on some hunch? Well, sir, I shall need more than that before I am put afoot.”
“Mr. MacCallister is right,” the driver called down. “If there’s nothing to it, I’ll come back for you. But if them fellas up there have somthin’ planned for us, well, I’d feel just a heap better iffen none of you was in the line of fire, so to speak. Especially with the little ones.”
“I think the driver is right,” the doctor said.
“I think this is unconscionable,” the lawyer said. “And if you force us to leave this coach, I guarantee you, the stagecoach company shall hear of it.”
“Mr. Gilmore, I know you are an important lawyer and all,” Ben Carney said. “But we’re doin’ this for your own good.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Carney. Mr. Gilmore can stay in the coach with us, if he wishes,” Falcon said to the shotgun guard. “After all, there may be shooting, and if there is we could well use another gun.”
“What do you mean there may be shooting?” Gilmore asked. “What are you talking about? I’m not going to get into any shooting battle,” the lawyer said.
“No, I think Mr. MacCallister is right. You can stay in the coach, Mr. Gilmore. The more guns we have, the better our chances will be,” Sessions said.
The lawyer climbed out of the stage. “No, now that I think of it, I believe someone should stay here and keep an eye on the woman and children,” Gilmore said.
“Good idea,” Falcon said.
With all the passengers disembarked, the driver started his team again and the coach resumed its long pull up the grade. Falcon sat on top of the coach just behind Sessions and Carney, but just before the coach reached the top, he touched the driver on the shoulder.
“I’m going to jump down here,” he said. “I’ll see you at the top.”
“Right,” Sessions said. “Ben, you do have that thing loaded, don’t you?”
“Loaded and ready to go,” Carney replied, shifting the shotgun.
The horses strained in their harness as they pulled the coach up the last one hundred yards.
“Andy, Poke, get ready!” Garon called out. “The coach is just about here, no more than another minute or so!”
As the coach reached the top of the grade, the three road agents jumped out with their guns drawn.
“Hold it right there!” Garon called, pointing his pistol at the driver and guard. “Driver, are you carrying an express box?”
“Nothin’ here but a mailbag,” Sessions replied.
“I don’t believe you. If you ain’t carryin’ a strongbox, why do you have a shotgun guard ridin’ with you?”
“It’s just somethin’ the company makes us do,” the driver said. “But there ain’t no strongbox, and if you don’t believe it, you can climb up here and see for yourself,” the driver replied.
“All right, throw the mailbag down. And you folks inside the coach, come out!” Garon shouted. “I want all the passengers outside now. Come on, let’s see what you have.”
“There ain’t no passengers,” Sessions said. He had not yet thrown down the mailbag.
“What do you mean, there ain’t no passengers? This is a stagecoach, ain’t it? How can you have a stagecoach without havin’ any passengers?”
“Drop your guns!” Falcon shouted, suddenly appearing on the road behind Garon, Andy, and Poke.
“What the hell?” Andy shouted. He and Poke whirled around and fired at Falcon. Even as the two bullets fried the air by his ears, Falcon returned fire and both men went down.
“No!” Garon shouted, throwing his pistol down and putting his hands in the air. “No, I give up, I give up! Don’t shoot!”
With the gun in his hand still smoking, Falcon kept Garon covered as he moved over to check on the two men he had shot. Both were dead.
“Them was my pards you killed, mister,” Garon said, angrily.
“I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Falcon replied. “It was either kill them, or let them kill me. And I wasn’t ready to let them do that.”
“What’s your name?” Garon asked.
“The name is MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”
“Falcon MacCallister. I’m going to remember that name,” Garon said. “Yes, sir, I’m going to remember it for a long time.”
September 10, 1875
Pagosa Springs, Colorado Territory
“Here you go, Mr. MacCallister, fried ham, fried potatoes, a mess of fried okra, and some pan-fried cornbread,” the overweight waitress said as she put the plate in front of Falcon.
“Thank you, Mrs. Conners,” Falcon said. “It looks delicious.”
“How do you think the trial is going?” Sessions asked. Arnie Sessions, Ben Carney, and Falcon had all testified for the prosecution.
“Hell, there ain’t no question about it,” Carney said. “We got the son of a bitch dead to rights.”
“I learned a long time ago never to second-guess a jury,” Falcon said.
“Yeah, and wouldn’t you know Gilmore would be defending him,” Sessions said.
The trial they were talking about was the trial for Jim Garon. All three had testified this morning, and Falcon was still giving testimony when the court recessed for lunch.
“Well, everyone is entitled to a defense,” Falcon said, and he used a piece of the fried cornbread to corral some of the fried okra.
“The trial is resuming!” someone called from the front door of the restaurant.
Falcon, Sessions, and Carney got up from the table, as did several other diners, all of whom had been in the gallery.
Outside, several of the town’s citizens were streaming back toward the schoolhouse where the trial was actually being held, the town having no courthouse.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! This court is now in session, the honorable T.J. Hawkins presiding. All rise.”
There