William Johnstone: Thunder of Eagles

A moment later, the driver and one of the cooks came out of the prison commissary.

“I won’t be makin’ the delivery next week,” the driver said. “I’m goin’ down to Yorkville to visit my daughter. She just had a baby.”

“Just had a baby, did she? Was it a boy or a girl?” the cook asked.

“Boy.”

“Ha! Knowin’ you, you’ll have him out huntin’ with you in a couple of years.”

“I may not wait that long,” the wagon driver said, and both laughed.

Tyree felt the wagon sag as the driver climbed into the seat, then pulled away from the commissary. The driver stopped at the gate, and Tyree grew tense. This was the critical moment.

“Open up!” the driver shouted. “I just came to deliver groceries. I don’t plan to stay here all day.”

“Make you nervous, does it, Zeb?” one of the guards called down from the tower. “’Fraid we might keep you in here for a while?”

“Just open the damn door, will you? This place gives me the willies.”

“What do you think, Paul? You think we should go down and check it out?” the guard who had been talking to Zeb asked the other.

“Nah, no need to do that,” Paul replied. “I can see the wagon from up here. Ain’t nothin’ in it but a tarp roll. Let ’im out, Clay.”

Clay pulled the lever to unlock the gate. “See you on Friday, Zeb,” Clay shouted down to him.

Zeb gave the guards a little wave, then drove on through.

Tyree lay very still as the wagon passed through the gate, then proceeded up the road. He counted to one hundred, then very carefully lifted the tarp and looked around. They were on First Street, having just crossed over the railroad. Tyree slipped out from under the tarp, and without being noticed, let himself down from the back of the wagon. He moved quickly off the road into a little stand of trees, and down to the banks of the Arkansas River. He continued along the river, following it west, eventually breaking into an easy, ground-covering lope.

Many escapees, Tyree knew, were recaptured almost immediately, because they really didn’t know where they were going. Tyree was different; he knew exactly where he was going. He had planned it all out well in advance. He knew that there was a ranch house just over three miles from the prison. Tyree had seen it when the barred wagon that transported prisoners had brought him to the prison. When Tyree and five other prisoners were transferred to the State Penitentiary, they were sitting in the back of the wagon, chained to a steel rod that ran the length of the floor. The others were badly dispirited, and they kept their heads down in defeat and disgrace.

Tyree was still defiant, and he studied the area around the prison, already making plans for an opportunity like the one he had seized upon today. Even then he had noticed the small ranch and the stable of horses.

And yet, a horse and freedom wouldn’t satisfy Tyree’s most burning need. That need wouldn’t be completely satisfied until he settled a score with the man who sent him up in the first place.

“Mr. Falcon MacCallister,” Tyree said quietly. “I’m comin’ after you.”

Ten miles west of Cañon City, Jefferson Tyree saw 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 crudely lettered sign nailed to one of the porch supports read: FOOD, DRINK, GOODS.

There were no horses tied up outside, which was good. Tyree planned to pick up a few dollars here, and the fewer people in the building, the better it would be.

The interior of the store was a study in 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 stabbed through the cracks between the boards.

There were only two people in the building, a man and woman. The man was behind a counter, the woman was sweeping the floor.

“This your store?” Tyree asked.

“Yes, sir, it is,” the man behind the counter replied. “It may not look like much, but it keeps the wife and me workin’. Don’t it, dear?”

“Keeps one of us workin’ anyway,” the woman replied as she continued to sweep the floor.

The man laughed. “The wife has a good sense of humor,” he said to Tyree. “Yes, sir, if you can’t find a woman that’s rich or pretty, then the next best thing is to find one with a sense of humor.” He laughed out loud at his own joke. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“You got any pistols?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” the clerk said. “I’ve got a dandy collection of pistols—Smith and Wessons, Colts, Remingtons. Just take a look here.”

“I’ll need ammunition as well,” Tyree said.

The proprietor laughed. “My, you aren’t prepared at all, are you?” he said. “Well, before I can sell you any ammunition, I’ll need to know what sort of pistol you are going to be buying.”

“Tell me about this one,” Tyree said, picking up one of the pistols.

“Yes, sir, that’s one of our finest,” the proprietor said. “It is a Colt, single-action, six-shot, solid-frame revolver.”

“Solid-frame? What does that mean?”

“It means that the frame doesn’t break down to load it. The cylinder is loaded by single rounds. See, you’ve got a loading gate, located at the right side of the frame. Then, the empty cases are ejected one by one, through the opened loading gate, by pulling back on the ejector rod, located under the barrel and to the right.”

“What is this, a .45?”

“It’s a .44, sir.”

Tyree shook his head. “I’m not very good with a gun, I don’t know much about them. You’ll have to show me how to load it.”

“It’s very simple, sir,” the proprietor said. He took a couple of cartridges from the box and handed them to Tyree. “Open the side gate there.”

“It won’t open,” Tyree said.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. The gun can be loaded and unloaded only when the hammer is set to half-cock position, like so.”

The proprietor set the hammer, then watched as Tyree slipped two rounds into the cylinder.

“Very good, sir,” the proprietor said. “Now, will there be anything else?”

Tyree pointed to the black metal cash drawer that set on the counter. “Yes. You can open that cash drawer for me,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” the proprietor said, shocked by the unexpected turn of events.

“I said, open the cash drawer for me,” Tyree repeated. “And give me all your money.”

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Tyree felt a blow on the back of his head. The blow knocked him down, but not out, and looking up, he saw the proprietor’s wife holding the broom handle.

“You crazy bitch!” Tyree shouted. He shot her, and saw the look of surprise on her face as the bullet plunged into her heart.

“Suzie!” the proprietor shouted.

Tyree shot him as well, then got up from the floor and dusted himself off. Almost casually, he finished loading the pistol, then, moving around the store, he began collecting supplies: a belt and holster, a couple of new shirts, some coffee, bacon, beans, and a hat. After that, he cleaned out the cash drawer, finding a total of sixty-two dollars and fifty-one cents.

Turning southwest, Tyree rode hard for two days, avoiding towns until he reached Badito. Badito was little more than a flyblown speck on the wide-open range. He chose it because it had no railroad and he saw no telegraph wires leading into it, which meant they had probably not heard of his escape yet. Stopping in front of the Bull’s Head Saloon, Tyree went inside and ordered a beer. It was his first beer in over a year.