William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

“And I’ll fire you if you don’t,” Cletus said angrily.

“You cannot fire me,” Manuel said. “Only Señor Ike Clinton can fire me.”

“Yeah? Well the ole man ain’t goin’ to live forever, you know,” Cletus said. “And when he dies, I’ll fire you.”

“Cletus, enough,” Billy said. “Manuel is only doing his job.”

“All right, if we’re going home, then let’s go home,” Cletus said. “I’ll drive.”

Cletus crawled into the front seat, took the reins from Manuel, and removed the whip from its stand.

“Hyyaah!” he yelled as he lashed out at the team. The horses broke into a gallop from a standing start and, with Cletus shouting warnings and curses, the carriage raced down the main street, scattering pedestrians as it did so.

La Junta had not changed since the last time Falcon was here. The little town was built along the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, the steel ribbons that gave it life. By horseback, it would have taken Falcon at least four days to ride to La Junta from his ranch just outside MacCallister. But by rail, it took only sixteen hours.

A stagecoach was drawn up on the street behind the railroad depot and, retrieving his luggage, Falcon walked over to it. The driver of the stage was stretched out on top of the coach. His hands were folded across his chest, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. Because Falcon once had had a business investment in Higbee, he had made this trip a few times before, and he recognized the driver.

“Wake up, Sam,” Falcon called up to him.

“Yeah, I’m awake,” the driver said, sitting up and stretching. Then, recognizing Falcon, he smiled. “Well, Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

Falcon held up his bag. Attached to the bag was a Winchester rifle.

“Where do you want this, Sam? On top, or in the boot?” he asked.

“The boot’ll be fine,” Sam replied. He climbed down from the coach, then undid the straps and buckles in order to open the boot.

Other passengers arrived then, a woman with a young boy of about twelve and a short, very rotund, bald man who was carrying a case of samples.

“Billings is the name, and notions is my game,” the man said, extending his hand to Falcon.

“Notions?” Falcon asked, taking the drummer’s hand.

“Thimbles, needles, thread, lace, and yard goods,” Billings explained.

Seeing the woman struggling with her bag, Falcon moved toward her and, with a smile, relieved her of the burden. He put it in the boot alongside his own bag. The drummer kept his case with him.

The woman and her son sat on the back seat, facing forward. Falcon and the drummer took the front seat, facing the rear.

The coach tilted slightly as the driver climbed into his seat up top. “You folks ready down there?” he called.

“We’re ready, Sam!” the drummer replied. “You may wonder why I called the driver by his first name, but I take this trip at least once every two weeks,” Billings explained to the others. “Why, Sam and I are old friends by now.”

The coach started forward with a lurch then, and within a few minutes was out of town and moving at a faster-than-a-walk clip on the road leading to Higbee.

The twelve-year-old boy took a book from his back pocket and began reading. On the cover of the book, a man held blazing guns in each hand and had a knife clenched between his teeth.

Falcon MacCallister and the Polecat Bandits was the title of the book.

Falcon shook his head slightly, then looked out the window at the passing countryside.

“Say, young man,” Billings said. “I see that you are reading about Falcon MacCallister.”

“Yes,” the boy replied.

“Jimmy,” his mother said.

“I mean, yes, sir,” Jimmy said.

“Jimmy, huh?” the drummer said. “What’s your last name?”

“Ellis, sir,” Jimmy replied. “Jimmy Ellis.”

“Well, Jimmy Ellis, you can read about Falcon MacCallister if you want to. Or you can listen to a story about him from someone who knows him well.”

Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. “You know Falcon MacCallister?”

Falcon looked over at Billings, but Billings didn’t notice it.

“Do I know him?” Billings replied. “Why, Jimmy, I used to ride with him.”

“You did?”

“Yes, sir, I did. In fact, most of the adventures me ’n’ him had were so big and so dangerous that they ain’t even been wrote about yet, ’cause truth to tell, I don’t think folks would believe them.”

Smiling, Falcon resumed his study of the passing countryside.

“Wow,” Jimmy said. He put the book back in his pocket. “Would you tell me about one of them adventures?”

“It’s one of ‘those’ adventures,” Jimmy’s mother corrected. “And don’t bother the gentleman by asking him to tell you stories.”

“Oh, it’s no bother, ma’am,” Billings said. “Believe me, it’s no bother. And I’d love to tell the story. That is, if you’d like to hear it, Jimmy.”

“Yes, sir! I would love to hear it!” Jimmy said.

Mrs. Ellis sighed, then, like Falcon, turned her attention outside the coach.

“Well, sir, this here story happened down on the Pecos,” the drummer began. “That’s a river,” he explained.

“Anyway, me ’n’ Falcon—I call him that and he calls me Fred, bein’ as we’re good friends’n all—we was down on the Pecos, lookin’ for some men that robbed a bank in Santa Fe. Next thing you know, we was jumped by more’n twenty bandits.”

“What did you do?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, sir, that’s exactly what Falcon asked. ‘What do we do now, Fred?’ he asked. So, I put the horse’s reins in my teeth, pulled both my guns, then turned my horse toward the outlaws and fed him some spur. ‘Follow me!’ I yelled.”

“Wow!” Jimmy said. “And did he?”

“Oh, yes, Falcon held up his end just real good that day,” Billings said. “I didn’t get no more’n fourteen or fifteen of ’em myself, and Falcon got all the rest of ’em.”

“How come they ain’t never wrote no books about you, like they do about Falcon MacCallister?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, Jimmy, it’s like this. Some folks sort of crave publicity, and I reckon Falcon, for all that he is a good man, sort of likes all the fame and such. But then there’s also folks like me. I figure it’s best to just do your duty when you see it, then be quiet about it.”

“Would you autograph my book for me?” Jimmy asked.

“Why, I’d be proud to do it,” Billings said, taking out a pencil and signing his name to Jimmy’s book.

“Whoa, hold it up there!” they heard the driver call. Sam pulled back on the reins and put his foot on the brakes, bringing the coach to a halt.

“What is it, Sam? What’s going on?” Billings called up to the driver.

“There’s some folks in front of us, wantin’ us to stop,” Sam called back.

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Just drive on through.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” Sam said.

“You folks in the coach, climb outta there now!” a gruff voice called from outside.

“What? My word, what is going on?”

There was the sound of a gunshot, followed by a sharp cry of alarm from Mrs. Ellis. The bullet penetrated the coach, but it was obvious that it was meant to be a warning shot only.

“I guess we’d better do as they say,” Falcon said, opening the door.

“Mr. Billings, do something,” Jimmy whispered.

“Do something? What do you mean do something?”

“You know, like when you was down on the Pecos with Falcon MacCallister,” Jimmy said.

“That was—uh—a long time ago,” Billings said. “I think this gentleman is right. We should do what they say.”